I hope you’ll forgive me for momentarily neglecting my infant blog. I’ve been busy with ultra important things — like getting hung up on, spending a small fortune on benzoyl peroxide and letting my laundry pile up and overtake my small, decrepit apartment.
I just spent my Sunday visiting Mt. Rushmore with a good friend I met in Gillette. It was much more adventurous than the humble beginning weekends here, which were mainly spent either reinstalling or deleting Tinder. I can’t knock it, though. The app can double as an extremely cost-effective moving service.
And yes, in case you were wondering, I really am as undeniably terrible as I sound.
“Oh, nothing too crazy. What are you doing today?”
Want to hang out? And by hang out, I mean you can carry my desk up three flights of winding, awful stairs with nothing in return. Sounds like a lovely afternoon, right?
ANYHOW. Like I was saying — it’s good to have those little, spontaneous adventures, especially when you’re new to the area. And through today’s, while I was talking my friend’s ear off and likely waving my hands dramatically while worrying about something that’s entirely out of my control, I sort of had an epiphany …
I’ve been giving entirely too many craps about what people think of me here. Everybody — co-workers, superiors, community members, the mailman. You name it, and I overthink the interaction.
And the thing is, I’ve never been the type to give any sort of crap what anybody else thought of me. Things I do and things that come out of my mouth are often ridiculous, and it never really affected me before. But it’s that first real job, first big move and next step in life that really did it to me, I think. I wanted to say and do the right things at the right times, be liked, play the part, be respected and be seen as a strong, independent woman.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that you shouldn’t try to be the best employee, new neighbor and Gillettan you can be, but that shouldn’t cost you your soul.
You don’t have to like me. The mailman doesn’t have to like me. Gillette doesn’t have to like me. The whole world can just be generally turned off by me, and it wouldn’t matter — because on the average day, I’m a pretty decent human being (even despite my Tinder abuse). And I like me. And you should like you.
Let yourself be yourself. Eyelid zits and all.
You do you, babe. And that’s all she (me) wrote. For tonight, that is.