You aren't in China. This isn't 2007. You aren't Britney Spears. It will be ok.

I had shit week last week. There wasn’t a single good reason for it either. I slept more between Wednesday and Sunday of last week than I did in the first year of Emma’s life. I didn’t write a thing. I didn’t clean the house. The children got fed some pretty questionable meals and I wasn’t exactly at the top of my productivity game at work either. Wednesday I stayed home sick. Thursday I was on edge. By Friday, I was a babbling, sobbing, erratic, insane mess.

I didn’t get out of bed on Saturday until like 2:00 PM and that was only because I had to be at my sisters how at 3:00. Its 30 minutes away. I mean, I got up and got some coffee and got back into bed, but I’m pretty sure that doesn’t count any more than the donut I ate somewhere around noon.

There is a popular meme on the internet that I love that says, “If Britney Spears made it through 2007, I can make it through today.”

Amen to that.

Wanna know why I love that one? Because it’s relatable in a way that real tragedy isn’t.

When I was ten, we had some family dinner get together at my grandmothers. There were four of us cousins sitting at the round white diner style table in the kitchen on blue vynle covered chairs, while the adults gathered around the big table in the dining room. It was just on the other side of the stove in the kitchen, so dinning “room” might be a stretch.

We were nasty, grimy little bastards. I don’t remember what we into that day. Racing barn cats, beating the hell out of each other, teaching the younger cousins to do things that would get them in trouble so we could do what we wanted… Who knows what we had been up to, but we weren’t done and we were not in the mood to eat. By we, I mean me. I’m pretty sure that neither of the boys ever had a “not in the mood to eat” moment. I can’t remember if any of the other girls were there. I remember the boys, because I foisted a bunch of my food off on them before I got caught.

For some reason, on this fine family evening, I decided that I didn’t like cooked carrots. While I’ve never been a huge fan of that particular vegetable in its mushier form, I don’t recall ever hating them. Which means that this little fit can only be a result of my contrary nature. My father is not really the hard ass type either, so I’m not sure what got into him on that very evening. Probably my contrary nature – I could test a dead man’s patience. The amount of time’s I’ve been told “Your grandfather is rolling over in his grave” is a testament to that.

Anyway, I wanted to get up and continue about the trouble I was getting into elsewhere, when my father informed me that I had to eat my carrots first.

“No”

Seriously, even when the words came out of my mouth, I have no idea why I was saying it.
 
“Well, you aren’t getting up from that table until those carrots are gone. Every. Single. One of them.”

Gauntlet thrown. Let the standoff commence.

I don’t know how long it lasted, but I do know that in the course of this whole cooked carrot quandary there were lots words tossed around. Threats of beating might been thrown out there, along with dramatic declarations of not being loved. I don’t remember all of it, but I’m certain I was given the age old “there are starving children in China” guilt trip.

You know what a ten year old thinks when you tell them that there are starving children in China? It goes something like this:

Last weekend when I didn’t finish my chicken mcnuggets and mom wouldn’t let me have a snack because dinner was almost ready, I thought I thought I was absolutely going to DIE?! My stomach as going to eat my body! Those Chinese kids can’t possibly life like that. I’m not eating these stupid carrots.

The concept simply isn’t in the realm of comprehension for a ten year old.

So yes, I can remind myself that millions of Jews were tortured and died in the Holocaust. I can tell myself that there are women right here in my own community who are beaten every day. I can think of someone I know just lost a child or friend or parent and have far more suffering than I do. However, the depth of that suffering isn’t in the realm of my comprehension. The result of that is that I hate myself. Hating myself is not productive to getting out of bed.

I’m fully aware that there is real tragedy in the world and that my lack of sleep, three kids, and PMS are not notable in the grand scheme of things. However, that doesn’t mean that I’m not having a shit week.

THIS is why I love the Britney Spears analogy. I can relate to just being bat shit crazy. So when I’m lying in bed having a shit week, and I can’t get up, I think about Britney Spears.

So what if I laid in the closet floor and cried this morning because I couldn’t find my green shirt. Nobody wrote a “tell all” book about it.

So what if I drank a bottle of wine last night and stumbled to bed. Nobody caught my mascara smeared, hair ratted wobbly ass on camera. (Drunk selfies do not count)

So what if I threw the curling iron across the bathroom because my hair didn’t cooperate. Despite my threats, I didn’t actually shave my head.

So I didn’t write anything at all, profound or otherwise. I won’t always be known for wearing a school girl skirt and singing “Hit me baby, one more time”

This is not to say I haven’t worn a school girl skirt and sang “Hit me baby, one more time.” It’s just not what I’m not known for. I’m not Britney Spears. This is not 2007. I can do this. 

Everybody has bad days. You are allowed to have cranky days. The reality of your own suffering, no matter the reason, IS significant. Sometimes there just isn’t a reason. You don’t have to assign a reason to your sadness, your anger or you frustration.

You don’t have to justify your feelings to the world. Neither did Britney, the world just took it upon themselves to have an opinion. There is a strong possibility that your world will do the same to you.

Someone will ask you why you are in a bad mood. Which always improves the situation doesn’t it? I know when I’m in a bad mood, I just adore it when someone apprises me of the fact. I clearly hadn’t noticed. Then, it gets really exciting when they proceed to demand a reason for the mood they just assigned to me. Brilliant.

On occasion, it might just be better for the world at large if you to just stay in bed. There are days that wallowing in your own misery is just what you need to do. Sometimes a little wallowing is restorative.

At some point in time, I’m assuming, like myself, you will have to get up. The children will need to eat something other than protein bars and lunchables eventually. The rent will not pay itself and you cannot call in to work bitchy. Trust me. I’ve tried. And there is no reason whatsoever that you should let that DSW coupon expire. That’s just wasteful.

When that time comes, get out of bed, put some whiskey in your coffee. If it’s after like 9:00 or 10:00 AM, have some wine. Eat some cake for breakfast. You know that obnoxious as hell, inspirational shit on the internet that pops up all the time and says, “Breath. It’s just a bad day, not a bad life.” It turns out that it’s actually kind of true. It may be a shit week, or a bad day, or even a year from hell, but Britney made it through 2007 – you’ve totally got this.

If that fails, read this blog post again. I threw my curling iron, fed my kids lunchables, and know the words to Britney Spear’s songs. You don’t have to be my specific kind of crazy to relate to it and know that you aren’t alone. Anyone who says they don’t have bad days is a liar and they are faking it. Ignore them.

So you tell me, would you rather lay in bed, eat chocolate and wallow in your bad day or slap a fake smile on your face and pretend it isn’t happening. That is absolutely necessary more often than not. I’m just saying that when you are given the opportunity, just let yourself have a bad day.

Then get up and get going. There are starving children in China for Christ sake!