Tag: Megalomania

Schrodinger’s Fatphobe: Fashion Edition

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

“I’m all for body positivity, but…”

“I think people should wear what they want, but…”

I’ve heard or read these sorts of statements frequently, particularly in the warmer months of the year (gee, I wonder why), and let me tell you, the “but” is where folks show their ass. That “but” is guaranteed to be followed by some hateful, judgy shit that stinks up the entire statement. This Grade F manure isn’t restricted to just fat women, or fat folks. That “but” can be applied to folks of a certain age, gender presentation, sexuality, or color, too. But for the purpose of this post, I’m going to focus on my fat femme presenters because I am a fat femme presenter.

Folks really tend to feel some kind of way about the fashion of fat women. They’ve got a real hang-up when it comes to the way they adorn themselves. They’re all about body positivity, you know, think everyone should wear what they want, but if you’re fat, well, you shouldn’t wear that.

In my experience, “that” can be shorts, crop tops, tank tops, two-piece bathing suits, skirts, dresses that show any leg, arm, or cleavage, sandals, spandex, lycra, anything deemed too tight, anything that shows rolls, anything that shows too much skin.

Because they’re body positive and they believe everyone should wear what they want, but they don’t want to see you wear what you want. Could you please be comfortable and stylish and fat elsewhere? Thanks.

They say it with such authority, too! Like because my cellulite offends their delicate sensibilities, I shouldn’t wear shorts. Well, Sandra, it’s 90 degrees and the humidity has it feeling like 100. I’m afraid you’re going to have to endure my bat wings and fat rolls along with the heat wave.

“If you weigh over X amount, you shouldn’t wear…”

First of all, no two people wear their weight alike. 220 pounds on me looks a lot different than it does on my sister. (No, I don’t currently weigh 220 pounds and I have no idea what my sister weighs. I just remember that at one point in time, the two of us both weighed about 220 and no one would have guessed we weighed the same because of how we carried the weight.) Second of all, there aren’t weight limits on clothes. Nowhere on the tag does it say that I can’t wear yoga pants or a crop top because I exceed the maximum weight limit. The clothes are in my size, I’m going to wear them. That’s how clothing works.

And before someone trips over themselves to point out the people who wear clothes they think are too small, well, that’s the size they want to wear. I suggest you make peace with that for the sake of your blood pressure.

I’m not saying that I don’t judge people’s fashion choices. I admit to being a judgy person. I think I could place respectably in the Judgmental Olympics. However, I’m less likely to be too het up on judging the superficial. I may see somebody wearing something that I find questionable, and I may think to myself, “That is certainly a choice”, and I may question the motives behind the style choice, but as long as they’re comfortable, happy, and feeling good, rock on then. I don’t feel the need to blast my judgy opinion about some stranger’s garb on social media. I definitely don’t feel the need to say it to their face. Remember what I said about other people’s opinions not being my problem? Same goes for me. My opinions are not other people’s problem, either.

Now, if I know the person, if we’re friends or family, if I love them and we have the kind of relationship that allows me to voice my opinions, I may say, “Are you good with your cheeks hanging out of your shorts like that? It seems like an invitation to an awkward sunburn.” And if they’re like, “Yeah, I feel good. I look good. I want to wear these shorts,” then, baby, I will put the sunblock on their booty dimples myself. Because I am body positive. I’m positive you can dress your body the way you want (within legal limits, of course; the only cops we want involved in fashion belong to the Village People), even if it’s not what I would choose, and especially if it’s not what society would have you do.

No buts about it.

I’m Queer (Even If I Don’t Always Feel Like I Am)

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I don’t remember what I was going to write when I first conceived of this blog post idea (I probably should have made some notes because, no self, you’re not going to remember it later), so let’s just write a bunch of queer thoughts, shall we?

