Its nagging oppression goes on and on. Even as I consciously refuse to listen, the sound is somehow heard, like a gong sending vibrations in ripples that spread through my body. Countless parameters and rules, the likes of which are so engrained I fear that I could not even articulate what I so systematically follow. No, it’s probably a blessing that I cannot go on to tell you about each of these rules, because you don’t have time for that. Even if you did, you would likely end up batty enough to sell all your stuff and drink straight whiskey from the cat dish.
The purpose of perfectionism is to trap you and forever keep you from being the person you’re here to be. It wants to straight-jacket your authentic self. Perfectionism will tell you to colour inside its lines, or else… You’ll never fail? You’ll never be hurt or rejected? You’ll never die? You will. We all will. You just won’t have as much fun doing it.
Perfectionism tells me that it will keep me warm and safe, completely in control. But, when I am adhering to restrictions that keep me incomplete and unsatisfied in my own life, I control nothing. Here’s me in control – At one point there were two red socks, and two pink socks. That is all I need to know:
But, if you do know where the socks went, please advise.
When they asked me how old I was turning, I was at a loss for words – which is tough to do. I literally had to do the math. For this, I have developed two reasonable explanations; First, somewhere between Christmas and New Years, I was momentarily blinded by visions of sugar plums dancing in my head. Second, the last two years have passed with enough physical, emotional and spiritual growth to account for far more time.
Yes, I’ve grown up. I’ve learned a lot about my likes and dislikes, discovering my identity and living organically for the moment. I don’t have to let anyone know my whereabouts. I can fall asleep in my high heels if I want to. I can come home long after the street lights come on and maybe even when they go off again. I can spend all my paychecks on sequin pants, skittles, and concerts, hoping my landlord will have sympathy for a fashionable girl with a sparkly pocketful of ticket stubs.
Time is a human creation. The span of a year or the number of your age cannot encompass your learnings. I wish for my heart to remain youthful in all the ways that matter.
It doesn’t require an exceptional capacity of intellect to know that the popularity of denim is unlikely to wane. Still, I refuse to spend more than $20 on a pair of jeans. Maybe I find them unimaginative. Maybe it pains me to recall the amount I invested in the gorgeous denim collecting dust in my closet that, despite my wishful prayers and determination, refuses to hug my hips the way they once did. Maybe it’s just because they limit my range of motion and sweet dance moves… I don’t know. But this weekend, I joined the likes of Levi Strauss for a night with the girls.
We piled in the oven-like Civic for a heavily detoured cruise to Niagara. Gone are the days when all a girls night required was a last-minute phone call. We have found ourselves scattered over the map, but I’m not willing to allow that to distance us. And not just because I’ve permanently marked my skin with a symbol of our friendship. Through the peaks and valleys of the last year and a half, the darkness and isolation that nearly swallowed me whole, I’ve come out on the other side with friends and family by my side.
Not a day goes by that I don’t count those blessings. My family. My friends. The sun warming my skin. The strength in my muscles. My ability to reason and feel…
The unapologetic decadence of chocolate chip pancakes.
Its those thoughts and acknowledgements that just add such value to my life. And that’s what makes it easier to challenge myself everyday. I cling to that when it gets loud in my head and it feels impossible to do the work, take the risks and stay on track. I’m a lucky girl.
Is there a better way to start a day than with chocolate, I mean reeeeeaally?
…Banana oatmeal chocolate chip, actually. Who decides what foods are deemed appropriate for breakfast? As far as I’m concerned, muffins are just for people who don’t have to nads to order cake for breakfast.
It was one of those days when the talking heads made promises of thunderstorms that never came. Warm and wonderful, everyone was savoring the moments when the sun burst through threatening clouds as though they may not ever see it again.
Work was busy and fulfilling. I wore a new Mediterranean-blue blouse paired with my precious secondhand flats, discovered for a bargain at HouseOfVintage. I went out with coworker buds today. Twice. It was all friendly and natural enough. I can’t help but feel awestruck and blessed when I catch myself living free. And then, I can feel completely alone even at a table of friends.