I walked into Target this holiday season, only to grab a few toiletries, and oh boy, was I instantly overwhelmed! All I could see, for as long as the aisles went, was junk— Christmastime illuminates how material things have a stronghold in our lives.
If you’ve ever moved, you never realize how much stuff you have until it’s causing you acute anxiety, throwing it into boxes, only to schlep it to your new abode and shove it away in yet another closet.
We like stuff, though. Let’s take a Facebook ad, for example: it catches your eye, and somewhere deep in your reptile brain, you decide that you NEED it. From the genesis of having that desire, to the research and comparisons leading up to the purchase, we feel so good when we swipe our credit card, walk out of the store with a fresh box of whatever it is— or even come home to packages delivered by Amazon. The dopamine rush is addictive!
And I am so guilty. I love things. My materialism addiction goes beyond my Taurean proclivities and back to my socio-economic status: suburban white middle class midwestern millennial. Your character is not judged upon what you do but what you have. It means you are successful, down to every bell and whistle on your car to the sheets you slip into every night. People have made entire careers on peddling exactly what they use in daily life— it’s called being an influencer. Through the use of social media, we survey and assess what the “cool” people are using, because—obviously—if I use that, I’ll be cool, too. (Plot twist: I’m already cool.)
The lie of consumerism is one of hope— the ad agencies, the marketers, the product promoters, they’re all conspiring on you. That one thing? It’s going to change your life. It’s going to make everything better, pat you on the back, and instantly throw your life into a new trajectory of success and prosperity. That fresh meal subscription, that gym membership, the new iPhone with all the apps to make you a more productive, well-adapted person: it’s all a lie. They prey on you, planting the seed that your life is a sham without this, that it is lacking now without this thing; you’re going to look back on your life later and wonder how you ever survived without it! Lies. Sure, products work. But it all starts with you. That’s where the cycle ends, though, and the buck stops— with you.
The realization that YOU are the only thing YOU need to become the best version of YOURSELF will break their bank. As we move into the New Year, I’m being realistic about minimalism. Not only is having less a simplification of an already hectic life, but it incorporates sustainability for our very sick earth that we continue to neglect. Sometimes, less is more.
That one thing won’t fix you. Only you can use those tools to fix yourself. And it’s up to you how and when to use those tools.
Over the past few months, I’ve been nearly everywhere. And I promise to delve into those travels (Gothenburg, Stockholm, The Hague, Dublin, Bucharest, and Paris) at a later date. While I was gallivanting, I had a lovely time with friends and family alike.
But there are aspects of life that aren’t so rosy— I’m a little bit unsettled at the moment. After a romantically tumultuous summer, I tried to mellow out by doing these travels. And I loved every second of it. Having the financial flexibility to work a little and play a lot has been rewarding.
Earlier this summer, I applied and interviewed for a board position with the NGPA; I was not selected. I’ve been grappling with this rejection, as it’s an organization that I held dear. Over the years, I’ve twirled around on stage during the flagship events, which has been fun. But in order to step up my commitment, I thought a place on the board would be a good fit for my insights and talents. They did not feel the same. However, it’s a blessing, because I don’t think that I would be well received with the current dynamic at play— my flamboyance is more than just entertainment. I wanted to sink my teeth into the challenges that face our membership, as well as the elephant in the room that is our image issue— we’re much more than a group of vapid, shirtless (and overwhelmingly white) pilots in hot tubs.
I feel sympathetic to the cause, still, but very much removed from any of the goings on. It wouldn’t hurt so much if it didn’t mean so much to me.
The City Search
I’ve moved home to Jefferson City, but I’m rarely home by design. Either I’m traveling for work or traveling for pleasure. And while living mostly rent free with my mom has been nice for my wallet, I crave my own place again. However, it doesn’t make sense financially. And where would I live? I don’t feel the pull to live anywhere except the Pacific Northwest, New York City, or Europe. None of those places is right for me at the moment, though. The rent is too damn high— and any smaller city is uninteresting, even if it is “affordable.”
The vagabond life is cute for a while. But I’m the type of person who needs her craftily curated space, a retreat from the extensive travels. Bluntly, though, I can’t afford to live alone in any of the aforementioned places in which my heart thrives.
The Yoga Studio
The Yoga Studio closed its doors in my little town. Admittedly, I feel like I squandered an opportunity to flourish as an instructor— I was too busy busting my butt all summer and gallivanting around the world this fall. To date, I haven’t taught a class, which was a big draw of moving home. I failed on that front.
