*Disclaimer(s): This post is lengthy and contains more cursing and bitching than usual. If you’re easily offended, read something encouraging such as this. I’m not sure you’ll find a lot of “rah-rah” here today. Like one of my favorite celebrity role models, Jillian Michaels says, and to which I whole-heartedly agree and relate, “I don’t drink much, I don’t do drugs, so swearing is my stress relief.”
You should also be advised that this is more of a confessional all-out rant instead of story-time. This is, after all, named “Confessions of a Sarcastic Bitch.” Well, you’re getting it all right here, right now. Buckle up, Buttercup! Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
My Own Worst Enemy…
I have a deep passion for blogging, but having been completely uninspired as of late, I’m ashamed to admit that my last post was in January. Writing helps me to release stuck energy and I find it quite cathartic. I used to journal every day and there wasn’t one person or event that was on my mind that didn’t get a pen stab directly to the heart of the paper. I also love to find humor in just about any situation and I live for making people laugh. If I wasn’t so God damn scared of my own stage shadow and that heinous activity known as public speaking, I’d be hustling to get paid for acting like a goof. Don’t think I haven’t visualized hanging out on set with my twin, Ellen DeGeneres, just shooting the shit and talking comedy and exchanging hair product ideas. But I digress.
Finding and being able to express humor in just about any situation was a necessity growing up. I had an image of myself as morbidly obese, I fantasized about the gals from The Facts of Life, my mullet had its own chapter in The History of Lesbian Hair and I’m certain that the entire Monroe-Woodbury class of 1993 could agree that my braces didn’t do me any favors. If that wasn’t bad enough, I was always my best friend’s wing-woman.
Here’s a fun for instance: the one and only time I went to the college bar with my bestie, a handsome fella sauntered over to me, placed his hand on my right breast, gave a little caress, and whispered in my ear “what’s your friend’s name? Can I get her number?” I gave my best impression of a sweet smile, wrapped my fingers around his tiny package, twisted him close, and whispered back delicately “with that nipple action you just displayed? She’ll be coming home with me.”
Sharing awkward memoirs with others has always stoked my fire, and I kept telling myself that I was going to use my down time to write more. As I sat strapped into my corporate electric chair counting down the minutes to when I could log off, I made mental notes to jot down my feelings around random events such as last night’s workout (that I was absolutely positive had rendered me crippled) or that ludicrous Facebook post from earlier that morning which was just begging for my arrogant remarks. Then BAM! I sucker-punched myself in my fanciful balls and all was forgotten. My imaginary sticky-note which read “write about cooking class — #BrothIsBeautiful” was drowned out in a sea of “woe is me” comparisons and mental mind-fucks.
This is probably an opportune time to admit that one of my biggest struggles has always been with comparisons and self-worth. It’s been an old recording that continues to repeat itself because I can’t seem to get out of my own way. Add a touch of pneumonia, an almost two week long hiatus from exercise, zero social activity, and, my friends; I had myself a full-blown pity party! Naturally the only cure was to scroll through Facebook to see what I was missing out on. This is where my subconscious demanded that my creativity go fuck itself!
In my codeine state of pathetic, I made a conscious choice to allow the marvelous people of social media to take up residence rent-free in my head. I simply couldn’t stop myself. I was Alice and I followed that adorable bunny ass right down the rabbit hole. The displays of nut twisting decorum from my collegiate days that embodied my true essence were buried under a row of picture perfect status updates on my newsfeed. I became the poster child of thoughtful and overly serious. More to the point, it turned me into an angry bitch!
Well it’s now time to name it, claim it, complain about it, and bounce those vagabond bitches out of my mansion of intellect and back on the boulevard where they belong!
I, Tiffany Jayne Vacca, in my already fragile mental state, have allowed Facebook to additionally fuck me up and stop my creative flow in the following ways:
Let’s start with a fan favorite: fucked up by photos! As some of you may know I am not an advocate of having my picture taken and I am even less enthusiastic to see the ones that were taken when I wasn’t looking plastered all over Facebook. If I needed a beauty reminder I’d look in a mirror. It’s my page and I will choose what the world can and cannot see, dammit!
Or not. It would seem that when you sign a waiver for Crossfit, all bets are off. Somewhere in between “we are not liable for your death or dismemberment” and “leave your EGO at the door” is “you agree to let us post every tear-filled, camel-toed, belly rolled, baby-got-back image we can find of your hefty ass at our discretion.” If I may make a suggestion to the powers-that-be: remove the EGO clause, as I no longer have one.
What I’ve learned here is to read the fine print and that the “remove tag” feature Facebook provides is my new best friend. It can shield the people on my friends list from a visual that, once seen, simply cannot be unseen. I don’t worry so much about the gym folks because they’ve already seen my body shake, rattle and roll, live and in living color! And they know what I smell like to boot. I’m the gift that keeps on giving.
It’s probably safe at this point to assume that I still have body image issues. It’s a work in progress and one that will have its ebbs and flows. What keeps me cemented is when I make the wise decision to look at my photo, locate the flaws, and then compare it to someone else’s excellence. In making this connection, not only am I handing over my power to someone who hasn’t even asked for it, but I am also placing that person on a pedestal where they don’t belong. How completely fucking ridiculous!
