It’s been eight months now…eight months of neglecting my little blog. I still feel lost. I haven’t found my spark. But I do appreciate the few people who’ve told me to keep writing.
So I’ve decided to stop whining about lacking inspiration and do something about it. I’m going to write for me, and just hope that y’all find me interesting enough to keep coming back.
And then Sparky’s going to come back begging to jump into my mind, my heart, my fingers. She’s going to want to be my second skin and will do everything in her power to make sure I have eyes only for her. But even if she comes back, I want to make sure she knows that she’s coming back to her different girl, nay, woman. I’ll be calling the shots in that relationship. I’ll be the dominatrix to her submissive. And she is going to like it dammit!
OK now that I’ve got that little rant out of the way, I’ve missed you, I really have. All seven of you. But intimacy is better than a crowd, right? That’s what my pre-marriage counselor said I’m given to, when trying to figure out my personality type. Which I’m yet to discover by the way because I figure: why limit myself to one or a two-piece combo when I know I’m just all-round perfect?
But do not be lied to: being perfect is hard.
Now before you roll your eyes and close this page and think I’m about to go into an astoundingly stupid Charlize Theron-type monologue about it being hard out here for gorgeous people, hear me out for a sec.
You know why I write about struggling to lose weight and all that nonsense? It’s because I’ve binged on magazines and shows and websites and blogs and social media pictures that tell me what “perfect” is, since I was about 12 years old. Most of us have.
I’m not willing to settle for anything less. Why? Because when I’m on Pinterest or Instagram, I see perfection and ask myself why that can’t be me. And so I don’t understand why my landlord is OK with the faded, chipped linoleum tiles he outfitted his houses with in 1809.
So yeah, I’ve been chasing perfection. At work, at home, in my closet, my body (though not too actively there), in every damn place.
And it’s exhausting.
I had some new friends over at mine last weekend, to eat, enjoy a bit of wine and do our vision boards. Nice plan. Very chill. Just genuine conversations and laughs.
And while working on mine (which is bomb by the way – I have a real talent for making pretty collages), I realized I’d actually have to put effort into remaining authentic.
I talk a confident game, and I’m pretty good at hiding behind this even when I feel like things are going to pot and I’m hanging onto a thread. I’ll be like: “Yeah, things are alright. I’m good, I got this, I know it looks like a thread but at least it’s gold.”
I’ll do that even when I don’t “got” this. Because not being perfect and not having everything together has been, to me, a sign of weakness.
So I work hard to keep my face on. I wake up, get dressed and show up. Always. Even when all I want to do is spend all day on the couch, in PJs, watching a series and stuffing my face. I always show up.
And I realized that I’m not the only one.
I know a girl. She’s beautiful, a kind soul, successful, loyal, funny, all these things. She’s also deeply flawed. But I love her. I might not like everything about her, or understand why she does some things the way she does, but she’s my friend, and I’d hurt anyone who tried to hurt her.
I just learned that while I’m busy envying her success, she’s envying (parts of) mine. Why? Because it seems I’m more successful since I have something she doesn’t have, and she feels she’s let herself down.
So she’s chasing this list of to-do things that she equates to success, working with deadlines to tick things off her list. But life doesn’t respect deadlines. It doesn’t walk up to you and ask you “Ma’am, can I please see your to-do list and completion dates so we can make sure you have everything you want, when you want it?”
If it did, I’d be on the friggin’ Forbes or Times list of whatever I pleased! Right now, I can’t even be on the Business Daily Top 40 under 40, and you know it’s lost its lustre after featuring some questionable characters.
I’m worried about my girl, and I don’t know how to have this conversation with her.
I want to tell her that she doesn’t need a list. I want to tell her to take that list and burn it, and to stick to making cute vision boards that are not about ticking boxes but about loving life, enjoying the moment and being kind to herself, while still being ambitious and setting realistic goals.
I want her to know that she doesn’t need people in her life who do not respect her enough to do what they say they’re going to do.
I want to tell her that perfection is a fucked up myth that we need to stop chasing. That underneath our manicured nails and high-street/designer knock-offs, we’re all just trying to do well and make something of ourselves without falling flat on our faces. That the girls or guys trying to make us feel bad for not being 10s are probably 5s that walk with mirrors to try and double that.
I want to tell her that sometimes it’s ok to be the lumbering, mature hippo and not the graceful, teenage gazelle, because half the time, the gazelle is just trying not to be eaten by Mohawk (R.I.P) or his cousins.
If you know that girl, tell her I said this: nobody expects her to be perfect. And the sooner she starts believing that, the happier she’ll be.