Not Great, Bob!

The title of this post is inspired by one of the funniest scenes in Mad Men history. I would be remiss if I didn’t share it with the uninitiated.

Seriously. I am crying laughing.

This is not just one of the best scenes in the history of television, but a summation of my last few days. Menstrual moodiness combined with restlessness, combined with sticking to a strict home/work routine because outside is too hot and expensive has pushed me into a delightful spiral of malaise and self-loathing.

My fav.

But last night when I stumbled into bed at 9:30 after hours of lying on my couch, reading very bad smut and eating a Door Dashed corned beef sandwich for dinner and cataloging all the spots in my apartment that need to be swept and mopped while berating myself for not getting up to sweep and mop because I didn’t feel like sweeping and mopping because I was berating myself into a nearly catatonic state and therefore incapable of moving, I vowed to wake up on the right side of the bed.

So, this morning I switched my normal news/politics podcast for my Sara Bareilles playlist while I got ready for work and put on some mascara to start the day off right. Between beating my chest to the sass of “King of Anything” [“Who cares if you disagree/ you are not me/ who made you King of Anything?”] in my bathroom mirror and sobbing to the revelatory crescendo of “Many the Miles” [“I’ve been talkin’ to God/ Don’t know if it’s helpin’ or not/ But surely, something has got to, got to, got to give/ Cuz I can’t keep waiting to live”] during my morning commute, I at least felt like a human being when I walked into work this morning. A welcome change from the mindless Instagram-scrolling zombie I’ve been for the last few days.

Then I took a stroll down memory lane reading old blog posts.

I found moments that made me chuckle, like this one from 2016’s “Timeline of Abandoned Fucks”:

I’m true to this no-fuck giving lifestyle. Starting in 1992 when the pain and scarring of learning to ride a bike wasn’t worth the end result, so I  stopped. I missed out on riding bikes with my friends that summer. Instead, I discovered my love for storytelling via soap operas and playing Barbies and *drum roll please* started writing short stories. 

(I bet you didn’t find your calling riding bikes with your friends. Perhaps you could’ve used more quiet reflection when you were a kid.) 

Some confirmations that remind me I’ve always known who I am:

My last break up reminded me. I don’t want to have boyfriends/ex-boyfriends. I don’t want to soak every ending in analysis and blame. I want dope, interesting connections–flirtation, friendship, sex, some long-term arrangement that doesn’t fit into a neat little box. Men with whom I can always have a conversation because they have interesting insights with no ulterior motives involved. 

I don’t want to call every ending a failure. 

Sometimes, it’s just over. And that is okay.

“Sometimes, It’s Just Over.” 2016.

Some amazing sentences that I cannot believe came from my fingers:

I’ll build a monument to your magic, for no mere mortal could pry open hands that clung only to my ideas of self. I’ll paint you as a masterpiece who could’ve only been heaven-sent; molded by the gods from the quietest and deepest recesses of my imagination. 

“Perfect Storm (Omne Trium Perfectum).” 2016.

And startling moments of perfect clarity:

Finally, life is beautiful. Life is also trash. Accepting this will help you appreciate the beautiful moments. You’ll learn to find perfection in the taste of a light, fruity Pinot Noir on your tongue; joy in a well-crafted sentence; contentment in a full night’s sleep. Don’t spend so much time copy-editing your existence that you forget to live it. You see, there are no secrets or keys to this thing. It’s all in the living.

“Rewind: 10 Years.” 2016.

By the end of my deep-dive, I liked myself a whole lot more (I am witty and talented as shit) and remembered to be gentle with myself. That the point of my life as designed is the freedom to let it be whatever it needs to be in the moment because I answer to no one.

I realized that I have maxed-out on my hermit phase and have to re-learn how to engage with the world (even if people are sooooo stupid, it makes me want to never speak to anyone, ever).

And that no matter how trivial my thoughts/feelings seem at the time, I have to keep writing this shit down. I never know when Future Me might need a pick-me-up.

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a girl named rob

I used to be "skinny black girl." I'm now a slender woman on the other side of 35 with no new moniker who is not quite interested in writing under her given name. Still writing my life, a day (or some months) at a time. Also, still black.

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