My therapist once said to me, as I picked apart every word and action in the midst of what I was convinced was a relationship crisis— “You know, Emily, not everything always needs to be analyzed. Sometimes things just are what they are.” And I totally agree.
But, like, what do you think she meant by that?
In a span of less than 48 hours, my 1 month old nephew both pissed and shit all over me. Both times, it happened while we were cuddling and I was giving him my full love and attention. My first, immediate thought when it happened, both times, was “Awwww, look how comfortable he is with me!”
This could be where I’m going wrong in my dating life.
Yeah. I just really didn’t want to.
A dear friend once told me, as I was stuck in a very crowded train station and starting to panic, to pretend that the crowd and I are seconds away from busting out into a giant flash mob dance to Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.” This remans the single best advice I’ve ever received for calming my anxiety in crowded spaces and feeling like I can breathe.
Particularly because once you picture the scene and start maniacally laughing to yourself, people give you some space.
I can already check “Receive Passive Aggressive Text” off my New Years resolution list– which is great news, because that and “Don’t Respond to Passive Aggressive Text” were the only two things on it!
Clap clap DONE, guys! 👍
I’ll admit it, sometimes I order Chinese food just for the fortune. I won’t even be in the mood for Chinese food, or in the mood for food at all, but every once in a while I’ll have the sudden urge to be told my future by a legitimate source. Sometimes I just need someone to tell me something good, and it’s fine if that someone is a cookie.
So you can imagine my dissapointement when I pay the $20-25 for a whole meal (because yeah, even if I’m not hungry, I’m going to get a soup, oversized meat dish, and a side of pork lo mien, as there is literally no other way to eat Chinese food) and the “fortune” is this:
WTF, China?! This is NOT a fortune. A fortune tells the future. This is just a statement. And an unhelpful one– one that is going to make me even more critical of my too-critical self. If you’re going to just be lazy and make a statement, I prefer it be something that will make me feel good. For example:
“Your hair looks pretty today.”
“You’re a decent dancer for a Jew.”
“It’s good that you never vacuum– dust mites have feelings.”
“No one notices your lisp.”
So please add those to your print rotation, or I’m getting out of the fortune cookie ring for good.
Oh wait, what’s this? A second fortune cookie? Because you assumed this monstrous order was for two people? Interesting. Let’s see what unhelpful babble is written on this one:
Oh my god– yay! I fucking love you, China.
Many of my friends have told me that their parents love reading my blog, and I can’t tell you how happy that makes me. It has recently come to my attention, however, that not all of them are thrilled with the amount of cursing in some of my posts. I’ve heard this from several people. Just this week my friend told me her mother read one of my posts and then declared, “Emily said the f-word. I really didn’t like that.”
I know, Rhonda. I totally hear you, and I 100% get why you didn’t like it.
Because for most of my life, I didn’t like it either. Once I became aware that cursing was no longer socially “appropriate” for someone of my gender, age, and background, my foul mouth became my least favorite thing about me. In fact, every single New Years, I would vow to curse less. This was a great way to start off my year– by disappointing myself. FUCK. Why is this so hard? (Side note: To be clear, I never curse at work. In front of the kids, that is. Give me some credit, people. Or don’t. I get why you wouldn’t.)
I grew up cursing as a form of self-expression. This was not a result of bad parenting– my parents are amazing role models, and none of my siblings curse as much as I do. But there were no strict rules about it in our house, and for whatever reason, I’m the one who decided to take advantage of this and adopt “fuck” as an emotive tool. I had (and still have, as any one of my scarred ex-boyfriends can attest to) a LOT of feelings– feelings that need to come out or they’ll eat me alive. Cursing helps me express those feelings. And not just the bad ones– “fuck” works great for excitement (I’m so fucking excited!), anticipation (I can’t fucking wait!), amazement (Are you fucking kidding me?!), joy (I’m so fucking…ok you get it…I have a tendency to over-explain. It’s the teacher in me)— basically any feeling that you’re REALLY feeling. I am someone who feels feelings HARD, and for me, cursing more accurately captures the strength of the feeling.
Also, it’s fun.
But as I emerged from childhood and became more aware of my surroundings and critical of myself, I began to feel self-conscious about it:
“Smart, educated girls shouldn’t curse.”
“Guys don’t like girls who curse.”
“You sound immature.”
