I'm a worrier, a natural born muller, if stressing myself was an art I'd be hung in galleries charging £12 a view. It would be a sell out. It's not fun, it's certainly not attractive and after another rotten week of making myself feel well and truly rotten something happened. I realised that I hadn't achieved, I wasn't fully satisfied, I was actually pretty unhappy with quite a lot.
It was liberating.
I mean, if you suddenly figure out that perfection isn't a viable option then striving to achieve perfection doesn't feel such a chore. A job. A daily every waking minute grind. The world carried on turning, nobody dropped dead in their seat and I was fine.
It's not a problem that I can't get that "medium" dress over my arse, some women have to pay good money for a proper bottom. Granted, it did nothing for my esteem initially. Knicker and braless (I told myself that taking them off would surely mean it would fit) skirt strained and bunched around my hips, one breast exposed and one arm completely raised. And trapped. I was meant to be meeting a friend 20 minutes later, I nearly cried.
Sure, I can laugh about it now though.
I can laugh at the fact that the last three, THREE, dates have cancelled on me. I re-assigned the money I would have spent (oh yes boys, this girl goes dutch) on takeout with two extra sides, a manicure for me and my mum and a pair of baby pink suede peep toes so who really had the best time there?
It's absolutely fine that the promotion they gave a three month plan for in March still hasn't happened. Stressing made my days unbearable but forget forgotten promises, I swell with pride every single time I hear someone recommend me to another member of the agency, or every time I'm asked to give recommendations on new projects or take on a new client.There is no better feeling than hitting 5.30, realising you're nowhere near finishing for the night but god, you're running with this to do list, you know what you're doing, it feels pretty great. I'll put in the slog today and climb another rung tomorrow. Just you wait.
I can live with a Friday night in once in a while. Fresh duvets, a glass of wine and uninterrupted, unlimited, unbelievable sleep is not something to be sniffed at after a week of nine to five to six to seven.
It's perfectly alright to use face wipes to clean surfaces once in a while.
A glass of wine and bar nuts definitely counts as dinner.
And I can accept wearing those jeans a second day in a row - even if they have spent the night in the laundry basket.
I won't die if my legs aren't stripped completely of hair every single day.
And if I only want to tan the bits that are on show, who's going to care?
I like fancying all the wrong boys. I quite like the lack of effort required because they don't fancy me anyway.
It's alright if I leave the washing up in the sink and clothes on the dryer for more than a day.
Cleaning is a perfectly acceptable evening plan. Kitts and a night of gin can wait sometimes.
Give up smoking, chocolate or buying a starbs every single morning; I'm giving up giving a f.. well you get the idea. I'm not a full convert, I'm still worrying, still analysing, over analysing too many things don't get me wrong. But, every now and then I forget. I ignore every irritated impulse, I forgo perfection and forgive the results and everything is ok. I'm ok.
And the world carried on turning, nobody dropped dead in their seat and I was fine.