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Sike. (I’m bringing back the word “sike.” Certain parts of the nineties, like this word and the cabbage patch dance move did not, in my very humble opinion get enough credit).
In all seriousness, I’m noticing a troubling trend among women, and if you are reading this (thank you!) I know you’re guilty of the self-berating, awful treatment of yourself that I definitely practice from time to time. And if you aren’t, please vacate my blog- you are much too mentally stable for my yammerings. This is a place for fellow “what the fuck did I just do?” people. But anyway, I’m here to explain what I’ve learned in the past year and half or so of behaving like I flat out didn’t count. And it’s not true, so maybe I can help you if you’ve kind of fallen into that rut too.
First– believe that you are. Sincerely, honestly, know that you matter. Because you do, even if it’s just some random chick with a laptop and a free evening telling you that. Your opinions, your blabberings, your crying at stupid commercials or during that argument are valid, and important. But if you don’t buy into any of your beliefs/theories/platforms, nobody else will. Nor should they.
If you, like I did, don’t believe yet that you are important a pretty good activity for you then is to fake it til you make it. Tell yourself you are… Not in a creepy-homeless-person-who-talks-to-themselves-way, but in a silent, inside your own head way. If passers-by overhear you in the mall saying “I’m important!” not only will they not believe you, but they will alert authorities. And generally people in padded cells can agree on their delusions of importance… So avoid that, please. Anyway! When you catch yourself discounting your thoughts “Oh, that was stupid of me,” stop! Silently remind yourself that you are important. You are NOT stupid. (Unless you genuinely are, in which case I can’t help you).
Second– Place blame when need be. I’m not saying keep your index finger pointed in a permanent position facing outward at people near you… that’s creepy… but know when you are or not to blame. Women are quick to fall into the “totally my fault. I sooo apologize. Please forgive me” thing… Even if it’s NOT. If he cheats- you aren’t to blame. If your boss is a crackpot who yells at you all the time, chances are you didn’t fuck everything up. If you don’t deserve to take the fall for something, don’t. It doesn’t mean you have to fight tooth and nail to convince everyone of your innocence or superiority, but it does mean that you need to stick to your own truth. Sometimes other people just suck. Sometimes we are not so fabulous, and that’s perfectly okay. Humans are awesome like that.
Third– and this sort of goes with “second,” but have some standards. Yeesh. I am so guilty of going out with someone (last night?), and having a sort of okay time, but still staring menacingly at my phone wondering why the guy who was mehhh isn’t calling me incessantly declaring his love and reciting poetry (today?). Don’t settle for less-than, or you will become less-than. And who wants to be less-than?! It kind of sounds like someone who would be missing an arm or something… I like my limbs. Not that anyone thought I didn’t.
Fourth– People generally referred to as “important” are impressive. And maybe right now you have a not very impressive job. Doesn’t mean anything. Maybe you have some habits (cough, cocaine, cough) that are kind of scary… But there’s always time to find a direction that IS impressive. And more importantly, “impressive” is a relative term. I don’t find blue-grass singers to be impressive, but D does. D doesn’t find political figures impressive, and I swoon over them. (Fact: I almost cried when my favorite Congressman remembered my name). So just because everyone else doesn’t go “Ohmigod you’re so cool!” over attribute X about you, don’t worry about it. It is so good for you mentally and emotionally though, to believe in yourself enough to set a goal that you think is impressive. First, be proud of yourself for attempting said goal, and then, be proud of yourself for achieving it. It’s a fun game.
Fifth– If my extensive yoga experience has taught me anything (sike! I don’t do yoga, who are we kidding?), it’s that getting to know yourself is a good idea. Fuck that. It’s a brilliant idea. Spend some one on one time with yourself and just do what you have always wanted to do- even if it’s napping, or sewing or whatever. Know what you like, what you despise, what you are and are not capable of. This way, when other people (douchebags) are doing that “Let me tell you something about YOU” crap, you can either admit internally that “yeah, maybe I could work on that” or “you’re a crazy bastard and I don’t need your judgements”. Don’t rely on the two-bit opinions of people to form your own opinion of yourself. More often than not, other poeple are wrong. This kind of goes back to the “know when to accept blame thing.”
