For years I had this je ne sais quois quality about me that, dare I say was charismatic, charming, and could even make your grouchy old granddad giggle.
But then I lost it. I guess for a while I didn’t much care. I figured it was just the normal aging process. Recent events have had me re-evaluating, and realizing that like my black tights which make their way onto hangers under the next sweater I’m going to wear, my chutzpah hasn’t died, it’s just been hiding in a corner where I had, out of sheer exhaustion, dropped it.
For a couple of months I’ve been getting hints that it’s still around. I’ve been reclaiming my own joy; creativity, physical activity, rest…and with that, I’ve felt it was coming back; that fabulous zest for life that is my legacy. Our legacy ladies. Everyone’s legacy.
No, it wasn’t hidden by the old stack of House & Home magazines in the corner, or next to an errant knee high and old slipper that continually fail at making it into my laundry bin. No, I found it in the loo at a crowded bar,dressed up and fevered to the point of sweating through my clothes and being yelled at because of it. Yah, it’s true, we find miracles in the darndest places.
At some point (and yes, it was a sober some point as all I’d had for two days was gingerale and tea) the reality of reality sets in. When you find peace in a tiny stall with a toilet, you should know that something is wrong.
One cannot seek meaningful solace next to the shitter darlings. One can only hope to apply fresh lipstick and get their kit together.
If you find yourself in a similar circumstance sweeties, look at it less like a dirty toilet in a pathetic re-run bar, and more like a time machine, transporting you from whomever made you want to shrivel up, or feel shrivelled up, to all of your gloriousness as a woman who is true to herself.
In those toilet-hiding moments, we find our je-ne-sais-quoisness. These are the moments that give you the confidence to strut.
Last night, after having suffered for someone else’s comfort, and being yelled at and treated poorly, I made a trip to the lady’s time machine where my wee little girl brain asked me what in the hell I was doing suffering for someone else who was supposed to be not just a friend, but the best of friends.
The night got worse before it got better, but it was at least efficient.
Quite often women retreat to the bathroom as their only place of quiet and peace. Whether it’s out and about, or at home. Quite often they are there because someone has attacked their self worth. Those quiet, albeit gross moments near the toilet are generally where you can find your value again. Dare I say your, I-Don’t-Give-A-Shitness.
It’s sad that we are forced into the shit to find ourselves, but that is life. No mud, no lotus right? Whatever…
Just remember if you find yourself in the loo with a tear in your eye, it’s a grand opportunity to make things better. I mean, after all, how much worse can it get than hiding in the same place a thousand other people have pooped? Not much.