I woke up with a mean case of The Sads today. It’s raining, my dog won’t cuddle with me for more than ten minutes and I already deep cleaned my whole place so you get to enjoy today’s episode of woah-is-me, brought to you by Sunday Scaries and the post-holiday season gloom. Because I’ve promised to always be honest with you, you should know I’ve barely left my couch all day and there’s melted chocolate on my borrowed shirt- it’s important for you to understand the extent of the hot messiness as I write this blog post. You should also know there are currently twelve bottles of very nice wine in my apartment and I’m not going to open a single one today because we’re practicing being less of a functioning alcoholic, aren’t we (she reminds herself in third person).

I caught up with my sister on the phone last night for the first time in a while, since I haven’t seen my family since late Summer. It finally hit me how sad I’ve been that I never made it home for the holidays this year. For a handful of reasons, my family has always done Christmas gift opening on New Years Day and my sister reminded me we’ve never not made it home in time for our cozy little “Christmas” morning. I’ve boarded red-eye flights straight from New Years Eve in Times Square to make it home in time. One way or another, I’ve always been there. Not being there this year feels like part of the snowball of sads I’ve playdoughed together and ultimately, it feels like getting older. Of course, a global pandemic got in the way of the usual traditions this year but being forced into my own new traditions and alternate celebrations feels like an uncomfortable forward motion that I didn’t realize I was resisting until this morning. 

My birthday is in a week. I’ve cried about wanting to skip the whole thing twice today in my toddler-level annoying meltdown. Since I’m really trying to not open wine or resort to the stash of edibles in the back of my pantry, I meditated and my brain formed this stoney image of taking a literal trip around the sun. Back when we used to actually travel, although seasoned and with gold airline status, I was always that person with a 49.2 lb bag. Well, I hope I’ll travel a bit lighter this year.

The heavy things from this last year that need to go- people pleasing, control over the uncontrollable and the pressures I put on myself about things I don’t actually care about. People pleasing is the disease I got from a lineup of men who taught me I had to do this and that, bordering the fine line between centerfold and a mother. I still fight myself so hard on trying to control what I can’t. Right now, I’m up to my eyeballs in stress over where I’ll move to in a couple of months, when Leo will get his balls removed (poor guy), when I’ll make it home to finally hug mom and dad, how I’ll manage a small business and stay good at the job that pays my rent, and how will I not become an actual alcoholic in the process while staying thin and energized and perky and loving and cue the robotic explosion noise. EXHALE. I have to remind myself I’ll figure it all out how I always have- one thing at a time. And that pressure I put on myself to do it all perfectly- that annoyance can kindly shut the fuck up too. All of that is extremely heavy and must be unpacked. When the gravity of all that heaviness hits, it comically knocks you down and you have to talk to it for a bit and then ask it to go away. 

As for what I’m taking with me into this next trip around the sun- I want more fun. I want to age backwards, but with the money I didn’t have in my twenties. I’ve been hungover and foggy for the better part of the last 48 hours and this probably shouldn’t become a regular habit but I want to reward myself for how hard I work and play a little harder. I want to indulge in the occasional pixie stick, take the shot I probably shouldn’t take, get a little loud and tell everyone how much I love them. Not that I need to become an embarrassing shit show in order to follow this age-backwards plan, but my point being, this year, I’ll play more, as much as play can happen in a pandemic. I switched jobs, moved apartments, started a small business, got a puppy and barely cried through it all, I get a pass this year. 2021 doesn’t have to be “my year” and let’s skip the resolutions bologna. But I want there to be a lightness from putting down the heavy stuff and enjoying myself like I’ve never granted myself permission to before (safely and responsibly, of course).

A week from today, I hope I’ll squeeze my New York family extra tight, enjoy some wine and a home cooked meal from the punk I’m kinda sweet on, wear the good boob shirts and maybe reacquaint myself with this worthwhile hangover. Thirties, flirty, thriving, but with twenty-something energy and the ass of a gymnast.