My Barbie dolls all had chopped hair and marker makeup. For some, it became part of their personality (e.g. Working Woman Barbie was permanently late, frazzled, and off her meds). For others (such as my hot MyScene doll), I felt bad; I regretted it.
By being able to mangle my dolls however I pleased, I learned how impermanent my own appearance was by comparison. While my Barbie’s hair was always going to be representative of that time I thought I was about to give her the glow up of a lifetime, my hair (and appearance in general) was different. My makeup could be taken off. My hair could grow back. My body could (and would) expand and shrink depending on what I ate for breakfast. If my glow up didn’t meet my expectations, I would always have another chance.
This was fantastic news for me, given I’d been trying to look like someone in a magazine ever since I saw someone living their best life in a magazine.1
There was a time when Julie and I were determined to wake up at 6am before school, to go run down the East River. We were maybe 13 and convinced our glow up was right around the corner. From what I recall, there were no particular goals in place (lose fat, increase stamina, etc.) except to sound cool and feel like we were accomplishing something. Like any CEO interviewed in a self-help magazine, we knew that in order to be someone, the ideal morning schedule looked something like this:
5:45am- wake up
5:45-6am- lemon water & stretch
6am- run along East River for 1 mile
7:15am- shower & power suit
7:15-7:30am- protein-based breakfast with green juice
7:30am- go to work (ie, 6th grade homeroom)
While we never quite made it to this level of “perfection,” we put in a valiant effort, I’d say. A handful of times, I went over to her house before sunrise. Her mom would offer us mini chocolate chip pancakes that we’d eat, then be too full to run (or have no time). We made it out of the house maybe twice, and both times we would attempt to run for about 10 seconds, then walk the rest. The intention–the fantasy–was there. And if we’re being honest, the whole thing became its own kind of fantasy.
A few months ago, I was at a Szechuan spot in LIC, catching up with a friend on general life and found myself talking about expeditions I’d been on in the past, as well as the current one I was on in El Paso.2 As we got into it, he shared some shitty expeditions of his own and then said something along the lines of, “how does nothing seem to go wrong for you?”
The comment/question came off as flattery—me? nothing wrong? *big smile* hmmm. . .I started to think about it, in addition to who I was talking to— someone, though very adventurous, knowingly cautious when it comes to the specific things that make him anxious.
The sound of “nothing” seemingly going wrong felt too absolute to me. As someone very familiar with running in an airport, being in situations I would prefer not to be in, and understanding a generic feeling of “life flashing before my eyes,” I was certain somewhere in my rolodex of experiences, things did not unfold "correctly.” But, at the end of the day, I was confident in his assessment that it’s true— somehow I always come out unscathed (or, if I was scathed, the lesson learned was strong enough to cover any negative residue).
In wanting to answer his question of “how”, I recalled recent conversations with some other friends who have anxiety and realized, that was it.
Anxiety is a bitch that I’m too scared to hang out with. And I understand in saying this, that many people can’t avoid it-I get that. But, as I feel like I’ve had the ability to shut the door on that type of irrational mode of thinking (perhaps I accepted depression in place of it), I got to see what anxiety could do to a person in regards to proving them right.
Once you put into your mind that bad shit will happen, it makes it harder to believe that good shit will happen.
Now, I don’t know what “believing” does in terms of changing course of action (I’m not a big “fate” or “destiny” person), especially when that situation becomes completely out of one’s control3, but I am convinced the Wizard of Oz was on to something with the whole “believe in yourself” stuff. Did Dorothy manifest going home? A ready-to-argue paper, for sure.
I’ll stand by the thought that there is some kind of underlying magic that goes on, some shifting of tectonic plates, that tacit understanding, the subtext that we know but cannot fully articulate, that transforms beliefs (positive or negative) into results.
Still in thinking mode, trying to figure out a substantial answer as I ate the best mala dry pot ever—sinuses clear as day—I asked myself ala SELF Magazine: So, how do we get the results that we want?
I definitely forget my exact answer, but I’ll say this now:
I believe in manifesting in the way that there is no reason to catastrophize things before there’s even a hint that catastrophe is on the horizon. I don’t like inviting bad thoughts into a place that doesn’t need them.
This doesn’t mean I’m hyper-optimistic. I don’t necessarily invite good thoughts into a place either.
I want to win every single day. (I’m very competitive). In order to achieve this without exploding from the the pressure of it all, I create very low expectations or—more often than not—zero expectations. If the finish line is truly just a line and nothing more than that, and I’m the only one there (it’s my mind, after all—nobody else got access), then the only thing preventing me from reaching that line is myself, or things I cannot help (which I’d consider a penalty, and therefore a win by default).
