So I’ve been wallowing. Life is going to be a bit harder than I planned. I have been wrapped in a cocoon of calamity, a burrito of “this blows” and I was hitting snooze on dealing with life because it all felt kind of overwhelming and unreasonable. I knew that I couldn’t wallow forever. I set a deadline to come back alive to things again and figure this stuff out. That deadline has passed and the time has come. This disaster has to be reframed. It’s not a challenge, it’s an invitation.
I’ve received an invitation to be a badass. I don’t get a ton of invitations because I’m a bit of a sparkly recluse. After all, I’m awkward as heck…..
Transcript of actual party conversation:
“Did you know it takes 100 chinchillas to make a coat?”
“They don’t sound like they are very good at sewing.”
… and I certainly didn’t expect this particular one. But here it is and here we are and I’m RSVP-ing “Hell YES.” I could sit at home and mope or I’m can be a badass. I’ve been invited. I’m on the list. I’m with the other girls who can do hard things.
I’ve started by checking in with other badasses I know, my sisters who ache just a little too much. You know, the pre-party check in?
“What are you wearing?”
The answers are like “Heating pads are so hot right now” or “Have you considered compression gloves? Maybe even just one like MJ” Because my friends are kind of awesome like that. They give you hints about how to have a better time (0r even just a less crappy time.) They tell you that you look pretty when you feel like the love child of a porcupine and a cactus set aflame. Everyone needs friends like that.
A party is made by the people who are invited and I’m blessed to be seated with strong, funny, courageous, amazing women, badasses in their own ways. If I’m going to be here I may as well dance with my friends (in sensible, but still sparkly shoes, because nobody needs a dislocation to have a good time.) Not everyone gets an invitation to be a badass, after all, and it’s time to come back alive.