I’ve been out as a bisexual since I was 17. I’ve gotten more confident in my sexuality in the ensuing years, but I still question myself. I’ve been single a long time and I have even less relationship experience with women than I do with men. Sometimes I ask myself, “Do I really like girls?” And then I’ll see a beautiful woman and once I stop thinking very unclean thoughts, I say, “Yeah, no, I definitely like girls.”

I’ve got Pride flags (progress and bi), Pride rings (rainbow and bi), an obnoxious Pride shirt that says “Let Me Be Perfectly Queer”, and yet, I’ve never been to a Pride event. Never been to a parade. Never even been to a gay bar. I would love to experience all of those things. I don’t have a bucket list, but it’s safe to say they’re all on my Long-Term To Do List.

I think there are several reasons why I haven’t engaged more with the queer community in the physical, aside from the fact that I’m introvertedly inclined and therefore require more energy to participate in social situations. I think part of it is my bisexual insecurity of not being queer enough to be in those spaces. I think the other part is not having very many queer associates in my meat space. I don’t exactly have folks around that I go can go to these things with, which would make that easier for me. Yes, dears, it’s always about my comfort.

Being out and not having very many queer associates in the immediate vicinity means that I’m often the token queer in my friends groups, at certain family events, and at work. I am often the queer education center of those people, answering their questions and trying to provide them with accurate info. I’m also the one who feels responsible to correct them even when they don’t ask for it. I will correct folks on someone’s pronouns and I will call folks out for their homophobic jokes and I will explain in excruciating detail everything I know about trans folks. Why? Because apparently some knowledge needs to administered against people’s will. Learn it or continue to have me ruin the vibe by being a buzzkilling well-actually.

Do I always want to be the queer answer-person in these situations? No. Do I always want to be the queer existence enforcer? No. Sometimes I’m tired and I don’t feel like being the only bisexual you know. But I’m the only bisexual you know, so I have a duty to uphold.

And what’s really wild is that I don’t always feel queer enough to be that person. That I haven’t had enough of the first-hand queer experience to be that guy.

I have been very fortunate to find a queer community online, starting back in the long, long ago of the early days of the internets when we were all communicating on message boards and AIM and LiveJournal. I’ve had the privilege of witnessing the journeys of many groovy people as they evolved through labels until finding the ones that fit. I’ve gotten to witness the expansion of the queer community -as well as the bullshit gatekeeping within it. I’ve gotten to fully immerse myself in an online queer experience to such an extent that I forget -for a second- that not everyone is queer. That being part of the rainbow isn’t the default. I guess this is how straight, cis people feel moving through the world.

I suppose I wrote all of this to say I’m here, I’m queer, I will be gay and do crimes, I will let my freak flag fly, and I’m bi and I exist. Even when I don’t always feel like it.

Happy Pride.

I’m Not a Morning Person, But I Am Waking Up Better

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

There are three kinds of people: morning people, night owls, and people who can do either. I happen to be a secret fourth kind of person who doesn’t like waking up period. It doesn’t matter when. Waking up pisses me off and I’m mad that I’m conscious.

There was a time in my life when I had the energy of youth that sort of overrode that anger. I don’t have time to be angry about being awake because I have shit to do. I no longer possess that kind of energy. I’ve got a middle-aged battery now.

I’ve also developed some bad habits that have drained that battery, maybe even damaged it.

Leaving aside the health issues I’ve dealt with for the last five or six or seven years that I know have made their negative impact, my morning and nighttime routines have probably done more damage, particularly my morning routine.

Back in the long, long ago of my youth, when I got up in the morning, I laid in bed for a bit, watched a little TV, and then got up. Unless I had to go to work. Then I just dragged my ass out of bed and got on with it. I might have been tired, but I found the energy to do it. There was a period of time when I was exercising in the morning for 20 to 30 minutes five days a week and did so with almost no issue at all. I was never too tired to workout. I just did it.