“Getting in one’s own way” is such a thing, but it’s true. Once I got hold of this concept, I understood that the biggest L is when you hit yourself—cause, like, for what?
If believing in yourself results in removing your own body (ego) as an obstacle from winning, then fuck yeah, I’ll believe in myself.
If not imagining what horrible things could go wrong en route to said imagined finish line, then I’m not going to waste my energy on hypothesizing horrible things.
To improve my odds, I also like to think that I’m in 500 different “competitions” at once—so even if things don’t go “my” way every time—I just need over 50% to come out on top.
It’s very similar to the mindset of making a to do list with things such as “put away sneakers.” Every competition counts. And if the sensation of pressure only makes it harder to win, then I’m going to give myself as much grace as possible.
Yesterday I said something about procrastination and how I do it a lot (in a masturbatory-self-loathing kind of way that made me third party cringe, but… whatever)
To which my friend replied, “sounds like you are afraid of failure.”
I nodded. Yes. Not a wrong assessment. As mentioned earlier, someone who loves to win—who is trying to win every single day, in fact—probably reeks of “fears failure.”4 Yet, I couldn’t fully accept this without feeling defensive. My relationship with procrastination started the minute I learned the definition of the word, so who are you to tell me what it sounds like?
Me (slightly defensive, overly passionate, unnecessarily convincing): “Yes, but I procrastinate to add pressure that will make me do the work because I believe in myself so hard—I’ve achieved short deadlines before, with positive reviews to show for it—to a degree that I am almost certain I won’t fail. This level of security makes me need to turn the dial up, so I can feel the potential for failure even more. Does that make sense?”
I believe we moved on from the topic after that.
In line with procrastination, I’ve been thinking a lot about my body and how I put it off.
My relationship with body image has always been an internal one, in that I hated bringing up what I looked like to people, mostly because I was too scared that they would affirm an insecurity of mine, therefore making it real.
Like an anxiety, speaking self-doubt into existence is a weapon of its own, and I refuse to hand over any ammo to be used against me—cause, like, for what?
As an avid magazine reader, reality TV consumer, and daughter of a mom who cares about her appearance, I grew up with ample reference on beauty standards that informed what I was or was not.
Glow-up mode for me started in the second grade when I realized during swim class that my belly folded outward instead of inward.5 I remember doing so many sit-ups that I got a cyst on my lower back. The pediatrician had to puncture it with a needle (and out came toothpaste).
I jumped rope and hoola-hooped during commercial breaks. I attempted to go on these runs with Julie in the morning. When I started to see a nutritionist in the 7th grade, courtesy of my mom’s personal interest in learning more, I grew shameful of my attempts to hold a healthy lifestyle. From what I was gathering, hot girls ate candy and had a six-pack via magic. Not because they sweat it out. On top of that, to not eat candy and not have a six pack? How embarrassing.
I never expressed outward goals—I never bothered to identify outward goals, if only so I could stave off undo pressure. I didn’t try to manifest, because I was too scared I wouldn’t be able to. And for that, my body has looked relatively the same ever since I stopped growing in height.
It’s not until recently—within the past couple years—that I discovered a more healthy relationship to being healthy. I think part of it has to do with the people around me—seeing friends take care of themselves affirms my lifestyle of taking care of myself. Another part has to do with accepting that I got time and nothing is permanent.
Unlike my Barbies, I could fuck it all up, then fuck it up again, and keep going until it’s perfectly fucked and I look amazing.
When it’s something I can do easily—such as write about shit— then I need all the pressure in the world to do it (because the odds I win feel pretty good). But when its something that is a constant choice—what to eat, what to do (and asking these questions at least 3x a day, each)—it’s easy to feel the pressure without hope of reaching a finish line anytime soon.
In order to not feel stuck, in order to win, to live out my best life—such as the magazine suggests—I have to remind myself I got all the time in the world. It’s chill. My hair will grow back. My body will change. 14 years later, Julie and I can finally workout at 5:30am without a single groan or temptation to do something else.
Maybe there is no real “finish line” we’re moving towards; maybe all we can do is move and see what happens later (kinda exciting).
for reference, magazine aesthetics inform my entire way of living at home
the expedition=being in El Paso
i’ll stand by the fact that any random dangerous scenario does not happen to someone because of their anxiety.
new perfume?
as well as learning my foot was the same size as my teacher’s, but that was a fixed issue, a win by penalty