I’ve always been big on having my comfort zone clearly defined (I’m a Capricorn). It isn’t a destination I can find using my GPS…unless GPS stands for Gastro-intestinal Panic Syndrome. That’s usually when I know I’ve stepped out of my comfort zone. My gut tells me immediately. Nervousness…butterflies in my stomach.
But the love for my comfort zone has changed…was it yesterday? …or was it a week ago — perhaps even months ago, years ago…somewhere along the line I became aware that my comfort zone really wasn’t all that comforting. It was more like the feeling after a nice toke. Those of you who know about tokes (one toke over the line, sweet Jesus), know what I mean. That feeling of ahhhhh. I have nothing to do and nowhere to go. In fact it’s not that I have nothing to do, but I that I don’t WANT to do anything. I don’t want to go anywhere, except maybe a trip to the kitchen to see what I can dream up to squelch the munchies (peanut butter and marshmallow fluff on…well…anything.) But I digress…(nice memories though).
The alleged comfort zone is not a mystery, it’s a mythtery. It doesn’t exist except in our heads and we concoct it as bait to catch our own sense of self-denial or self-loathing or insecurities and let them snuggle in all nice and warm. (Another toke would be good here.) Comfort zones are the adult version of a binky.
I turned 62 this past January. I went to the Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers concert at Summerfest last night — stepping out of my comfort zone. I don’t like going to Summerfest at night…you know…the hoodlums, and the thieves, and the people who only come out at night will be there. Ha. Did I see any? Nope. What I saw were about a million 50 to 70 year old men and women (some taking that toke occasionally) who seemed to have found their comfort zone. So I decided to settle in, too.
Then I had to go to the bathroom. The concert was supposed to start in 30 minutes. It took a lifetime to get to the bathrooms (evidently the kiosks had run out of beer, so the 50- and 70-somethings were left to stand mortified in the middle of the walkway causing a major damn, I mean dam-up. Holy cow…really…I got the sensing of what cows must feel like who are being herded into a small contained area. It was ridiculous. Comfort zone? I think not. Smelly, sweaty people (me being one of them) being pushed in one direction with a whole ‘nother grouping swarming and pushing the other way. Not a pleasant sensation when one has claustrophobia.
I finally made it to the bathroom…only to have to stand in a line with 14,000 other women who had swam their way through the morass of sweaty humanity…oh and did I mention that it had rained…no, poured…just moments before, so the air was heavy with (pot smoke) moisture — and the grounds and bathrooms were filled with puddles of (hopefully) water. I’m standing behind a woman who had Farrah Faucett hair — really gorgeous. She turned around and I was caught off guard. Her face was brown and leathery, although she was attractive in a chain-smoker kind of way. She made a comment, using her best gravely voice, about her 70′s hair-do going to hell and what was she doing here at her age. I laughed and said, “yeah, I know, I’m 62″. She gasped out that she was 45 and said “you must not be a smoker.” It actually took everything I had not to gasp back at the fact that she was only 45. She looked 20 years older than 45 — which would put her pretty close to my age, so I probably have to add that I don’t look 62 (at least I don’t think I do…part of my comfort zone).
Everyone made it back to their seats, the concert started, I danced and head-banged to the music and felt that youthful satisfaction of rockin’ out (deep breathing in the wafting pot smoke from the 50- to 70-somethings).
Back to my comfort zone…or actually the lack of it. Someone moved it. They didn’t ask if they could, they just moved it. And to date I haven’t found it since my GPS (not the one used in a car) seems to be on stand-by, lurking about, making itself known.
I like it though…I read on one of my Facebook friend’s posts that the butterflies, the nerves and nervousness lets her know that there is magic awaiting…
As much as I used to enjoy my comfort zone, I’m much more fascinated with the possibility of magic happening. So whoever took my comfort zone, have fun. You can have it. Magic it is for me.
Abracadabra!!! Did I mention that I teach Nia? (www.nianow.com)