I have been wearing a bracelet with this exact saying on it: My Story Is Not Over Yet: I guess I needed to boss myself around a bit because I ordered several bands with motivating, kind phrases on them. The type of phrases that remind a girl to stop and breathe, take care of herself, keep searching, keep finding all of the good and to keep running. I needed some bossing because I was spending way too much time coming undone in my rabbit hole. A girl can get stuck down there if the roots keep breaking off every time she grabs one. So, a little bossing of myself was in order. Boss, Baby, Boss. Boss babe. I dislike (notice the lack of the h**e word) the second phrase- it makes me feel like I forgot to take the class on how to be the boss of my own babe. So I’ll go with Boss, Baby, Boss. Rise up and out. Get on with it. I’m tired of looking at my trash down here-it’s starting to stink and get very, very sad. Hunky Orion is waiting- I’m coming up. Or I might go back down. I haven’t officially decided yet. It’s a very personal decision- which moment to choose ascension from the rabbit hole. And I’ll come up when I’m ready. Stop bossing me. Ugh.
It’s been a big week. Can we all just say that? Can we all just collectively sigh and raise our eyebrows at each other, smile tired smiles, maybe pat each other on the back and say, “Well, geesh, my friend, it’s been a doozy. Want to grab a coffee?”. I want to invite all of our country for a sigh and a coffee and a little discussion on the best parts of life, “coffee with the people”, all of the people. We can all wear our personal bossy bands and show each other and laugh at what little phrase keeps each of us grinding through the minutiae and onwards and upwards. Because, come on, we are going onwards and upwards. We will close our eyes and boss ourselves right through it. Won’t we? We will take the puppies outside to potty, we will take the kids to school, we will go to work to the post office to the library and to the doctor’s office and we will hold the door for strangers and wave at the UPS delivery guy and be grateful for our soldiers and hold vigil for our sick babies and see our families and laugh with our calvary of people that ride beside us no matter what.
Yes. Won’t we?
But it is all a little scary. At least I think it is at the moment, and I’m ok with feeling that way. That is often the nature of change. Scary and so very confusing- we want change, we don’t want change, we want to change back. It feels divisive instead of drawing together under the great umbrella of democracy and keeping each other dry from the rain. I’m not full of hate or non-inclusive thoughts. I’m full of love and compassion- I really try to fill up with that everyday. Don’t we all do that? Please, God, do that. Everyone. It is long past time for that. I spent yesterday crying off and on realizing fear makes me cry- fear of palmetto bugs, fear of being insignificant, fear of scary, judge-y people who might hurt me or some members of my calvary. I turned to social media (skull-cracking eye roll) and found a couple of articles by two of my very favorite authors and both suggested in difficult times such as these focus on your own heart, focus on self-care so you can help those around you. “Change comes from within.” I’ve definitely heard that one before. So here I go- self-care it is. Boss, Baby, Boss.
Being that I picked one hell of a week, actually one hell of a year, to turn 40, my self-care begins with the choice of the Un-Birthday. How fitting considering I am just finishing up on the Undoing. I’m feeling a bit stripped-down and naked running around out here in my Georgia forest, so there will not be a lot of celebrating on the particular day I turn 40. But, wait, how perfect. My birthday suit. I guess that’s what a girl should be wearing by the time she turns 40. Comfortable in her skin, in her body, her vessel that carries her cherished soul. Ha. I’m working on it- somedays it feels good in this body, and other days I let bad things slip out of my mouth about my butt, my legs, how I need to scotch tape my forehead up or my weird, flappy arms that seem to have stopped responding to gym time. But oh baby, I’m starting to care a whole lot less. Don’t get me wrong, I still have my Sandra Dee dreams of the black catsuit, stilettos and knocking Jay over with a beautifully-painted red tippy-toe. The sweaty workout clothes feel comfy, though, and make me proud of the strength of this body that birthed four kids- a body I work with everyday so I can stay strong, mobile and agile because I have so much running left to do. So many stories left to tell.
So as my 40th Un-Birthday nears, I have also decided to admit and fully claim and be proud of my birthday anxiety. I am a perfectionist at sabotaging my own birthdays. I get scared they won’t ever be what I thought they would, I cry, people look at me strangely wondering why I can’t just celebrate, Jay rolls his eyes, the kids over-compensate with 39 handmade birthday cards each…….it’s a disaster. I have seen friends and their fabulous I’m-40-and-owning-it birthday parties with a gaggle of friends, drinks, food, event-ready T’s and surfer hats embroidered with “Fuck You I’m 40”. And I love it. Good for you! It’s amazing to me the ease in which these people glide into this new decade. But, no. Not me. I’m eliminating the birthday anxiety and taking a sick day on my 40th birthday. I don’t need a party nor do I want one nor do I have the time to stop doing laundry to attend one. I celebrate quietly- with a happy moment every morning my un-pedicured feet hit the floor. Yay- I’m here, I’m still running, perfectly-undone me. A little birthday celebration every single day.
I always thought 40 would feel “old”. I remember my Dad’s 40th party with the black balloons and paper plates proclaiming “Lordy, Lordy, Look Who’s 40!”. I thought that was simply hysterical as a child, and I remember running around for days afterwards chanting “lordy, lordy, look who’s 40!” and thinking, oh my goodness my Dad is so old and I’m never going to be that old, well I might be, but I will definitely have piles of grey hair and be shuffling around happily chatting to my friends at the Grand Generation Center eating little cookies with my coffee in a styrofoam cup. In reality, I feel quite young, slightly newborn-ish actually, raw and ready with my overly-sensitive skin feeling every tiny movement of air. Somedays I feel light-like I could rocket ship right off of this planet and freely float around the Earth watching the tiny people and other days I’m pretty heavy, sinking into my greasy, Georgia rabbit hole. But on my great Un-Birthday, I am focusing on my exact weight and the gravity that holds me right here- in a place where I trust the goodness of the people I love and the freedom I know will prevail in my country, where I get to spend my days filling up the hearts of the four best little people on the planet and trotting along in my sweaty clothes trying to find time for a shower, writing words that make me feel a little better-words that help me hold the truth tightly down on paper. Boss, Baby, Boss. That’s right, I’m still running, I’m still hoping and loving and giving and praying and falling to my knees in laughter and sadness (when necessary) and guarding my calvary with ferocity and welcoming everyone in who can love me and my people as they deserve and my eyes are closed.
Happy Un-Birthday, baby, because guess what, my friends………
My Story Is Not Over Yet:
