Late AF

I’m late. 

I got stuck. 

I was supposed to be further along, especially in my career. I was supposed to know what I wanted to do. 

But I was stuck. It made me late. 

I feel like I missed out. I feel I haven’t met my worth yet. Maybe I’m one of those people who it’s supposed to happen later for, like other great writers. 

Maybe it isn’t my time yet. 

But I think I’m late. I think I haven’t met some expectations of what I’m supposed to amount to. 

I mean, sure…

I’m a mom. Have two amazing kids. On time, check.

I’m a wife. Have an amazing husband who loves and supports me. On time, check. 

I’m a little late to the friend game, too, though. I feel like I got held back. I didn’t develop good relationships early because I was still attached. I was stuck. Trapped. And I didn’t know it. How could I figure out who I was, what kind of friend I could be if I continued to take the easiest course? I wasn’t seen for so long. I was crushed. Stuck. Suffocating. And I didn’t know it. I thought I was someone else. I felt for someone else. Someone else’s feelings became mine. 

How could I ever be me, feel my own feelings, thoughts, and opinions, if mine were trapped under the weight of someone else’s? 

Maybe I didn’t want to feel them, so it was easier to stay stuck. Maybe I wasn’t ready to face them. But why did it take me so long? Why doesn’t it take other people so long? Why do I compare? 

I’m late to that true self game. I didn’t know how I felt about anything without some else telling how they felt. I could only feel through someone else’s feelings. It’s held me back from having a dream of my own. I had no ambition. I’m still working on it. 

I want to have it. I want to want something so bad that whatever gets thrown my way I push it off and keep going. 

I don’t want my fears and failures to make me later than I already am. I might not have more time. What if I have very little left? 

I’m late to the boundaries game. I let people walk all over my boundaries. Mostly because I didn’t even know what they were. I’m a boundaries baby. But I’m really proud of the work I’ve done to become a boundaries teenager the past few years. 

I’m proud of the work I’ve done in the past few years to catch up in the friend game. I’ve had some wrong turns, but I’m still discovering myself and what I’m okay and not okay with when it comes to friends. Boundaries are helping me discover where my no’s are, and where my yes’s are. I’m still figuring it out. I wish I was less late in this area. I wish it were easier now, but I’m enjoying the process, even the hard parts. I’m learning. Just… late. 

Whats up with this last part? The career part? Why do I keep holding myself back? I know what to do. Just do it. Right? But I’ve stopped. How do I get back in? How do I write again? How do I find my voice when it gets hard? When I get bored? When life pulls me away? When everything else seems like it needs my attention? How do I get the discipline? I just do it? I just choose? Why am I late to this? What makes it so hard, when I’m able to catch up on all the other stuff? Does maybe just the other stuff need to come first? Or is that just wishful excuses? :) 

I want to be worth more. I am worthy, and full of worth, for sure. But I want to be more. I want to be proud of more hard work. Work that other people can’t do. Something worth being known for. I want to be seen. I want my work to be praised and enjoyed and loved and cherished. 

I want to write something that keeps people up at night. I want to write something that pulls at their heart strings, that teaches them things about themselves and about others. That makes them laugh out loud and forget about the things in their lives that are hard. A small reprieve from the tough stuff. I want to pull people into a new world, one that they want to live their every day lives in. I want it to be bright and colorful. And dark sometimes. 

I want to write something that makes my family proud, especially my husband and girls. I want them to have have my work as a piece of me when I’m gone. I want to share a part of my mind with them. I want to share my love of different worlds and ideas and possibilities with the world. I want to teach people that isn’t only one solution to their problems. That they have choices. And opportunities and possibilities. 

And then I want my stories to be turned into a movie or TV show. I want to travel around the world and talk about writing and reading. I want to be asked about my book and how I did it. How I managed to get through the tough parts and keep going when I wanted to quit. I want to inspire other little girls to write beautiful stories, ugly stories, scary stories, and boring stories. I want to help people and I want to do it through my writing. 

I want to write characters that jump out of the page and sit with you in your living room. The kind of characters that make you feel like you’ve known them forever. You an predict what they’ll do next because even though they’ve grown, you still feel like you know them and have been with them through it till the end. You’ve grown with them. You know them like you know yourself and even see small pieces of them in yourself. 

