I'm going to hit you with a little tough love. Or I might be hitting you with shit you already know. If that’s the case, I’m sorry for hitting you, and good on ya for being awesome.
You are never going to wake up as anyone else.
You can not wish yourself anything.
There will be unjust.
There's always work to do.
These are things we can not control.
You have ____ years left in that body of yours, spend it wisely.
Insecurities are a lot like those little yappy barky dogs. Sometimes we are the people who own those little yappy barky dogs, and claim to have zero control over their yappy barky tendencies.
And you can’t blame the dog that he's annoying, it’s not the dogs fault, he doesn’t know he’s being a pain in the ass. It’s the owners.
Owner, you're somewhat right when you say:
"I can't help it. That's my dogs personality."
He might be a cranky pup or a little on the anxious side, and that's understandable. But blaming it solely on genetics and having a “meh, what can I do?” type of attitude about it, doesn’t cut it for me. Because I know, that there are more then a couple days in the week, that you wish your dog would be a good boy and shut the fuck up.
I don’t know a single person who thinks dogs constantly barking, is the equivalent to a choir of angels. It’s irritating and it’s loud. Owner I know you love Barkley, but I have no doubt that on more then one occasion, his “vocal” behavior, has been beyond obnoxious. You don’t learn to tolerate something without it being intolerable first. Just saying. Train him.
|Photo Credit Franco Deleo|
If you’ve ever wanted something so bad, that you stopped at nothing, till you got it, and then got it... then you my friend, have the Anything's Possible gene. If you weren’t so lucky as to be born with it, don’t worry, you can always marry into the gene pool.
Even if what you wanted so bad, was something as small as finding a babysitter an hour before you needed one, a win is a win. The mini things we accomplish are always overlooked, because we’re focussing on the mother load of crap we’ve still got to get to.
But right now, take a second and think of the smallest thing you achieved today. (I finally did the dishes after a two day strike.) As silly and irrelevant as you may think IT to be, IT still got done and you made IT happen.
If you’ve ever done anything, you can do anything.
And anything means anything.
The Mother Load is always the heaviest. Getting Around To Her Fat Ass, is always the hardest part, then comes Beginning, then Sticking With Her, and then finally, you get to Put That Bitch To Rest.
A Beginning I Had
I was feeling liberated. I had made a conscious decision that I was going to lose weight. Life at rock bottom was the pits, and if I was going to have to live there, I wanted to be comfortable...like wearing jogging pants to Christmas dinner kinda comfortable. I was broke, so all I had was a pair of horrible running shoes and the streets of Toronto.
I began to run.
The second day of my Beginning, I didn’t even run to the top of my street before something was already trying to stand in my way. All I remember thinking was “Are you there God? It’s me, E. Are you fucking kidding me?”
The minute I cranked up Alanis on my mp3 player, and found my running pace, a school bus full of children pulled up at the stop sign beside me. The bus came to a halt, and out the window pops the head of a ten year old boy. I could tell by the shit eating grin on his face, he was all the birth control I'd ever need.
He chucked pencils at my face and yelled “RUN FATTY!”
"...You had to throw pencils you little son of a bitch?
Just in case there was another plump chick running down the street? You had to throw the pencils to make sure I knew you were talking to me and not her? Is that why you threw the pencils? Thanks for the words of encouragement fuck-o. Keep that head out the window through tunnels. It will help you shave some much needed poundage off that big mouth of yours!" I yelled.
He started it.
I’ll fight a kid.
He’s not mine.
How I Stuck With It
I stuck with it.
Putting That Bitch To Rest
Because I found the magical way to get things done, I lost 100 lbs and gained a little more control over my very own Barkley.
There are different kinds of Pretty. Sometimes, we focus a little bit more on the Pretty that lives in our reflection. It’s easy to get caught up in that kind of Pretty, when there is so much of it in the world.
People are beautiful. It doesn’t have to be a competition. Well, it’s not a competition and it never will be, and the people that think that it is, are Pretty Sad...and that’s a whole other kinda Pretty.
There’s nothing wrong with having a little beef with yourself, sometimes that’s where the drive comes from. Being Pretty disappointed in ourselves can be the right, and much needed, kinda Pretty that makes us fall in love with the one that lives in our reflections, and introduces us to the types of Pretty we didn’t even know we had! I’m only twenty nine years old, and I’ve got more Pretty then I know what to do with.
- Pretty Awesome
- Pretty Determined
- Pretty Strong
- Pretty Funny
- Pretty Smart
Just to name a few.
Sometimes, I like to get my nails done at a salon. I don’t have nails cause I bite them, but I still like to get them done. Anytime I go, doesn’t matter where, the esthetician always comments on my hands. I have scars on my knuckles, so “what happened?” is a common question manicurists ask me.
It never fails.
I always make up some ridiculous story when I'm asked that. I’ve told people I fed a horse and it bit me, I’m a boxer, I used to scrape my hands on the pavement as a child etc. I keep the story ridiculous enough so it sounds fake, and it makes them realize
“hmm maybe I’m being nosey.”
Maybe you are.
Once the esthetician and I have played that game, I always get the lecture on how I shouldn’t bite my nails. Some of them tell me its ugly or it looks bad, or they just make a face that implies either or. And I always think to myself,
if I’m in here, not caring that you’re going to see my “ugly hands”, cause obviously you’re going to see them, paying money to pamper and decorate them... then wouldn’t that suggest I like my hands? Or that it doesn’t bother me or it’s not really that big of a deal for me? Lady, the question here is not whether I like my hands or not, it's... are you going to paint my fucking nails or not? Cause I've got no qualms finding someone else that will.
The nosey estheticians of the world have zero effect on the fact that I love my hands.
My hands tell stories.
Pretty content is my favourite. I work hard every day to gain that one. I don’t need to have pristine fingernails or be runway ready, dressed to the nines, carefully constructed from head to toe, looking like I fell out of a college boys spank bank, to feel like a million bucks.
Admitting to yourself that you’re not waking up as anyone else, doesn’t have to be an argument. It’s never going to be a matter of flipping through a magazine and saying “I’ll take that!” or "I'll be her!" You’ll be a version of “that” or "her", but never not you. Focus on all the right kinds of Pretty, cause I can guarantee, the Pretty you're looking for, comes as a set.
A beautiful set that you already own.