“It makes you seem abrasive.”
Unfortunately, cursing had been my reliable and trusty form of self-expression for so long, it was hard to stop. But I kept trying. And failing. And when I failed, I beat myself up about it. So you see, it was an extremely healthy, productive, and air-tight cycle of self-loathing I created for myself. We’re talking George Costanza levels of self-defeat.
Years of therapy and a huge nervous breakdown later, I have come to see that my struggle with cursing is a just a small side-battle in the larger full-scale war of my young adult life— my war with “The Shoulds.” Since my teenage years, I’ve been trying desperately to do and achieve all the things someone of my background SHOULD do and achieve. I have spent so much time measuring my thoughts and actions against the long mental list of “Shoulds” that I (with the help of society) have created for myself. And when I wasn’t living up, I berated myself and felt terrible. It wasn’t until I learned to start letting go of “The Shoulds” that I began to feel more comfortable in my skin, more content with myself, and better able to accept who I am, (copious) flaws and all. (This, by the way, is and always will be a huge work in progress, lest you think I am an example of a truly evolved being. Oh, you weren’t even remotely thinking that? Ok, cool. Good.)
So, that’s me. Or part of me, at least. I curse.
And you know what? I feel pretty fucking great about it.
I woke up with my iPhone charger wrapped around my neck, and I couldn’t help but think that would be a fitting and poetic way to die.
Then I worried that that was a weird and not-normal thing to immediately think. But I was still strangely proud of myself for finding the cool factor in what could have been my accidental and untimely demise.
Then I really thought about this untimely demise. Like, the logistics of it. I’m off work until Monday, and had I died in my sleep last night, it’s conceivable that it would have taken 5 days for my body to be found. In my underwear.
Then I thought it might be worth it to have a roommate again, just so I can die with some dignity.
Then I thought about how much I love living alone, and would I even be CAPABLE of living with a roommate again?
Then I thought about how that’s what marriage is– a LIFELONG roommate.
Then I reevaluated my plan to one day get married. Lifelong is REALLY long, guys.
Unless, of course, you accidentally die young in your sleep, wrapped in your iPhone cord.
And that’s where the thought spiral came full circle, and I was able to get out of bed and start my day.
So what I’m trying to say is, so far in 2015, my anxiety disorder is totally under control.
New Years is the perfect time to resolve to be healthier as you chase your anti-depressants with Champagne.
When I go on vacation, I take my tan very seriously. I work hard to achieve that perfect healthy sun-kissed glow, ignoring the fact that “healthy sun-kissed” is in fact an oxymoron, particularly when melanoma runs in your family. As I’ve gotten older, I have, of course, become much more responsible about this practice, because I understand that a super-dark tan looks far less sexy on a 32-year-old than it does on a college student. I also understand that when I lay out for hours roasting in the sun, I am slowly poisoning myself. I’ve actually always understood this, but recently I’ve become less comfortable with the idea of a shorter life span in the name of temporary beauty. It’s called maturity, people.
All that being said, I fucked up in Mexico. I forgot that Mexican sun is 60 times stronger and more orange than normal sun (FACT), and I got too much of it. I’m too tan. I am WAY. TOO. TAN.
Unfortunately, I had scheduled a first date for the first night I was back in NYC (last night). But I was feeling super self-conscious about my tan. I polled my friends and they all agreed that no, “too tan” is not an acceptable reason for a functioning human being in society to cancel a date. I begged to differ, so in a desperate attempt for back-up, I texted my friend Gabi, who had been in Mexico with me and knew exactly how too-tan I was. But even she agreed I had to still go:
So it was settled. I sent a pre-emptive warning text that went as follows: “I feel it’s necessary to warn you, Kevin, that I have never been this tan in my life. I am too tan. No one should be this tan.” The following exchange then ensued:
Ok. Phew. Settled. I felt much better that at least he knew I knew I was too tan. That was much better than him sitting there thinking, “I bet she thinks she looks great, but she is too old to be this tan. How sad for her. And society. And the world, really.”
I did what I could with makeup to calm the orangey glow but it was no use. I sighed, accepted my fate as the too-tan 30-something, and left for the date.
When I arrived at the bar, he took one long look at me and, genuinely confused and 100% serious said, “I don’t understand. You’re not even tan.”
Oh NO. HE. DIDN’T.
