day 37: real talk

I'm trying this new thing where I acknowledge my perceived inadequacies, but without any immediate pressure to fix them. Yes, of course, I'd like to make progress--and I am working to do so--but I constantly have to remind myself that it won't happen overnight, and I need to stop beating myself up when it doesn't.

It's amazing the relief provided simply by verbal confession, even without any kind of proposition, or solution. Just breaking the silence, forming the words outside of the cockles of my mind does wonders.

I am anxious.
I have insecurities.
I am afraid of failure.

I'm ashamed.
I'm shy.
I want to be liked.

As much as I hate to admit it (because it's not "cool"), indeed, yes--I care what people think of me. Or just that they think of me.

I wish I didn't. But that's not what this is about. This is about acknowledging my true self (rather than the self I project to the world), but without the burden of trying to correct it right now.

I have body image issues.
I have doubts about my goals.
I have doubts. Period.

I thrive on appreciation, but am too self-conscious to properly receive a compliment.
I seek out approval (read: validation), but mostly via social media so I can remain somewhat inconspicuous and anonymous (how very Millennial of me).
I long to be special, to be held in higher regard, but find ways to avoid the work or the spotlight required to occupy such a status.

I could go on...but I won't.

There is a part of me that isn't any of these things. A part of my true self has already figured out how to overcome this ineptness, this mediocrity. The part of me that is aware enough to acknowledge them.

She comes out now and then (I call her Lola, my alter ego).

When I started weightlifting, she came out a lot more, because my body confidence is closely tied to a lot of these other things. Some of that applies now too because feeling and looking healthier (thanks to the Whole30) boosts my confidence as well.

I've said it before and I'll reiterate it here: I am a work in progress.

Some of these things are unfortunate consequences of the human, mortal condition. That's not an excuse to be crippled by them, however.

The path I am on right now is one of awareness, acknowledgment, and conscious change. It's a sliding scale and I will spend the rest of my life striving to be the best version of myself.

A work in progress, yes. But also a masterpiece in the making.

day 36: why my life is a Rogers and Hart song

I get too hungry for dinner at eight.
I like the theatre but never come late.
I never bother with people I hate.

Let's see--yes, yes, and a thousand times, YES. We can just stop here, actually. This is my anthem.

I don't like crap games with Barons and Earls.
Won't go to Harlem in ermine and pearls.
Won't dish the dirt with the rest of the girls.

Okay, so I had to look up what "ermine" was (it is a fancy white fur stoat) but yeah, definitely wouldn't go to Harlem--or anywhere--wearing that. And "dishing the dirt" = "stirring up drama." No thank you.

I like the free, fresh wind in my hair, life without care.
I'm broke--it's oke!
Hate California, it's cold and it's damp.

All true thus far. (Except about hating California. That's false. I love you, California.) Also, in case you were wondering, "oke" is "okay" in this instance.

I go to Coney, the beach is divine.
I go to ball games, the bleachers are fine.
I follow Winchell and read every line.

Never been to Coney Island, but I love the beach in general, as long as it isn't over-crowded (see previous line about "not bothering"). And the cheap seats at a baseball game are basically the only thing that is great about America these days. Winchell was a gossip columnist way back when--but I mean, if we're being completely honest, I love that juicy celebrity gossip as much as the next girl. However, now instead of getting it from the newspaper, I glean if off of Refinery29 or Bravo.

I like a prize fight that isn't a fake.
I love the rowing on Central Park lake.
I go to opera and stay wide awake.

I would've gotten into the huge boxing match last weekend had it not been utterly ridiculous on all accounts. Bodies of water are my jam, clichéd Central Park included. And don't get me started on the opera. I sang that stuff in high school and college. It's legit.

I like the green grass under my shoes, what can I lose?
I'm flat--that's that!
I'm all alone when I lower my lamp.

Mmm-hmmm, guilty on all charges.

Don't know the reason for cocktails at five.
I don't like flying, I'm glad I'm alive.
I crave affection, but not when I drive.

