The other night I watched the Season 4 premiere of Basketball Wives LA. I could call the reality show a “guilty pleasure” but I feel naan guilt about watching it. I enjoy the antics of the show’s spirited cast. I feel a connection with them. Like, I get them. We’re >>here<<.
On a recent hike, a friend of mine was telling me about his family and was particularly animated and passionate when he described the men in his life – his father and uncles. He told me about their hustles and grinds to create and take advantage of various opportunities in order to build their careers and provide for their families. Their work ethic undoubtedly influenced the man he was and the type of life he was working to have for the family he would one day start.
Today is July 7, the anniversary of my birth. I’m not big on celebrating my birthday but I do love getting texts, calls, FB messages, and freestyle bday vmail raps in acknowledgment of my living another year from friends and family.
There’s one bday text in particular that always stands out. Since 2010 (or so), I have received a “Happy Birthday!” text from the same unsaved number. I respond, “thank you!” And communication with this unsaved number ceases.
My mind often (always?) feels cluttered. Crowded with many thoughts. Creating traffic jams up and down the information highways of my brain. Neural systems putting in overtime processing and planning. Recalling, replaying, reminding, reconsidering. In need of parking garages to be stored, with spaces neatly marked to find when a return is necessary.
Overthink. Overanalyze. Fixate. Perfect. Critique. Question.
Constant self reflection and disparagement is something I do early and often. It is a routine I know. One I’m comfortable in. One I thrive (or drown?) in. Because it is easy to be my worst (best?) critic. If I am hard on me, it will soften the blow of some one else pointing out my shortcomings. Always prepared to take myself down a notch.