I’m keeping my options open, because the practice is still there. It’s always there, welcoming back with a simple breath in and breath out. And I’m willing to share it with whomever wants to deepen their consciousness.
I don’t really know where I fit in; I mostly feel like I’m floating along, contentedly but without roots. I’m scattered, like a pixelated picture waiting to load— there’s some semblance of what completeness looks like, but I have yet to get there. Wherever that is.
As an aside, I dated someone for a short while (meaning a very quick month). It wasn’t successful, but it did teach me a lot about what I need and who I am in a relationship— I go out of my way to be accommodating, and perhaps I’m too loyal. Overall, what I’ve been searching for this entire time is intimacy; that’s not easy to accomplish when I’m fleeting and mobile.
In this trough of discomfort, nothing is extremely bad. I still love my job, adore my friends, and demand to live life to my absolute fullest. I’m reminding myself that anything is a possibility— that I will fall in to the right crowds, home, and arms of a lover. The whole world is in my hands.
The faint outline of a mountain shone through the window,
but we were too busy screaming over our bougie Airbnb— that would have to wait
until morning. Cape Town was off to a good start.
I needed to get to Africa before I renewed my passport, and
I had just been displaced off a trip, leaving me with a good chunk of time off.
Why, though? Because I had been to every other continent (except the obvious
Antarctica), and I wanted the last one in my first passport. So, in true Robbie
fashion, I did it.
I chose Cape Town, because getting to Morocco and calling
that “Africa” would be, in fact, correct— but too easy. The logistics weren’t
all that simple. United doesn’t start their direct service to Cape Town until
December, not that I’d even have a chance in nonrev hell of getting on that
flight. The big European carriers don’t do daily service, which left options
slim for a cohesive transfer; otherwise, I’d be spending a long layover and
wasting precious time.
My methodology in travel is this: make the plans, and
whoever else wants to come can follow. I learned long ago, from my study abroad
experience, that group travel is exhausting. You can’t please everyone, and
it’s easier to do what I want to do on my own schedule— but it is nice to have
a travel partner. That’s why I was delighted when my friend Cole said he was
coming with me. Not having traveled together before, this would be a good test
I’m happy to report that we’re good travel buddies. When it
came to overall coordination of flights and airlines and load checking, I had
that down. But the day to day plans were up to him, and he did an excellent job
of picking and choosing when and what to do.
As I mentioned before, we couldn’t get over how luxurious
this Airbnb was. I got it for a steal since this is Cape Town’s off season: two
bedroom, two and a half bath plus exotic views of Table Mountain— it couldn’t
be beat. It was staged in my tastes with Eastern adornments and a massive
crystal that I held for most of the first morning there. We were centrally
located for the most part, and we Ubered nearly everywhere; it’s ridiculously
cheap and the best option if you’re feeling a little uneasy. We didn’t feel
unsafe, though. We’re tough broads— on our last day, we walked through the
brightly colored Bo-Kaap neighborhood. When we left a restaurant, the waiter
said, “Don’t go down that road. It’s not safe.” Little did he know, we had
pranced up and down it earlier in the day, checking out the sights and sounds.
Ain’t no thang, chicken wang!
We didn’t skimp on the cuisine. Cole and I like to eat, and
we’re adventurous at that.
Brunch started at Lola’s, where we both got a smoked salmon benedict. It was a cute little café nestled in the City Bowl, an imaginative neighborhood that had interesting architecture á la Bourbon street, surprisingly.
After a failed attempt to ascend Table Mountain due to an impending and indefinite rain shower, we took a long but cheap Uber to Constantia Valley, where many wineries call home. Our new gorgeous friend, Luke, taught us about the Buitenverwachting wines; he would check up on us in between giggles and gossip over some charcuterie. The sad thing, though, is that he’s disgustingly straight with some girlfriend whom he loves— our single selves loved the wine. It’s significantly underappreciated, in my opinion, but I’m also not a wine snob per se.
The next night, we met up with another new friend, this time a fellow homosexual. We went to Nelson’s Eye, a steakhouse that had nothing to do with Nelson Mandela. The other gay, Sean, got an ostrich fillet— I had a piece, and I didn’t regret my steak; however, I’m getting my own ostrich fillet next time. It was just the right amount of gamey flavor, but not overpowering. My steak, on the other hand, was v delicious. I was being melodramatic and torn between that and a local fish— but the waiter sassed me and said, “Why would you come to a steakhouse and get fish?”
