30 Days of Truth, Day 1

Day 1 — Something you hate about yourself.

Somehow, by some innate failing as a human, I am incapable of taking my clothes off without turning them inside out. I realize this doesn’t seem like a big deal… but hear me out.

I spend twice as much time turning the laundry right side out, as I do washing, drying & folding, combined.

Much to my horror, I’ve also created a small army of children and adults who are equally as horrible as I am with the laundry. The Dumpling has the worst skill. She turns every single tiny sock inside out. I was spending quite a bit of time turning those socks, and finally enlisted her help. Tiny hands make much quicker work of turning tiny socks, and she’s working much harder to turn them the correct way when she takes them off.

Why in the hell can’t I learn that, if the baby can?

I shake my head at myself every weekend when I have to turn all my clothes before washing them. Tank tops, inside out. Jeans… also. WTAF. I’m so annoyed at myself, and yet… not enough to actually stop and turn them. I still kick off my jeans and yank my shirt over my head every time. They’re laying in the top of my laundry hamper and I can see the inside pockets of my jeans, if that tells you anything.

The Dumpling’s jacket is hanging on my bedroom doorknob, inside out.

Look at this mess I’ve made. 🙂

laundry

 

Power

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My mother grew up in Utah and was raised in the epicenter of the obedient female. God-fearing housewives listen to their husbands a little too much in my opinion, but whatever keeps the home fires burning. She knew one thing for certain, and that was that she would never raise a child there. She moved us to the woods and I grew up knowing I was capable of anything a boy was, and most likely twice as fast.

I’ve always been stuck somewhere in the middle of red lipstick and garden boots. I have an extensive collection of garden tools and can fix the rototiller by myself (finally!), while simultaneously rocking some eyelash extensions and breast implants.

I’m not like the other girls.

Sometimes that really sucks, and I think it has a lot to do with my self-sustaining singlehood. I don’t ask for help and I certainly don’t wait for it even when I need it. I’ll do everything myself, or die trying.

I took a vacation to see my closest Aunt one winter, years ago. I came home to a blizzard and ran to the garage to get a pound of ground beef from my chest freezer. Only to discover the power was off. I looked at the breaker box to see if one had flipped, to see a branch had come through the roof and obliterated the entire thing.

Fuck.

Now most people would call someone. I realize this. I didn’t have the money or the desire to ask for help, so I went to Home Depot. I bought a book called “How to: Electricity” a new box and a few boxes of wire. The man working in that department was white as a ghost with fear and urged me to reconsider. I came home to see the electricity arcing at the top of the power pole above the garage. It was glowing red in the dark, night sky. I shook my head at myself and went inside to shut off the breaker to the garage from the main panel.

I’d Googled. I knew the basics. I also knew that electricity didn’t fuck around and you needed to be damn sure it was off. I disconnected the main line in and capped them off. The rest was a miserable skinned knuckle adventure of wire, needle nosed pliers and staples. It’s been working great now for over 10 years, so I’m pretty damn proud.

Or really fucking lucky.

It’s my greatest gift and biggest curse, this inability of mine to need. I want plenty of things, but I’ve worked very hard to provide everything I need for myself and my babies. That is awfully intimidating to men.

wanty

I have my own home, a rich, full life, earn my own money, and have a list of options long enough to make the most secure man, not. I’ve worked hard to achieve and attain those things and it’s been solely on my own steam. I’m proud of that, and surprised that it’s more threatening than inspirational when dealing with the opposite sex.

I’m the Queen of my castle and the benevolent ruler of my peaceful kingdom. There may never be a King, but there may not be room for one and I’m ok with that.

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The worst thing I can imagine would be to give all this hard-earned freedom, independence and success away.

For what?

A date? Some sex? Someone to carry my heavy stuff and open my doors?

Hard pass.

For as much as I struggle to let go of the man I adore, I’d rather sit around missing him forever than settle for less or give my power away.

QueenWithoutKing