Man, I did not want to go to that party last night.
But I’m so glad I did.
The funny thing is that I’d wanted to go. I arranged for a babysitter the day the invitation came. Bought a fun new shirt. Even got out my high heels, for chrissakes.
But in the couple hours before it was time to leave, something dark crept in. I still can’t put my finger on it, but it was icky and sticky and it stole my sunshine.
Maybe it was pre-emptive exhaustion at feeling like I needed to be extra “on” with people I hadn’t seen in a while. Maybe it was the insecurity that convinced me all the other women would be prettier, thinner, more “together” than me. (And have way better hair.)
Perhaps it was money envy. This crowd works hard and is pretty well-off (in the fancy-German-car, European-ski-trip, new-vacation-home sort of way), while it was a big splurge for me to have a sitter. Or maybe I’m still battling the discomfort I feel in being the only person not drinking in a place where the cocktails are flowing.
So I stalled. Instead of getting in the shower on time, I arranged and re-arranged flowers in the kitchen. After the sitter came, I INSISTED on a trip to Target to pick up the Christmas lights I ABSOLUTELY NEEDED right then. And then I dragged my feet through the store (not all that difficult considering I was wearing the god-forsaken heels).
But when we finally got to the party, all that anxiety vanished. I was greeted by enormous hug after enormous hug. I felt welcome and at home, and I couldn’t wipe the genuine smile off my face. I loved seeing my dear old friends and already can’t wait for the next get-together.
The holidays are a tough time for anxiety. There’s a lot of pressure to be merry and bright when, truth is, we don’t always feel merry and bright. Because zits. Because PMS. Because it’s frowned upon to wear yoga pants everywhere and so we have to put on unforgiving big girl pants that don’t care if we’re bloated. Because exes and in-laws and hormones and depression and, and, and a lot of stuff that feels like a good reason to just stay in bed.
BUT DON’T STAY IN BED. Don’t let the pipsqueak twerp voice in your head win.
SHOW UP FOR YOURSELF INSTEAD. Take your body and see if your spirit doesn’t catch up soon enough.
Go to the party, even if you feel fat. (You’re not. And if you are, who cares? It’s a party, not a pageant.)
Go to the party, even if your ex will be there. (It’s bound to happen sooner or later, might as well get it over with.)
Go to the party, even if you’re not smiling. (You will eventually, I promise.)
And, if you go for a while and decide it’s not that fun after all, sneak out and head back to the comfort of home. Bed will always be waiting.
xo,
b
dont stay in bed