In the past several smart phone years, my morning routine morphed into me waking up, rolling over, putting on my glasses, and immediately picking up my phone to start my day of going through emails and scrolling through social media. Given the growing dumpster fire that is our current reality situation, I suppose it really should be no surprise that I don’t want to get out of bed. Exercising five days a week, even for ten or fifteen minutes, became an impossible task. I cut it down to three days to up the odds that the workouts would get done at all. And if I did have the energy (which was rare), many times I’d be in bed so long scrolling to catch up on my timelines that by the time I was finished, I really didn’t have time to exercise anyway.

It came to a point that one morning I was scrolling through Twitter, telling myself to stop and get out of bed, but I just couldn’t make myself. I was miserable, but I couldn’t stop until I was finished.

Doesn’t take an advanced degree to tell me that isn’t healthy.

In my desperation to fix this bad habit and improve my morning routine in the hopes I might feel better, I didn’t really give my remedy too much thought. I wouldn’t pick up my phone first thing. I’d read or journal. When I did pick up my phone, it was only to go through my email and maybe Instagram. No Twitter or BlueSky until after breakfast. Let’s how it goes.

Let’s see if I could do it.

I was sure I’d cave and check BlueSky at least, or maybe put off starting the change “one more day”.

To my surprise, I just did it. I woke up on a Monday morning, rolled over, put on my glasses, and picked up my Kindle instead of my phone. I read a couple chapters of my book before I checked my email and scrolled through Instagram. That was it. I didn’t even think about checking BlueSky or Twitter.

Not as surprising was how much easier it was to start my day, how much more energy I had, how much easier it was for me to put on my sports bra and exercise, how much easier my entire day was by putting off the deluge of worldly information.

How much easier it was to deal with that deluge of worldly information after an improved morning routine.

In the first week or so after I started my new morning routine, I caught myself a few times reaching for my phone first thing, but caught myself before I could fall into my old pattern, putting down the phone as soon as I realized the autopilot was engaged. Those were valuable saves, I think. Otherwise, I might have given in and given up.

It’s amazing how much difference a little change can make. I wonder if I can fix my whole life this way.

Better start with my bedtime routine first.

Sorry, That’s Not My Problem–Other People’s Opinions Edition

~ Kiki Writes ~ 1 Comment

Let’s talk about other people’s opinions.

Everybody has an opinion on something. The kids today, what that lady is wearing, the blathering of an ex-reality star, that guy’s hair, that other guy’s podcast, the casting choices in period shows on streaming services, the state of the neighbor’s yard, the money the other neighbor spent on a new truck, what that celebrity wore to that premier, and that royal marriage. Petty ass opinions on petty ass shit.

These opinions are not my problem.

They are not my problem because they are about nouns that do not affect me. Most of the time, they are about nouns that I don’t even have my own opinion on, or if I do have an opinion, it’s not worth the effort to share it because I care about that noun so little.

This could be a byproduct of working in customer service. Working with the public, you find yourself subjected to many unsolicited opinions on a wide variety of subjects. Not only are these opinions unsolicited, they’re frequently unrelated to the customer service task at hand. There you are, minding your business, helping a customer/patron, and the next thing you know they’re telling you all of their thoughts and feelings about Prince Harry. With all due respect Sir/Madam/As The Case Maybe, that you take umbridge with his royal behavior is not my problem. I have no idea why you’d think it would be or why you’re even telling me this. This hourly wage will only get you so much. And no worries, I will not get you started on his wife.

But I find myself this callous in my personal life as well. While I enjoy having conversations with friends and family and acquaintances, I’ve found that there are times that their opinions are not my problem. You think that woman is too old to be wearing that? I think that I don’t have the energy to concern myself with something that doesn’t affect me. Where do you get your vim and verve? Let’s talk about that instead. Maybe I’m no longer in the mood to rip strangers apart for insignificant, superficial things that do not impact my existence in the least. Maybe I’d rather roast the local politician’s insistence that libraries are indoctrinating children instead. Seems more productive.

