All my friends are piles deep into KonMari’ing their lives.
Piles of clothes and clutter they no longer need.
I am not doing that.
Honestly, I’m not purging my closets and desk drawers, because I’ve already purged my closets and desk drawers.
I used to mentally anguish over what I would grab in case of a fire.
I mean, obviously, I would grab the kids and pets and Andy. But, if I had time, in this about to lose everything scenario, what else would I grab? Everything? Could I just grab everything, because I need everything?
When we made the decision to go stay with my parents, I came face to face with my about to lose everything fire scenario. We were a family of five moving into my childhood bedroom, there would be no room for outfit changes or the dress I was keeping just in case anyone ever invited me to a dicso party.
I packed only what we could wear over and over again for the summer, plus a few extras for the travel we’d be doing. And then tossed the rest into boxes to keep or boxes to donate, and that was that.
It wasn’t sacred or calm, it was rabid and emotional.
As we flow between the two places we call home (my parents and the house we will never ever sell), I spend a lot of times digging through boxes, or padding around the hallways going “has anyone seen those one jeans with the weird cuffs?”
When I see the photos in my timeline of my friends proud of the mountains of clothes they no longer need, I’m jealous. I don’t want their clothes, I want their experience. I want the spiritual send off that I never really got. I didn’t even like the jeans with the weird cuffs, I wanted the God damned closure.
I’ve been trying to do more things for my soul, selecting things from an a la carte spiritual menu that make things feel right and good inside.
Church? Not right now.
Meditation? It’s a process.
Alcohol? Eh maybe.
I’ve spent three years being furious at people over a railyard (still mad), and now I was readying myself to add a new wing of fury on this hate mansion, but before we poured the cement for another round of The Girl Who’s Fucking Pissed at Everything, I just needed a minute… a breath… some sustenance. So that there’d be more to my story than just, like, angry emails and people avoiding me in the grocery store.
Two weeks ago I made this cake from my friend Mike’s birthday. I stuffed a Princess Barbie into a cake and covered her in blood because he loves horror movies. Meredith and I walked it into the living room, singing Happy Birthday to him, and his face made me so happy… way better than the face Gigi made watching me rip the legs off the Barbie to get it into the cake just right.
Last week my girls and I had a girl’s night to, as my friend Heather says, “fill our buckets.” We wore pajamas, ate bags of chips, candy and Oreos, and watched funny movies. We stayed curled up on the couch talking until Andy finally came home and told us we all needed to go to bed, like the old man he is. I left my friends fuller of love than I’d ever felt sitting in a pew.
And then I got a phone call from a weird number, that I would never normally answer, but I did. Some could say the universe made me answer, others might say I accidentally hit accept on the call while I was trying to get back to playing Disney Emoji Blitz, who knows for sure, really?
It was my gynecologist. She apologized for calling so late, but she wanted to tell me in person that she’d gotten that insurance denial overturned, that after speaking to the insurance physician during appeal, they wholeheartedly agreed that I needed a hysterectomy. I hadn’t made it up. I wasn’t reaching. I wasn’t some woman over-diagnosing herself. I was vindicated. I was heard. I was getting the surgery.
Andy asked if I’d share that with you. If I should wait until I was coming out of anesthesia, just in case it fell through again, and I’d briefly considered that. But also, no. The reality is that until my uterus and ovary is on a table next to me, there is a chance it will never happen, but I’ve learned through this process, that none of that makes me unique, and the frustration, anger and sickness that comes with that needs to be said.
But right now, I’m hopeful it will happen, and I’m thankful to finally have something of substance left to Marie Kondo out of my life like my friends.
Thank you for your service, uterus. You no longer give me joy.