On Friday, I bought a ukulele. I am officially a Manic Pixie Dream Girl. I taught myself an Amanda Palmer song, realized I could play another one because it's only two chords, and now I'm working on a Decemberists song and a Beatles song. I don't fuck around. My fingertips are very, very mad at me.
And yes, I failed at my NaNoWriMo write every day challenge. Friday, I picked up my ukulele and played for about four hours straight to learn the Amanda Palmer song. I should've cleaned or written, but it was time well-spent as Saturday my winery had its annual blending party, and one of my gentleman friends came down and joined me from about 3PM Saturday to 3:30PM Sunday. We spent a solid 24 hours together and it was beyond lovely. But my boss had me play the ukulele for everyone last night. I did fuck it up a couple of times, but I recovered well, I think. According to the gentleman, "You're a star. Everyone here is in love with you. You were amazing." I can live with that.
I didn't sleep very well last night, though. It was the first time my own personal bed has been shared here in California, and I couldn't sleep. I must have for at least a little bit, but it felt like I was awake all night. I'm not mad; again, very (very very very very very) worth it. Consequently, I am quite sleepy. But I want to be awesome at ukulele, and therefore, I must practice. Also it's not even 6PM here; I can't go to bed quite yet. Make no mistake, though, if I'm not passed out by like 9:30 or 10 tonight, I will be shocked. My fingertips are pulsing and it hurts to type, but it also hurts to play, and I'm behind on my writing. My apologies. I've been out living my life! Shocking!
I pulled an old Moleskine calendar that I use as a notebook off my shelf to write down lyrics and chords in a easy way for me to memorize and practice the songs. I found a piece of writing from, oh geeze, a few years ago now. I forgot, before I blogged, whenever I had a need to emotionally vomit, I grabbed whatever was nearby and just wrote, stream of conscious, until I felt better. I'm sure I have hidden gems in tons of notebooks that have been thrown out or are wasting away in storage. This, though, seemed particularly relevant to me right now, however.
"So do we ever really evolve from our 8th grade selves? I feel like I'm pretty much that same girl. A taller, bustier, slightly more secure girl, but not some drastically different person. I've experienced and grown, of course, that's what happens in life. But I'm fundamentally the same. Back then I was awkward and bullied but I managed to keep myself together and have a small group of friends. I've always been a combination of introvert and extrovert [now we call that an 'ambivert,' apparently], just as happy to be at home reading as I am to be on a stage performing. I still have migraines and an uncontrollable period. I still worry about things that are far beyond my control and understanding. My handwriting is still the same. I still love the Beatles. My mom still bothers me, but I still love her. Chocolate is still my favorite food. I'll always worry about if I'm pretty enough and how the outside world views me. I'm still not happy with the shape of my body. Back then I would've killed for boobs: huge, enormous ones you couldn't help but see. And I got them, and they are not even close to the blessing I thought they would be. I hated my lack of curves and now my desperately-wish-for figure seems like too much. I still feel like that little girl, but I'm no longer little. It happened so suddenly and I still don't feel like they're really mine. I'm waiting for the day I wake up and I'm 4'10" and late for school.
I still have to get up early during the week and go to a place I don't want to be for most of the day. I still don't have any money and I don't know who or what I want to be. There's still gossip and cattiness and girl fights and boys who ogle you and say rude, inappropriate things as you pass. There are those moments when you say the completely wrong thing. You let people down. People let you down. This is all pretty obvious to me, at least. It is also possible that I'm more mature than my age, which I've been told before. But then I feel like I am very immature, which makes me uneasy if I really am more mature than most people in my age group. Fuck. Middle school was hell. Being in your 20s is hell. Hell is other people. Hell is that voice in your head that speaks from a place of pure negativity and self-doubt."
That last line, tho. (I do want to talk about the rest of it, but right now, I'm so tired, it's just not going to happen. Stop trying to make it happen.) Hell is your own inner critic. It's that weird voice that tells you, yeah, sure, things are great NOW...but what about two months from now? Where will you be then, huh? How are you going to fuck everything up? You just had a great weekend, now reflect on every single little thing, overanalyze it, blow it out of proportion, and worry for no goddamn reason about where you'll be in three months, or next year. Watch that video of you playing ukulele and fixate on how fat you think you look, not the fact that you learned and played a song on a band new instrument with about 4 hours of practice and then performed it for 40 people. Or the fact that you had a lot of sex this weekend, so clearly your body does not turn anyone on and is repulsive. Obviously. Just awful. Life is so tough; you are surrounded by people who love you and support you so clearly you need to focus on everything that could possibly go wrong and how it's all your fault when it all will (oh it will). Why does this voice exist? Why do some of us have this voice so strongly and need to battle it at the most inopportune moments? Sigh. Nicole: things are great. Quit worrying and focusing on all of the bad things. Be grateful and enjoy the moments you are living. That's what you did all weekend until now, where you're being plaintive and self-critical for no reason. Calm the fuck down. Eat some food, play some ukulele, go to sleep early. Dream about the wonderful parts of your life (and there are many). I am, really, a very lucky lady.