Last night I dreamed I was involved in some sort of cruise ship accident. It may have been a terrorist attack. As the tragedy unfolded, I lost one of my children, and the word ‘lost’ is a euphemism so I don’t have to put words to the Unthinkable.
In the dream, I was devastated; also, I became upset because I couldn’t find clean shorts for the child I didn’t ‘lose.’ I shuffled around what remained of the destroyed ship, sobbing, trying to figure out what had happened until it was time for CrossFit, and then CrossFit Andy made me do the Workout of the Day even though it involved walking on a plank over water, which was so insensitive because of the terrible shipping incident.
It’s possible that my mother is correct about gin making me crazy. In addition, note to CrossFit Andy: Get the fuck out of my head, dude. And would it kill you to show some compassion?
Today marks the beginning of my 50th Birthday Week, and Hot Firefighter Husband took me out last night to kick it off in style. Translation: with gin. Hence, perhaps, the cray-cray dream. THEN Husband sat on a chair at Buckle while I tried on and purchased a pair of Rock Revival jeans with actual bling. I did all this because, duh, I’m FIFTY (just about) and I want to keep proving to myself that I’m still full of BOOM SAUCE which is cool slang for awesomeness. I honestly don’t mind turning 50. What’s more difficult is figuring out how to mark the occasion with an appropriate ratio of dignity and edge. Obviously I’m going to get another tattoo. But as for gifts? I don’t know! Husband, whose many, many attributes do not include creative gift-giving, has been remarkably patient with my various ideas. Last night at dinner, he kind of gave up. “Honey, you just need to do what you want,” he said. “A Vespa, plastic surgery, a golf cart, whatever it is, it’s fine. I’ll get it for you.” That’s what I’m talking about. My man is the bomb, even though he shaved his Fu Man Chu mustache this morning and left whiskers all over the bathroom.
But you know what I really want? I want to be happy, which is a state of being I’ve had at my fingertips for, oh, decades. I’ve even had Happiness Assistors – anti-depressants and hormones – for a good portion of that time. But I’ve also had excuses. I have felt too busy and stressed, too defeated and filled with self-loathing.
Working to avoid being happy is exhausting. But GUESS WHAT? I am giving myself the best gift ever this year: permission to feel great about who I am. See, just now, I almost wrote ‘feel good about who I am.’ What the fuck? We women do this to ourselves, and it’s 20 different kinds of stupid. If I’ve taken up oxygen on this earth for a full half a century and can only feel okay about it, that’s kind of pathetic. What’s worse, it’s a sad, sad lesson I’m teaching to my kids.
In addition to being happy and feeling great about who I am, I’m going to spend more time doing what I love, which is – DRUM ROLL – reading and writing. This is excellent news for you, my dear subscriber peeps, and reason aplenty for you to encourage your friends, relatives and dental hygienists to subscribe to my blog.
As a sign that I’m changing my attitude, I’m going to write a post every day this week, and I’m mostly going to write about myself. HOW ABOUT THEM POMEGRANATES?
FIFTY! And fierce. Go, me. (Ooohoo! That might look good in a tattoo!)