The One Where I Cry in the Trader Joe’s Parking Lot.
DUDE. Welcome to Tuesday. Hope yours is going smashing-ly.
For me, this was day TWO of slugging it out with some pretty horrific fear demons — a collective term for all of those terrifying thoughts like you’re never going to make it… you’re a shit writer… nobody cares what you have to say… you’re just a giant poop-faced failure (my kids’ favorite terminologies pepper my inner dialogues quite frequently…)
For over 48 hours now, I’ve been seeking comfort in whatever form seems most convenient: cookies, pie, coffee, wine, more coffee, way more cookies, hot tea, a block of cheese. Picture me in a giant fuzzy sweater, no pants and a pair of slippers, shoveling mouthfuls of Trader Joe’s Peppermint Jo-Jo’s in-between sobs and dry heaves.
Yikes.
It was pretty touch and go there for a bit, and it honestly seemed like the storm would never pass… until, earlier today, it culminated in what began as an obligatory phone call to my husband. Each morning, my boo and I try to FaceTime so he can talk to the kids (and they can hide/ ignore him/ tell him they don’t like him — the usual stuff). On this particular morning, I felt pissy, and threw a tantrum in the form of specifically not calling him until I had left the house to run errands.
Take that, person whom I love most in the world.
So, there I am, sitting in an idle 2009 Toyota Tacoma in the parking lot of a Trader Joe’s, trying to have a civil conversation with my husband, when the darkness starts to overtake me. Suddenly, I’m crying (again) and saying ridiculously dramatic things, served with a side of piping hot sarcasm. And, like he always does, Nick talked me down from the ledge — a HUGE reason I picked him as a life partner — and reminded me that I’m in front of a Trader Joe’s: one of my all-time favorite places to be, and one that also happens to have all of my favorite comfort foods…
My next steps were pretty clear.
I obediently stocked up on some pot pie, salsa especial, dried oranges, holiday Jo-Jo’s (obvi — they’re limited edish, so…), a balsam-scented candle and a deep conditioning hair mask. I paid, stepped out into the sunshine, and was met by a cool breeze and another overwhelming wave of emotion: nothing you do matters. Nobody gives a shit.
Hmm, I thought, nobody gives a shit…
… nobody gives a shit…
… nobody gives a shit! You know what, dickface? Sure. Nobody gives a shit. Good. I’m in this for me. I’m writing for the fun of it, for the pure feeling of getting into a creative flow. If nobody gives a shit, FINE. If nobody EVER gives a shit, okay. I’ll be the only one. But for today, JUST for today, I’m doing this for me.
And so, with lips freshly lipsticked in bold defiance and my fear demons free to take the day off, I set forth to light my new candle, down a couple of Advil to combat a fierce post-cry headache and hammer out this blog post. I’ve got a box of Jo-Jo’s to finish and a hair mask to try before the whole circus starts again tomorrow.
(Fist bump).
If you found this post relatable, consider following The Dirty Laundry Show blog at MyDLShow.com so you never miss a beat (also, the graphics are pretty great). If you found nothing about this post remotely interesting or helpful, I’m curious how you got this far down the page… and thank you for taking the time to check it out, anyway.
