Eat Up, Girl

I was stress eating last night, which is far better than stress drinking because you wake up without a hangover though you hate yourself a little more than if you had been drinking.  I ate Blue Bell, then I finished off a King Cake I had from the football party.  It was satisfyingly delicious and appeased my need for emotional eating.  I follow the Keto diet mostly, but I do have moments of cheating.  Sometimes these moments stretch into days.  But who's counting.

Every time I eat something I shouldn't, this chorus of voices starts singing loudly that I am weak.  I stuff their mouths with a sandwich and continue consuming my erroneous food choice.

The beauty about being mentally healthy...perhaps as mentally healthy as I will ever be ... is that I no longer allow the thought that I failed in my consumption of large amounts of calories to travel to my self-esteem where it used to make itself at home.  And fix another damn sandwich.  This time, the failure extends only so far as my stomach...that is protruding a little further than it should.  And homegirl moves on.  Because I burn at least 1500 calories a day cleaning houses for a living and I can afford to cheat a little.

I am smugly satisfied at the changes in my perception of myself and the world.  I love myself more.  I can recognize when others aren't loving me and am able to move the heck on.  I respect myself more and can recognize disrespect in others...and move the heck on.  I tolerate much less.  I allow few opinions to seep into my psyche.  I am focused and driven.  I accept that I will have bad days...and move the heck on.  (I would really like to say "move the the f#$% on", but I'm a Southern woman and that is not appropriate vocabulary.  But it is secretly one of my favorite words...forgive me, tiny baby Jesus.)

My dad said to me when I was having a wallow-kind-of-day and in a state of upset while on the phone with him, "honey, let's just move on."  I was a little miffed at his words.  I felt like a ten minute griping session was not even close to satisfying my need to gripe.  But I accepted his lament and moved the heck (or f!**) on.  Later that night, my son was having a total meltdown about not getting a toy at the toy store in the mall.  I found myself repeating my dad's words when I felt he had cried enough tears over the subject, though I said it not as nicely as my dad, "baby, you got to move on!"  (I may have said it shrilly and with much exasperation.  Homegirl is not as smugly satisfied about her patience with her children.)  My son did not obey as well as his mother did when told this by a parent, for the record.  I do act like an obedient adult on occasion and do as I'm told.  But that is more than likely restricted only to instructions by my father.

What is perhaps the most amazing thing about growth is that the healthier you become, the closer you become to the person you were CREATED to be.  God is amazing like that.  He is the epitome of goodness.  He is the epitome of mental health.  He knows that we are better people, more able to love and accept love, when we are the fullness of who we were meant to be.  He knows because He designed us that way.  He is not a champion of weakness or self-hate.  He is the defender of weakness and the abolisher of self-hate.  He is the protector of all things good.  He is the author of self-love and mental health.  None of this is new to Him.  None of this is surprising to Him.  Humans have always hated themselves.  Humans have always left on the table what they should have been consuming in large portions... self-love.  That is the one thing that won't make your stomach protrude or leave you hating yourself a little the next morning.  So eat up, girl.

Slightly Bitter, Single Woman

A few days ago I was scrolling through my favorite app...the Bumble app.  (For all of you who are ignorant about online dating, this is a dating app.)

Insert sarcastic chuckle.

I was having a particularly lonely day and this is the app where single people go when they are lonely.  It is hopeful with its yellow colors and cheerful bee allusions.  It seduces you into believing this is where you will find your hive...and become a Queen.

Its yellow mirage is sneaky.

My favorite profiles go something like this:

"You can find me in the gym or on my boat.  Love traveling, snowboarding, fishing, running, biking, and reading.  I have my s**t together and you should too.  No drama. Am very fit and healthy.  If you do not have your sh#t together, swipe left."

Swiping left = move on, Linda

What exactly does "I have my sh#t together" mean?  You own a house?  A car?  You're gainfully employed?  You invest?  You vote?   Go to church?  Have lots of friends?  Have a great credit score? You wear chinos and dress appropriately at all times?  You go to the gym daily? You floss daily?  Have a money clip?  Wear slippers around the house because you don't want to bring in dirt from the outside?  You properly groom yourself?

Fill a sister in.

In this post-divorce/40ish dating world, the bar is high.  It requires you to have hobbies, a rocking body, an above average IQ, a large bank account, a high credit score, an oversized house, an even temper, be eternally tan, nails always done, clothes always ironed, independent without the slightest need for a man, know how to fish, be ready to camp on a moment's notice, have time to invest in someone whose ego is supremely inflated, properly conduct yourself via text and Snapchat, be anxious to receive and send nude pictures, have little expectation for any kind of intentional dating, and be OK with "Netflix and chill"on a Friday night... AKA..."I'm not spending any money on getting to know you because I will not tolerate anything that requires me to put in any effort." It's a world of filters and fronts where narcissism runs rampant.

Their bar is high, but yours better not be.

Hi, my name is Rebekah and I'm a slightly bitter, single woman.

OK, maybe more than slightly.  I might have crossed that line and arrived fully with everything but a toe on the other side.  My pinky toe.  The most insignificant part of my body is still hanging on, determined to gain super human strength to maneuver my body back to the yellow, hopeful side.

(On a side note, I must give a shout out to the men that I KNOW do not fit in this category.  Keep fighting the good fight, fellas.)

I went to Trader Joe's yesterday and came home with two very inexpensive bottles of wine and a bouquet of lavender roses.  If there was ever a day that called for an indulgent flowers purchase, it was yesterday.  I was emotionally exhausted from legal stresses and needed a pick me up.  I spent $16 on the whole lot and left feeling like an Independent Woman BADASS.  It was money well spent.

Being hopeful as a single woman in her 40s is a dangerous business.  I have found the best approach to maintain your Independent Woman Badass status is Trader Joe's, wine,  and flowers.  And erasing all yellow, hopeful apps that seduce you into believing you will find your hive and be a Queen.