5 Craptastical Ways to Survive The Summer.
Greetings from the bedroom on Lavender Lane on this fine first day of 2017.
I can say with almost complete certainty that 2016 was an absolute #shitshow.
To be clear, I’m writing this right now to try to get a song out of my head. Yes, the walking human iPod from hell has struck again. For the past two hours, while I read a great book, I’ve been humming
So, the phrase “why I’m single” was texted to me, not about me, earlier this week.
Context: a snapshot of a text exchange between the texter and a person that had exchanged numbers with the texter at some earlier point. It was not a good text exchange. We’ve all had it. You give/get someones number- perhaps in the moment it seemed like a good idea, but the next day/week/month, you stare at your phone and wonder “why the hell did I do that, or rather, who the hell is this?”
Been there. Done that.
It got me to wondering, “why am I single?”
Why the hell AM I single?
If you asked some of my friends, they would say I’m too picky. Others would say that I’m too lazy. Others might say that I’m ambivalent about finding the whole happily ever after.
I’ve been in love. I thought I might have had a shot at the happily every. It didn’t work out quite as expected (obviously, otherwise, why would I be writing this particular crapifesto?) Despite being in love at least thrice, I sit here, jetting my way towards the land of Prince, lamenting my own particular spinster singlehood.
Side note, a few rows in front of me, I just saw the sweetest action – a guy just helped his lady friend readjust her neck pillow. You could see his genuine desire to make sure she was comfortable and happy. That is awesome. They don’t necessarily match- she is about 5 inches taller than him, different races, but man, do they grin when they look at each other.
SECOND SIDE NOTE: WHO THE FUCK BRINGS FRIED CHICKEN ON A 6:35am FLIGHT? For the love of all that is good and holy, early morning is not the time to eat fried chicken and corn nuts on a plane.
Back to the point of this, if there is one. Why am I single?
Is it because I’m old?
Is it because I have a mouth of a dirty drunken pirate hooker?
Is it because I obsess daily about random offbeat songs that I hear/pop in my head?
Is it because I’m easily distracted?
Is it because my ass and boobs are out of control?
Is it because I’ve somehow ended up living in the middle of the suburbs surrounded by married people and families with VERY few ACTUAL AVAILABLE, datable men in the mix?
Or is it just because I’ve not yet found the right one for right now? (I’m leaning towards this option.)
Note: I’m very focused right now on writing this and chewing gum. We are starting the initial descent, and I’m only 40% sure my ears might explode. The pressure is getting really really obnoxious.
Man, the flow of this particular entry is incredible isn’t it?
I have a laissez faire approach to dating/finding “Mr. Doesn’t Suck too Hard”. Either it will or won’t happen, but I’m not going to kill myself in an effort to make it happen. Maybe that is why I’m single?
Right now, I’m more focused on getting away, on a jet plane, and making it without my ears exploding!
Flight one done. No issues. There is hope!
Sticking to a semi-regular weekly blog posting schedule has allowed me to sort out my thoughts in a way that I’ve lost track of over the week. Throughout the day, I’ll think “oh, I should write about this,” and then forget what I was thinking about.
Hell, these days I am forgetting more than I remember. This little reality is especially obnoxious for me as I historically forget NOTHING, and yet, I can’t remember who I spoke to on Friday night.
Today is a quiet day here at the house. I’ve been reading the news, listening to Theresa May’s condemnation of the terror incident last night in London and reviewing other leaders responses- some more measured than others.
I’ve been puttering around while listening to the Sunday shows, trying to make sense out of what is happening.
Bottom line, I’m out of words today. I had words and forgot some of them. The other portion of words that I remember, feel ill-timed in light of what is happening in this world. Navel gazing and pontificating is a special skill of mine, but today it just feels petty.
Go forth and do what you need to do today. Be aware, be kind and be a part of the solution.
If all else fails- go clean something.
Do you ever just wake up in a weird, off, not right mood?
That was me today. I have zero reasons to be snarky before 9 am. First of all, I’m off today. I have a whole day to do “me things”. Secondly, I have a list of things I want to do. Instead of being excited about these things, I woke up like a grumpy petulant child who probably needed to go back to sleep for 7 more hours.