In my advancing age, this has begun to encompass other people’s opinions about myself as well. I’ve always said you shouldn’t care what other people think, but I’d be a liar to say that I haven’t spent most of my existence vacillating between not caring and caring too much. But more often, I find those opinions that other folks might have of me falling into the “not my problem” category. Don’t like what I’m wearing? Avert your eyes. Don’t like how I live my life? Bankroll it and I’ll consider your feelings. Maybe.

I realize that this comes across as somewhat inconsiderate and misanthropic, but I’m not saying that I’m disregarding anyone’s opinions. I’m not saying that they’re wrong.

They’re not just my problem.

I Am an Intimidation Tactic

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I am the library witch.

I don’t know know when it happened, but sometime in the last almost five years of employment I became the library clerk to be feared.

People whisper not to cross me or I’ll hex them. I’m talked about like a punishment, a threat. “This is Christin. She’s our cudgel.” I am the threat of blunt force trauma in snazzy pants and funky tights and cute dresses. We joke about the ghosts of librarians past, but I’m the one that actually haunts the library. I skulk through the stacks, looking for children to scare and patrons to frighten. Coworkers to bully.

I am more feared than an ’80s slasher villain no matter their body count and how many times they come back from the dead.

I am a curse.

And I have no idea what to make of it. Because I’ve been this way for a long time. I can’t say forever because I wasn’t like this when I was a kid. I was shy and sensitive and incredibly weird. I admit that I’ve always been an angry little thing and prone to fighting and that did give me a little bit of a reputation. Turned out to stick with me even though the only person I fought in high school was my sister, who also had a bit of a reputation as someone not to cross. One of our friends whom we’d known since childhood once said that everyone wanted to be our friend because nobody wanted to be on our bad side.

Okay, maybe I have always been this way. It just had to mature along with me, refine itself into this raven that sits on my shoulder, alerting everyone to my potential.

I seem to haunt every place I go. If there’s a group dynamic, I unintentionally establish myself as the imminent danger.

I think it’s in part because I do not suffer fools. I come from a family of non-fool sufferers, which was rough when I was young and a fool because I was not suffered. Now I’m the one who is not doing any suffering. I do not have time for ignorant nonsense. Has customer service exacerbated this aspect of my personality? Absolutely. There’s a prevalence of fools in this line of work and I will not suffer a single one. That makes an impression. Even when I’m not trying to give that impression, it’s so infused in my aura that I still make that impression. More than once I’ve been told that when people first meet me they’re intimidated. While I appreciate that power, it’s not the default the vibe I’m going for.

Most people want to be liked. Life is easier when you’re liked. I don’t think about being liked. I tend to assume that I’m not liked. I’m tolerated. It’s better to be on my good side than my bad. “Don’t make Christin angry. You wouldn’t like her when she’s angry.” And you wouldn’t. I’m less than fun when I’m angry at you (I am hilarious, though, if I’m ranting about something that has nothing to do with you). So, when I find out that people actually like me, it confuses me. Surely, you jest. Did you miss the memo? The vibes? The aura? The warnings?

Or did you figure that befriending the monster would keep you safe? And once you did, you realized that she really isn’t that bad.

As long as you stay on my good side.

I Never Go Out Alone…Anxiety Is My Forever Date

~ Kiki Writes ~ 2 Comments

I’m not the most social creature. I’m like a cryptid. Sightings of me in the wild are rare and to be treasured, sometimes worthy of being caught on film.

When I do make these rare excursions into the social sphere, I prefer to go with others. Also like a cryptid, I’m weird and awkward around humans. Having a friend or a group of friends makes that awkwardness and weirdness less noticeable. It also makes it easier for me to be in a social situation. Having someone else or a group of someone elses with me acts as sort of a buffer from the anxiety of being in a social situation. They are the lubricant that greases the wheels of my social interactions, as it were.

Sometimes, though, I have to fly solo. Or maybe just arrive solo with the intent of meeting up with my lubricants and buffers. But either/or, I’m never really solo. My anxiety is always with me.