Our final meal was at Bo-Kaap Kombuis, a Cape Malay restaurant overlooking the city. As suggested by our Airbnb host, we both got sampling platters. There was no way we could finish it all, but the flavors coming out of each dish was enough to make me scream. Cole couldn’t look at me and say, “I’ll have what she’s having,” because he already was. Of particular note was the classic Denning Vleis, a sweet and savory lamb stew that tasted like nothing I have ever had before— and I’ve eaten a lot. It was the perfect way to leave a city: full and satisfied, but wanting to come back.
With limited time, we had to capitalize on our experiences
in South Africa. We were on the wrong side of the country to go to the famed
Kruger National Park, so we opted for a private game reserve. The odds of
seeing the Big 5 (lion, buffalo, rhinoceros, elephant, and leopard) were
heightened due to the constrained space. But the vast acreage could’ve held the
critters away if they wanted— we saw four out of five, the leopard being the
I mean, I grew up with The Lion King, and I’ve seen National
Geographic. But it’s a whole ‘nother thing to be a Midwestern American casually
looking at two elephants in the quasi wild. Cole and I also lost it altogether
when we saw the giraffes— they might as well have been unicorns! (Geoffrey and
co. seem to be doing just fine on unemployment.)
The following day was NOT my idea, but I warmed up to it
after the wet suits were off: we went shark diving. Leaving early in the
morning for a venture to the sea, we hopped aboard a vessel that took us just
off shore, where the crew “chummed” the water with fish guts in the hopes of attracting
sharks. They divided us into groups, and we lucked out— not only did we catch
our first glimpse of a Great White while we were above deck, we also got up
close and personal as Shaunette splashed her way around the cage. Our guides
kept yelling for us to go “down down down!” to see the sharks below the water,
but the visibility was so poor that it was better to be spooked by the fins
moving about. This is all the name of conservation and research, and the data
collected helps to understand what the shark populations are doing as their
I’m not sure I fully realize the extent of what happened— to
me, diving with sharks was exhilarating, but I wasn’t seeking the adrenaline rush.
This brush with extreme nature felt structured but wild at the same time; after
all, these are apex predators in their own habitat. Behind the bars, I was a
guest in their home. They were, however, chomping at the bits to eat our guts—
The Bottom Line
South Africa is a culturally diverse country— with a sordid
history, reeling from the wounds of Apartheid, I find it in the midst of a
crossroads. While tourism seems to be its main industry at the moment, I think
there is a huge, untapped potential in a nation abounding in lively and lovely
people. How everyone, mostly, lives in harmony is a feat that perhaps our own country
could recognize. And Cape Town offers a lot of bang for your buck: the lodging
is inexpensive, the food is decently priced and delicious, and the outdoor
activities will leave you with stories of a lifetime.
Though the journey to the other side of the world was long and our stay short, it was worth it. You may not understand why my trips are quick, but I’m a woman on a mission— and a time crunch. Of course, I learned a lot about myself— but I made new friends and deepened my friendship with Cole. He’s my gürl, the realest of the real, and a fellow Taurus (we’re actually 10 hours apart in birth, as we discovered). We both know, undoubtedly, that it’s spaghetti in there. We parted ways in Amsterdam; he was heading back to the US, and I continued on my travels for a much-needed stay in Europe. I had only started to conjure up some thoughts and feelings about our country’s status on the world stage, but that portion of my nearly two-week journey sealed the deal. More on that, though, in a coming post.
“So, how’s life in Jeff City treating you?” they ask, with
overtones of another question. Why the
hell did you move there? is likely the root inquiry.
To refresh your memory, I relinquished my apartment to a
friend in Seattle, transferred my base to Chicago O’Kurr, and changed my
permanent residence to Jefferson City, Missouri. I’m a native of the town, and
I’m back— on my own volition. I did this because it wasn’t financially prudent
to stay in Seattle, and my base was shrinking. Overall, my quality of life was
And to be fair, I’m not in Missouri all that often. I’m
striking while the iron is hot, grabbing the fun and well-paid trips of the
summer; seniority sure has its benefits. However, when I am home, I’m keeping a
low profile and working on myself.
I had a little bit of a tumble when it comes to romance— while
it’s somewhat of a broken record for me, this instance was particularly
devastating. I met a darling individual at an event, and we hit it off. The
whole song and dance ensued: butterflies, texting, long phone calls, and grandiose
summer plans— I even bid my entire month of July to overnight in his new city. We
really connected, and I was given all the signs that this was something
meaningful and had potential to last. And then it took a nosedive.
