Contemplative

Ahem. As most of you probably don't remember, I have a cousin whose name is also Amy. This is a situation which, over the years, has led to huge piles of confusion and, in turn, huge piles of nicknames whose sole purpose is to differentiate between "the amys". Thus, Little Amy. Thus, the blog title.

So my twin Amy Robinson got married last week. Which means that I am now the only Amy Robinson. She deserted me and defected to Trent land, the twitterpated traitor. In the land of Robinson, I stand alone, which is a new feeling. But the wierd feeling isn't the sudden sole ownership of my name, I suppose. I am the only girl in the family left who has not yet ventured into the land of marriage and stuff. Which is fine. I'm alright with a few more years before taking my turn at making my family puke with my newlywed bliss. But they all seem to have left me and crossed a threshold I can't really approach quite yet. It seems to throw emphasis on the whole situation where I am sort of free to do anything I want in this wide world, and no one really gets to tell me yes or no. It's my own show, no co-anchors demanding a part in the decision making.

This is a scary prospect. When I was younger, I would make insane plans for things I would do and see when I reached the very spot I am in now. And now I'm there. And I am pretty sure that I underestimated the level of difficulty to be overcome if one wants to go adventuring across the country. And the whole 'amy getting married' thing probably makes no sense to anyone else. But it seems like that small occurence just smacked me in the face and said, " You are the only Amy Robinson. Go do something with your name. Surprise everyone, including you."

My response is mostly just a loud gulp as I contemplate the terror that comes with absolute freedom. Three a.m. is really a terrifying time. Midnight the witching hour? bull honky. Three a.m. finds me awake and clueless, the possibilities soaring ahead of me. Does anyone else feel like all your plans for the future, those things you fantasized about when  you were nine years old, suddenly taunt you with their unreachableness? But still, the future keeps coming, good and yet filled with nothing you planned.

Is it good enough? Or do you keep going until it includes some of those nine-year-old dreams? That terror that comes with freedom- is it terror at the prospect of  not getting the future I wanted, or is it getting it that I am afraid of?I don't know. It's something to think about at three a.m.