Here’s the thing: Alone or with friends, if I’m out and about in a social situation, I never feel like I belong. I always feel awkward and I feel like that awkwardness is apparent. I feel like the people I’m interacting with -even friends I’ve known for decades- can plainly see that I’m poorly cosplaying as a functioning human being. Now, with the friends I’ve known for ages, I eventually relax and even though my anxiety never goes away and I will absolutely rake myself over the coals later about everything I’ve said and done, my anxiety at least relaxes with me for that moment. But, if I’m with people I’m less comfortable with because maybe I haven’t known them as long or I don’t hang out with them as much, or I’m flying solo and forced to be in the midst of people I barely know or don’t know at all, I never relax and neither does my anxiety. I spend the entire time in performance mode, and that my friends, is exhausting.

In theory, the more that I socialize, the more comfortable my anxiety could become with the whole act of socializing. The more my anxiety and I feel comfortable with socializing, the more we’ll feel like we belong in those situations and with those people.

In practice, however…well, I don’t know how it works out in practice because I struggle with getting past my basic cryptid nature and ingrained social anxiety to actually put this into practice. The idea of making myself more available to hang out with people seems like guaranteed rejection because who would want to voluntarily hangout with an anxiety-ridden cryptid? Sure, I would, but that’s because cryptids of a feather. Or another more fitting cryptid feature. I guess it depends on the cryptid. My point is that it’s a pretty big ask to associate with me in a public, social situation and not everyone is up for that and I don’t blame them.

Yes, I know that could just be my anxiety talking, but it could also be true.

In conclusion, this is one of those things that I’m going to spend my existence working on. Maybe one day the practice will finally prove the theory. In the meantime, enjoy the cryptid sightings.

I Cannot Be in a Het Relationship

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

If you read the blog post title, you might be thinking, “Whoa, that’s pretty extreme.”

If you didn’t read the blog post title, I’ll repeat myself. I cannot be in a het relationship.

Now that you’ve had time to think, “Whoa, that’s pretty extreme,” allow me to explain. Just in case you’re that thoroughly invested in my non-existent love life.

As it has been well-established, I am bisexual. Or bi+. Or queer. Therefore, it is impossible for me to be in a het relationship.

This tends to confuse people. As a bisexual person, I am (unfortunately) attracted to men and have been in relationships with an unlucky few. From the outside, it looks like I’m in a het relationship. There’s a cis woman and a cis man (or a trans man) doing relationship things. Why would anyone suspect anything different? Hell, even the poor fella in the relationship would assume that it was a het relationship if he’s, ya know, cishet.

Hate to break it to you, my dude, but you’re in a queer relationship here. Relax! It doesn’t make you any less het. It also doesn’t make me any less bi.

I think this is one of the most baffling aspects of bisexuality (and probably pansexuality, but I don’t identify that way, so I won’t speak for them). Most people don’t seem to understand that our sexuality isn’t defined by our relationship status. We don’t suddenly stop being bi because we enter into a “het” relationship. Our Rainbow Mafia membership cards don’t get revoked because of other people’s straight perceptions. We do not choose sides. We’re on the same side we’ve always been on. The Bi Side.

Don’t think I’m picking on the fellas here. By the same logic, I cannot be in a lesbian relationship either. Sure, it’s still a queer relationship because we’re both queer, but it’s not a lesbian relationship because I’m not a lesbian. It’s not a lesbian relationship if the other woman is also bisexual. Or pansexual. Or trans. Yes, even if the trans woman identifies as a lesbian. See the above statement in which I cannot be in a lesbian relationship because I do not identify as a lesbian.

You may be wondering what the big deal is. Who cares if people think your relationship is het? Or lesbian? Well, I do. I care because it’s my relationship and it deserves to be respected in its definition. I realize that strangers glancing in the direction of me and my hypothetical partner can’t determine such details from a distance, but the people closer to us are more in the loop. They should know. They DO know. But when it comes to being in a relationship with a man, it’s easy for them to dismiss my queerness because of the straight optics. I don’t like being dismissed.