Another fun thing about this little part, getting to know yourself can normally result in liking yourself more. Finding some sort of acceptance of who you are, of your big ears (cough, me, cough), or the way you laugh, or whatever it is you pick on yourself for without ANY reason.
Sixth– Finally, take care of yourself. Be a priority in your own life. For a long time people talked about learning to love yourself and I really didn’t understand. I thought that meant tell people how much better you were than them… and guess what? That just makes people call you a “bitch.” Which was sort of true at the time.
What I think they actually meant (I admit, I’m still sort of working it out), is to treat yourself like you were your own daughter (son if you have a penis). This does not mean attempt to put your head up your vagina and give weird bizarre birth to yourself. It doesn’t mean that at all. But- think of it this way- if you had a daughter, would you stuff her full of shitty food and dress her like she was homeless? Would you tell her she was stupid or not to bother with school or her friends? No. You would value her, make her feel special, treat her as the special being she is. So, in a sort of creepy way, what I’m saying is to treat YOU like the special, unique, lovely being that you are.
And there you have it. I spent a year and a half hating myself, blaming myself, being angry at me and actually starving myself because I thought punishing my own person would somehow improve anything. Surprise! It made it worse. We all want to be told how important we are to other people, and while that’s normal and (duh) I do it too, it’s dangerous if “other people” start to supercede our own opinions. So… just next time you feel like you’re becoming a big grey ball of “ugh,” remember that it’s temporary and you are better than that… and you are important.
*Also, points to me for managing to use SIKE twice in one post.*
Alright kids, we are now commencing “Operation Stop Writing Emo Shit In The Middle Of The Night And Then Deleting It The Next Day Because It Was Not Only Poorly Written But Also Melodramatic.” Related: maybe posting without drinking wine would help… we’ll do a little research and I’ll get back to you.
Seriously, that emo girl I mentioned before that lives inside of me and writes emotionally charged emails/letters apparently finds her second-wind any time after midnight during the work week. She also has a penchant for white wine and emotional eating of Chipotle (cough, numerous times a week, cough). She’s fat. And ugly. And I’m going to forget that she dwells inside and write non-suicidal stuff for a little while. You’re welcome, all 2 of my loyal readers.
I’ve had some lovely conversations over the past 48 hours, and I think they deserve a little recognition… I also have nothing to write that isn’t pitiful, so we don’t have a lot of inspiring material. Eh.
Conversation between my boss, my coworker and myself:
Boss: No way, if the zombie apocolypse does occur, I am totally getting a shotgun.
Coworker: Eh, I like swords, I think I’d use a sword.
Me: You both are idiots, and will die first in the zombie apocolypse. First, a shotgun? What the fuck, they’re already dead. You’ll just give them a puncture wound before they eat you alive. And second, who the hell are you? Harry Potter? Swords? Can you even use a sword?
Coworker: Harry Potter had a wand. Not a sword. God you’re worthless.
Me: Shut up. Machetes all the way. Not only is it bad ass, but I can dismember the zombies and run away. Win, and win. Also, that’s cardio. Triple win.
This is alarming for a number of reasons. Mostly because at 10 in the morning, my office should have better things to do than contemplate the numerous ways of self-defense should reality ever start to resemble a bad 2008 movie. The life of a legislative staffer, ladies and gentlemen. Your tax payer dollars at work- finding new ways for me and my fellow public employees to reach new levels of (creative) mediocrity.
Conversation on Monday morning in my office:
Coworker: Where you watching the Superbowl?
Me: I make it an annual tradition not to. Men seem to really enjoy my disregard for sports… wait, who’s playing?
Coworker: Steelers and Packers.
Me: Hell yes. Packers.
Me: I dig those people wearing cheese blocks on their heads.
