If my life right now were a Lifetime movie—which I would be totally okay with—it’d be that part where there’s a musical montage of a disheveled woman with bad hair stumbling, walking a dog alone, getting tangled in the leash, tripping outside, being unable to zip up her pants, etc. And it would be sad-yet-hopeful music playing like this:
And I would be looking out a window with my hand pressed to the glass AND IT WOULD BE RAINING.
I totally feel like that right now. Most days, I really do try to look on the bright side, but right now, looking at the bright side is sort of like staring into a red, puckered, cat’s anus. Yes. That is the appropriate simile. Cat’s. Anus.
I’ve just had…a long few weeks. I’ve been doing really good with yoga, and walking and eating well, but then I had this little twinge (for over two weeks) that turned out to be a stress facture (AKA sprain) on my foot, which means no more walking or yoga for four to six weeks soooo….fuck it…bring on the brownie ice cream. I’m actually really, really mad about this. I was doing so well!
And my narrating gigs are sort of drying up. Like I feel like I’m the girl in high school and it’s prom and suddenly everyone’s whispering that I have chlamydia or something and not only is no one asking me to dance, but I can’t even get friends to rent a bad limo with me. (Side note: I never went to prom or any fancy dress dances.) The desperate emails I send to companies of “Hey! I’m available for hire, sailor!” are getting a little old. And it’s hard on the old ego to see so many narrator friends getting great books and reviews while I sit back, feeling invisible. Or worse for a narrator, feeling silent.
What else can I whine about?
Oh. My vagina.
So. It hasn’t TOTALLY dried up.
(pause pause pause)
I mean my WORK hasn’t totally dried up. (Not my vagina. My vagina is fine and it’s…well. Enough said.) So. I am narrating a terrific book called “Love Sex Again” by Lauren Streicher and it’s reminded me that I really know nothing about my own body, and I’ve spent most of my life being embarrassed by myself. And I don't think I'm alone in that. It’s only been recently that I’ve even been able to SAY the word vagina, and I’m pretty sure that’s because I’m forty and I just don’t care anymore. Why does my vagina make me sad? It doesn’t…it’s just…I wish I’d given myself more credit, more love, more understanding over the years. I wish I could do all of that now, but I’m still embarrassed…by everything about...me.
Which brings me back to my lack of confidence with my career, and my weight, and my appearance and…and…don’t even ask me about my writing and creative work.
When…when…WHEN…am I going to stop being that whiny woman looking out a window where it’s raining and become that free, curvy woman in a sundress who is sexy and lovable and quirky…even if she’s wearing a wooden shoe? Where's my uplifting ending to a Lifetime movie?
Any minute. Any minute now I’m going to stop…what? Staring at this cat’s anus, and go outside, and PLAY.
Here are the tweets I did not post while narrating today, mostly because I was afraid I might seem unprofessional:
I’m learning so much about my vagina!!!
Apparently, I should run out immediately to buy a vaginal silicone lubricant. It may turn my atheist husband into a believer in the almighty. Maybe.
Women should feel more comfortable to tweet about their twat.
There are pelvic physical therapists who will manually work your pelvic floor muscles for you…and light your cigarette afterward.