Delicate Flowers

I’ve been holding out on you guys. You thought I was a professional, thirty-mumble-year-old copyeditor and writer trying to get through her day. In fact, I am ten years old.

I’ve been working on an essay about Scary Things to Talk About since January. It has gone through many iterations, and most days it makes me want to curl up on my bed with the teddy bear dog.

You know how you’re told to write about the things you’re not supposed to talk about? You know how you’re supposed to write directly about your fears? I’ve nodded along with this advice for years. But it turns out this doesn’t mean I should write about spiders or my fear of heights. It means I have to write about things that scare me for reasons I don’t really understand. I have to figure out why they scare me, and write them down.

Today is the day I’m going to send that essay out into the world. I was looking for work clothes and then turned to DP, and said, “I’m not sure I can figure out what to wear to work AND submit the essay.” DP is a nice enough man that he didn’t call me out on being the fragilest flower in the world.

“I think I’m going to put on my favorite pjs, submit, and then get dressed for work.”

“Mm-hm,” he said.

And sitting here in my favorite star pajamas, I feel ten years old. I’m relying on a modicum of physical comfort to deal with something that is emotionally difficult. And it’s all so fucking petty, but it is my life.

There are days when I understand why toddlers have meltdowns over tiny shifts in their physical lives. I think we all have similar impulses, just a hell of a lot more self-control and experience to put it all in perspective.

C’mon, make me feel better about my current delicate flower status. What stupid childish things do you do?

Advertisements

6 responses to “Delicate Flowers

  1. I have lucky underpants.

    And I’m currently sleeping with a stuffed pig. With wings. He wasn’t even left behind the last time my younger kid napped on my bed. He’s mine.

  2. I posted something last week that I’ve never told another living soul. I freaked out and took it down about an hour later, but an interesting thing happened. Not a single friend who would know these men, and who knew me when it happened, and who get my blog feed, asked what happened or who did it. Now I’m a lot less freaked out and a lot more pissed off.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s