White People: This is Not About You

When my kids were little, one of my daughters had a little bit of an issue with her sibling’s  birthday celebrations. With all of our attention being lavished on one child, she would act out.  She would be meaner than usual to the birthday kid, demand things from mom and dad in the middle of the party, and exhibit negative behaviors so that we would turn to her and away from the guest of honor. We would have to remind her that on HER birthday, we get to focus on her, and on her sister’s or brother’s, we get to focus on them. “This day is about someone else, and that’s OK.”

Typical stuff. Typical for a kid to have to learn how to navigate jealous feelings and how to have a generous spirit, even when you want things for yourself.  She was little: three or four, maybe? It can be hard when someone else is getting all of the attention; it can be hard to be three.

But when her brother had a bad fall that injured his kidney and sent him to the hospital, when we were so worried about him, and when all other family activities and considerations were put on hold, she didn’t do any of that.  She didn’t say “hey, what about me? Why is everything about him?”  I never once had to tell her “This is not about you.”  But that's what really needs to be said now, in this moment, to anyone who thinks All Lives Matter is a valid response to police brutality or protests for racial justice.

To my fellow white people who think that somehow you are being ignored, slighted, passed over or excluded when Black people and those who stand with them say #BlackLivesMatter, I deeply want you to hear the words “This is not about you” and figure out how to not be insulted. You are not less important because someone else stands in particular need of solidarity and support. I need you to take a moment, be quiet, and focus attention outside of yourself and your immediate world.  Take a moment to consider the possibility that something more immediately critical is going on and that’s why the focus is not on the rest of us right now.

You may have heard the house fire analogy: Yes, all of the houses on the block are super important and beautiful and it absolutely matters that everyone’s house stays intact. But the house down the street is engulfed in flames and that’s why the fire truck is there and not parked in front of your house, or my house. That’s a great analogy for why saying “Black LivesMatter” is not racist or exclusionary and why the All Lives Matter response is moronic and exasperating.

I also think about families, and how families can inform us on societal issues. A family is filled with different people and relationships, different experiences, just like society at large. And in a family, when one child is suffering, parents don’t turn their attention to the ones who aren’t suffering and take care of them first: parents take care of the child who is suffering first, and then they help the other children.  If one of them acts out and tries to shine a spotlight in some way on themselves, the parent says: “This is not about you right now.”  When my son was in the hospital and we didn’t know yet how bad the damage was to his kidney, I didn’t prioritize my other four kids and tend to their needs first: I focused entirely on him until I knew he was in good hands at the hospital, and then I turned to help his siblings manage their own responses to his accident. Significantly, some of them didn't really care all that much, which is also instructive vis a vis society at large. 

If you object to someone saying that Black Lives Matter, I wonder how you respond to other human suffering. If you assert All Lives Matter, I wonder why you think that the Black experience does not warrant the same kind of compassion as people who look like you. Why on earth is it necessary to bring the focus back to you -- or even to some hazy concept of "everyone" -- when a specific person or people is in crisis? I can only conclude that you don’t see Black people's suffering as valid. I can only conclude that you are ready to explain it all away, or assert that vandalism and looting are just as bad as murder, or that you simply are not hearing Black parents when they describe “the talk” they must have with their kids to try to keep them alive. I can only conclude that you are racist, even if you don’t know it, because you are not listening to or seeing the experiences of fellow Americans with Black skin.  

When you say All Lives Matter, I’m right back there with my toddler, looking at her in exasperation and thinking “What the hell is wrong with her? Of course we love her, but it’s not about her right now. Why can’t she just let so-and-so have the spotlight?” It’s annoying as hell when it’s just a kid’s birthday party: it’s frightening and dangerous when it’s about people’s lives.

My once 4-year-old daughter long ago grew out of her jealous, self-centered reactions and learned how to lift up someone other than herself. When will white people in our country do the same?

