Bell Curve Baby
Well, I don’t know what to write this morning, BUT I can say: I just got done snuggling my favorite dog, I’m wearing my favorite dress, sitting in my favorite writing position (criss cross applesauce), and a few days ago I got my favorite haircut ever from my favorite hairstylist ever. Francesco’s haircuts are so good, it makes it look like you also got color…?! I can’t explain it.
Anyway, I’m sitting in my favorite room (screened-in porch in the middle of a lush Hawaiian garden) of my favorite Hawaii friend’s house, where I’m currently minding the Air BnB’s, and today is my favorite day of the job yet, because today they’re all occupied and I don’t need to rush around cleaning. I’m going to do my favorite morning thing, which is write a blog, while drinking my favorite brand of instant coffee (Starbuck Via, the blonde Veranda blend) from my favorite Yeti mug, whipped into an iced soy latte of course (white girl destruction level: 100), and then eat something — idgaf what tbh, just anything — and then go to my favorite barbell gym, Pacific Island Fitness!! Which I never get to go to, because it’s too far from where I live, but close to this house I’m housesitting, if that makes sense. Kona.
And do my favorite workout, the novice linear progression — gotta check if it’s A or B today, I’m all messed up from all the moving and flurry — from my favorite strength methodology, Starting Strength. Makes me look and feel the most favorite way I’ve ever looked or felt. I’m 46, which is my favorite age ever, but I’ll be 47 on May 8 and then that will be my favorite age. Because I’m my favorite me that I’ve ever been.
In general I’m gearing up to go work my job on the mainland per my favorite schedule (seasonal); it’s my favorite job I’ve ever had (helicopter fueler); favorite employer (high class helicopter trash), favorite sub-industry (wildland fire aviation), favorite industry (wildland fire federal contracting), using my favorite credential (class A CDL). I make a favorite amount of money there having days that are full of favorite moments all day long, around my favorite kind of people.
I could go on, but it’s just ridiculous, and would become a device. Everything I’ve said so far is entirely accurate. Especially the part about being my favorite me I’ve ever been. That trumps it all.
My current thinking is that the good ol’ bell curve is perhaps life’s most relevant chart — this one right here:
Today specifically, I’m thinking about how important my own wellbeing is to me. The innocent selfishness of my youth (early bell curve) was complexified and distorted by layers and layers of caveats, conditions, and concessions over time, intensifying right around 2021 (peak bell curve). I’ve been sloping back down to an inherently selfish stance ever since, but for entirely different and more nuanced reasons.
And I think a lot of life is like this: returning to simple straightforwardness. Because now you can play out the whole stupid fucking chess game, all the moves and counter-moves, in your mind, and every single time it’s the same conclusion: my wellbeing matters most, because it has to.
My cup has to be full or I’ve got nothing to give, and the more I want to give, the more I better keep my cup full. I’m a dangerous person when I don’t keep my cup full, no matter how much I love you. You’re a dangerous person when you don’t keep your cup full, no matter how much you love me.
We’re all one bad year away from destroying everything that matters to us; and we’re all one good year away from sitting in our favorite places, wearing our favorite clothes, doing our favorite things.
How do you have a good year instead of a bad year? I learned it’s not that hard, actually. Self-custody your wellbeing. The wrong person won’t act right, and the right person won’t act wrong; either way there’s no need to entrust your wellbeing to an outside party. Your bitcoin’s not safe on the exchange and neither is your power of veto.
I’ve been hearing from a lot of men my age, and older, that the major issue they face in dating women of commensurate age is that we’re all so hardened, now. That’s probably true. I’m bell curving myself back down to ‘how is that my problem’. If they don’t like it, they can go gay.
Everybody loves dogs, because dogs just adore you, no matter how you act. I guess dating younger women is like that; I certainly was. Like most of us females, I was genetically geared to be a trad-wife — to love domesticating, making things nice, bonding to one man, and being thoughtful about what he would like, and adoring him with the steady, loyal warmth of a thousand suns, whether he’s having a good day or a bad day, whether he’s rich or poor. It’s not my fault I was born into a time when literally all of that is categorically broken, on every level.
It’s like I showed up to the dance in my prettiest dress — but the dance turned out to be an enormous Department of Motor Vehicles, where all the customer service reps are men whom a sorcerer has secretly cursed. You have to take a number and wait your turn to be totally under-served by them in a variety of unpredictable and often threatening ways, in order to find out what the curse was. Which you don’t actually want to know; just somehow it’s become your job to do this.
That would be funny if dogs, who were mistreated enough, morphed into cats. Because that’s what happens with us women, apparently. I can just imagine being proposed to, now.
“Will you marry me?”
“I don’t know — are you gonna act right? Fuckin doubt it.” Slinking off to lick my butthole.
I’ve been listening to a lot of Travis Tritt, during this move. Infinite packing, boxing, taping, most of all decision making. Making a decision about every single item I’ve acquired and quite a few I didn’t acquire but, you know, were acquired on my behalf. He’s right — it is a great day to be alive; I know the sun’s still shining when I close my eyes; there’s some hard times in the neighborhood, but why can’t every day be just this good :)