5 Unrealistic Promises I Keep Making to Myself
The inner jerk in me keeps bribing myself with peach flavored lollipops, luring me in and convincing me that I can keep up with these overzealous, wide sweeping reoccurring promises of mine. BWAHAHA. So not happening.
Warning: This post is littered and laced with all types of grammatical errors. I’m learning to UN-filter myself. It’s gotta start somewhere.
1. Be more outgoing.
F*ck it. I’m shy. There it is. I keep lying to myself year after year after year, and enabling you all to lie to me too, about me one day hinge-kicking out of my shell and becoming this loud, exuberant ball of energy. Even on my most inebriated of days, this isn't the case, and we all know how far liquid courage can go. I need to get real so that I can get some real results from some practical solutions. Which pretty much means hang around with more outgoing people and live vicariously through them. I’m sure it works just as well at baiting adventure.
Lol. Big LOL. Due to bullet point numero uno, this little internal resolution I faithfully revisit every 12 months falls flat every time. It isn't exactly the easiest thing in the world to spot Mr. Hot Damn from half way across the room, flash a smile and crook my finger summoning him this way (a la Demetria Lucas bka A Belle in Brooklyn bka my Shero). I’m used to more “organic” situations. Mutual friends and casual conversation. But how often does one such earthly and natural acquaintanceship occur? I’m more likely to have to slip some half-interested dude my number right after some edge-less madam busts it open for him in the club. (No shade if this is your story. Love unfolds in many ways.) I have no more classmates to befriend because that class life is over (for now), and at the work place is just no. There are like 5 guys total, at most. And two of them are married. I mean, I’ll try my luck again at the beach and at summer rooftop soirees and networking mixers again. Chances are if something happens, I had three Tequila Sours in a night.
3. Lose weight.
-___-. I actually refer to this in the New Year’s Resolution post I am currently contradicting. Rihanna and Draya Michele and (dare I say it) Beyoncé are making my life difficult. They're always in my face – well, on my timeline – reminding me of the body I don’t have. But it’s cool, because I remember that it’s the body I will never have. I keep forgetting one key thing I have that most other hot bodied mamas don’t: breasteses. And until I hit the lottery, they aren't going anywhere. And my bones aren't shrinking anytime soon. And it’s impossible to grow hips if I didn't have them already (damnit!). If I need to look at a body muse, it needs to be LaLa Vasquez-Anthony if anyone. Sure, I’ll try to tone up a little and keep my cholesterol low, but these images fixed in my head will never be reached. My body is fine, I just have to agree with myself more often than not and flaunt it, because it’s all I've got. Boom, there it is.
4. Figure out my life.
I’m in a violent fight with myself. The side of me that is swinging like Ali is searching high and low for “my purpose” and “my direction.” The other side is screaming "Patience is a virtue; your life will figure itself out," and blocking those punches like it’s nothing. Hoping and wishing gets me nowhere, which is terrible news for the head-in-the-clouds, dreamer-by-nature Piscean that I am. I just have to accept that I’m NOT in control and watch it unfold before me. BOOOOOO.
5. Write more.
Haha, sike. That promise I’m keeping. Slow and steady wins the race.
In Random News: On the train this morning, a man proceeded to tell me that I somehow threw my body clock off then asked me how I felt about Black nationalism. 11 am is awesome.