And this is why we can’t have nice things.

I continue to participate in the #52Essays challenge, the challenge to write an essay a week for the year. I’ve been attempting to meet that goal each year since taking on the challenge in 2017. Last year was my least successful year. And yes, I could say that was because of Covid, but that would just be an easy cover. I mean, I did write less last year than I usually do, but I still wrote quite a lot. I posted 12 essays last year — half the number I posted in 2019 — but I wrote many more essays than that. Covid was part of what kept me away from this space, but it wasn’t the main thing.

I jokingly call myself the Queen of Oversharing. It’s only sometimes true. I talk a lot, and can definitely talk too much, but I don’t always share the deep stuff, expose my tender underbelly. Except on this page. For whatever reason, I often share things here that I haven’t found a way to talk about with the people I am close with.

Most of the people who read here don’t know me in person. Some of my friends and family read here, too, however. So do a few of my coworkers. And that’s fine. And it’s also strange sometimes. Strangest of all when lines blur and someone who falls into the surprise category of “strangers I know” starts reading here, starts interacting here.

And that’s what happened last year. Someone I’ve never met but to whom I am connected started reading here, started interacting here in a way that felt judgmental and mocking. And I was trying to manage being in quarantine and found that I couldn’t also manage even a quiet confrontation — couldn’t or just didn’t want to spend the energy on turning a conversation I didn’t want to have into something that wasn’t a confrontation. Instead, I chose to leave this space dormant for the better part of the year.

Which pissed me off. And made me sad. This page is one of my preferred release valves. Shutting it down because someone I didn’t want to see walked into the room wasn’t the best self-care I’ve ever practiced. If ever I needed a proven release valve, I needed one last year.

Last night I posted about my history of not settling in the places I’ve lived, posted about the fact that I am not settled in the place I currently live. And today the name of that “stranger I know” dropped into the inbox of my work email. And I had a stomach ache for the rest of the day. I don’t know if they are still reading here. But I am annoyed to find that I am still made uncomfortable by the possibility that they are.

This space is mine. These stories are mine. That person holds no power over me, and I refuse to give them the power to silence me again. If they’re reading here, they are. If they choose to share my stories with their coworkers, that’s just what will happen. All of the ways that I am ugly and flawed here are all of the ways that I am ugly and flawed in real life. Keeping myself away from this space, not posting the pieces I’ve written expressly for this space … that’s like writing lies in my diary to protect myself against someone else reading it.

Saying all of that out loud is a good reminder to me to keep standing in my truth and holding my space and, really, to hell with anyone who chooses to mock or judge me for any of it.

And this is why I will have nice things.

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It’s the 14th annual Slice of Life Story Challenge!
Head on over to Two Writing Teachers
and see what the rest of this year’s slicers are up to!

La Impostora Has No Bedside Manner

I’m two days out from knee surgery. It’s hard to realize I had surgery Monday. That seems both like forever and five minutes ago. How am I home so soon? How am I home alone? How am I — for the most part — just fine?

My nausea is gone, which makes everything seem leagues better. And I was able to lie down to sleep, which also made today so much better than yesterday. Obviously, I am far from well, but I no longer feel as though a steamroller has just mashed me into the pavement. A clear improvement.

My friends have been trying to help me since I got home. So many people asking what I need, asking me to tell them how they can help, looking for ways to get my recovery off to a well-cared-for start. And that’s lovely. That’s what one should hope for from one’s friends … so why haven’t I taken advantage of a single offer of help?

Here is a place I was not expecting to find La Impostora. But here she is, standing between me and some quality TLC. Here she is, telling me that I don’t need anyone’s help, that I can’t ask people to help me because …

1. My house hasn’t been vacuumed.
2. It’s not as though I’m sick or anything.
3. I live too far away from everyone, and it’s not fair to expect folks to come out here just to bring me milk or clementines.
4. If I had done a better job preparing for this homestay, I wouldn’t suddenly find myself without milk and clementines.
5. Everyone is too busy to be running errands for you.

Okay, it’s true that my house hasn’t been vacuumed, that it is filled to bursting with wafting clouds of cat hair. But does that really mean I don’t deserve a little help right now? Why is it (still) so hard for me to ask for things I need, so hard for me to admit that I have needs I can’t necessarily take care of by myself right now? Why is La Impostora here telling me that, even when I’m two days out from surgery, I’m not worthy of my friends’ care?

Ugh.

