Supposedly the rapture was today. Or yesterday? I dunno, but I think the Evangelical Christian creators of TikTok and the other social media hell sites promised that we’d finally reached the end of times. Again. How many raptures are we up to now? At least 200 according to a quick internet search. Anyway, to celebrate the end — again — I’m paying homage to the little things that matter most. For me, a 41 year old lady with an animal accumulation problem, this means a freedom from restrictions.
Physical ones, metaphorical ones, and all restrictions in between.
I type this from my home office where I am without socks and a brazier. Because there is no greater feeling in the world than being braless and sockless. It’s a flawless freedom and why I’ll forever support the white collar right to work from mi casa. Because mi casa es no su casa.
Gotta brush up on my Spanglish for my future destination, don’t cha know.
The fabulous forties
There’s something magical about my forties. I’ve said somewhere before, not sure where, that I gave my last fuck some long time ago in a galaxy far far away. I’m not sure who got it, but it’s a treasure.
Every day I feel freer. My body is becoming less tolerant to restrictions, even in a physical sense. The second I come into my home, the bra is shed and now the socks. I’m like a hippy that showers. My home looks the scene of some Hollywood love scene, with various tight garments littering the floor, torn off in passion. When really it’s just me eager to shed restrictive expectations that no longer suit me. Frankly they never did.
For a while now I’ve felt like I’m in a state of metamorphosis. Like a grumpy butterfly, or maybe a moth let’s be real, preparing for something new. I’m still there, especially in a physical state, but the transformation is underway. It’s symbolized, though, in my shedding of tight things put lines in my forehead. And yes, even the physical ones as previously touched upon and tossed in the hamper.
I’m sick of the performance, the mask I’ve been wearing. The dutiful daughter, the work mom, the work wife, the one who always has it together and doesn’t need help. It’s bullshit. The more I refuse and decline these restrictive roles, the better I feel. The freer I feel.
I’m not a microphone to amplify another’s voice, nor a mirror to reflect back someone else’s beauty. It’s not my role to support someone else at the cost of myself. It’s not my responsibility to clean up a mess I didn’t create or solve a problem I didn’t cause.
Self-care for the win
I’m taking care of me now and it feels good. Even yesterday, for some inexplicable reason, I felt tired. I of course questioned the reason, and then I tore off my tight bike shorts, put on my robe, and slipped in bed. Maybe my body was tired. Maybe I was tired from carrying that which was never mine to carry. Or just exhausted from the humidity and not being able to do that which I wanted due to the outside resembling a sauna. Whatever reason I had for feeling tired, I honored it. I stopped fighting. I said, okay. I listened.
It felt good. I silenced the guilt that I should be doing something productive. I pulled up my dog who needs to always sleep beside me, even if I’m not sleeping at all. I grabbed my book and read a few chapters. I closed my eyes and listened the the rain. Because in Texas when it’s in the nineties, of course it rains. The humidity doesn’t conjure itself.
And then I got up, feeling much better than I had all day. No second guessing, no “I’m getting so old and so lame,” none of that. Just refreshment from not even a nap, just a reconnection with myself.
I’ve also shut off my alarm. My body is changing. Of course it is. I’m getting older (we all are), and I’ve found since turning 40 that my sleep schedule has completely changed. I used to need aids to help me sleep, I took Doc Parsley’s bedtime tea, and then found… I didn’t need it anymore. I used to be an early riser, enjoying the dark mornings of silence, the stars shining, a few shooting across the sky. Coffee in hand, puppies in lap. But now it’s impossible to honor the alarm, my body revolts.
So I turned it off. I haven’t anywhere to be, I work from home. I answer to no one but the bladder capacities of my canine companions. Now I rise when I’m ready and rested. I’ll create a new routine for the new me I’m becoming. A little older, but not resistant to it. It’s an honor to age, after all. Not everyone gets to do so.
It’s just because
There is no great theme to this post, no deeper meaning behind my words. I googled yesterday if I was the only one who just couldn’t stand socks anymore, and found no, of course not. And this is nothing more than an echoing of a similar sentiment. To be found, or not, by someone seeking validation from some stranger on the net who’s experiencing the same.
My body is tired of physical restrictions just as it is the figurative ones. The more I practice imperfect moments, messy creations, and just push and publish and release into the world, the more comfortable I become with the chaos. The more I understand and relate and find my tribe of people who feel the same.
Peal off the bra. Shed the socks. Tell tight pants to fuck all the way off. It feels good to be free.