Where the F*k are my Shoes.

Shoes with husband on Wedding Day.

Last night I put my phone in the washer with a load of laundry and no one I know was surprised. In fact, no one laughed. The responses were, now that I think about it, they were sad. The general tone was, ‘man I’m sorry you fucked up again, that must be hard for you, what is that your fifth fuck up this week? It must really pile up.’

I don’t fuck up in sexy ways. Nicholas Sparks would never dream up my quirks for his vivacious yet pious, christian, single mom heroines. I don’t drink too much wine and dance around the living room. I drink three imperial barrel aged beers, I steal the last half of some drunk’s cocktail and finish it all off with a pitcher of margaritas. I don’t dance in my home, I quote My Fair Lady in my loudest cockney accent in a country bar and try to get all the line dancers to do the macarena. Is that a fuck up? Is that sexy? You tell me. REBA!!

I don’t cheat on my sweet and rich fiance, James Marsden because I’ve loved Ryan Gosling the whole time. I cheat on my diet. I ain’t countin calories while my phone sits in a bed of rice. I berate my husband for telling me that I should know not to eat eight pieces of candy without a  calorie counting app on my phone telling me to stop. 

I’ve learned to acknowledge my fuck ups to make others feel more comfortable. No, I see that I have coffee on my shirt, it’s okay to laugh. My self deprecating humor eases the tension in interviews, but doesn’t get me jobs. 

This summer, my cousin Taryn and I compared tans. Taryn’s sun kissed legs boasted a healthy glow. My translucent legs squinted up at the sun and gave it the finger. T called herself the bronze goddess and I gave myself the moniker, the Pale Whale. T made me correct it to the Pale Goddess but it took everything in me to walk away from the rhyme.

So, having built my life and coping mechanisms around self deprecation. It shouldn’t come as a  surprise that I’ve been struggling with confidence. If I don’t like a piece of my life, I don’t dress up for it. I started both high school and my current job wearing makeup and fitting clothes and in each I’ve devolved to wearing plaid pants and braiding my hair every day.

I’m working on myself. I’m doing as Pinterest dictates. I’m doing my hair and wearing mascara,  reading, and working out and getting better at the things that I want to do. Not all at once, not all every day, but I’m working on it. Sometimes I write for five minutes and try not to hyperventilate about not doing more. I’m asking for help and I’m acknowledging that other people are fuck ups too. I’m not the only one. I’m not the lone wolf fuck up, sent to this world to howl curses into the night air in front of Grandma and to bait Dad into a conversation about his Fox News watching habits. I’m a flawed human, part of a flawed human pack. How many metaphors is she going for? So many! 

The point is, I’m exploring stories from my life because I’m a flawed fuck up and hopefully your ass can relate to that. Along the way I’ll explore stories about other fuck ups in the pack. 

Welcome to the chaos, now help me find my shoes.