Nitty Gritty Little Ditty

Tonight I cannot write a post
Because my brain has turned to toast.
The day has worn me to a nub,
I need to sink into the tub.
But can't because I'm too darn beat,
And find I cannot move my feet.

It's all their fault, this state of woe,
As every mom does surely know.
Theirs, the fault for my malaise.
Theirs, the fault for this dark haze.
For in the space past 5 o-clock,
My children hover and they stalk
Each other just to make me scream
So they can say YOU ARE SO MEAN.

Tonight the girls did cry and fight,
And test my patience with great might.
And bicker, bother, pick and poke
And hassle till my heart done broke.
They are nasty, brutish, short:
Hobbes was right, sad to report.

My spouse is out, I'm on my own.
Herding cats, all alone.
Then a toilet I had to fix.
And toss a dog into the mix.
(I found her on our dining table.
Chaos, people, is here enabled.)

And then I had to feed the crowd.
The complaints were both too many and loud.
Feeding ingrates ain't no fun,
Like bitterness inside a bun.
Breaking bread should be a blessing
But tonight, it ain't, I'm just confessing.

The boys: no better were these two;
They made me want to eat my shoe.
Oh yes, they're teens, it's DE VEL OP MENTAL
It's hormones, or it's elemental
Call it what you must or will,
Then call me in from the window sill,
Because mothering teens might do me in
And send me to the looney bin.

I think that I am being clear:
Do your homework.  I think they hear.
But then they don't, and then they start
To make up ways to test my heart.
They obfuscate, evade, and lie
They manipulate, they plead and cry,
They make me crazy, sho' enough.
I must leave them in a huff,
So that I do not scream and yell
Cuz them that do, don't parent that well.

I closed my door: time out I took.
And closed my eyes to take a look
Inside my heart, inside my brain
To find and soothe the place of pain
That comes from having angst and strife
With the ones for whom I'd give my life.

I made some vows, I shed some tears,
And then I reached across my fears.
Through the door, back to the fray
And darned if I didn't hear myself say:
"What did you say, honey? What do you need?"
Cuz I gotta remember, they'll follow my lead.
Grace under pressure, and patience galore.
That's what I'll pray for, evermore.
I'll need a ton of both, for good,
If I plan to make it to grandparenthood.

They kicked my butt 10 ways to Sunday.
But I'll keep raisin' 'em up till someday,
When they have young ones of their own,
And apology texts pop up on my phone.

* * *

Written 8 years ago. 

2021: Different problems, same exhaustion.

A Field of Mustard, a Climbable Tree

We walked up and into the bright, cold, late winter morning, rolling hills of green in every direction. My calves, tight and rusty, objected as I huffed and puffed up the narrow trail, quick daughter at my side. She stopped to move a rolly polly off the trail and into the tall grasses, the tiny creature now safe from less observant hikers. 

Our mission: find cows. At the top of the first steep incline with another just ahead, multiple paths offered themselves. We stood catching our breath, already sweaty in the bright sun. She was sure, having been here the week before, that if we went left, down into the small copse below, we would emerge on the other side in a field of mustard where the cows would be. Off we went, following a cattle, not people, trail (they know all the best places).

We arced down and to the left, then back to the right. We ducked under a low tree branch: how did the cows traverse this part, we wondered to each other. Then through a tiny meadow, not much more than a shallow bowl of grass. Twenty feet ahead, a small climb would take us up towards the mustard meadow, and between us and it, plenty of mud. We mucked on through, unprepared, wearing our everyday shoes. At the top of the small climb, Tallulah cleaned the sides of her shoes in the tall wet grass at the side of the trail, and we kept going. A blaze of yellow burst into view; we gained the mustard field!

