Katie is Juan’s wife, my only sister-in-law. She’s not Hispanic. Her Spanish is phenomenal. She’s a teacher.
I’m easily distracted. I’ll pick up my phone to look for something and realize ten minutes later, after putting it down, that I didn’t look for the item.
I’m very bad with money. I get a little bit and the compulsion to spend it is immediate and often almost overwhelming. I’m shocked I’ve managed to save any money at all.
I don’t remember what I wore yesterday, or last week, or to the last gala. When I work in an office I keep a journal documenting what I wore and when. Otherwise I run the risk of wearing the same outfit two weeks in a row. While that doesn’t bother me, it seems to matter to others.
At least 30% of the time I have to drive back to my house after leaving because I can’t remember if I closed the garage door. Usually I’ve only made it a block or so from the house, but I just can’t remember doing it. I’ve never found the garage door open when going back to check.
I have a hard time remembering faces or names. I worked with someone for 12 years and can’t tell you the names of her parents, siblings, or nieces and nephews. And she talked about them all the time. I met someone on at least six different occasions and still couldn’t recognize her the next time I saw her; once I clued in on who she was, the details of the conversation are easy to remember. This happens to me all the time.
I consider lies to be acceptable as long as they are for the greater good. Sometimes my convenience qualifies as the greater good.
Every time I do something there’s a thought in the back of my head telling me I will fail. The bigger the project or task, the louder it gets.
I am colder than you think.
When I lived alone I often realized that I had spent the entire weekend without speaking to another human being. Sometimes I realized that I hadn’t spoken out loud, at all, in those two days.
I have a mild hoarding problem. I once had a panic attack over the thought of throwing out a box of things I didn’t need. I made myself do it anyway.
I’m a horrid housekeeper. One of the main reasons I don’t have people over more often is that I’ll never get the house clean enough for company. If I truly cared, I’d clean better. I just don’t want to be judged.
I’m not comfortable with the way I look. I hate that I buy into it, but there’s always going to be a part of me that wants to look closer to the ideal of beauty.
I have three closets full of clothes. Yes, three.
I own more than a 20 shades of lipstick, and at least half of then are some variation of red. I rarely wear them, now.
I can be mean and petty. And I’m fine with it.
I obsess over big decisions.
I have weird sleeping patterns … which means I find myself writing blog posts at 4 a.m.
Image source: realworkhard / Pixabay
My “baby” brother. He’s a thirty-something who’s at least six inches taller than I am and is built like a football player. My favorite sibling, he’s like me in too many ways to count. He’s the one person who can get me to do things even when I’m exhausted and beyond being nice. He’s married and going to college right now.
“Big.” “Chunky.” “Plus-sized.” These are all words my loved ones would use to describe my appearance. Others would just call me “fat.” The medical community would use the word “obese.”
Strangers and acquaintances alike take it upon themselves to try to shame me, to make me understand the way that I’m destroying the world by insisting on being fat. There’s an entire industry (several, in fact) dedicated to trying to solve this problem for me. And I’m told every day, in many many ways, that if I just stopped being fat I would be better, happier.
Most days I manage to drown out the external and internal voices that try incessantly to let me know that I’m a failure, that every “extra” pound is one more mark against me. Most days I’m just louder than the voices, so they don’t make an impact on my day. Some days I’m not.
I want to have the courage to wear a bright red fitted dress without thinking about the muffin top or the love handles. I want to have the boldness to have my photo taken without dreading the split second where I see just how fat I am compared to the others. I want to stop seeing myself, and judging myself, through the eyes of others. I want to stop it all … now.
And I don’t mean that I want to lose weight (though I want that too). And I don’t mean that I want better clothes (though I always want new clothes). I just want to love who I am, in my current size and shape, without having to work at it.
I guess when I achieve that I’ll know I’m actually, finally, a grown up.
In the meanwhile, I’ve challenged myself to try to take more selfies … and I’ve been failing at that too. But I will get better. And I will keep trying. At some point I’ll stop dreading the photo … eventually.
It’s a running joke in my family that my sister is … well … high maintenance I think is the polite version. We’ve used other words within the family, but most of them are not suitable for the blog, so I won’t go there.
I love her. We all love her. But, she wants what she wants in the way she wants it. No deviations are permitted. No small changes are allowed. No excuses are accepted.
She picks the restaurant. She chooses the cake. She decides the time. And she has veto power over others’ choices. The rest of us have just learned to go with it. Really, it’s just easier this way.
Today I was at a store buying a gift card. I asked for a gift receipt and the cashier acted like I’d asked her to translate the card into Chinese or give me her first born or something. Can I really be the first person who has asked for a gift receipt? I always include a gift receipt, in case the recipient has problems with the card. It’s happened before, so I just make sure I include the gift receipt just in case.
Because the cashier didn’t have a clue how to give me a gift receipt, a manager was called out. And she didn’t know either. Between the two of them they couldn’t figure out how to give me a gift receipt for the gift card.
So, in the end, they decided that the only way to do this was to run a balance inquiry on the card. Which would have required that they scratch off the code in the back and pull it off the cardboard.
“Do you think they’ll mind?” the cashier asked me, wondering if the recipient would really care if she did this.
“I mind,” I responded in an exasperated tone. “Don’t do it. I’ll just risk it.” I told her after thinking about my options for a moment. “And you better hope she doesn’t have any trouble with the card.”
Two minutes later I was sitting at a table addressing the card and it hit me … I sounded liked my little sister. A lot. I think I even used her tone of voice. I never thought I’d see the day when that happened.
I’ll never tell her though.