It was around this time last year that I published a blog titled, 1st Novel Baby Weight: 4 Ways to Avoid “Writer’s Ass”
Oh you didn’t read it? You should. It kicks ass.
Well, recently I’ve noticed that Jabba the Hutt keeps hanging out in my bathroom mirror. I’m pretty laid-back so I just go with it. I wake up, slug-walk into my bathroom and wave. “Hey Jabba.” He waves back exactly as I do and we hang out while putting on our make-up. But yesterday, something occurred to me. Why is Jabba the Hutt putting on make-up every morning? And why is he such a copycat? I’m the one who endlessly sought out that Revlon Mauve It Over lipstick with matching liner on Amazon, why is he plagiarizing my beauty efforts? That’s when I realized: Fuck that’s not Jabba the Hutt, that’s ME.
Frantic, I went to the scale.
My first reaction was denial. The first stage of grief. “Nuh-uh,” I said. I stepped off, shook the scale like an etch-a-sketch, and jumped back on. Same results. I paused, a smile growing across my face. “Nooooooo, come on. Be for real.” But the numbers didn’t change.
I stumbled off the scale quicker than a drunk Michelle Rodriguez, pissed and ready to bring it. I paced the room in a fit of rage, eyeing that square plastic piece of shit in the corner—the one that just insulted me with its calculation. “Oh, that did not just happen . . . You DID NOT just say that to me! BITCH, YOU BETER COME CORRECT! I WILL GET MEDIEVEL! I WILL CUT YOUR HOEBAG FACE OFF!!!” Of course this stage of anger was immediately followed up with the next stage: Bargaining.
“OK. I’ll drink some water. I’ll do an apple cider vinegar flush. I’ll even throw in some sautéed brussels sprouts WITH PAM, if you just promise to go back to the way things were.” I said all this while trying to wiggle into the only pair of jeans I still own—the ones that have always been kind. I shimmied. I hopped. I did that thing where you get on the ground to redistribute the fat cells, planting my feet flat on the floor and pushing my hips up into some sort of fertility exercise position. But still, the jeans refused to cater to my hopes.
So there I was, sprawled out on my bathroom floor—half-naked with a grimace of resentment planted across my face. The image of John Leguizamo in Spawn came to mind and my expression soured as I began to blubber like a baby, releasing a long drawn-out whine-turned-wail. “I’m a fucking cloooooooooooown.”
I can say that writing did this to me, but the truth is: It didn’t. I must accept that I did this to me. I spent the last few months focusing so much on my professional goals that I didn’t even bat an eyelash to the personal goals that were tiresomely waving their flabby arms in the background, straining to get my attention.
So today, there are no more excuses. I have got to bump-up my self-awareness when it comes to my body and overall health. Taking a note from my last “writer’s ass” blog, I must always remember this sound advice that every writer should bare in mind . . .
You are a writer and you must respect your body—cause it’s attached to your brain. 🙂