I grew up in the Valley of the Moon, where yellow mustard heralds the spring and vacant lots and vineyards alike are brightly carpeted every February. I have driven miles and miles on roads flanked by this invasive weed, a conqueror that slipped in hundreds of years ago and dazzles us to this day. But in all those years, I had never before walked through a field of mustard, until the day my quick daughter and I went looking for cows. Stalks of mustard are more spare than I would have guessed–less chock full of yellow petals than they look from a car window. They danced at our knees and blew in the breeze, and I could see each individual stem, like walking through a party and making eye contact with each person instead of just looking from afar and seeing a dense and teeming crowd. 

No cows, though. Just patties announcing they'd been there recently.

On the other side of the mustard, we stopped briefly at an immense concrete water trough, felt sorry for the cows who drink that muddy swill, and kept going up and to the right, still searching.

We turned a corner just as a fluffy brown beast ambled up and over a crest, large watery eyes unimpressed to see humans in her way. She stopped and considered us, her massive sides heaving with resignation. We considered her, all smiles and delight on our part. We had gotten what we came for. 

We stood there a long time, letting her lope past us at her own pace. When she finally moved on, so did we. We followed her path, up and over the hill, and came upon a small opening with a young calf in the middle of it, munching wildflowers and meandering aimlessly. We must have surprised her: she raised her head, trying to see past the hill we had just come over. From where we stood, we could see the calf and we could see the mama, but they couldn't see each other. The calf let out a bleat; the mama answered with a deep moo. Privy to a bovine conversation, now we got more than we came for. We scootched on out of there so the baby would have a clear path to maternal safety.

In front of us, seemingly endless hills rolled on, dotted by stands of trees and hints of creeks, and way off in the distance, on top of the tallest rise, a bench. Occupied, unfortunately, but perhaps empty by the time we got there? It would be lovely to look out over the hills from that perch. We headed towards it.

The narrow cow path that carried us forward joined with a wider one meant for people. Pretty soon, we entered a grove of trees, welcoming the cool shade. My quick daughter is 14, but trees still talk to her. She cannot resist a good climb, and there, halfway through the grove, was a tree that seemed to have purposely grown limbs like a ladder just for her. She answered the call. In a flash, she was high above me, standing on a branch, leaning against another, tossing her sweater down to me, and telling me about the incredible view.

I've gotten used to waiting for her at the bottoms of trees. I found a fallen log to sit on, and grabbed the moment to catch my breath, inhale the winter afternoon, and try, again, to plant perennial gratitude down in the deepest part of me. I am forever making this attempt, it seems. A constant battle–my anxious mind and restless heart, not to mention my ever-scrolling to-do list, conspire to make the ground where I would plant a non-committal host. 

Catch the breath. Slow down. Look up into the tree to see your daughter there. Imitate her ability to stay in one place and take in the view, never the first to say it's time to go. Of all the many things I do each day, the hardest is to quiet my mind and simply be present. My quick, climbing daughter is a good anecdote, if I let her be.

My fallen log sat 15 feet from the path. Between it and me, the tree that held my daughter stood, the tallest tree in the grove, offering along with its brethren a shady respite to the urban dwellers who hiked up into the rolling hills each day. I watched them pass the tree, in ones and twos and threes. One couple spied the girl high up in the tree and laughed with delight. "Well hello up there!" they called before continuing on. Others didn't see her, and I thought how wonderful it would be to be up there with her, listening to conversations rising from the path, the speakers oblivious. This man, thinking about leaving his job; that woman, who just keeps calling and calling but he won't answer and it's just not even possible that he's not with his phone that much! 

Along came a woman and her granddaughter. They entered the grove, coming upon the first climbable tree, a small sturdy one that might get a kid a couple feet off the ground. A starter tree, if you will. The girl, seven or eight, ran right up to it, excited to climb. "I don't think that's a tree you can climb," the older woman said. "Oh, I think it is!" said the girl. 

"Nooooo, I don't think so." 

"But why not?" 

"Oh, I just don't think it looks safe." 

"I could do it!" said the girl. 

"I don't think that's a climbing tree," repeated the grandmother. 