I also care because I don’t need or want a cishet male partner using his cishetness to dismiss my queerness. Your straight dick didn’t straighten me.

My bisexuality is an important part of my identity and it doesn’t go away if I happen to fall for a dude just because it makes you see straight.

This Is Where I Keep My Crazy

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I realized the other night that I’ve been keeping a journal for over twenty years.

I’ve probably talked about my journaling before, but I’m prone to repeat myself more often now that my brain is 95% song lyrics and movie quotes. So, I’m just going to talk about it again.

I remember attempting diaries as a kid, but never stuck with it. Probably because I was nine and didn’t have much of a life to write about and even though I was a writer, I thought diaries were strictly for real life escapades. As far as I was concerned, I was not doing any escapades worth writing about back then.

About six months after my oldest niece was born, I was gifted a journal. She’s twenty-two now. Anyway, it took me a couple of weeks to work up the courage to write my first entry. Once that seal was broken, though, I found it easier to write down my thoughts. But it would be years before I made it a daily habit.

Despite what my nine year old self thought, I’m still not using my journals strictly for my real life escapades, though the few escapades I do manage to have typically rate a mention.

My journals are where I keep my crazy.

My mind is a hellscape. It frequently gets too full. That one time I saw a therapist for three appointments before she got sick and I never rescheduled, she said that part of my problem is that I hold things in to the point that they overflow, and that retention was contributing heavily to the toxic state of my mind. So, I started putting the things that I couldn’t or didn’t want to talk about out loud into the pages of my journals. It helped. It got it out of my head and onto the page where I could see it and examine it from a safe distance. Poking about the words spewed from my brain has helped me a lot when it comes to figuring out how my defective grey matter works.

My roommate, who once had her privacy invaded thanks to a journal-reading incident, asked me how I can just leave my journal on my bedside table without worrying about someone reading it.

Simple.

If you read my journal, you get what you deserve.

People underestimate the shit that goes on in my head. I’m not just writing about annoying coworkers and petty grievances and people I find dreamy (though I do mention that sometimes). I’m not just jotting down my goals and to do lists and my dreams (though I do that, too).

This is where I keep my crazy. My rage. My self-harm thoughts. My go-to-jail thoughts. My delusions and illusions. My paranoia. My anxiety. My depression. My whacked out, what the fuck thoughts that would make even the strongest whimper and cringe. This shit is not for the faint of heart. It’s not even for the sure of heart.

If someone decides to go sneaking a peek at those pages, they’re going to end up scarred for life. They’re certainly never going to look at me the same way ever again. And it would be all their own fault.

I have every intention of destroying my journals before I die. Or leaving instructions with someone I trust to have them destroy them for me. There’s no goldmine in those pages, nothing publishable, nothing salvageable, nothing memorable. Nothing that needs to be remembered.

They’re just bits of my mind, anyway.

They should go with me to the grave.

What’s My Stretchmarks Rebrand?

~ Kiki Writes ~ 2 Comments

Remember when everyone started calling the stretchmarks gained in pregnancy “tiger stripes”? It was done in an effort to make child bearing folks feel better about the changes their body underwent while they were growing and birthing an entire human being. As a collective, we decided to change a flaw to a badge of honor. As well we should. Growing and birthing a person is kind of a big deal.

So, I have to ask…where’s my stretchmarks rebrand?

My first stretchmarks came from puberty, as did a lot of other people’s. Many of these faded marks on my hips I got as I entered my teens. These deep grooves on my breasts came from a late bloomer blossoming so fast that I went up multiple cup sizes in a year. What are these stretchmarks? Boob grooves? Growth charts? Puberty scars? Puberty is a pretty brutal time of life, anyway. Might as well show the stretchmarks as the warrior wounds they are.