Happy hour is just an excuse to drink away the misery and emptiness you get from your day job. Flying gets a bad rap (thanks, Homeland Security), but I could take it or leave it. And I prefer driving alone so I can roll all the windows down and turn the radio way up and sing.

Folks go to London and leave me behind.
I'll miss the crowning, Queen Mary won't mind.
I don't play Scarlett in "Gone With the Wind".

I've always harbored a deep desire to punch Scarlett O'Hara in the throat.

I like to hang my hat where I please, sail with the breeze.
No dough--hey, ho!
I love La Guardia and think he's a champ.

(La Guardia was the mayor of New York City. I'll refrain from commenting on the current mayor of NYC at this time.)

Girls get massages, they cry and they moan.
Tell Lizzie Arden to leave me alone.
I'm not so hot, but my shape is my own.

(Lizzie Arden is referring to Elizabeth Arden, the cosmetics mogul.) There's an entire feminist agenda in three lines here. Take that, Meghan Trainor.

The food at Sardi's is perfect, no doubt.
I don't know what the Ritz is about.
I drop a nickel and coffee comes out.

Sardi's is that restaurant in Times Square where all the caricatures of celebrities are hanging on the walls. Wouldn't be caught dead there. Hate that touristy stuff. Ain't nobody got time (or money) for that.

I like the sweet, fresh rain in my face.
Diamonds and lace, no got--so what?

So what? The perfect retort. The perfect song. The perfect summation of my life philosophy.

And that's why the lady is a tramp!

day 35: miss independent

"Strangers are just friends you haven't met yet."

No, I didn't see that on a bumper sticker, or in swirly frilly letters in an "inspirational" graphic on the internet. Someone actually said it to me--ironically, I hope! (Right, Joey?)

Blech, the statement is physically revolting to me. Say it, and I cringe and shudder like Whoopi Goldberg the hyena and you just said "Mufasa!" Maybe it's my generalized social anxiety. Maybe it's my overall discontent with the masses. Maybe I'm just a weird loner. Maybe I'm intimidating, stuck-up, and judgmental. At any rate, I have to say that in general, people suck, I don't really like them, and I don't see every stranger as a potential new bestie.

There are several individuals in my life that I like quite a bit, but collectively people are pretty much the worst.

It is this quality of being just the worst that drives my lack of desire to be everyone's buddy. I am someone who would much rather invest the time and energy into having only a few quality friendships, rather than spreading the friendliness around to lots of people that I've never really had a connection with (I guess you could say I'm like Ron Swanson in that way).

This tends to backfire, of course, when I rarely feel that connection to anyone (probably due to my own inability to let my guard down) and end up with, like, zero friends.

It's mostly fine with me. I can enjoy my time alone. And I don't know if anyone has admitted it out loud since possibly kindergarten, but making new friends is hard. I'm of the philosophy that you can't force it, so when thrown into a new situation with new people and new opportunities--it either clicks, or it just doesn't.

So I guess the more accurate statement would be that making new friends isn't necessarily hard, but it does take patience. (Case in point: when you do meet someone you click with, the friendship easily falls into place. So making that friend isn't difficult at all, but stumbling upon them in a world population of over seven billion is somewhat unlikely.)

That's why when I do develop one of those connections, it tends to stick--even from thousands of miles away. You probably want to ask, are these old friendships preventing me from developing new ones? It's possible. But these are my people. And given the odds, I think I'm going to hang on to them while I can.

So yeah, I may not be the most warm and fuzzy person in the world. And I sure as hell won't be easy to get to know right off the bat. But if you put in the time, it could be worth your while.

In the interim, kudos to those of you who can instantly be best friends with literally anyone. You will probably get much further in life than loners like me.

Consequently, I am in the market for an Ithaca person. So if this cynical-ass blog post didn't completely turn you off and you can appreciate the pop culture references, look me up. We could be friends, just so long as we aren't strangers first.