“Before I let you go into the next room, you have to answer one question for me: What’s your happy place? Don’t think too hard about it. It could be anything — your childhood home or maybe you’re laying out on the beach…”
The answer immediately came to me amongst a group of somewhat enthused strangers who were ready to move on to the next attraction. My happy place isn’t lounging on the beach. God, that’s my worst nightmare. My pale skin can’t handle more than an hour splayed out on a towel lathered in SPF 50. No, my happy place is cuddled up on a leather chair in coffee shop or bookstore by a crackling fire on a chilly, North Carolina winter day. Rain droplets are forming small rivers on a nearby window, and I’m wearing my favorite faux leather leggings and red Free People sweater. I’m alternating between reading my latest book obsession, writing a blog like this one or writing a freelance story for a local publication. I’m alone and utterly happy.
Once, this was me more days that not. Granted, I was an unemployed recent college grad who could barely afford a pumpkin spice latte to justify using the free Wi-Fi, but I was writing stories that made me question everything and see the world in a different light. My mood could change as soon as I penned the perfect lede, which I had already constructed in my head during a recent interview. Some people get runner’s high. For me, I get writer’s high. I just made that up, but writing a compelling or funny or emotional story truly makes me feel alive.
I smiled as I thought about my happy place, raised my hand to share it with the group and moved on to the pink metallic room with cotton candy of the same shade. Admittedly, the Museum of Ice Cream isn’t your typical museum where you leave knowing random historical facts about remnants of an ancient pot that was unearthed in China. I did, however, learn when soft serve was created — but after a cursory glance of numerous web pages, it’s up for debate whether Carvel or Dairy Queen gets the credit. While the attraction is famous for its Instagram photo opps, people don’t realize it’s so much more than that. It’s about understanding what makes you happy and embracing that happiness. It’s about indulging yourself in life’s simple joys like you did as a kid. The Museum of Ice Cream made me stop caring so much.
I have the tendency to shut down when I’m scared. I know this about myself. I ignore what scares me and keep moving forward. La-tee-da. La-tee-da. Nothing to see here. But in my 25th year, I am determined to run toward the scaries. For the past couple years, I shut down my personal writing, because I was afraid of what people would say. I cowered from the proverbial red pen. I got knocked down hard, and I didn’t get back up. I was inadvertently told day after day I wasn’t good enough, but I refuse to let those voices keep me down anymore.
*Cue instrumental music that makes the viewer think deeply and inwardly about themselves and their life choices.*
She lost herself. But now she knows what she has to do to get back to her happy place.
*The camera focuses on the soon-to-be 25-year-old as she slowly looks up from a nondescript table at a crowded, hip restaurant. It follows her as she runs out to her car, pushing past business casual people in slow motion.*
“I know what to do,” she says with much resolve.
*She turns the key in the ignition of her green 2011 Toyota Camry and drives a mile down the street to the closest Starbucks. A slow, goofy smile spreads across her face as she opens the door and spots a cognac leather chair in the corner.*
END SCENE
Finding my Place in the Southern Part of Heaven 