WHERE ARE MY BLOODY KEYS? — WHOOPS, I DID IT AGAIN

Everything has pros and cons.

But when I have to weigh up the pros and cons in my life, I’ll devote this post to my car-related ones.

Pros: Good driver.

Cons: Leaving the engine running while I did the shopping.

Leaving the keys in the car door and walking away, which is my latest faux pas — Whoops, I did it again.

And getting into the wrong bloody car.

But this story isn’t just about my bloody keys.

It’s about the person behind them.

It’s about something I’ve spent most of my life getting wrong.

Me.

I thought I was the “nice girl but not very bright girl.”

Every forgotten key, wrong turn, lost thought, brain fart or ditzy moment seemed to reinforce that idea, causing me debilitating anxiety, turning me into a chronic drinker.

I’d convinced myself that not being able to recount or explain things when others could was my biggest Achilles heel.

Even writing my own little script before an important phone call could scramble the words on paper, making them illegible.

I remember calling our GP to organise a script for my son’s asthma medication, and I just could not get the words out.

So much so that the receptionist forgot I was listening and told someone in the background that I didn’t know what I was talking about.

It did end well, though. Thanks to my late husband, it eventually led to an apology from our GP.

And when you spend most of your fifty-something years believing something about yourself, it becomes very easy to mistake a label for an identity.

Does a leopard ever really change its spots?

Hell yeah! I reckon.

I’ve been looking at myself all wrong.

I get it now.

I’m an introvert wanting to stand out.

See what I’ve done there?

As ridiculous as it may read to others, it reads perfectly fine to me.

I’ve simply stopped running away from myself.

I’ve stopped comparing myself to everyone else.

Now I laugh at it, and others laugh with me.

So, let’s talk about the bloody keys.

A while ago, I had a job interview.

I parked my car, walked into the interview and remembered I’d left my keys in the car door.

I was horrified but couldn’t do anything about it until the interview was over.

When I finally got back to the car, there was a young man standing beside it, looking around for something or someone.

My brain immediately went judge and jury and decided he was a danger — a possible car thief.

If my look could kill, he’d have reached his demise.

But as it turned out, he was doing something extremely commendable.

He was guarding my car — a complete stranger’s — while waiting for me to return, his wife and bub patiently sitting in their car.

I mean, who does that?

And I was having a bad day too.

I think I hugged him.

I hope I did.

I wonder if he truly knows that he made a difference that day?

In some stupid way, it helped reinforce that I did matter.

And here I go, easily veering toward another rabbit hole.

I could write a book about all those dumb car moments.

But on reflection, probably not.

A few dishonourable mentions before I call it a night: nighttime granny eyes, being geographically challenged, and my lack of multitasking — especially when I’m at the wheel.

Just ask my kids.

And last but not least, there was the time I took a wrong turn and ended up in a paddock full of cows.

I’m imperfect, sometimes bloody hopeless, and mostly surprisingly capable.

There’s something cathartic about accepting myself — better late than never.

And then there’s that word called regret.

Regret that I left it too late to tell that one person that I understand what he was trying to show me all those years.

But there’s his legacy in our boys, and that’s precious.

That’s what I’m holding on to.

I don’t know where this blog is going.

I honestly don’t.

And that’s the fun bit — having something to look forward to each week that takes me away from everything else for a while.

A fine distraction.

Being diagnosed as neurodivergent helped me understand myself, and it did save my life.

But it doesn’t define me.

And before I get carried away and become preachy, I just want you to know this:

If you’re having a shit day, feeling like crap, or you’re at your lowest point in a long time, you won’t always feel this way.

I know those words about being gentle with yourself can feel meaningless. I get it.

But I also mean it, because I’ve been where you are.

I still am.

But I’m on my way to better things.

And if you’re anything like me, you might have reached a point in your life where you’re just too bloody tired to keep explaining yourself to people who don’t get it.

And you know what?

Fuck them.

Shake it off.

They don’t have to get you.

Because we all do stupid things sometimes.

Others are just better actors.

Until next time.