It turns out, he’s not physically attracted to me. I don’t have the greatest track record when it comes to body image (read deeper into my blogs, and you’ll see it’s not an issue from which I stray). And I don’t even fault him for that; you can’t force these sorts of things. It’s typically not something develops over time— either you are or you aren’t. You know it within minutes of meeting someone; however, this primal instinct is cutting when someone decides, “No, you’re not the one for me intimately.” And while I am no stranger to this type of rejection, I felt blindsided, especially since at no point did he clarify this with me. I was, for better or worse, full speed ahead, all systems go.
Luckily, I am very comfortable with being vulnerable and
wearing my heart on my sleeve. It’s stitched into my identity, sewn into the
fibers of my being, and it takes a lot of courage to do so. I do not regret one
thing I said, even in my heartfelt, handwritten letters.
Chalk it up to his youth, perhaps, but the lesson learned
here is that it has nothing to do with
me. That’s difficult, because I almost always think I’m culpable for some part
of a SNAFU. Through this experience, at first glance, I wanted to shift course
and not put all my cards out on the table. I wanted to throw up my hands and be
done with romance as a whole— and that’s exactly what I’m not going to do. I’m
going to love deeply, even if the outcome doesn’t turn out in my favor. This is
who I am, and this is who I will continue to be.
If anything, this has given me the fire within, the “agni” as we call it in yoga, to press on. Lizzo has been the queen of my empowerment anthems. While this might be a low-key summer for me, I’m recalculating: I’m getting quiet, listening to my truth, the Source, and shedding everything that which does not serve me. This includes, but is not limited to, rocking out some yoga teaching, making strides for that next career move, and finding pure joy within myself and others. As I’ve anguished over the past couple weeks, three questions came to me that I’m attempting to answer at the end of each day:
What have I done for my spirit?
What have I done for my body?
What have I done for others?
Hopefully, these will quell any self-nagging that creeps up
from the anxiety surrounding a minor heartbreak. I’m trusting the process and
embracing the journey, for what seems like a setback is really a liberation.
Oh, and I finally bought a car. After months of research,
test driving, and downright lusting over the right vehicle, I introduce you to
Gustav Mazda-San. While loving material things isn’t particularly advisable, I
love the hard work I’ve put in to afford and deserve this. Zoom zoom.
The cherry blossoms are popping, and so is my booty.
Springtime is here, as indicated by the sunshine and my allergies. It’s time
for changes and rebirth— and speaking of, it is the month of my birth, so all
rejoice in this heavenly presence of The Queen!
If you’re in the market for making change, it doesn’t have
to be drastic or dramatic to have a positive impact on your life— even though
my recent life changes have been slightly drastic and dramatic.
I’ve had a lot of feelings since I left Seattle a couple
weeks ago. My heart got a little tingle the other day when I saw a
Seattle-bound flight on my walkaround. The thing I keep reminding myself: this
was all my choice. I left under my own accord for the necessity of growth. I
hold my friends there in my heart, and keep them close via social networks and
Your body knows much more than the mind (read: ego)— but the mind has more control. It wants to hold onto familiarity for its own sake. But a flower bud in nature knows exactly what to do. And in a day’s time, it opens up to a beautiful bloom, at its own pace and without much fanfare. Our bodies are open to this intrinsic playbook, too. That’s how change can be: rapid with little notice. And it explodes day by day, supporting the illusion of time; it isn’t as linear as we think. As we train our focus, we observe the peaks and valleys of time, soaring through the immeasurable vast that is experience divided by intention— but I digress.
Since I’ve been home, I’ve spent some time on the farm, a
plot of land that has been in my family for several generations. I learned a
lot out there: how to drive, hunt, rotate tires, and raise livestock. This might
come as a shock to you, since I present my fabulous self as some sort of city
folk— and it’s true, because I’ve forgotten a lot about country ways. (Rewind a
week ago when I high-centered the four-wheeler in muddy tractor tracks).
I have a lot of ideas and plans for the farm. Other than a
few cows, tended to by a family friend, it remains unoccupied. The Shop, where my
grandpa fixed most anything and everything, stands in a snapshot exactly as he
left it, albeit covered in dust since his earthly departure. Going through some
of his things is overwhelming and saddening, because I seek his advice on
exactly what the hell to do with all this…stuff. It will take years to get this
place in order, what with my job and schedule that take me in and out so often—
and how nice would it be to find a cute ranch hand to refresh my memory about
all things farm!