She doesn’t want me to forget. I was feeling pretty pleased with myself for changing my surgeon’s mind about the procedure I needed. So of course here is my forever-nemesis to rein me in, to make sure I appreciate just how much of a crybaby I am, to remind me that, because I pushed for the more invasive operation, the struggles I’m having now are my own fault, and I have to deal with the more difficult recuperation on my own.

But … I don’t have to listen to her. I can, instead, trust my friends when they say they want to help me. I can accept their offers of help and make these first days out from surgery a little easier. And maybe, just maybe, by saying these things “out loud” on this page, it will be easier for me to actually do this tomorrow. Perhaps just for the pleasure of pissing off La Impostora.

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It’s March, so it’s the Slice of Life Story Challenge over at Two Writing Teachers! Twelve years and going stronger than ever. Click over to read a few slices, see what that eclectic group of bloggers is up to. And maybe write some slices of your own this month!

Sometimes that paper trail …

… is from a ticker tape parade!

Tuesday, I wrote about an unpleasant colleague, someone I cannot trust but with whom I have no option but to work. At the end of my workday, it was clear that I was needed to prepare for one of our ugly interactions.

So I prepared. I made a plan. I was going to go into work this morning so I’d have time to download our emails as backup for my telling of events. I was going to review the notes I’d taken in meetings to be sure I had all the necessary information I needed to feel confident of my position.

In the end, none of my preparation was necessary. The nonsense never materialized … and I have no idea why.

Okay, not entirely true. I have a suspicion of why. The late-Tuesday email that hinted at foolishness to come on Wednesday wasn’t addressed only to me. My colleague’s boss, my boss, and a couple of other senior staff were included. It was a bold move on my colleague’s part, but I think it backfired. Two of the women on that email have shown themselves to have no kind of time for that kind of mess. I’m thinking one or both of them shut the whole business down. And for this I am grateful.

Maybe this will mark a turning point in this relationship. Maybe my colleague will finally straighten up and fly right!

Hey, a girl can dream!

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It’s March, so it’s the Slice of Life Story Challenge over at Two Writing Teachers! Twelve years and going stronger than ever. Click over to read a few slices, see what that eclectic group of bloggers is up to. And maybe write some slices of your own this month!

Paper Trail

This morning I had a lengthy email exchange with someone I neither like nor trust but with whom I must work often. Because this person has shown themselves to be untrustworthy, I avoid phone calls with them whenever I can and conduct our conversations through email. I want a written record of everything we do so that when this person claims never to have said something or agreed to something or taken responsibility for something, I have the email chain as evidence.

This isn’t a way I like to work, and it’s annoying to me that I’m put in a position to have no choice but to work like this. I am grateful to have my email archive, however, and grateful to be able to come with receipts when I need them.

As I left work this afternoon, I saw an email that made it clear that I will be needing those receipts tomorrow. This is pretty fast turnaround between our initial conversation and the denial of said conversation, but sometimes that’s the way it happens. So I’ll go in a little early and download the necessary evidence and be ready for the mess when it spills into my space.

I really don’t like working like this, but that doesn’t mean I can’t. If folks want to be foolish, I’m ready for them.

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It’s March, so it’s the Slice of Life Story Challenge over at Two Writing Teachers! Twelve years and going stronger than ever. Click over to read a few slices, see what that eclectic group of bloggers is up to. And maybe write some slices of your own this month!

That moment …

So many of us have been there. At least, so many of us women have been there. You’re in your day, you’re minding your business, harming no one. And then it happens.

For me it happened in a meeting. I reached into the oddments pocket of my purse to pull out my lip balm. Instead, I discovered that my hand lotion had opened and spread itself liberally over and into all my bits of whatnot, all over my fingers.

Blech.

There’s no graceful exit from that moment. You have to pull your hand out of the bag or people will begin to notice that you’re sitting in a meeting with your hand awkwardly stuck in your bag. And when you pull your hand back into the light, it will broadcast its lotion-befouled stickiness to everyone.

The woman across from me smiled sympathetically. She had clearly had that moment and she understood. I pulled off my rings so I could de-goop them and somehow only two other people at the table seemed aware of my messy mishap.

And that is a good result, but it’s also true that I spent the rest of the meeting thinking about the mess in my purse, wondering if lotion had gotten into my business card case, wondering how easily it would be cleaned from the lining fabric, if it was in the zipper teeth of the little interior pocket. Yuck.

But my hands? Super moisturized and soft!

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It’s the annual Slice of Life Story Challenge over at Two Writing Teachers! With hundreds of folks participating, there’s more than a little something for everyone … and plenty of room for you to join in!