WARNING: there is swearing in this blog post. You have been advised and cautioned. So if you read this and judge me, well you’re just fucking stupid.
Hmmm. That’s probably a bad start for both of us. Sorry. It’s just that I have been having a tough time writing lately and sometimes it helps me to publicly swear.
I made up with my muse yesterday but clearly I did some permanent damage to the relationship because the words are still not coming easily. But I guess you can’t break up with your muse and then expect things to immediately get better. Muses have feelings too and I was pretty mean to mine. “I’m never talking to you again” is just not a nice thing to say. It serves me right. I am working on my tact. Muses must be loved.
So this post might be painful to read. It for sure sucks shit writing it. I mostly just want to set my hair on fire from the lack of words.
Not that I don’t WANT to write. I do! I do! I do! Writing to me is like breathing: words are air. In fact I loudly claimed this whole afternoon to write. And my people know mostly not to bug me when I do this, unless there is some kind of national emergency. Like a tornado. Or not being able to find a clean towel.
What they don’t know is that I have spent the last hour taking selfies.
Because that’s what selfies are.
Which of course you already knew.
See, I was feeling kind of put together, hair brushed and shit (so pretty much sexy and hot!) and a little frustrated by the blank computer screen so instead of hucking it across the room (because that would just be childish) I took a bunch of pictures of myself with my phone, like a hundred of them, thinking maybe just ONE might portray how I feel inside.
What I discovered is that I am just not as good looking as I feel. I know right? Sucks! Ha!
I never used to care how I looked. I was busy with shit and just didn’t look at myself very often. My mom always told me I would come into myself later than most girls, and eventually bloom. Which meant she had more hope for me than I did. But did she mean I would be sixty? Or did I already bloom and just never noticed? If so it sure was anticlimactic. There could have at least been theme music or something.
Scanning through the pictures: “nope, delete; nope delete; good-gawd, delete; holy hell I should put on make-up, delete; jeez, why does my face look so crooked, delete; wow I look stoned in that one, delete.”
I got myself all worked up into a bonafide tizzy fit. And then I started to get kind of sweaty and flushed from all that activity of posing, keeping my eyes open, trying to suck my double chin in and smile at the same time. Which is impossible. Don’t bother trying. You might hurt yourself. Just sayin.
I sat back down at my desk totally deflated and thought “Well hell. I’m NOT sexy and hot: I’m just hot. All the time. I’m talking temperature hot. Dripping sweat hot. Fanning myself in 50 degree weather hot. Covering my entire body with ice-packs at night hot.
A hot mess is what I am. There is nothing sexy about a sweaty hot mess who can’t even keep her cute shoes on because her feet are so slippery. From SWEAT.
How come other people don’t sweat like I do? Is it some kind of glandular thing? I mean really! I have always been a sweaty person but now that I’m in my late forties it has gotten worse as I move closer to THAT time. You know: that mental pause in life when women are supposed to reflect on how nice it was when they were younger and stuff and then happily and gently and CALMLY fan themselves gracefully into their old lady years. That’s how it goes down, right?
Ha. FUCK NO that’s not how it goes down. At least not for me so far. But I have never done anything gracefully in my life. I’m a tantrum thrower. And lately it’s like my body has gone all alien on me so I never know what is going to happen next. Neither does anyone else around me.
And I really SHOULD have used moisturizer when I was younger like my mom told me to. “It will catch up to you if you don’t pay attention now while you’re young.” A while back I bought some wrinkle cream and it came with some free ‘lip revive’ but I kept mixing up the tubes because they looked the same. So I might have actually revived the wrinkles around my eyes. Though my lips look pretty good to this day. So whatever.
But here’s the thing: I’m hoping to live until I’m 94 because I have crap to DO. Which means I’m only HALF DONE! There is plenty of time to come into myself. So really I should probably just quit looking in the mirror and get more important shit done. (Like doing some kind of GOOD writing without swear words.) Plus, the fact IS I feel WAY sexier than I did when I was in my twenties and thirties. I do! And quite frankly I believe that sexy is as sexy does. Truly sexy people do not NEED to look in the mirror to know they are sexy.
Or take selfies. Of themselves.
The journey is only beginning. In another 20 or so years, someone bagging your groceries will offer to help and call you “Ma’am”. And one morning, you’ll wake up feeling bright eyed and bushy tailed, full of life and pretty much like you have since you were 20. Then you’ll shuffle to the bathroom, and be confronted by some old wrinkled gray haired lady looking at you from the bathroom mirror. You react (as anyone would) with panic and (to yourself) shout “WHO THE HELL IS THAT AND WHAT IS SHE DOING IN MY BATHROOM?????”.
But eventually you make peace with your body and adjust your standards, goals or whatever they are. You notice Helen Mirren, Sophia Loren and a bunch of others who don’t look like they did at 20 or 40… but damn, woman…. they look pretty good. And you will, too.
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