And what about the stretchmarks I acquired through weight gain? Why should they be vilified? There are many tasty treats and lazy days behind some of those marks (a lot of depression, injury, and illness, too, but never mind the negative; we’re being positive here). What do we call those? Burrito bands? Cookie cracks? Buffet lines?

I ask these inane questions because stretchmarks are a mark of life. Most people have them. They are proof of growth during life. Why do they need a rebrand? Specifically, why are only one specific type of stretchmarks worthy of a rebrand?

As a society, we’re kind of hung up on exemptions. It’s okay to have stretchmarks as long as you’ve acquired them because of pregnancy. It’s okay to be fat as long as you’re fat a certain way (“curvy” with a tiny waist, flat stomach, and fat ass, also try not to be over a size 14) or you’re a “good” fatty because you’re actually healthy or you’re trying not to be fat. It’s okay to be old as long as you look younger than your age. It’s wild to think of how many of these sorts of societal standards have asterisks on them. Terms and conditions may apply.

In the long run, stretchmarks as a flaw is a bullshit concept. Pristine skin with no evidence of existence is yet another unattainable standard. As I said, many of us get marked in our early teens. Ruined before we begin, no chance at perfection. Of course, there’s no money to be made if we accept ourselves how we are, now is there? I’m not going to purchase a cream to fade my stretchmarks if they don’t bother me. There’s no means to keep us in our places either, so to speak. You can’t shame me for a flaw if I don’t have it, right? Can’t keep me small and insecure, can’t lower my value over a perceived defect if I don’t perceive it.

I’m going to take matters into my own hands. Rebrand my stretchmarks. Not because I think I need to or because I have to, but because I want to. I think it’ll be fun.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go learn to love my boob grooves and buffet lines.

Turning 44

~ Kiki Writes ~ 4 Comments

For better or worse, I have once again completed another trip around the sun and have hit the magic number of 44. Double digits is always a fun number. I don’t know why. There’s just something bouncy and fun about it.

I would love to have a bouncy and fun 44. I’m not entirely sure what that would look like, but I think it’s something to work for. Maybe.

I admit to being off to a rough start. I had Covid for Christmas and I spent New Year’s Eve/Day blowing my nose. An unfortunate incident involving one of the cats and a glass of wine has slowly made the laptop I bought at the beginning of last year unusable. So, at the beginning of this year I bought yet another new laptop in a fit of frustration and now we all need to cross our fingers that this pretty shiny lasts longer than its predecessor. Trust me, neither I nor my credit card are thrilled with this turn of events, but I gotta do what I gotta do to stay in business.

So, yeah, I closed out 43 a lot harsher than I’d planned, which makes me cautious going into 44.

Good thing I’d already planned on taking baby steps.

This is part of The Remarkable Life Deck work I started last year when I turned 43. It’s a 10 year plan after all, and surprisingly I haven’t gotten bored and wandered off, so here I am at 44 still working on it. Last year, I spent a good chunk of time off and on working through the deck and and answering the questions as honestly as possible. Towards the end of the year, I looked at everything I wrote down and came up with a few baby steps I could take to work my way towards the ideals I’d detailed in the journal.

My idea for 44 is to make it a year of baby steps. Every month, I will take conscious baby steps toward my ultimate goals. I have no idea if this is exactly how you’re supposed to use the deck. The way Debbie Millman describes it is that when she did this, she found things happening as if by magic. I get how manifestation and visualization work, but I also believe that those things don’t happen unless you do things to signal to the Universe that you want them and that you’re ready for them.

These will be my signals. Big ol’ flairs sent up on a monthly basis. I think that’s reasonable. And I don’t think it has to be a drag. It sounds very dry and boring, like doing chores, but I don’t think that it has to be or that it will be. After all, the point of this is to work my way into the life that I want. That’s not dull. There’s joy in that. So, naturally there will be joy in the baby steps.

Maybe it’ll be how I make 44 fun and bouncy after all.