As if that wasn’t enough, I’ve also allowed myself to become fucked up by specific commentary that’s clogged up my newsfeed. I either need to find new “friends”, un-follow people, establish an even better sense of humor (if that’s even possible), or hop on the “let’s be an asshole” (albeit a confident asshole) bandwagon. Perhaps you can relate (perhaps you can’t) but I am speaking of the types who have made a decided change in their life and then proceed to hand out unsolicited advice as to how I need to adjust mine. I liken it to the Jehovah’s Witnesses who knock on my door in hopes that I will join them on the road to everlasting life. Our roads diverged my friend. You chose hot dogs; I chose fish tacos. See you in hell where, I am quite certain, I’ll be your tour guide.
I am all for self-improvement, exceptional health and taking action steps towards being an overall Grade-A, incredible human being. Hell, I’m living in sin with a woman whose sole purpose in life is to serve others in finding their own self-worth. Some of my dearest friends are all about assisting people in discovering new ways to achieve optimum health and changing their gloomy story into one of confidence. I get it.
These earth angels surround me, but Jesus Christ people of social media, stop with the sanctimonious attitude! You lost weight. Wonderful!! You’re no longer a dick to homeless people. Hallelujah! You live your life out loud and on purpose and by fucking golly you’re going to tell me exactly where to sign up so I, too, can be saved regardless of if I asked or not! In my humble opinion, this should be the real meaning of “don’t ask, don’t tell”: I didn’t ask for your opinion, therefore, you need not tell me what is and is not functioning in my own life. I’m either working on it or haven’t yet discovered it (but trust that I will.) Unsolicited advice is inappropriate and unhelpful.
What is truly unbecoming are the espousals of spontaneous guidance from someone who just displayed the exact behavior that I’d been admonished for. I witnessed you get tanked on 2 bottles of wine and stuff your face with Cheetos, yet the next day’s post is a link to an article on alcoholism with a personal statement which read along the lines of “These are the reasons I don’t drink and why you shouldn’t either. #teamsober.” Huh?
Is “fake it until you make it” the new norm? If so, count me out. Fake=lie.
Never Ending Lessons…
So this is what I learned should anyone care to enroll in the “Keep It Credible For Dummies” fast track instead of taking the entire 8-week course. It is okay to be REAL! Nobody is going to kick your newly toned ass to the curb because you lost a client, your luscious long locks are actually hair extensions, and you just confused a fart for a legit shit which is now running down the left pant leg of the only pair you have. And, if you do, in fact, lose people, good fucking riddance!
I can’t speak for you, but I would much rather have people in my life who I can trust to be sincere, tell it like it is, laugh with me, at me, and even go so far as to offer to change my Depends. I mean hell, allow me be your model (it’s not like Vogue is calling me for my services any time soon, so here is my chance at the runway!)
There are garbage disposals that have more elegance and purity than the feces that falls out of my mouth. I cannot manage a simple declarative sentence without being sarcastic. I’ve thrown full-on juvenile tantrums and stopped promoting people because the false promises of promoting me in return have hurt the only two feelings that I do have and the “I’ll show them” attitude comes roaring to life. If that is not enough, there is a 99.9% chance that I haven’t lost a single pound (can’t say for sure because I smashed my only scale against a wall about 3 years ago), I workout so that I can eat, I have bona fide anger issues, I’m still coming to terms with past hurts from my childhood, AND (deep breathe…here is the real truth)…
I’m typing this without any underwear!
So. Fucking. What.
That’s the shit that’s going to get you laid! Stop with the showboating and the un-welcomed advice. At almost 41 years of age, I know EXACTLY who I am and what I stand for and a sell-out I am not!
Also, while I’m at it, I’d like to ask that you please don’t eye ball my pizza with disdain. If you want a slice, ask. If you’re about to tell me the calorie count, don’t waste your breath. With everything going on in the world today, I’ll be damned if my last regret is that I didn’t eat that cheesy, oily, gluten-filled slab of heart failure with a Cannoli on the side.
I’ll deal with my frustration later like any normal person with issues; by crying about it during a workout and wondering in my head “why am I still fat?” As a matter of fact, while I’m being completely honest, I did just that last Tuesday night (minus the Cannoli). Another terrorist attack + PTSD = Emotional eating with 3 of my favorite people followed a few days later by a vile Crossfit workout, made up by a soul-sucking man, that had me in tears in front of the entire gym.
So there you have it folks. The reason I’ve gone MIA. I got all caught up in this shit-storm for a good two months and told myself a very convincing story of how writing was a waste of time and provided no value. A tale about how I had nothing worthwhile to say, and, my all-time cherished fable, of how I was a vile human because I couldn’t find it in my jaded heart to give my last $3.00 to a woman who is homeless and has been pregnant for 18 months straight.
In short, I was reading Facebook posts like it was the Bible and believing myself to be less than. It was a hell of a sorrowful party for one. I picked up what everyone else was putting down and I was swimming in every other lane but my own.
I’m fucked up, I guess. Sounds plausible enough. I’m not proud but this post isn’t about pride for me. It’s about acknowledging what is and learning to love and accept myself, as I am, faults, farts and all. It’s about creating the mental space to get back to being my creative fun-loving self and showing up as authentically as I possibly can.
Thank you for reading and for bearing with me.
In the words of my favorite musician, Melissa Etheridge:
“Be strong. Speak true. Spread the peace.”
Never lose the humor. And punch me in the tits if I do.