I am like this album cover.

My hobby is that of a 75-year old crotchety woman. It’s jigsaw puzzles. Sometimes, I get the urge to do a puzzle the way a heroin addict probably gets the itch for a fix. I have 500 hundred piece puzzles and 1,000 piece puzzles, but it’s the 1,000 piece puzzles that I really like. 500 is too short (takes me 45 minutes), but 1,000 is just right. On a Friday night, I want nothing more than to turn my iPod on full blast and sing along with my favorite songs while racing the clock, frantically making piles and putting together pieces.

Sometimes I can hear Steve laughing at me from the other room, but it doesn’t bother me. I know how I must look (and sound). I have narrowed down my puzzle selection to a few favorites that I do over and over again. I’ve become pretty quick, but still haven’t met my goal. My goal is to put together 1,000 pieces in two hours. That might sound like a lot of time, considering I can do 500 pieces in 45 minutes, but with double the pieces to sift through, it takes more than twice as long. Yesterday I almost made it. Two hours, four minutes.

People that know the bitchy and outgoing side of me – the girl who drinks two or three bottles of wine at parties and talks trash – those people probably wouldn’t believe this puzzle maniac is me. The people who know the pensive side of me – the reader and writer – might believe it. The people I work with, who see me in work mode – busy, frantic, perfectionist – would think it was a bit far-fetched. I am all these things at once, yet at different times. I’m not defined by one word or mood.

That is why my blog entries are all over the map. I admire people who can write in the same voice that appeals to the same readers. But I can’t do it. What I write is dictated by how I feel at the time. And it’s not always bitchy, it’s not always pensive, it’s not always angry or happy or sad. It’s not always anything. It’s always something. I don’t have thousands or hundreds of followers. I have a handful of people like me who are different at different times, and maybe aren’t always “on” or can’t always turn it off. I wish I had more control over myself, but I don’t.

I am a puzzle, made up of all these different pieces – all these different moods and hobbies and personas in the album cover – and I’m not complete if even one piece is missing.

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