As I was hosting yet another Princess-themed pity party, I
caught myself lamenting, “When will it
ever get easier?” Then I realized the fallacy inherent in my line of thinking.
I never received a save-the-date informing me that the amorphous it would suddenly be simple and easy at
a predefined date and time somewhere in the future. But without the hope and
promise that someday, somehow this will get easier, life becomes pretty bleak,
doesn’t it?
Maybe easy isn’t the right adjective anyway. It’s just that
I’ve been banking on the notion that I’d eventually get my shit together. Does
having my proverbial poop in order equate to easy? Maybe, maybe not – but one thing is certain. Life would certainly
be a lot less complicated. Some of the chaos I bring on myself – things like
keeping my grey roots at bay with frequent hair coloring; like the ritual pore
popping I do in the name of young(er) looking skin; and like the occasional
mani/pedi to keep my hooves looking polished. I recently read an
article that’s become the fodder of my most terrifying nightmares. Let me
share a few nuggets with you. “Women 55 and older who lose a job have more
trouble than men getting another one . . . ‘older displaced women are less
likely than displaced men of the same ages to be re-employed and more likely to
have left the labor force.” I might not
be 50 yet, but I know a few things to be true. One, this household doesn’t
operate without me in the workforce – and if someone kicks my aging ass to the
curb, we’re screwed. Two, in the event that I do wind up “over 50, female, and
jobless,” I'm sure as hell not going to advertise my age on my resume; on my hair
color; or on my skin. I’d like to leave you guessing, thank you very much.
Why I’m worried about being unemployed ten years from now is
part of my irrational charm. I’ve been in my current job for just under six
months. No one has stabbed me yet, and it’s entirely possible that I’ve fooled
a whole bunch of people into thinking I know what I’m doing. (Poor bastards.)
The truth is, I just show up, apply as much common sense as I can muster up,
and hope for the best. Lucky for me, common sense is as rare in corporate
America – especially in HR circles – as the dodo bird, so as
long as I can keep the f-bombs to a minimum and feign interest in what’s going
on around me while using copious amounts of moisturizer and hair dye, I might
survive the next ten years.
Let’s keep it real. I come from a long line of anxious
people. You’ve probably met some of them. You might be one of them. My dad, a
million mile frequent flier, still insists on arriving at the airport half a
day before his scheduled flight. My mom is incapable of being a passenger in
anyone’s car because she wants to control your driving. Never mind that she’s
the one who gets pulled over all the time . . . My brother is probably the least anxious one
of all of us and that’s only because he’s too damn tired raising three tiny
humans to have anxiety. Plus I think he had it all stabbed out of him in acupuncture
a couple of years ago. The anxiety apple didn’t fall far from the tree where I’m
concerned. Without chronicling all my anxieties A-Z, just know I am absolutely
that person who assumes the worst. A blemish on my arm? Skin cancer. A headache
that won’t go away? Brain tumor. Bad meeting at work? Everyone hates me and I’ll
be fired any second now. Half a pound weight gain on the scale? I’m on an
expressway to morbid obesity and eventually, they’ll need the Jaws of Life to
get me out of my own home.
Of course, I do have therapy to help me deal with my anxiety
and all the other weirdness in my head. I’d like to say it’s helping but frankly,
even therapy has taken a turn for the worse lately. I was tasked to focus on ‘self-care’,
which is fancy psychobabble talk for unfucking yourself. I had worksheets to
complete and lists to make and the whole idea of focusing on self-care when I
can’t even remember to put the toothpaste cap back on made me itch. So – while I
knew the elf-therapist
would be profoundly disappointed in my lackadaisical attitude toward self-improvement,
I simply couldn’t force myself to do it. (And – in full disclosure, when
looking up the phone number to his office, my Googling led me to this YouTube video and
frankly, I can no longer take my mental healthcare professional seriously.
Somethings cannot be unseen, dude.)
YouTube videos aside, therapy went south when I realized
that I was not only insubordinate in completing my homework assignment, but I
was also running late for my appointment. Really, really late. I sent a quick, “be
there in 10 minutes” email and then hauled my ass across town as fast as
traffic and my Volkswagen could take me. Naturally, I missed every light and I
swear to you, I sat at one red light for approximately four minutes in impotent
rage. After finally arriving, I burst into the building Kramer-style and
sprinted up the stairs as fast as an out of shape, middle-aged woman in
impractical shoes could maneuver. I grabbed the door handle to let myself in to
his office and . . . it was locked. Flummoxed, I stood there, huffing and
puffing as if I’d never encountered a locked door in my life. Do I knock? Wait?
Call him? Take this as a sign from the universe and leave? I knocked. I waited.
I called. I thought about leaving. I finally sent an email, all the while
wondering if this locked door was some kind of psychology experiment.
Being locked out was the highlight of my therapy experience.
I left with more homework – a book to read this time – and a mantra I’m
supposed to repeat as many times a day as possible. On the plus side, the elf
kindly informed me that I don’t have to believe
the mantra, but I do have to repeat it. I’ve been trying but talking to
myself makes me feel stupid, and the mantra itself makes me feel like a fraud.
Do I fake it until I make it? Or do I do what comes naturally which is to avoid
this homework assignment altogether?
Of course, my anxiety and fears are first world problems. I
get that. And I’m more than a little ashamed of the fact that I can’t get out
of my own way when there are real people dealing with real problems every
single day. My body images issues; subterranean self-esteem; and the wagon of
guilt and shame I drag around behind me everywhere I go are not matters of life
and death. They’re boring. They’re trite. And yet . . . they are the things
that hold me back.
I recently had the opportunity to see Michael
J. Fox speak at a conference. Here is a guy who has been handed a whole
bunch of lemons – and who has made lemonade, lemon meringue pie, and lemon
bars. He spoke of optimism, of gratitude, and of hope. He didn’t wonder if it’s
every going to get easier. He didn’t blather on about self-care or mantras.
Instead, he talked of choice and circumstance. He spoke of gratitude, saying, “Just
be grateful. Everyday. And – if there are things you don’t like about someone,
just be grateful that you’re not them.” Not once did he speak of what he “should”
do – and I’m confident that Marty McFly isn’t wasting his precious time
shoulding all over himself. No way, sir.
The real question isn’t “when will it ever get easier?” The
real question is – how do I face each day with acceptance and gratitude for the
opportunity to make my tiny mark on this great big world.
