Well, I survived the first leap of faith. As of this morning, 44 people (not counting me) have actually read my first post. And, wait, even better — THREE have actually commented (and said nice things!). Imagine that, I might actually be able to do this (well, at least those three people might be willing to read the next post — I could just be kidding myself, but I’m writing this one anyway).
So, this leads me to my next thought, which is my ambition to be awesome. OK, not like in that narcissistic, “Look at me, I am so awesome,” Paris Hilton kind of awesome. No, I am talking about the Julien Smith kind of awesome. The man is a fucking genius (click the awesome link, read the article, fucking was necessary, and I might even need to say it a few more times, so prepare yourself). I think I may actually have awesome in me somewhere, crumpled up in one of these boxes of shit in my head. I just need to let it out and stop worrying about what anyone else thinks about the crazy ass things that fall out of my mouth. The filter is gone and it feels fucking awesome (hey, I warned you).
The problem previously, the biggest fucking roadblock to my impending awesomeness (yes, it is a word) has been the yardstick I’ve been using to measure my potential. My first yardstick was handed down by my mother. It had a pointedly-worded mantra shellacked in big, bold, nun-induced cursive letters across it which said, “You never do anything right, if only you would try harder you might almost be worth something — but in the meantime, don’t even bother because you suck and you’ll never amount to anything.” Would have made for a snazzy cross-stitched throw pillow, eh?
I managed to ditch that one for a while, but then, without even realizing it, I traded it in for my not-fucking-soon-enough-ex-husband’s yardstick. He and my mother could have stitched their pillows together — we’ll leave it at that (for now).
I know it happens to others as well, and it kinda pisses me off to see it in action. A friend of mine is an artistic genius — fucking awesome if I do say so (again, warned you). But, he is so afraid to put it out there that this beautiful stuff just sits, collecting dust while he laments his possible wasted potential. Really, ya think? Another friend recently said he didn’t know what he had to offer and some bullshit about shoes he didn’t think he could fill. He’s another fucking awesome human being that needs a new yardstick, or at least to stop worrying about filling shoes. Wear your own fucking shoes, they fit just fine — or, follow my daughter’s lead and just go barefoot everywhere you can (even when you are not supposed to — I do love being a rebel). Imagine how much more we could accomplish, how much happier we would be if we just used our own measuring tools — our own assessment of what was good, perfect, or even just enough — instead of the expectations imposed by anyone else.
So, my new yardstick is my own. It is a beautiful mess of glitter, duct tape, and brilliant quotes tacked all over it to encourage me to have the audacity to continue to try, to do and be whatever I think I can, whatever I want to be. I can only hope it’s fucking awesome.