I thought about writing a whole thing about Wifesy today. The thing is I’m very protective of her. I put her image up in a slideshow once, as part of a gig, and I hated it. I don’t like people ogling my Wifesy.
A social media guy said to me once, “Sure, you need to be transparent and authentic online. Sure you do. However, YOU control how much of yourself or your family you reveal at any one time.”
I liked that idea. I’m in control. My relationship is valued and therefore, private. It doesn’t mean I don’t talk about her. Readers here know that I do. It’s that I don’t have to do the typical Valentine’s Day thing and write a gushy, PUBLIC, love letter to my Wifesy right here on this very blog. I can write one and leave it where it belongs – under her pillow.
So, where to go from here then? Better said, when am I ever going to get to the title of the post?!
The love letter is out. I just said I wasn’t going to do that.
But, WHAT IN THE FECK am I going to do?
Well, for most of the day I’ve been applying to jobs. Applying to jobs and then obsessively stroking the one, stray, chin hair I found this morning.
Nothing says, “WINNER” like being a jobless woman on a couch stroking her one chin hair. Let that sit there for a moment. One chin hair, no 401k, not even shoes on her feet…WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME? I’M LAYING ON THE FECKIN‘ COUCH.
Fine. I know, I’m accomplished. I’ve got a decent resume and an interesting body of work. In spite of all that, I have trouble seeing further than my bank account.
Over the last few months this idea has become more extreme. My therapist said to me once, “Your bank account is NOT linked to your self worth.” If it’s not, why does it always feel like it is? Especially as of late.
Hold on, where’s the title? Where’s the point? Get to the feckin’ goddermned point, Me Lady! (Truly, who would ever refer to themselves as me lady? Answer: Everyone on Downton Abbey.)
Relax. I’m not here to complain today. I’m here to say – FECK IT – I’m going to love myself anyway. I’m going to V-DAY MY VAG UP. I don’t even know what that means, but it’s making me feel more festive already. When I picture a literal expression of “V-Day The Vag Up” I see a piñata shaped like a KISS logo. You hit it. It explodes and feckin’ candy rains down on you like the boobs of Dolly Parton thrown carelessly over the back of a chair.
Or I see a gay guy and a glue gun, some sequence, a vag, and a whole lotta pain.
Let the term, “V Day Your Vag Up” mean whatever it needs to mean for you.
As for me, I’m giving myself a time limit on the whole, “how in the feck did I get here when I’m so talented and where’s my money and how come I don’t have a car or a house or a or a or a or a or a…” I’m giving myself a time limit on all that. One more hour. Then it’s done. Then it’s raise the vag up time. Raise the vag up and rock the vag out. I’m gonna spruce up the place, walk the dogs, and clean my lady parts.
Then I’m going to start jarring things. I’m going to make things in the kitchen and then put them in containers with lids. Then I’m going to stack them in the fridge. I’m going to do this until my back aches.
When Wifesy comes home, she’ll get the letter and a house that smells like pine sol and love.
I’ll get a tired me who doesn’t have the energy to think about income streams and blogs and start up funds and kickstarters and jobs and THAT is how Momma’s gonna love herself today.
Happy Valentine’s Day, my friends.
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