The little girl stood for a moment or two, contemplating the very climbable tree in front of her before giving in to her grandmother's opinion. They continued. Then the girl saw the ladder tree: "Oh wow!" she said. "Look at that one!" And her eyes traveled up and up and up until they landed on my daughter, way up in the branches. "HEY! LOOK AT HER!"  

The grandmother looked up too. "Oh my!" she exclaimed. "How did you get all the way up there?"  

"Just climbed," Tallulah called down cheerfully. 

"How are you going to get down??"  

"Not sure yet: same way I got up, I guess!"

I smiled at them, smiled at the little girl in particular, a meager attempt to encourage her obvious love of trees. She stared up in awe; the grandmother kept walking, already finished with the whole climbing foolishness. 

"I don't see myself ever doing something like that!" the girl said definitively, mostly to herself, before turning to rejoin her grandmother. Their backs to me, her self-assessment hanging in the air, I heard the grandmother reply: "Me neither, sweetheart!"

Yes, you can, I thought as loudly as I could. Yes, you can climb this tree, and you can imagine yourself doing anything at all, and God, do I hope you have other voices in your life besides your loving and limiting grandmother. She wants to keep you safe: you want to climb. Find a way to climb, kiddo. Walk with people who see the places you want to climb and say: go for it.

My own climber eventually came down. We made it to the now-empty bench. We sat, looking out over endless hills, eating oranges and plotting our next move. We stayed out there in Wildcat Canyon for another hour or so, she sitting in the middle of one particularly beckoning hill drawing in a sketchbook, me continuing on to add more steps to my middle-aged day, searching for more fertile ground for my fledgling gratitude seeds. I made a big loop, eventually winding back to her hilltop perch. As I hiked, I could see her from far away, a tiny shape hunched over her sketchbook, the sun glinting off something shiny next to her. I took a photo from far away–pointless, because my iPhone couldn't capture what my eyes could see. 

By the time we came down out of the hills, the sun was setting into the gritty neighborhood beyond Wildcat. The chill in the air signaled an end to this suspended time. Soon I would be in my cluttered kitchen, trying to make dinner, trying to herd feral distractions and demands. 

Savoring every crunchy step, we walked back down to our car and back into the dense and teeming world.

A Conversation with My Daily Affirmer

Her:     Hi there! You’re doing great!

Me:      Whatever. Why are you here?

Her:     Because you need me! Also, because you are wonderful!

Me:      Whatever. Will you be staying long?

Her:     Oh, I think so. Or, for as long as you need me.

Me:      Cool. Well, then, you should know that I don’t need you. You are free to go.

Her:     Wow, you are so strong. That’s great. So glad to hear it. So then, is she leaving too?

Me:      Who? What are you talking about?

Her:     That chick over there with the storm cloud over her head and the scowl on her face. Is she staying? Cuz, if she’s staying, I’m staying. I love a party.

Me:      Her? I hardly even notice her. Don’t stay on her account.

Her:     Wow, how can you NOT notice her? I mean, she’s actually growling at you.

Me:      Look, I didn’t invite you here, I don’t even know how you got here.    

Her:     [playfully] Oh, so you invited her then, did you?

Me:      What? No! She’s just…she’s always been here. At least as long as I can remember. Look, she and I have an understanding. A long standing unspoken agreement. She’s fine. She gets to stay. 

Her:     OK, you’re the boss! She stays!  So, what does she do?

Me:      What do you mean, what does she do?  She doesn’t do anything. Just hangs out. 

Her:    And talks, right? Seems like she talks too. Can’t you hear that? 

Me:      Oh, well, yeah, she talks. Kind of a lot, actually 

Her:     And LOUDLY!  She’s working herself into quite a lather over there! 

Me:      She’s not always that loud. I think she’s trying to be heard over YOU.  

Her:     Cool: I love a good competition!  So what’s she saying?

Me:      Does it matter?  Don’t worry about it.

