Crash landing
No one knows how I still have friends when I'm worst version of myself
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This is a selfie taken on the day that Trump was elected President. I choose to use it here to demonstrate the mood I’m in because nothing else I have in my phone even comes close.
On Wednesday, I returned to the US after seven weeks in Kenya. I knew this transition from my happy place to real life* would not go well. As someone who’s (obviously) very self-aware, I tried to prepare those closest to me to expect the worst version of me, which includes:
Cankles. Even though I wear compression socks, which are nearly impossible to put on and take off in an economy seat in the last row*, my feet swell to a point where not only are they visibly uncomfortable, I complain about them ad nausea because in my brain I believe that pointing them out first makes them less disgusting.
Crying. This can range from mild sobbing to full-on gasping for air, snot running down my face. I reserve this exclusively for the people closest to me (you’re welcome) or the stranger sitting next to me on the fight (thank you Xanax, two bottles of wine, and that heteronormative and sexist rom-com that I actively chose to watch*). This is only made worse by the jet lag, as you feel so outside of your body and your mind and all. you want to do is sleep but you cannot.
Complaining. This is the crux of this week’s newsletter, so imagine me the other 23 hours of the day.
Cadence*. I will continue to pronounce zebra like zebra, not zeeeebra. Rubbish instead of trash. Queue instead of a line. Fetch instead of picking up. Some of you have witnessed my masterful use of the word shame*. I know this is annoying to people. I don’t care. But I recognize there is a line that could be crossed, so I still pronounce aluminum the right way; don’t worry.
Cuntery*. In general, I’m bitchy AF. It takes 364 days for it to wear off. You can’t even hot goss about me because I know, everyone knows, it’s part of the recipe, and it’s what makes me great. Either get with the program or don’t.
Here’s the lesson: It’s unreasonable to think that we can be our best selves all the time. There is this expectation that we (read: women) are meant to brave it all with a smile and a can-do attitude. Sometimes you just need to say fuck it, I’m a crabby bitch, and this is why I have not called you. Or texted you. Or asked you to hang out. This is how I still have friends. Because I don’t talk to any of them*.
When we are the worst versions of ourselves we might need copious amounts of time alone (as to not take it out on other people because no one is a fan of abuse) with perhaps with a jug of ginger tea with whiskey (just saying) to process whatever personal life issue you’re going through that continually fucks with you no matter how hard you try to manage it, which for me is the return to what continues to be a dumpster fire of a nation. And American accents. And the refusal to use a knife while eating…
Until next week friends <3
Jen
* For the record, Kenya is also real life to me as I have a home and friends and work there. I think that’s what makes coming back to the US so difficult. I’m leaving my second home, which I wish was my first home, but I haven’t quite figured out how to make that transition yet. Seeking advice in the comment section below.
* This process of putting on and taking off compression socks in the last row of the airline while simultaneously being asked if I wanted to eat beef stew for dinner because they ran out of food aged me in a way that I have not fully processed yet.
* I consider flying a mini-holiday from life. No email, no texts, no humans that I must speak to, free booze, and the fort that I construct with blankets, pillows, sweaters… So when it comes time to choose a movie, I’m not going to partake in anything that’s sad IRL (that rules out all documentaries, coming-of-age stories, dramas, etc.) or scary (I don’t need to watch people get murdered or traumatized), so that means I’m relegated to rom-coms, which despite their lightness and good humor most are still annoying AF because obvs straight white men write them or women who have to report to straight white men and all of their good ideas are squashed. I see you Hollywood.
* I really wanted to continue that masterful alliteration and keep all of the c words going. Pronunciation or accent didn’t look as good on paper. Perhaps when I have an editor, they’ll make me change that shit, but for now I’m my own boss* so it stands.
* I give all credit to Floey, my dear South African friend who now lives in Nairobi and is married to James, my African adventure partner in crime who helps me run all of our cycling trips (ARE YOU COMING NEXT SUMMER?!?).
* Five C words in a row FUCKING CRUSHING where’s my book deal?
* And the one who I am sharing this with (you know who you are), thank you for accepting and seeing me.
* I need an intervention, clearly.