There are times when the situations we find ourselves in are too great to imagine being in control of. It’s easier to make ourselves the victim of our choices. Let’s explore full ownership! It’ll be fun.
That time you got arrested for breaking the law? Own it. You did it. You got caught. You didn’t get locked up. You didn’t end up in jail. Your choices put you where you were meant to be. Take ownership of the circumstances you created.
That time your bold faced lie got you ostracized? That was a choice you made. Your friends turned their backs because you weren’t being authentic. They trust you with their honesty and you don’t feel they deserve yours. Own it.
Always running late? Things happen. Sometimes better planning would be the only fix you need. Other times you need to acknowledge you made a commitment that wasn’t in your interest and rather than stand on a firm “NO,” you chose to say yes. Being late is saying, “Screw you, my time means more than yours does.” Personally, I tend to give myself so much extra time that I think I have time to squeeze in a quick stop, rather than taking the moment alone to shake off the drive or other things in my life that won’t allow me to be present and engaged. This is my problem. I own it.
How do you present yourself?
You want feedback? You want to know if people want to be around you? Look around. Are they reaching out to you? Are you reaching out to them? Have you only made time for the hurricane that is your life and drama? Did you ignore the last seven life lines tossed your way? Own it.
Every so often a friend will ask Facebook a question of “what should I do?” They have two or more choices and don’t know which to take. They go back and forth, laying out the best and worst case scenarios. I often tell them to do what they want. They know what they want and they’re asking for approval because they need someone to make them feel better about their choice. I won’t face the consequences or receive the benefits of that choice. A Facebook based conversation means we’re just not that close. I like you enough to spy on you, but if I’m not texting you or asking if I can call because I’m driving, I’ve given space, and while I’m open to closing that gap, I usually don’t. (My bruised bits in this area are healing.) Own your decision. I can support your choice, but I won’t support you living in fear of your life. I won’t do it anymore and I wouldn’t want my friends to. Own it.
Someone tells me I’m beautiful. I get stopped and told I have a great smile by passing strangers (male and female) on a regular basis. I’ve had people smile from their cars and hope I’d be willing to pull over. I’ve pulled over more than once. I’m a romantic, and one day it might be worth my time. Other times I pretend I don’t see him and keep jamming to whatever song I’m singing to myself (way too loudly). I own it, but it’s never something that gets my attention. I always hope to talk to someone and hear that I’m smart too. I want to hear that I’m intense and it isn’t a bad thing. I want to hear that I’m warm and loving, even if a bit snarky at times. I accept beautiful and when it becomes purely sexual, I offer my hard pass with a smile. I own it because I’ve grown numb to what it means to someone else. I’m fully aware of what I look like and for the most part, I love what I feel, but more than that, I love what my body is capable of. I own my looks that were a gift from my parents and have nothing to do with anything I can control.
People will call babies cute because they’re little. Babies are cute and precious, even if they look like they’ve been beat up by a uterus for a day and are still covered in bodily fluids and reek of a vagina that’s been flexing and stretching all day. Cute kid, let me hold it because it’s pure and I want some of that purity in my arms. I want that tiny bit of person that you have had all to yourself with the stretch marks, heartburn, tingling legs, and stress incontinence. I want to see what has given you a close and personal relationship with every bathroom you’ve met throughout a pregnant lady day. I want to bond with a child I will only see on occasions and certainly not for that feeding every 2-3 hours or the fever that has you freaked out because it won’t break, and I get to remember what it was like before teenagers started acting like they hate me sometimes.
People will lie about beauty, but not if they aren’t expecting anything in return. I’m not asking you out. I’m not trying to see if you’ll let me touch your butt on the dance floor. No cost is coming. You are beautiful. Own that shit.
Last night, the founder of the leadership courses I’ve been taking singled me out as a good writer. She pointed at me and gave me a solid compliment in a room full of people that had her full attention. There was no escape, and I kinda wanted to. Blogging is free therapy. It’s been a place to escape the confines I’ve been keeping all around me for longer than I can comprehend. Each word destroys the chrysalis I never knew was holding me in. It’s where I talk about dating or not dating or dating myself because I do that spectacularly. I explore motherhood while trying to not make this about my boys because how fair is that to them? I’m not them. I try my best to not just bash my ex, no matter how easy he might want to make it. I’m so thankful to the open ears that listened through yesterday’s drama and the place I’m in that makes it no longer necessary to protect him or seek vengeance. I spend way too much time alone at the beach (which sounds really good for tonight) and it’s silly to me. Living out my days and looking for joy is fun, and writing about it is healing, but it’s not serious. I have a vague idea of what real writing is and I can’t see that I’m there. She singled me out and my blog stats tell me otherwise. I am so interested in all she’s going to be teaching me and I trust her. I have to trust that she likes the way I string words together. The email followers, the Facebook hits, the searches that land people here . . . I need to own that even if it does require chocolate.