Her:     Oh I never worry. Not about you, anyway: you’re a strong, incredible, smart woman. But I’m super curious – curiosity is kind of my thing: what is she saying? Can you translate that growl into something intelligible?

Me:      She’s just…giving me her opinions. Like, all of them. It’s OK though, I’m used to it. It’s fine. And anyway, she never actually gets OUT...just hangs out and makes a lot of noise.

Her:     Hmmmm. Yeah, call me crazy, but I think that’s the whole problem. The whole “never gets out” thing. Doesn’t that mean that she spends all her time in here, shouting or mumbling or whatever? In your head? That’s a lot of growling and scowling to be happening inside one person’s head. Oh my, now she’s spitting at you! At beautiful you! 

Me:      Well, I think you’re upsetting her. She’s sort of used to being the only voice around. I try to leave her alone and let her do her thing. You should do the same.

Her:     Oh I see...her thing!  What is that exactly?

Me:      [blank stare]

Her:     I mean, what does she do for you, that she’s earned the right to be the only voice that gets to stay?  

Me:      [long pause]

Well...she...um...she...keeps me accountable? And..uh...humble. And..um, stuff like that. Keeps me in line, so to speak.

Her:     Fascinating. Accountable, huh? And humble? Those are both great things to be! I’m so curious how she does that when she seems so...nasty and un-fun. Where’s the love, man? Where. Is. The. Looooooove?  

Me:      The lo—oh geez, it’s not enough you’re always cheerful, you gotta be a hippie, too? Let’s just say she doesn’t let me get too big for my britches. Like, when I am a little too confident, she brings me down a peg or two.  Whips me back in line and keeps me safe.

Her:     [raised eyebrows]

Me:      She can be a little harsh, I guess. But she keeps me safe.

Her:     Well, safety is cool. Love that. We all want to be safe. Harsh doesn’t sound so good though--who needs that?  And how exactly does she keep you safe?

Me:      Oh for cryin’ out loud, what’s with all the questions? She just does, OK? She tells me stuff.  Stuff I need to be aware of. You know, she tells me the truth.

Her:     Which is…?

Me:      Damn, you just don’t quit. Honestly, it’s annoying, especially with that perky smile plastered to your face.  

Her:     Haha! Yes, I do smile a lot! It’s my favorite thing EVER. So, what’s this big truth that whatserface over there bestows upon you?

Me:      Oh, I DON’T KNOW. Just, she keeps me safe, she keeps me here, she tells me what’s what, that I’m better off inside. No risk, no failure. No risk, no rejection. Also that I’d screw up if I tried anything anyway so what’s the point.  

[pregnant pause]

ME:     That sounds bad. It’s not like that. She keeps me a realist. She keeps my expectations in check. Protects me from rejection. It’s a valuable service, OK?

Her:     Goodness gracious, who on earth would ever reject YOU? Ha! Only a crazy person! That doesn’t sound like the truth to me!

Also, why does rejection matter again? I mean, if you’re out there just doing your thing, why does it matter what someone else thinks? You’re just being your beautiful self, right? Not hurting others, not breaking any laws? Just being you?

Me:      Well, yeah, but…

Her:     But what?

Me:      I just know it matters. I can’t explain it. It just matters.

Her:     Yeah, I don’t think so. Also, you’re fantastic and there’s no wrong way to be you. You’re great, and I’d love to see anything you want to do in the world happen.

Me:      Oh for pete’s sake, knock it off. I see what you’re trying to do. It’s not going to work–it’s just a bunch of bubble gum psycho-babble.

Her:     I love bubble gum, don’t you?  [smiles teasingly] Or do you prefer deep, dark, liver-and-onions psycho-babble? Me, I’m going for the bubble gum every time.

Me:      You would.

Her:     Actually, bubble gum or pilates. They’re both pretty great, if you ask me.

Me:      True. I do enjoy a good pilates sesh. Feels so good.

