I fucked around and found out I can live through things that scare me.
I know, I hate this for us. Because, if you’ve been around here for a long time, you’ll know trying is my least favorite thing.
This is where I have been all of these weeks and months—living—and I barely survived it.
I mean internally. On the outside I look just fine. But I’d like to design t-shirts in a “What About Bob?” Don’t Hassle Me I’m Local kind of way that announce:
WHAT HAS TWO THUMBS AND FLEW ON MULTIPLE PLANES AND DIDN’T DIE—and the back says—THIS GIRLIE
GOING BACK TO CALI—and the back—TO EAT CHURROS AT DISNEYLAND WITH MY BESTIE
GANG-WAY I’M JAZZY SCOOTING—and the back—THIS PLANTAR FASCIITIS IS KILLING ME
ANXIOUS SNORKELER (that’s it, that’s the shirt)
I SURVIVED A TWEENAGE HECKLING, AND NOW I CAN DO ANYTHING
I MAY BE FAT, BUT MY NUMBERS ARE THE TITS—and the back—ASK MY DOCTOR (but don’t because HIPPA)
At the beginning of the year I wrote about having a “half-ass year,” and this is an extension of that. Or a check-in of sorts.
While living my half-ass year, it occurred to me that so much of living this way is about accepting the second-best version of yourself—the runner up, you. Which, if you’re like me, IS the best version of yourself.
I’ve rarely, if ever, won first place, but I fill the bench, get picked, and shine there. I’m probably not the headliner, but I’ll warm up a crowd, and then bring a die-hard group along with me to the next show.
Some people might call letting go of your “best self” settling. Or maybe they’d say, this seems lazy. I mean, I guess? I can fight against who I am or I can accept there are many side roads to the destination, and not everyone drives like a dick three inches from someone else’s bumper to get where they’re going, and—what do you know—now we’re all stopped at a red light.
When you choose the second-best version of yourself, it can feel like your place in the world has been preordained, like a downtrodden destiny, where comparison to your contemporaries begins to steal your feelings of personal progress.
(It’s taking everything I have to not write steal your joy because it’s what I mean, but can’t bear, without keystroke gagging, to type earnestly. Even if I just did.)
To be a runner up, to live the second-best version of yourself, you must know who you are. Because you will second guess every decision you’ve ever made as you watch other people get picked who did the grinding, while you were off doing other things.
But some of them will die.
Sorry, that got dark.
But some of them will leave too soon and others will drop out, or keep going at a fraction of the output, and you’ll say to yourself, “If I did that thing I wanted to at 25, at 30, that would have been embarrassing,” and you’ll mean it.
I know most of us are not sports fans here, and that’s okay. But I want to share something with you about professional athletes—almost all of them will spend more time NOT playing sports than they will. Maybe instead of teaching kids to win at all costs it would make more sense to teach at least some of them to coach—that way at least they can do the thing they love, for far longer—and stress less.
Perhaps you’re saying, “Well there’s no money in coaching.”
There is enough money. And more time.
I may not be finished what I think I should but then again, I ate churros at Disneyland with my bestie. Maybe there’s our plans, and then the sweet stuff life has in store for us, instead. It’s just a thought.
CURRENTLY
Reading: Girls They Write Songs About
I bought this on the title, which is outstanding.
Blowing my mind: Bubble Subs are the ultimate status symbol for the mega rich
This is a few years old, but the rabbit hole I traveled down had me on the edge of my seat.
Watching: Your Honor
My favorite Bryan Cranston will always be Hal from “Malcolm in the Middle.” If you have not seen the Brotherhood of the Wheel ep, you have not fully lived—it is roller skating canon. But this dramatic role that I let autoplay after I finished something else on Paramount+ has me, GRIPPED.
Scheduling: Weekly visits to my library
One of the best summers my kid remembers is the one where we spent multiple times a week at the library checking out movies (libraries are the last “video stores”), books, and doing all the activities they had planned (one involved “reading” to a dog). Philly even has this new graffiti-inspired, hip hop-honoring library card.
Wearing: These pink reef sandals inspired by Barbie
One does want a hint of color.
If FLOP ERA inspired you this week to do less of what you hate or made your eyes glaze over because, UGGH, sports ball reference, go ahead and tap that heart button. It helps readers discover my writing—which really does make a difference. Thank you for being here, now go out into the world and drive at a safe distance.
I love Liz Henry! It's always a pleasure when I see her name in my email notifications. She makes me smile and feel better about myself.
HiIarious! Love the title.