Boss: It is no longer a mystery why you are single. Well, it never really was… but now I think you’re just trying to deflect men.
Me: I’m still baffled by the lack of people in love with me. So that makes one of us.
No explanation necessary.
Conversation preceding the Superbowl one via text with Muscles:
Muscles: So I heard that you have had sex with more than three people. You told me three. You lied? It’s none of my business, but come on.
Me: (After debating how worth it it would be to even respond) Yeah… No good comes from a guy hearing a real number. I shouldn’t have lied, I apologize
Muscles: You’re a big person for being honest. Want to see No Strings Attached with me this weekend?
Hm. Cruel joke? I don’t want to see that stupid movie, and if you read my blog (or if you don’t, more likely, then you can read about my pre-emptive hatred of this movie here)- you know how I feel about it, but whatever. And is he trying to send me a subliminal message? And every girl lies about their “number,” so don’t you judge me. Actually, this topic is a whoooole other blog post, and one that I will save for when my mom stops being one of the two loyal readers (hi, mom!).
Conversation with D, the roomie:
D: You peaked in middle school, I peaked five years ago. That’s life. But you’re mature and succesful, so it doesn’t matter.
Me: Wait, is that a compliment?
Me: You’re awful at compliments. You’re saying I peaked a decade ago? I’ve got plenty of decades left, and you’re saying they’re all downhill from here?
That’s just depressing. And I didn’t peak in high school, I just discovered how much men loved mean women. (I may or may not have inspired that retarded book Men Love Bitches… but I don’t know because I didn’t read it). Now, I am still mean, but older men seem to not love bitches at this age… or they have noticed the
25 10 lbs I’ve gained since middle school. They love bimbos who yell along to a Ke$ha song blaring in the club while spilling their Red Bull/Vodka all over me. Or they go to those online dating sites and find someone there so they can continue on their road of blissful ignorance and bullshit existence… There I go, making absolutely NO reference to people I may have dated recently who definitely didn’t stomp all over my heart and add to my already sizeable self-esteem issues. Nope. Not at all autobiographical that last little vent.
I’d write more but I have to wash my hair since I
haven’t in a long time have a date tomorrow night with an athlete turned local lobbyist… Which sounds like a totally trust-worthy kind of guy, right?
“You women are crazy. If she’s your friend, she’s just expressing herself in a healthy manner. If you hate her, she’s a whore.” Wise, wise words from a not so wise man.
He had a point though. It’s all subjective- the labels, the categories, the way we filter people through our respective lenses and then forever leave them there to suffer. I have an idea of how people generally perceive me. Let me tell you, if you like the crazies- you’ll be a big fan of mine.
I’m small, stubborn, loud and fiercely passionate. I’m also pretty lazy, condescending more often than not, and passive aggressive. I’m self-conscious but will never tell you, and regularly demand that you tell me I’m adorable. I, admittedly, play a part. We all do. You can be the nice guy, the serial dater, the player, the bitchy-girl, the snobby girl, the girl next door. The roles are numerous and there’s a spot for everyone.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been the sort of angry girl. Vicious with insults when the time calls for it- and even sometimes when the time doesn’t call for it. Presentable, but carrying around a chip on my shoulder the size of Kenya. I don’t like strangers… especially stupid ones. How do I know if they’re stupid? I don’t. But I also like to hazard guesses about innocent people.
I’m charming, huh?
And while I know that people do categorize me, rightfully so, into a less than flattering category, I wish they wouldn’t. I wish I could learn how to not be this bruiser of a person— but that, alas, would involve some serious soul-searching I’m just flat out not prepared to do. It all branches from insecurity. I don’t care if you don’t like me because I’ve pre-emptively decided to not like anyone. And ultimately, I barricade myself unnecessarily from people who may be wonderful additions to my life. In the end, the person damaged the most by my ridiculous way of living is me.
Masochistic? Probably a little bit. But we all have our ways, and we all live in our categories. The question is, can we ever move categories? And if so, is it too late for me?