I am going to start putting my phone down at nine o’clock, because holding my Twitter feed three inches from my face while I’m allegedly trying to sleep is decidedly not awesome.
I’m going to toss that dried up, miserable packet of baby wipes that sits on my bedside table. At night I’m going to take off my makeup with creamy cleanser and a hot cloth and breathe a long sigh as I feel the day slide from my face. I’m going to floss my damn teeth.
I’m going to get into bed and light my l’Occitane candle and delight in the fact that it is my most frivolous and favourite indulgence. I’m going to ask the boy how his day was and I’m going to actually listen when he answers. I’m going to read and write and stretch, even if it’s only wiggling my fingers.
I’m going to dust my bedside tables and deal with the piles of things that mysteriously accrue around me. I’m going to do my dishes and buy fresh flowers, because I deserve to live somewhere beautiful.
I’m going to stop pouring £20 a week into mediocre supermarket sandwiches and revive my budget spreadsheet, because clawing my way to the end of the month like Leonardo DiCaprio in the freaking Revenant just isn’t cute any more.
I’ve written a little before about the fear of taking myself seriously. Isn’t it scary, to admit that we want things, or worse, that we think we deserve things? It’s so much easier to be the quirky, ditzy, ever-so-relatable girl, than to try and become a woman to be reckoned with.
I’ve always been a bit of a calamity. Recently, I was listening to a serial killer podcast on a bus, when a woman’s elbow became entangled in my hood, yanking my coat back into my throat. I naturally assumed that Ted Bundy had risen from the grave to murder me on a central London bus. Upon sharing this story with my friend, she laughed and shook her head.
“Why does this stuff always happen to you, Fiona?” she asked.
Reader, I don’t know why this stuff always happens to me. But it does. I am unlucky in deeply unlikely but often hilarious ways. I’m the clumsiest person that I know. I snort when I laugh and have absolutely zero control over my limbs or my hair. I’m a relentless overenthusiast. I’m never going to be described as stoic or graceful or even particularly composed. None of that gives me an excuse for being a perpetual teenager. Just because I’m not serious, doesn’t mean I’m not serious, y’know?
But being serious sounds like the worst, doesn’t it? Serious women are unlikable. They’re high maintenance. They’re uptight. So we go the other way, leaning gleefully into the “hot mess” archetype that has sprung up around us. We brag on Twitter about having 17p in our bank accounts, or eating pizza for breakfast four days in a row, or showing up to work hungover for the third time this month. We watch films and TV shows where women buy clothes instead of paying their rent and show up late for everything and don’t know how to turn their ovens on. I think sometimes we make bad decisions and justify them to ourselves in the name of “self care”. And while I’m a big fan of taking joy wherever you can, this kind of stuff isn’t working for me any more. At the age of twenty six, it just isn’t cute anymore. Sometimes self care means getting off your ass and getting your shit together.
I have no intention of becoming high maintenance or uptight. I have no intention of aiming for perfection because…well, where’s the fun in that? But I also can’t justify treating myself like garbage and then expecting other people to take me seriously. So I’m getting out of my own way. I’m taking a little responsibility for my life. I’m daring to see myself as a woman who deserves better than the bare minimum. I’m going to make a real effort to live with purpose, with determination and with as much grace as a calamity like me can reasonably aim for.