I don’t want to be late. I want to be on time. I want to do everything right now, and not yesterday. I don’t want to constantly think about what happened or where I went wrong. I want my husband to brag about my accomplishments the way I brag about his. He supports me the same way I support him, but I don’t use it like I could. I want to take the adult path, and not the scared, insecure child path who starts things and doesn’t finish them. I want to finish! I want to have a freakin book that I can be proud of! I want to stare at it on my dresser at night, and cry every time I look at it like the i mom so hard girls. I want to sob when it comes in the mail. I want to lost my shit when I type THE END. I want to cry every time someone asks me about it, or tells me how proud they are of me, of how much they like or hate the book, the way I cry when I eat something as delightful as sushi. 

I want to not be late with my adult focus. I want to have the self control and discipline to accomplish the things that I’ve listed. I want kill it. I want to just freakin slay and get this thing done! I want to do the hard work and stick to it. I don’t want to be that author that wrote amazing work and then just sat on it instead of finishing it. 

I want to write a novel before it’s too late. 

I won’t be late. I will do it now. 

I will write everyday for an hour. I will change my mind, I will change the story. I will work on the plot. I will ask people questions. I will ask for input. I will email my favorite authors and ask for advice and tell them how much I love their work. I will reach out for support and continue to write like my life depends on it. I will finish my book this year. I will bang it the fuck out and then work with an editor on it. I will get my feelings hurt, I will think it’s perfect when it’s definitely fucking not. I will cry when it’s hard to read the constructive criticism. But I won’t quit. I’ll keep going. I’m going to finish this thing. 

I have no fucking plans, no upcoming trips, I’m just going to say no and get it done. 

I will be determined and unrelenting. 

I will ask my friends to hold me accountable. 

I will post reminders on my wall.

I will dig deep and remind myself every night WHAT I WANT. I have boundaries now and my boundaries mean that I have NEEDS AND WANTS and I deserve to work on the things that I WANT. Not what everyone else wants or expects. I owe it to myself to follow MY MOTHER FUCKING DREAM of writing a book. A KICK ASS STORY that reminds me of myself and makes  my kids proud. 

It will be hilarious. It will be full of mistakes. It will have a love story. Maybe just about how the girl learns to love herself. And others. And maybe it will be about boundaries. Or maybe she’ll learn that later when she gets older. I hate when they have kids. :) 

I will say no to whatever keeps me from writing. 

I will clean less. 

I will be okay that the house is a mess. 

I will work hard and do what I say I am going to because of my self boundaries. 

I will kill it. 

I will cry.

I will cry tears of joy at THE END.

I will then eat sushi. 

I refuse to be too late. 

One Hour

With an hour, I can do anything. Instead of writing, I could be exercising. Working on my body till it glistens with sweat and shines like the sea on a sunny day. My muscles will be swollen with work and blood and tears and frustration. My skin will be sticky, and hot, but cold to the touch. After many hours of this kind of work, I could look like a Greek God or a Roman Soldier. My arms and legs would be defined with shadows and hills that lead the eye up and down. I would feel proud of all the work, as long as I kept at it. 

With an hour, I can do anything. Instead of writing, I could clean my bedroom, top to bottom. My bed would be wrinkle-less, begging to be jumped on, splayed out on, or cozied up to read on. My drawers would be organized and every thing would have it’s place, so that not a minute would go by that I’d spend searching for a hair tie or favorite pair of socks. My closet would represent how I feel on the inside: uncluttered, taken care of, and full of thought. 

With an hour, I can do whatever I want. Instead of writing, I could be reading. I could sit in my favorite settee in the kitchen, a steaming mug of tea next to me and a book open on my Kindle App. I would be lost in a fantasy world, trudging through forests and fighting monsters with all the strength I had. I’d be discovering my magical powers and what royal throne I would eventually inherit. I’d only come up to breath when I needed to eat. 

With an hour, I can go wherever. Instead of writing, I could be shopping. I could be hunting and gathering, finding mini pancakes for my oldest’s favorite breakfast, or a birthday present for a friend’s party this weekend. I could search aisles for the perfect skirt to go with my favorite black sweater, figure out which large earrings match my most recent mood, or what purse goes better with the season than the one I am currently using. I could find the right poster board for school projects, or the right light bulbs for each lamp in the house. I could get new soap, toilet paper, dishwasher pods, sponges, and batteries to fill my home. 