Her:     Right? Oh my goodness, pilates is just the best. I wonder what she thinks of pilates. Have you asked her?

Me:      I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter. Like I told you, we have an arrangement; she wants to say so she gets to stay.

Her:     OK, it’s your psyche! You can have anything you want in here.

Hey, does she have a name? No? Oooo, let’s give her one! Not like a real name, cuz we don’t want that whole Karen thing to happen. Everyone deserves to love their own name, don’t you think?  But something we can call her...like...I dunno...how about Blah Blah Blah?  LOL.  I like that!  We can refer to her as exactly what she sounds like anyway!

So, I wonder what Blah Blah Blah thinks of pilates? I mean, who could be anti-pilates, ammiright? 

Me:      Uh, I have no idea what she thinks. She’s usually not around during my Zoom classes.

Her:     Really? Isn’t that interesting??? 

Me:      Well, honestly, sometimes she tells me I look ridiculous while I’m trying to balance on one leg, or that there’s no way I can do that plank move. But then she goes away. Mostly, she’s not around.

Her:     Well I think that’s just fascinating. Blah Blah Blah is mostly not around during pilates….you feel good during pilates...think there’s a connection?

Me:      Oh good grief, do I have to think about this?

Her:     Oh gosh no: you don’t have to do a thing. You’re already doing so much! Honestly, you’re like a super woman, I don’t know how you do it. Your job, your family, pilates, dealing with Blah Blah Blah over there–that alone seems like a full time job and it’s only ONE of the many things you are managing every single day! So impressive. So inspiring.

Me:      [Fingers to my temple, eyes closed] Oooooookaaaay. I get it. You’re here to prop me up. To counterbalance the negative voices.

Her:     Blah Blah Blah. Say it. It’s super fun.

Me:      Ugh whatever, you’re here to counterbalance Blah Blah Blah.  OK, you’re right, that was fun. And yeah, I admit, she is pretty annoying sometimes.

Her:     I KNOW, RIGHT?

Me:      Yes. Fine. She’s annoying. And mean. And nasty, like you said. The other day, she told me I’m never going to get any better at fiddle: that made me sad. But maybe she’s right and I should just give up.

Her:     She SAID that? Geez, she just interrupted you like that, while you were playing? How RUDE!

Me:      No, it wasn’t while I was playing; she’s not around then. I think she started talking about it cuz I haven’t really been practicing that much and feeling kind of bad about it; I think she was trying to help–to give me a reason to stop and just let go of it.

Her:     Aha! THE PLOT THICKENS!

Me:      Gonna regret this, but what are you talking about?

Her:     She’s not around during pilates; she’s not around when you’re playing the fiddle. Those are things you really enjoy and make you happy! Seems like there’s no room for her then!

Me:      You want a nickel for that insight? I can’t do pilates and play the fiddle 24/7 now can I?

Her:     Now THAT would be pretty awesome, LOL, but I guess you’re right. What else has she said to you?

Me:      Well, there’s the thing about how I’m a not that great of a mom, how I’m a disappointment to my friends, how my writing is stupid, my opinion irrelevant, yadda yadda yadda, then there’s a whole topic about how socially awkward I am–that’s a popular one. That one can keep her spinning for days, it feels like sometimes.

[another pregnant pause]

Her:     Just sayin’, I’d never do any of that to you. That’s all bullshit and you know what? I think you already know that.

[a third pregnant pause]

Me:      Wow, she’s kind of a nightmare: a noisy, never shuts up, really awful nightmare. God, why do I let her have the run of the place? Why can’t she just shut UP for once?

OMG, I freaking hate her.

Her:     Right ON! Me too! She is literally no fun at all. No one wants someone around who just gnashes her damn teeth and predicts disaster all the time.

Also, she’s so totally wrong about you. And really, that’s why I’m here.

