I just finished Half the Sky. I am exhausted. (That could also be partially because I stayed up late last night, drinking wine and crying when Captain Jack Harkness had to abandon the man he sort of fell in love with to travel back through time, but I was only watching Torchwood to distract me from the giant heavy things that have been weighing on my mind lately because of this book, so it still all comes back to Half the Sky.) I feel like the whole world needs saving, all of it, and I am possibly the least adequate person to walk the earth. There’s money to be sent and minds to be changed and work to be done, and it’s too overwhelming to even start.
Also, I just got a second job, at the local liquor store.
Also, I will shortly be moving up to a shift manager position at Starbucks, possibly just in time for holiday.
Also, I just committed myself to not hating my body anymore, which is 167 times easier said than done. (I don’t think I fully appreciated this until I tried it.) Do you know how many times I battle this mindset? Every fucking time I eat. Every. Time. It pisses me off.
I feel like I’m loading plates on an imaginary half-rack, wondering which one is going to send me to the ground. I really wanted to go for a run in Eagle Creek park today to get my mind off of things, but it’s about 95 degrees outside. So I went to the gym, loaded plates on an actual half-rack, and squatted them. Ever since I’ve started using the “big girl” weights, this seems highly effective in calming me down, as I look way more capable and bad ass than I feel. That chick in the gym mirror, with her shorts and bandana and oddly masculine neck could kick the shit out of that chick sitting on the couch, crying and drinking wine and avoiding life via British TV shows.
I wish I was one of those people that really have their shit together. Those people can handle the 60 hour work weeks and leadership roles and their health and philanthropy with style. But then sometimes, I wonder if most of them are just a lot better at pretending than the rest of us. Maybe there’s someone out there that thinks I really have my shit together, just because I just never told them otherwise (and maybe because I lie a little bit to make people think I’m actually an adult). All I can think of in times like this is “Thank God I don’t have kids”.
Maybe I won’t be able to keep it together. Maybe I’ll just crash and burn. The house will fall apart and I’ll say stupid stuff at work because I never sleep and my clothes will get tight, because I never have time to work out. I’ll serve Ramen for dinner and wear my aprons inside-out every once in a while, because I didn’t have time to wash them. I’ll probably chose sleeping in over putting on a scrap of makeup every day. My work clothes will get even more holes in them and I won’t even bother to replace them.
An old friend of my mom’s, Becky, definitely does not have her proverbial shit together. She’s worn the same hairstyle, unchanged and out of date, since the early nineties. Her clothes are at least that old. Sometimes she has a car, an old minivan that she borrows from her mom (she’s in her forties or fifties). Sometimes not. She’s always been overweight, and she doesn’t have a lot of money. Luckily, she’s a missionary nurse stationed in Nepal, where nobody give a flying fuck about any of those things. Occasionally, she’ll send us a picture of herself with the Himalayas in the background, the wind blowing in her nineties-inspired hair. She found something highly unprofitable that she was passionate about decades ago, and she’s been at it ever since. She’s too busy saving babies and providing vital healthcare to impoverished Nepali people to care about keeping her shit together back here.
My life isn’t going to be near that awesome, but her life leads me to believe that maybe, sometimes, I put a little too much emphasis on the wrong things in the name of looking like an adult. In the name of having my shit together.