Ball and Chain

Each year for either my birthday or Christmas, someone usually gets me some type of warm, always fashionable, socks. These are a pair that I've had for a couple years and they have strings with balls on the end (insert story of ex here). If I was a cat I would do nothing but play with these socks. So, as my snot nosed booty was racing around to give E her 3pm feeding before squealing out the door to pick up the older girls I was SHOCKED when I tripped over nothing. Then I looked down and shapow! Here's the culprit....in my rush I had knotted myself. Boy, is that an understatement. As I waddled to the kitchen to add the formula to the bottle, I felt like a prisoner in my own socks. A prisoner....a prisoner of my own bitterness, of anger I can't seem to let go of, feeling stuck in my own socks...my own self. Maybe it's the cold medicine speaking, but even though I could have easily slid one or both of these off, I didn't. I continued to wade in the waddling of being trapped. I laughed out loud at how ridiculous I looked. I grabbed my phone and took a pix of it and then I chewed on the metaphor of how this does or doesn't reflect my reality. The reality is I can get out of whatever is entangling me quite easily-I think. The question is do I want to do the work to do that. I don't know, I'll let you know. Meanwhile, the darn things are still knotted...good thing I married an Eagle Scout!