I’m gonna give it to you straight, no bubble gum, no cheery cheeseballs, no fairy dust up your backside, just truth: you got this. You got EVERYTHING. Life is gonna be sad and boring as HELL if you listen to BLAH BLAH BLAH and don’t do things just to avoid a little rejection or failure. And the POINT, to get back to your point, of trying things is to enjoy them.

You’ve got a million things you love to do and want to do: I know that about you. And wow, you have so many people you love and who love you, and not a single damn one of them wants you paying any attention at all to Blah Blah Blah when you could be out there living life and being your badass self.  No one wants you to hide your light under a bushel. Well, Blah Blah Blah seems to want that, but she’s a bitch and half in heels.

Oooo, that made her mad!  Now she’s spitting AND throwing a tantrum! Wow, I think she might be barfing a little bit too. GROSS! Ooooo, girlfriend is a MESS! Hahahahahah!

Me:      Whoa. Look at that. She’s slinking away! She’s–actually–leaving! I had no idea that was even possible! How did you do that?

Her:     Like I said, I like a good competition, and I looooove to win. Ask enough questions, and those nasty bitches get tired of not being center stage. While you’ve been “wasting your time” talking to me, she just did her spoiled only child thing and stomped away all mad. Pretty awesome, don’t you think?

[silence]

Me:      Wow.  Listen to that. Listen to the silence. I didn’t even know she was spewing out all that noise pollution until it was gone. I could get used to this; it’s sort of beautiful.

[silence]

Her:     Of course it’s beautiful.  It’s you.

Me:      [rolls eyes.]

[more silence]

Me:      Wow. I feel so peaceful. She's...gone!

Her:     She might come back. But I can too. I can come back whenever you want or need me to, you beautiful person, you.

Me:      Wait, what? She might come back?  

Her:     In my experience, Blah Blah Blah doesn’t give up quite that easily. Yeah, she’ll be back, at least for a while; she’s had quite a home here for a long time. But I’ll come back too and we’ll deal with her together!

Me:      Uh..do you have to come back? I mean, this is kind of embarrassing, that I even needed you to be here.  

Her:     Hey, you do you! Just know that I can come back anytime at all, and I’m pretty sure if we start talking about pilates, or music, or the sunset, or some heartbreakingly lovely thing one of your kids did, or really anything that makes you happy, we can kick her ass to the curb whenever we want. Whaddya say? Sounds fun to me!

Me:      [resigned sigh] OK, fine, sure...I guess...but can we keep this whole relationship just between you and me? No self-respecting sarcast wants the world to know she’s got a...what are you again?

Her:     A daily affirmer! The best friend you’ll ever have! Also, I’m available daily, weekly, monthly or on demand.

Me:      Right, well that just made me cringe myself into next week. Seriously, I’ve resisted this whole daily affirmation thing my whole life.

Her:     Imagine if you’d put all that energy into resisting Blah Blah Blah.

Me:      Got it, you’ve made your point, she’s a total bitch and I don’t need her. So, we can keep it to ourselves? Our whole relationship?

Her:     Oh sure. Whatever you need. You’re in charge here, and you’re SO GOOD AT IT. You’re amazing, you know.

Me:      OMG alright already! Just Stop! Except don’t. I mean– I know you’re right, it’s just–  WEIRD, all this affirmation is so WEIRD and unfamiliar, and like water in a desert and so strange at the same time–  I mean, OK OK OK:

I AM amazing! Hell, yeah! I got this, and I can pretty much do anything I want!

Her:     And for now, my work here is done! God, I love my job: career satisfaction is AMAZING, let me tell you.  

Me:      So happy for you.

Her:     Thank you! I’m happy for you too! So what are you going to do now?

Me:      Gosh, I don’t know. I feel pretty great right now. I’m thinking of picking up my fiddle and playing for a bit.

Her:     Of course you are: that is so like you, to want to CREATE something.

Me:      That’s true. That is like me. If you’ll excuse me, my axe awaits.