Wonder Woman

The last few days at work will be filed in my filing cabinet in the folder labeled Things, They Are Ridiculous But At Least No One is Throwing a Dictionary At My Head.  It’s a pretty fat folder. But not quite as big as the one called Cheese I Wished I Had Eaten but Ate Egg Whites Because I Hate Wearing Spanx.  My label maker sees me coming some days and just starts weeping.  (Someone recently used it without asking and broke it and didn’t tell me.  When I finally get around to fixing it, I’m going to make a folder labeled People That I Hate and put that person’s  picture in the folder.  Along with Ann Coulter, Sarah Palin and Nancy Grace. I’ll move them out of their current folder, C-words Who Need Better Conditioner)

Here lately, I’ve been anxiety-ridden and tired and feeling Oh Mah God SO BUSY, I AM SO BUSY, DID YOU HEAR ABOUT HOW  BUSY I AM?  In case you haven’t heard I AM BUSY BUSY BUSY.  I have to constantly remind myself that no one cares. Nor should they, because busy does not mean I am better or important that anyone else. I’m hoping maybe I can make a convincing arguement that these dark circles under my eyes signify my one-woman crusade to bring back heroin chic. Calling forth the specter of mid-90s Kate Moss in her Calvin Klein underpants is much sexier than saying dude, I was up editing half the night.  Also, my eyes are brokedown like a Volkswagen. But still, no one cares.

Then, last night, while trying to process the weight of the list of things that everyone needs from me now NOW NOW or the world will apparently end, my husband said “I’m ready for another blog post from you.”  My first response was Whaaa? Really? Haven’t you gotten the memo about how I AM BUSY? I mean, I have all this work. So much work.  And there is laundry. And abandoned puppies that I have to find homes for or they will die.  I have to make protein muffins from scratch. We’re out of apples. And I have to dig shit out of the dog’s behind and dirt out of the other dog’s ears and iron my shirt for tomorrow and clean the floors and make dinner and there are stitches in my eyes and my god, I HAVE TO SEND THESE RIDICULOUS TWEETS ABOUT MAD MEN RIGHT NOW, so formulate your own damn blog post.

But I think he was trying to make a point. I do not want my tombstone to say “Here Lies Kristin, She Was Always Doing Stuff for Everyone Else and Then She Died. Also, She Drank a Lot of Starbucks”

Recently, I turned 30.  The  promise I made to myself for this birthday was to stop putting everything I love to do way back in the queue behind the things I feel compelled to do.  Keep in mind that I made this promise to myself pre-lunch at a swim-up pool bar in Jamaica right after downing six of these drinks called a Wonder Woman, and I will never forget their refreshing, delicious, tropical taste or how relaxed I was at that exact moment.  Possibly, I had significantly impaired judgment. More likely, it’s that saying I learned from the sampler grandma embroidered on a pillow- In Vodka, Find Truth.

So right there, on that perfect, warm January morning in paradise, to the strains of Bob Marley and the whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of softly swaying palm trees, I banged my empty glass down on the bar and promised myself that I was going to let go.  Sometimes, the floor could stay dirty and my husband and I might go out on a Tuesday night.  I do not need to answer work emails after work is over or even immediately the next morning. I could say no. Every time I pack a suitcase, it would not have to contain every item I  might possibly need.  I would remember that sometimes, good enough is good enough. I had a Special Moment of Importance and Clarity.  I stopped just short of getting up on the bar and shouting Carpe Diem! Dylan Thomas! Slow Clap! while pumping my fists at all the pasty tourists from Ottawa.  Which is probably good, because those Canadians, they scare easy.

Then I came home from heaven and life intruded on my perfect little Dead Poets Society fantasy.  I got sucked back into the black hole of my own extreme competence and lapsed-Catholic guilt and curse of a strong work ethic. I wound up where I was last night – tired from waking up in a panic for the last several nights, crumpled on my sofa in a foul mood with sore eyes and a headache and a husband who was not so subtly trying to tell me to LET IT GO.  Wear a wrinkled shirt, do something you love, do something that matters, maybe do some writing or eat a block of cheddar.

And so I did.  I felt so much better.

It was like drinking a Wonder Woman instead of trying to be one.