Maybe I’ll have a vineyard or have bees or build a yoga
retreat center— any or all of these endeavors excite me. And I’m definitely
building my dream house here. What terrifies me, though, is the time it will
take to commit. On the other side of these grandiose ventures is the harsh
reality of success. The good thing is that this place isn’t going anywhere, if
I can help it.
Despite the affront that pollen has had on my sinuses,
spending time in nature is a huge blessing. I went mushroom hunting; there’s no
cell signal anywhere, except two bars worth on a hill— just enough to make a
phone call if needed (but don’t call me). As I scoured the hillside for this
springtime delicacy, I couldn’t help but notice how loud it was. I expected
quiet stillness, but the racket of swaying branches and chirping birds was
enough to make me think I was downtown Chicago. That noise, though, is so rejuvenating.
Last night, I fell asleep to a springtime thunderstorm, another noise that I haven’t experienced in quite some time. And this morning, when I awoke, I looked out into the backyard, delighted by the dark, wet bark juxtaposed by the verdant, budding leaves.
This is all to say that it’s working out so far. The commute
to Chicago, with the help of benevolent friends, isn’t as bad as I imagined.
And being home in Jeff City has yet to sink in— aside from going to yoga and
grabbing food, I haven’t ventured out into the public eye. I like it that way,
figuring out the answers to the questions in peace and on my own time.
Something so illustrative to this new chapter is buying a car— eventually, I’ll need my own vehicle, as I can’t mooch off my family (their words in jest, not mine) for much longer. As I consider the options of leasing, buying new, buying used— not to mention various opinions of brands and projected reliability— the question becomes “How long do I intend on being here?” That question had historically been answered with, “As soon as I can get the hell out.” But now that I’m back, I’m facing that discomfort head on as the great opportunities abound. In a sense, I will always be here, even if my job takes me elsewhere— the What Ifs of life are nothing more than a distraction to the current moment.
All in all, I escaped so that I could come back— and therein lies an indescribable power, managing my own fears on my own time. Now someone help me build a house and buy a car.
“I like you Freddie. Call me when you like yourself,” Jim
Hutton told Freddie Mercury in Bohemian
That line stung. I knew why, but I put it away for the rest
of the movie while I sobbed over the renewed wound of losing an entire
generation to AIDS— I really know how to pick the most emotional movies on
The journey to my self-worth has been long and arduous, but
I’m picking away at letting my light shine.
So then fast forward to a recent trip— I was doing the walk
around when I caught my reflection in a window to the terminal. That little
voice inside my head, the one always babbling, said for the first time in a
really long time, “I like the way I look.” I did not expect this, because this
voice rarely says anything nice to me. But there I was, twirling around the
plane in a mix of emotions, a small grin and tearing up over the confidence and
dapper feeling that is ever elusive.
Not too long after that epiphany, NBC News published this article with the headline, “Are sexy gay Instagram accounts fueling disordered eating?” It goes into detail of Thirst Traps leading the masses to alter their eating habits in order to obtain a body similar to that of the accounts (a thirst trap is an account that mostly posts shirtless/revealing photos, highlighting one’s taut physique, and you are “trapped” there from gawking so much).
Months ago, I stopped following accounts like this, because,
although I didn’t have an eating disorder, it was causing me to compare myself
to nearly unattainable Adonis-like bodies. Having always had an issue with my
body image, it was out of self-care that I focused more on health instead of
And for a long time, I scoffed at thirst traps. I called
them vapid, cliquey, and exclusive— but I’ve changed my narrative. While some
of these guys are certainly not the nicest or most welcoming for people of my
body type, they, too, harbor the trauma that is being gay in the modern world. Specifically,
white gay men are higher on the privilege pole than most other minorities, and
they do an amazing job at masking their pain under the guise of professional
success, creating a fanciful image of their lives. Underneath all that, though,
is still the brokenness and confusion of being queer in this age. Sometimes,
Thirst Traps are posting to thwart their own insecurities; it might take them
as much courage to post a shirtless picture as it does for me, even though
their body fat is way less than mine. They might be more accepted, but it
doesn’t make it any less difficult for them.
That’s a tough pill to swallow, because it’s easy to be mad
at them for their shortcomings. It’s easy to accuse them of being pompous and egotistic,
but all that does is reflect on us for assuming that their path is trouble-free.
What’s even more difficult is to embrace and love your body the way it is,
exactly in this moment no questions asked, unconditionally. Society tells us
otherwise, because there’s always something we could do to improve ourselves.
