In observation of the female mind...love vs. temporary insanity.

In the past two years I have been victim to temporary insanity five times.

It was one theatrical performance after another. Sometimes it lasted a day, a week a month. I'm not ashamed of my overactive brain chemicals as long as I can write about them with dignity later on. No, I'm not talking about lust...I'm talking about the temporary insanity we allow ourselves to indulge after a heart pounding adventure with a member of attraction.

 Our hearts break for a reason. And suddenly one glance at the right, or maybe even the wrong person, and the minefield that was once your heart suddenly becomes full again. And no matter how old you are or where you are in your life, you should still have midnight conversations and exhilarating thoughts shared by a dock or fire or summer night environment of your choice. Don't give up on the thought that one day they will still be out there and most definitely do not give up on the thought that one person is not meant to complete you. Should I say that again? One person is not meant to complete you.

There are a million other pieces of you that are meant to live and survive without another person. And the people that I’ve seen truly, confidently make it in this world are those that have not compromised those pieces that make them solely themselves, but that compliment each other.

"Single" doesn’t mean you have to wander around this world on “E,” stopping at the pump every now and then for another human being to refill you with confidence.

Don’t get me wrong; I truly believe that finding the mate that deepens your soul is one of the biggest riches you can find in this life, but I never intend on clipping my wings. This isn’t a feminist rant about how women need to maintain independence in their lives. I fully intend on finding a partner that chooses not to clip their wings either. If that partner continues to fly South for the winter, then I will grow to be ok with that. Migration will be fully supported in our household.

We need to stop analyzing so much. Sometimes you are kissed only because someone wanted to kiss you. That doesn't mean you are supposed to hop in the front seat and take off to Key West together to live in a new shade of tan. Oh, but wouldn't it be wonderful if it was. ;)

Three peas in a very unnatural pod.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about childhood, and specifically my own siblings whom I’ve witnessed since birth. Chelsea as a child was an odd little thing. I was an overly social butterfly, I took mental escapes to my room where I would cover the floor with paintings, and Mom had the summers off so naturally I was constantly working on my career to become a Jamaican. My parents cut the ties of matrimony before I had a memory of their attempt at normalcy as a couple. As a result, while playing “house” with my friends who gave themselves titles as mom with baby; I was the single, gypsy that dealt with the inner turmoil of possibly wanting a child of her own but couldn’t risk the potential writer’s block.

Oh how things changed the second my baby brother came into this world. I went from cutting the hair off my Barbies and asking Grandma why the Ken doll only had a concerning bump in his crotch to absolutely melting over this little boy that was only a sliver of me. Ethan is the absolute definition of cool. I tried to train him by telling him never to cut his hair, to stand on every surface that signifies a board and to play hockey, by all means, play hockey. That kid comes alive on the ice and brushes off dramatic apocalypse as if the world was his for just today. He’s my cup of coffee on a rainy day and one day he’ll thank me for how naturally unruffled he is ;)

Now, Ethan may have taken a Thor sized hammer to the caging that I built around my heart when I decided at 12 years old that I was not to be shared or reproduced…but then this new thing, this stunning, spitfire, overly animated thing entered my world. Her name is Jolee Anna. My sister was by far the most beautiful thing I had ever seen the day she was born. I didn’t know perfect existed, but she was perfect. Her whole life she has ran up to hug me every time she has seen me cry. She moves with a grace I have never been able to master and she is the perfect combo of way too girly for my blood and get your hands dirty peculiar. 11 years later she will still drop anything she’s doing when I walk in the door to give me a Lambeau leap of a hug. I cannot take any credit for this one because little girls are alien to me; however I’ve been given a best friend greater than I could have painted up when I was young and visionary.

I hope that throughout the lives of my pea pod siblings, we will continue to see things we have never imagined seeing. We will hold each other when we break down and we will always promote the path to individual happiness no matter what risk or absurdity. My little clocks…what advice would you give to the tiny souls in your life?...are you doing this yourself?

Life of Postcards.

Mom always said I would threaten to run away and all I needed was a little bit of Chelsea time and I'd be back to normal. That's comical, because now I threaten not to run away and I still just need a little bit of Chelsea time to come back to Earth.

My suggestion for you, my lovely readers, is to find your Chelsea time. Those tiny factors of life that touch base right with that pounding vessel sitting in your chest. For me it's a chat in the sun with Angie, it's sharing a lyric with Jenn, it's paint and scenery and really amazing little, old towns. Just like Angie and Jenn, for me it's seeing the ocean at least once a year otherwise we start to fray at the edges. What makes you tick, little clocks, and how can you find this in your life every single day?

I was offered my first full time job while I was sitting on a deck in Montpellier, France. I had negative $50,000 to my name and an instant twang of anxiety for a life I didn't want in St. Paul. What did I do you might ask? I went to the most Southern point of France, duh. Keep ticking lovers!

The Garbage Disposal

Before I go too far into my decision to leave corporate America, I'd like to first state that my biggest accomplishment while managing a $130 Million dollar business was my ability to do so in 5" stilettos. I have always been a seeker of opportunities to wear sky high heels, but I had this terrible moment of disarray one day sitting at my cube where I had to kick those fuckers off.

There are a lot of pros to working in corporate America. I was able to support myself. I was on track to buying all the toys I wanted (however concerning my choices were...boat, boards, rag top SUVs). I walked around with my head high surrounded by some of the smartest people I had ever met. I adore some of the friends I made while working for Target Corp; the other half threw half of their sense to live down the garbage disposal that is an 8-5 job when they decided six figures beat out the need for chasing their dreams...or going barefoot! Put on your life vests baby, you're going to be swimming for a while.

I'm not bitter; corporate America makes a part of this world go round. It's fun, rewarding and challenging. It's just...so is climbing mountains in Vail, paddleboarding in Roatan and managing a yoga studio. I met a boy that came to life in the mountains; I can't think of a day he hasn't lived his life. I met a girl in Roatan that left the states to instruct scuba (she rarely wears shoes). I'm surrounded by yoga instructors that gave up professional opportunities to inspire people to health and joy every single day. I used to know a 12 year old girl that listened to Bob Marley with her bronzed mama while planning her extravagant escape to the champagne shore. So,  maybe I'm still planning and mama hung up the whole tanning thing...but this week, I throw in the towel and wear stillettos on special occasions only.

Wanderlust. Lovelust. Writerlust.

I used to premier my thoughts on folded pieces of paper and ratty notebooks that I would find stashed away in closets and purses; left to find years later as I sat barefoot on the floor. These internal notes quickly turned into an 18 year olds' cry for release on forms of social media that strip the youth of today of any mystery. I've always been a writer. I always will be a writer; I just haven't found the right topic to mass produce and resonate with curious readers. I'm far too curious myself. This blog is my knees shaking, heart beating seat in confessional where I decide what should be shared and what is best for the powers that be to know in solitude. Just as my writing has wandered, so has my heart and mind. I have spent 25 years wishing to be somewhere else. Here you can follow my pursuit of the perfect latitude. Here you can sit back in a deck in Montpellier, lose your breath on top of a mountain or sit solo on the coast. This is La Bougeotte de Chelsea; the Wanderlust of yours truly.