Thought #1I think I blame the internet. Ya, that’s the ticket. I blame the internet. I woke up, checked in on all the things and saw that our President of these glorious United States is snarking on Germany again. On Twitter. I just shake my head. I’ve gotten bitched at for being snarky on social media and I barely lead a team, much less the damn Free World. How is this OK? Why hasn’t anyone taken away his Twitter account? Why is he allowed to drop thinly veiled threats? Why is he still trying to make the news the enemy? I don’t get it. And frankly, I’m disappointed in Twitter. They have shut down other accounts for less threatening/bullying, and yet, they allow the President to act like a shitty teenager? Clearly, money is more important than creating a platform that has consistent rules for all users.
I don’t know how to take a real day off. Today, I took the day off to get my life together. I work from home so often times I don’t pay attention to the DMZ that my house has become. Sure, I went out of town this weekend, but some days you just need to take a day and do things. It’s annoying to me that I feel guilty about taking a day off. Truthfully, I’ve already checked emails, put out one fire and made sure all of my campaigns are healthy. WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME? Why can’t I just unplug fully?
I need to cook all of the food this week. I’m headed onto the wagon until I fly north to the BIS. I’m going to eat clean, rebuild my liver, and hope for the best. I have a very specific weight loss goal with a very specific dangling carrot if I lose said weight. Might I dig deep inside me and exercise a small modicum of self-control? Is this even possible? DO I EVEN HAVE ANY SELF CONTROL?
Actually, yes, I do.
I have more self-control than many even can comprehend.
Do you know how many thoughts I leave unspoken?
Do you know how many incredibly inappropriate things I don’t do?
Do you know how many times I’ve wanted to sit in a meeting and just give the single digit salute?
But I don’t. I have self-control. I just need to extend this to my food and mouth.
Actually, my mouth needs to learn a lot of self-control.
I need to speak less.
I need to eat less.
I need to snark less.
I need to get off the damn computer before I start actually saying ALL OF THE THINGS I’m THINKING.
I’m going to go chop fruit, dig dirt and do stuff.
Be good today on this Tuesday. Don’t be a stupid Tweeter.
It’s that time of the year again. That gutting realization that it’s time to shove your body into a piece of spandex/lycra and pray to the deities that everyone around you is either a.) blind b.) drunk or c.) fatter than you. It’s bathing suit season.
The magical time of year when women start losing their proverbial shit at the idea that multitudes of people are going to see them in a hell of a lot less clothing than they normally wear.
I had my annual freak out this morning when I was starting to gather some crap to run away for the weekend. I tossed a few suits into the pile and thought out loud “maybe I’ll just skip the pool.”
I am a water loving, sun-worshiping human. I feel better when I’m floating in a pool/lake/river/ocean. I’m nicer to everyone if I get some sun. I feel better about life when I get a little float time.
I am not, nor have I ever been, a super model. I have never had a body that stopped people on the streets. I mean, maybe if I was particularly cleavy, someone might pause and say “put those things away”, but I’m not one of those people that have a “banging body.”
I’m clearly ok with that, otherwise, I would dedicate my life toning/firming/surgically improving ALL of the things.
I realized this morning, that I still care, but I’m certainly not going to miss out on stuff because I’m afraid to let my big ass be seen in public. Or my thighs. Or my boobs. Whatever.
Life is short.
I was raised in a house that was the opposite of a naked house. Literally. We covered all of the things up. My mother has never in my life worn a skirt, shorts and certainly not a bathing suit. She has never enjoyed her body, always finding fault, and by default, has extended that to others. She has vocalized many times over the years that I should not wear revealing clothes because “no one wants to see that.” I literally wore baggy clothes, sizes larger than me until I was in college. Nothing makes a teen girl feel awesome than having your mom drag you to Lane Bryant so that you can buy jeans that don’t “hug your butt.” No one knew I had boobs until I was out of the house- I hid those under layers and layers of baggy clothes.
Life is too short to hate your body.
Mine is far from perfect. I get that. I”ve known that forever. I’m not going to hide though. I’m going to find a suit that is comfortable, doesn’t ride up the butt cheeks and hoik the girls up enough that I don’t look like a photo from National Geographic. I realize that I might not be everyone’s cup of tea, but there have been at least 2 dudes in the history of me that have tolerated all of “this.” I think it’s going to be ok.
Onwards to the pool. Hand me a drink and some SPF… It’s summer time!