…These are the voyages of a being named Donna. Her life-long mission: to explore strange new worlds, to seek out her authentic self, embark on new adventures and to push herself beyond her limitations, to boldly go where no man has gone before—
Much like the formidable Captain James Tiberius Kirk when he commanded that he be beamed from his warm, cozy starship to some harsh unknown environment, I have also decided to take a monumental step outside of my comfort zone today.
I tend to be a creature of habit. Apparently, I am not alone.
I eat the same thing for breakfast, a bowl of Barbara’s multigrain cereal with a splash of blueberries on top when they are in season. Nary a black, straw, rasp, or any other berry will ever grace my crisp brown squares of grain. I wear the same rings on my fingers—engagement topped by wedding (until it was stolen last week) on the left, and a band of tiny blue sapphires on my right hand. About every six months or so, unless I’m invited to something special, I switch out my necklace. Right now I’m wearing the symbol of a harpoon head made from a whale’s finger bone, a phalange, if you will.
Besides being a topic of conversation, the leather band doesn’t make my neck itch like most silver chains do. I’ve been using the same handbag since we moved back to the States nine months ago, even though I have many. The only reason I use a bag at all is to carry my reading glasses. When I had 20/20 vision my pockets did all my carrying for me—cash, a credit card, driver’s license, and phone—the glasses would have put me in cargo pants. My choice was to use a bag or be the bag. Since all those pockets would have made me look shorter than I already am, I opted for the obvious.
The trouble with tribbles terrible habits is that, although they are comfortable, they can become reeeealy boooring. At least when you take the time to step back and look at them closely, they do. Today, I happened to notice a small habit of mine the moment I started to write. Like a Klingon warship dropped from the heavens, Times New Roman reared its boring font onto the page. You can’t be serious I thought. Really? At warp speed, I sucked up my courage. “Scottie, beam me to FONTLAND!” I commanded, tight-fisted and white-knuckled. It’s the rematerializing I hate—too tingly for my taste. Once I secured a firm footing again, I scrolled the plethora of possibilities. Ah, plethora—how I’ve always wanted to use that word without sounding ridiculous. Ugh! I hope the jury is still out on that thought. So then, I scrolled, and scrolled until—GENEVA— caught my eye, actually, both eyes. I figured, why not? I like Switzerland—the cheese, the mountains, pristine lakes, and friendly people—but it was the horns that tipped the scales.
Yes, it was as simple as that. If someone out there could take a little wooden whistle and turn it into a humungatoid horn then I could surely change the font for this blog entry. And so, I did, even though, apparently you can’t see it. Yes! I did something new today. Then I got really carried away, and changed my socks—
Do something different.
Shake it up.
Big, small—step out—share it.
May the force be with you.