With an hour, I can watch. Instead of writing, I could be catching up on movies or TV shows. I could lounge on the couch or my bed, staring for hours at beautiful places and people. I could soak up fast paced story lines, be surprised by twists, and shocked with dialogue. I could simply be entertained and enjoy time without needy thoughts. 

With an hour, I can listen. Instead of writing, I could tune out the world and put on my air pods. Music keeps my mood going, while podcasts make me feel less alone. But the books. Books would take me away from whatever task I was doing and pull me into a better one. I would hear the voice of a comedian who looked at the world with a sense of humor instead of complaints. I would hear the stories of people, learn out their life, and be in it with them. 

With an hour, I can be still. Instead of writing, I could lay out in the sun. I’d let the warmth of it’s ray wash over my skin, baking it an eventual brown. My eyelids would turn red while my nose turned pink. The breeze would cool the sweat dripping down my neck and back, feeling like a nudge of awareness from the earth. I’d swat at bugs, the real and imagined, and contemplate all the other things I should be doing instead of lying there, doing absolutely nothing, and loving it. 

With an hour, I can converse. Instead of writing, I could be talking. Sharing my activities, feelings, thoughts, suggestions, and advice with friends on Marco Polo. Catching up with family on the phone, sharing what shenanigans our kids have been into lately. Making important flu shot and dentist appointments. Making sure the car will be inspected and cleaned and aligned, and that they’ll give me a loaner, and that it will be covered. Making reservations at new dinner spots to try with friends. I could be resolving conflicts, lending an ear, or venting. 

With an hour, I can make. Instead of writing, I could be trying out a new recipe, hopefully one that gives me confidence in the kitchen, the kind of confidence that doesn’t leave and keeps me wanting to do more and not give up or acknowledge my lack of cooking talent or passion. I could be making a new scarf, or cute home decoration, or necklace for the girls, or card for a friend. 

With an hour, I can rearrange, instead of writing, I could rearrange my house so I enjoy being in it more. My living would be cozier with fuzzy blankets and furry pillows. My kitchen would be inviting with the lastest seasons’ decorations: flying bats, Santa cookie jars, or bright yellow pineapples. I could move the furniture by myself, and make the whole room feel like a different place. 

With an hour, I could move. Instead of writing, I could run errands. I could pick up my prescriptions, drop off my dry cleaning, and make it to the post office before it closed. I could grab new bathroom shades from home depot, a new coffee pot from Walmart, and pick up some cold medicine for the husband on the way. I could stop at the tire store and get my tires filled, grab some coffee and gas, and then hit up LA Fitness for a smoothies. I could stop at my old gym and the massage place and cancel my contracts, I could hit up the mall for bourbon chicken or lamb over rice, or a new bra. 

With an hour, I can get selfish. Instead of writing, I’d be pampered. My toes would sparkle like diamonds in the sky, and my heels would be buffed like glass. My nails would be a perfectly manicured mini coffins. My eyelash would jump away from eye and swoop up to my eyebrows like birds released from their cages. My skin would glow after a soothing facial, and my muscles would be soft and supple after a relaxing, oily massage. I would be buffed, scrubbed, rubbed, plucked, and glued, and then top it all off with a soak in the hot tub. 

With an hour, I can love. Instead of writing, I could focus on my husband. Touching him, listening to him, watching his lips move. Smelling his neck and his face, the scent his clothes create with him in them. Gliding my hand down his back, and squeezing his cheek. Holding his hand, and smiling at the way his fingers fit with mine. A long hug, that makes me feel warm, and loved, needed and wanted. Eye contact that makes me feel seen and cherished. Passion and love that makes me feel like a woman and everything.

With an hour, I can play. Instead of writing, I could play with my kids. Connect Four, Legos, Barbies, or Hatchimals. School. Store. Dress up, make movies, read books, or watch a movie together. I could see the glee in their faces as I spend time in their world, and make them seen and loved and heard and known. I could hug and squeeze and kiss them. Giggle, laugh, sing, dance. 

With an hour, I can cry. Instead of writing, I could let it out. The tears of tension would pour down my cheeks, as the weight of the world rested heavily on my chest and the bridge of my nose. Feelings of worthlessness, failures, resentment, anger, frustration, and hurt would slip past my lashes and lunge for my throat. They’d coat my skin and seal it with understand and release. My head would ache for hours, and my eyes would deceive my pain for the next 24.