The Hot Mess Sisterhood Rocks

There has been a lot written lately about those of us with anxiety. Can I get a virtual high five!? We’re famous, yo! I love that the dialog is free wheeling these days. If you read the recent Buzzfeed post on “26 Problems Only Anxious People Will Understand,” you know that we can laugh at ourselves. Hey, just because we stress doesn’t mean we don’t decompress. And laugh. And love. And live…happily, even. It’s important to get the conversation out there.

Speaking of conversation, one thing that Buzzfeed didn’t mention is “small talk,” or the lack to engage in the wee conversations. Maybe it’s just me but I find that my anxious personality makes me next to the worst person at small talk. And the worst person would be this guy:

This is tricky because, if you recall, before my son went to kindergarten, I wrote about my desire to let my freak flag fly and meet new people being the real “me.” The slightly cuckoo, itchy, scratchy me. The one who touches her face and gets a bit twitchy. The one who is having about 1,00o different conversations inside her own head as you’re talking about what nice weather we’re having. So, yeah, let’s just say that whole freak flag business hasn’t been going well. In the three months he’s been at school, I’ve met exactly one friend. One. Not exactly the high numbers I was looking for but, as they say, it is about quality, not quantity.

Here’s the thing. I am the very definition of HOT MESS. In fact, I’m pretty sure if you look it up, it’s a photo of me waving (while touching my face).

Kristen Wiig gif

Wiigging out (see what I did there?)

In the past two months, I’ve lost the following:

my purse

my phone

my phone

my phone (yes, I’ve lost it more than once)

my sunglasses

a jean jacket

my distance glasses

my sanity

You get where I’m going with this, right? But there is something interesting about being that way. It’s that, on occasion, you meet someone else who is exactly the same way, and it’s like magic. I have a hot mess soulmate. You know who you are, girl. Love ya! XOXO! But you don’t even have to meet them, per se. You can pass them in the grocery store parking lot and just know — two hot mess ships, passing in the night. Her kids are hanging out the door while she drives away with a cup of coffee on the roof of her car. And you smile and wave. She waves back because she knows, too. She sees your money falling out of your purse and your kid running across the parking lot like some goddamned freakazoid. We wave because we’re like jeep owners. We acknowledge. We accept. We pass along our hot mess blessings to each other. It might not be the cool group to be in, but it’s a freaking tight ass sisterhood, I’ll tell you that. And I’ll take it. Rock on, my hot mess sistren!

 

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