America!
As in, America Ferrera!
I saw Lena Dunham and Amy Schumer both link to this article this morning and yes, I'm still in bed as I type this and yes, in some ways it feels like something I've read before, and no, I have ZERO INTEREST in doing a triathlon but still, it was... inspiring.
I even sprung a few surprise tears for this part:
As I powered past people, more often than not, they would start walking. I’m going to be honest — the first few times, it felt good. But by the third or fourth time, it lost its novelty.
I know how it feels to be passed by. I know how it feels to allow someone else’s success to be my own failure. I know all too well how hard it is to battle a nasty inner voice.
So I started to talk to each person I passed. I smiled as I hurled cringe-worthy enthusiasm their way. “GO, GIRL!” “You GOT this, man!” “We’re almost there!” My only goal was to yell louder than the voices in their heads. And you know what? People smiled back. Some started running again.
I think it struck a chord with me because right now I find my own inner voices battling--
About the election ("Now is a time for ACTION!" / "Nothing I could do would ever make a difference, we are all so fucked.").
About business development with the Inn in the face of lots of new spots opening ("I love what I worked so hard to create and other people love it too!" / "We will be a passing fad and fall into oblivion. Hurry! Work harder! Or fine, just give up and roll over already.").
About writing ("You have things to say!" / "NO ONE CARES. Stop adding to the noise.").
One of Ferrera's points was that a seemingly simple and superficial change-- say, chanting Beyoncé lyrics to yourself during a run so you just literally talk over your inner critic-- can have surprisingly big results.
On my next run, I gave it a try. As I approached the last leg of my lap, and the sensation that I might throw up or pass out began to rise, I dug out my inner Beyoncé. I began to chant: I’m a survivor. I’m not gone give up. I’makeep running, ’cause a winner don’t quit on herself!
I sounded like a crazy person, and it still hurt like hell. My shoulder, my lungs, my legs — my whole body ached. But for the first time, I didn’t feel beaten down at the end of a run. I felt like a badass.
So when I got out of bed this morning (at about the "Nothing I could do would ever make a difference, we are all so fucked" portion of this post), I put on the silk blouse I bought myself when I decided I was really SERIOUS about opening a hotel.
Casey Scieszka
The first time I wore it, it was to meet with my accountant-- my accountant! Perhaps that doesn't sound thrilling but it WAS. It meant I meant business. My accountant. My lawyer. All that would lead to my hotel, right?
I felt like a fraud when I first put it on. Like I was literally just dressing the part of a business owner. But somewhere along 34th Street, as I weaved through the crowds in the sunshine, I felt that particular brand of New York City optimism and thought, "I can DO THIS," and the shirt felt like a battle shield--
and then a middle aged man holding a Macy's bag yelled, "Nice tits!" in my face.
Womp womp.
But the meeting went well, and that accountant is still my accountant, AND I OWN A FUCKING HOTEL NOW.
That was my triathlon.
So. Today I'm wearing my blouse. Today I am a badass. Thank you America Ferrera for reminding me.