Keeping it Real

Ever since I was a young child, negativity has been my game. I'm pretty sure if you had asked me if my sippy cup was half full or half empty, I would have put on an emotional breakdown rendition of "I need more apple juice!"

It's just my default setting. 

My junior high diaries make Romeo and Juliet look like well-adjusted teenagers.

Which is why I married a man who has never felt slighted in his life. I have to actually get offended for him sometimes. "Babe, that guy shot you." 

"You're getting a little negative. I've always thought I looked kind of like a buck. He didn't mean it. We should have them over for dinner sometime." 

So I've made my New Years Resolution this year to bury some of my negativity. Notice I didn't say, "Be more positive." That's like me vowing to lose 20 pounds again. I just want to get less negative and rise to emotional, neutral Switzerland. 

Having this resolution will probably require the retirement of mom blogs and life blogs and discourses from people trying to "keep it real." 

I think, in this recent quest for "realness," we have unknowingly become a society that idolizes every experience, good or bad. We have become "faux-authentic." We have strived so hard not to worship perfection that we have bowed down to the messes of life instead. 

What started as an opponent to Pinterest womanhood and Pinterest motherhood has taken over and is now the leading voice. And that voice has magnified sticky fingers and messy houses and clueless husbands and made them more than the speck on the map of life that they are.

They aren't great. They aren't the worst thing. They just are. They're things that have happened for thousands of years but were never anything to write home about. 

I never really thought much about this until I a) decided to be less negative and b) began to struggle with infertility. 

I would read these lifestyle and family blogs and think, "If this is what my life is going to be like, why even try?" As a default negative person, I feared that motherhood would sap any happiness or positivity I had left. 

They all try to seal it with a big, encompassing bow of, "But I wouldn't trade it for anything." No. You don't get to do that. That's like those people who say something rude and then go, "No offense." That's not how this works, AGNES. And I'm just big-boned.

I'm not saying that motherhood isn't messy, that life isn't messy. I'm not saying you're going to love every second. I actually prefer that you don't. I'm especially not saying that you only post or talk about the perfect times. 

We can be real without taking out a billboard saying, "Hey, look at me. I'm real. Look at how real I am!" 

I have a friend (she knows who she is) and I love her posts. Sometimes her toddler is wearing a lifejacket in front of the Christmas tree when it's 30 degrees. Sometimes the kids think the fridge water dispenser is an in-home water park (I'm probably giving it away here).

She doesn't write a haiku about how her kitchen is messy. She just posts a funny picture. She doesn't write a doctoral thesis on how the dog threw up on the couch. She just gets Bounty, 409, and a deep breath and cleans it up. She moves on. She forgets that the dog threw up until he does it again. And then she forgets again.

This is real, real life. 

In 2017, let's magnify the small moments that matter. 

Everyone has laundry. Everyone's toddlers occasionally need to be exorcised. 

But not everyone gets to see what you see when you wake up. Not everyone gets to hear the words you hear from those you love. 

Only you get to experience that. 

And that's real. 

 

Fa la la la Freakout

The holidays, while still enjoyable, are an overall different experience for people with anxiety. Here's my naughty list: 

1. Dirty Santa. We sit there fidgeting at the planning session. Kelly talks about how she's bringing her famous seven-layer dip in the shape of a Christmas tree (you go, girl. You defy science and get that not to mold into a blob. O Blob-Blob Tree, O Blob-Blob Tree). Anyway, everyone picks a finger food and then there's always that one person who pipes up, "And what about Dirty Santa? Everyone loves Dirty Santa. Bring a $5 gag gift." 

This just in: not everyone loves Dirty Santa. Some people do good to just get actual Christmas gifts that have been specified. You can tell me you want a purse and I will stare at a rack of purses like if I pull off the wrong one, a terrorizing Krampus is going to hop out and tie me up with tinsel. 

So take this already tense ball of Christmas cheer and tell her that she has to be clever and hipsterly ironic for $5 and we're talking fa-la-la-la freakout. 

I could wrap up a pack of toilet paper. It's like, haha, everybody goes to the bathroom. No. That's stupid and not ironic. What if I got a calendar with animals? Nope. Some people like animals so it wouldn't be a gag gift. Repeat this until the day before party.

2. Black Friday. No. Just no. You might as well put me in a straight jacket and watch me try to Hatchimal.

3. Ugly Christmas Sweaters. This goes back to my complete inability to be hipsterly ironic. I have spent my life (unsuccessfully at times) trying not to look like Frumpy McFrumperston. But now people are like, "Wear an ugly, shapeless sweater out in public. It will be fun!" Taming my party anxiety is not soothed by having real ornaments hanging on by a thread off my body. Rudolph's overly sized face also does not do my body insecurities any favors.

4. Mariah Carey songs playing at a million decibels in Old Navy. I don't want a lot for  Christmas, there is just one thing I need: and that's for Mariah to calm down. I go in looking for a peacoat and I leave in handcuffs for homicide. And I just wanted a peacoat. Thanks, Mariah. I hope it was worth it. (I wonder if I sneak out my prison jumpsuit, if it will make a funny dirty Santa gift next year?)

5. Gift Equality. You're standing there. You exchange gifts. She opens up hers and she's like, "Oh, body lotion, I love it." And then you open yours and it's a thoughtful, handmade gift that's like if your soul vacated your body and became an object. Red alert, red alert. Times this by a thousand if someone brings you a gift and you don't have one for them. 

Merry Christmas to everyone, especially my fellow nervous Nellies. If I wasn't so anxious, I would host a party for us so we could burn Mariah CDs and turn ugly sweaters into sweaters for our pets.