Let's be tough.
It's Christmas and everybody is writing about money and nighttime and saving themselves. Everybody is feeling like things will be okay, no matter how much worry they've put into it.
What if we just decided to fuck it? What if we went strutting around with our bellies and our sensible shoes, and those wiggly feelings way down deep in our loins were the ones we listened to? What if we didn't do the dishes? What if we stretched out across the floor and let the babies get Cheerios everywhere, in lieu of having an actual dinner? What if we didn't even vacuum afterwards?
How about we shut up and quit being scared for a little while? Let's be women. Let's have sex with our husbands on the couch with the hallway light on and not worry about our double chins. Let's trust each other. Let's take care of each other. Let's take care of ourselves and stay up late wearing a bathrobe and sexy underwear. Let's try to believe the way we did in college, when men were boys and they loved us and we knew everything we needed to know about life. Let's act like we don't know that coffee creamer will kill us. Let's pretend that we haven't read books about the merits of leafy greens.
Just for a minute?
What about the kids?
Do you want to know what about the kids? THEY ARE FINE. Yes, they are! They are fine when we worry about them and fuss over them and pretend like we ARE them and that there's nothing left to us but washing diapers and smearing almond butter on apple slices. They are fine when we're women, too. When we're on fire, hunched over a keyboard, in a wild, daydreaming trance over a love that's all in our heads. They're fine when we take a bath with a book in the evening and make them keep each other, or themselves, entertained! They're fine picking out their own clothes. Let them eat jelly sandwiches for lunch. Let them watch cartoons while we're around the corner in the kitchen eating Christmas cookies from the freezer behind their backs. THEY ARE FINE.
If we love them, they are fine. If we love them, that's all they need for Christmas. We love them so much and they are fine.
What about us? How are we doing?
Sometimes I don't know how fine I am. Sometimes I'm not fine at all.
Do you know what I'm going to do? Put Iggy on the car stereo and paint my lips red. I'm going to eat something messy. I'm going to dress up like a tough guy, sneer at my reflection. I'm going to swing my girls in a circle by their arms while they squeal and laugh. I'm going to let my husband see me naked. I am going to get rejected by another fucking agent and rewrite my query letter again. I am going to do two minutes of planks on my elbows. I am going to be sore in the morning.
I think it's probably about time we all got over ourselves, don't you?
None of those scary things matter like we think they do. There has never been a time that I've stayed up worrying over something that ended up being as bad as I JUST KNEW it would be.
We're all poor. We're all tired. We're all self-conscious. We're all worn thin. We're all getting older. We're all scared. We're all the same. We're all in love with something.
Exploit that something.
Let it make you happy.
Let it make you god, because you are.
Love something and let it become you, instead of painting yourself all over with worry and doubt and acting like you're nothing but a sorry old bag of sorrows that sag and crumble at the slightest pressure.
I love you. You're better than this. Stand up taller. Tighten up your laces. Wear something with cleavage to the grocery store. Know that everywhere you look, men and women alike are biting the inside of their lips over how much they want to do you. Write something important. Stop hiding. Be something amazing. Do something surprising. Quit giving a fuck. Don't even clean up after yourself when you're done.
I love you.
Disclaimer: Boys didn't really love me in college, only the one who mattered. Everybody else thought I was an intimidating loud mouth, or a total loud mouthed idiot or just an idiot. I will not comment either way about the validity of their impressions.