In the grand scheme of things, of course there is— but it’s not at all urgent.
At the end of the day, the infighting amongst our queer family
over who looks better is petty at best. I call on our community to put down our
arms and find a bit more compassion— mostly because our battles are not
suited with each other, but against the onslaught of disparities of our QPOC (Queer
Person of Color) family members and trans* family. If we could get past the fat
shaming and build each other up, we would be poised to use our privilege for the
entire breadth of the queer community.
In that moment where I saw myself in the window, it didn’t
fix the years of stress and stigma I’ve put on myself. I don’t even necessarily
feel that great about myself today; this is not a linear journey, and there are
certainly ups and downs. But it was a glimpse of what I have found to be
capable in myself— satisfied and comfortable in my own skin.
“Alright, yogis. It’s out there. Now, let’s do the work.”
My first yoga instructor, Megan, says this after we set our
intentions for our class, and it’s fitting to highlight this profound statement
as I get ready to start my Yoga Teacher Training in a few days.
I might’ve made resolutions in the past, but I’m being
softer in my aggression to get them accomplished this time around. To me, resolutions
are different than goals. These are more or less intentions, seeds planted that
may or may not grow into something else.
I have a peculiar sense that 2019, despite whatever political
firestorm may erupt, will be an intense year for me. I generally don’t like odd
numbers, so I’m skeptical at best. But I’ll give it a shot.
In no particular order, here are my resolutions:
my relationship with food. This isn’t a diet. I’m not going all out keto or
vegetarian or paleo or any sort of strict, scripted dietary fad. For me, it’s
not sustainable. I almost always break that commitment after a week or two. In
this process of reevaluation, I’m looking into why, when, where, what, and how
I eat— because I know I don’t eat for fuel. Whether it’s emotional or boredom (or
true sport!), the combination thereof is not healthy for me. This, in turn,
will also help me look at my body image through a better lens.
the occasion and not to excess. A few months ago, I went stone cold sober,
omitting alcohol and maintaining a healthy social life. When I did this, one of
my friends said, “WHY, what happened?” Nothing happened in particular, but I
knew I was hitting the sauce harder than I should have. When I came back to
drinking again, I realized that I enjoyed
not drinking heavily— and my friends were very supportive of the change. Now, a
glass of wine at a celebratory dinner or a fancy cocktail for a wedding will
social media interactions. This one is huge, since a large part of my
social life with my job is online. I’m not always in the same town as my
friends, and keeping up with family is so much easier when it’s on the
internet. But in a sense, it cheapens the experience when I scroll, scroll,
scroll endlessly— and I haven’t accomplished a damn thing. I don’t exactly know
what this looks like yet, but I will likely delete Facebook from my phone and
only access it on my laptop, once a day (if that).
online “dating” apps. It’s time. They didn’t serve their purpose, but the proverbial
horse has been ground into a pulp. Bless its heart. Grindr, Scruff, and Tinder
are so last year.
serious about career advancement. I’ve enjoyed my journey of being a First
Officer, and I could’ve taken an upgrade to captain awhile ago. But life didn’t
dictate that for me, and I was unwilling to compromise my quality of life. That
joyride is over, and it’s time to start getting my ducks in a row if I want to
go anywhere in this industry.
2018’s mantra was “Reclaiming my time!” à la Maxine Waters.
I don’t think I accomplished it, because I sure as hell wasted a lot of it. But
what I discovered is that it’s ok if I waste my OWN time— I can hold myself
accountable for my actions and act accordingly. What I cannot stand, though, is
when others waste my time. I had my time wasted in a romantic way, and that won’t
happen again. Thank you, next. And that’s all the energy I’d like to give to
2019’s mantra is “Do the work.” I am, admittedly, lazy. But
it’s time to get it moving and flowing and shaking! Starting off the year with
Yoga Teacher Training will surely set the mood and change me forever. I’m
excited and terrified for this endeavor, because there is nothing more
tantalizing and awesome than a dream coming true.
Tangentially, it is simply not enough to be your talents, as you can’t possess
them— you actually have to do something with your talents for them to have
meaning. Harboring your creativity or humor, or whatever it may be, is only a
disservice to yourself. The world wants and needs your full, true identity for equilibrium
and harmony to occur. I don’t know what form my expression will take this year,
whether it’s a novel or podcast, or, hell, my own talk show. But something
performative is in store. I feel it. I need it.
Now that I’ve written it, it’s out there. Let’s do the work.