You know when you’ve been at work all day and only knock off like 3 of the 15,000 things you were supposed to do so you go to the mall to try to give yourself a little pick-me-up but can’t fit a single item because you’ve gained a few lbs (pants too small, shirts too small, shoes too small, hats too small, gloves too small too). It starts raining as soon as you step your weary foot outside the mall door so then these amazing genetics you’ve inherited cause your hair to revert back to its naturally kinky state. You book it through the parking lot (because of course your umbrella is IN THE CAR) but you forgot where you parked exactly so you run back inside the mall, think about it real hard, then remember you came in through Macy’s, not Dillard’s. You walk back through the mall and then run out into the parking lot with your car keys in your hand just clicking your alarm hoping that you’ll see and hear something. When you finally get in your car, you turn Marvin Sapp all the way to the max to drown out the sobbing that might occur as you contemplate how many effs the universe does NOT give about your pitiful life. Before you drive off, you have to wipe the rain (or are those tears?) from your face and you happen to catch your reflection in the rearview mirror and literally cringe at the sight because you know you’re looking at someone who sucks at her job and will never get anywhere in life; someone who is contributing to the poor health statistics in the state; someone who can’t even keep her hair game together let alone any other sorts of games; and someone who is ultimately un-fly with no hope for improvement. You take a labored breath and press on to the house.
And then it hits you.
For me, it usually hits when I open the door to my little apartment and turn on the lights. How are these lights coming on (besides Thomas Edison and Nashville Electric and all that)? I pays that bill! Why is it warm in here? I writes that check! How did I even get to my apartment? I bought a car that starts every single time I crank it, put gas in it, pay car insurance, and send Sun Trust a hefty check to get that mug paid up extra quickly. The point is that I am so extra super blessed (extra super I said!) I support myself, and I’m independent which has probably always been my subconscious measure of success. I work hard (most days). My family is alive and well and despite these few extra pounds, I am too. My life is wonderful.
I’m not saying I have everything I want and hope I don’t sound braggadocios. I am utterly aware of how un-fancy I am. I’d like to be more involved and eventually more influential in my community. I’d like to have a house with more space. I’d like to have my own family and pass these interesting hair genes on to my children. I would like to be a Jet beauty of the week. I got #goals. But I vividly remember begging God for the things I have now and wondering if I would ever have them.
Telling y’all I’m grateful is an understatement. I’m so far indebted to God I couldn’t even pay it off with my life. Sometimes when a big blessing comes through, I look around to see if I’m being punked. Like, is God standing behind a curtain with a camera waiting to see how I’ll react? If so, I dare not sit around crying over one bad day when I’ve had amazing days. Exceptional days! Outstanding days! Extra super days! (extra super I said!)
So no, let me get in here and wipe my face, moisturize my hair, pull out one of the many things in my closet that fits, do a few crunches, and revisit my massive to-do list that I am fully capable of completing. There will be no prolonged pity parties. There will be no excuses. I’m favored by the most high God.