I was born "pretty"

Some people were born smart. I was born "pretty."

There I was, Forrest-Gumping it across America-no Nikes, just me and my car. Six months, coast to coast, with a grin that said, "I have no idea what I'm doing, but I'm fully committed."

Why the sudden escape? I was down to my last marble. After two years as a full-time caregiver for my parents during COVID-Dad being his ever-appreciative but Commander-in-Chief self, and Mom having just made her final exit-I needed out of that house. It was the road or a straitjacket.

Growing up gay in a conservative church-with Dad as the minister and a brother starring in The Gayest Show on Earth and paying the price for it-I ran headfirst into the closet. But after Mom died, I wasn't running-I was searching, maybe for a marble or two. Instead, I found pearls.

On the road, I started talking to Mom. Yes, the dear, dead one. And to my shock, she answered-with nuggets of wisdom I'd ignored for decades. What I chased my whole life, Mom's pearls finally led me to-and made my life worth loving.

It took over half a century-and my dear, dead mom-to figure it out.

I'm so damn "pretty," I can't stand it.