According to my calculations (my calculations being this flaw-free photo of Regina King that I found on Tumblr), there’s really no rush. I’d like to personally thank you, Regina King, for smacking me out of my depressive panic that’s telling me I won’t have enough time to do all the things I want to do. It is false. Regina King is 45 and I am 30. Take that, anxiety.
There’s no rush.
I still have time to experience all the joys and pains of pregnancy and the privilege of becoming a mom. I still have time to achieve that set of abs that has haunted my dreams for months. I still have time to take that weeklong vacation to France. But, most importantly, I still have time to rock really teeny-tiny clothes. The heydays of many fashion trends have come and gone without my participation due to fear. My thighs are “too jiggly” and being over the age of 25 automatically forces me into the conservative club. I have love handles and I can forget about putting my size D’s into a backless anything.
At least, that’s what I thought until I saw this Regina King picture. This photo definitely tells me otherwise.
There’s also that deep v and nearly booty-baring dress Kerry Washington wore to the Oscars. She’s a mom, a 39-year-old one at that, and she killlllllllled it.
Age be damned.
In a world that’s constantly judging and reinforcing the fallacy that I’m not good enough, this show of confidence is so necessary.
Stay tuned for me in my romper et al.
* Written while downing a cup at 10:29 p.m. Welp *
I have a confession to make. I drink way more coffee than what should be humanly allowed. I’m not the cute Starbucks Soy-Vanilla-Bean-Chai-Blah-Blah-Blah sipping with a straw type drinker, though I so wish I was. I take my coffee wrong and strong. No seriously, with each overflowing cup of caffeinated pleasure I sink deeper and deeper into the coffee drinkers’ remorse. Oh, you’ve never heard of such a diagnosis? Well, let me be the first to tell you it’s real and it’s bad. There’s the unshakeable self-consciousness that comes along with knowing you’ll never have those Crest commercial pearly whites. Sigh. That’s why MAC’s Ruby Woo lipstick was invented in the first place. With its vision-tricking properties, the dryer-than-concrete blue-based red is a first date essential. Besides, the man for me must love me for my than my teeth, right? Welp.
Then comes the jitters. The jitters that seem to instantly take hold of your nervous system, making you a multitasking mess. And then once the high comes down you don’t even know how to productively function without your hit. At the start of every week you promise in vain that this will be the week to make a change. Along with waking up an hour earlier to work out, this is the week you commit to breaking free from the charmingly seductive roasted and liquefied beans’ hold. “I will not be a slave to coffee!” you say while avoiding eye contact with every coffee peddler in close proximity. So here’s the deal, Mr. Right: I will probably never get over my coffee addiction. Not until the day they sell it in small digestible tablets, and this is something I’ve come to terms with. Coffee, I love you.