Is it still Monday? STILL? FFS. I’ve got the doubts. It sounds a bit like a stomach complaint, doesn’t it? The doubts. If only it were that simple. Throw them all in the toilet, then flush them away.
But noooooo. These little gremlin buggers are clinging on to my undercarriage. Do I have an undercarriage? I do today, because even though I look nothing like an aeroplane the little gremlin buggers are making damn sure my landing gear doesn’t work.
There’s nothing terribly wrong. I’ve just lost my mojo, you know? I’ve got the go slows, and the oh noes, and the nose blows. I have a cold, but it’s a pretty poor excuse for one. I’m not even doing that properly. I’m just not feeling on top of my game, because, these days, I don’t really HAVE a game. Mumming is not a game.
I can’t be on top of the ‘chick in the bar being hot’ game, cos that’s just sad and lame and hello… I’m married and ‘old as f*&ck, for this club, not, you know, for the Earth’ (to quote a memorable line from ‘Knocked Up’). I can’t be on top of the career game, trotting off as I once did in my click-clack heels with my pencil-skirted arse feeling all powerful and in control, making good strong decisions all day, because I’m not in control of anything. Oh. And I don’t seem to have a career. I do have dribbles and drabbles of great and fascinating (no sarcasm here) work trickling in, but this doubty sickness has me quavering until I can slap it away with some good strong caffeine and plunk down some reassuring words on the page. Only then at the end of a solid work day do I sigh with relief and contentment, and only when there’s a constant river will the doubty disease stop plaguing my worker head.
I can’t be on top of the blog game, because, hell. I can’t even write lately without trying to cross out the next word I write before I’ve managed to write it. Not funny enough, not deep enough, not witty or shallow or clever or silly enough. Not. Enough. And lets face it, this one is a game that’s not for winning, and I’m just a wee little tadpole who likes to wiggle her booty in the fishy pond.
I can’t be on top of the social butterfly game, because a) I’m not a butterfly, and b) social? What is social? I think it’s been two weeks since I left the house at night, and two weeks since I was out of my PJs between the hours of 8 and 7 (the dark hours… there’s something). When I try and make conversation I want to rewind my words sometimes. I feel like there’s another mini-gremlin hiding inside my brain poking all the wrong words out. I need a mini-gremlin on the OUTSIDE with a rewind device, and another with a word-poking-back-in stick to help me along at my next social event. Do you know where I can buy one of these?
Mumming is not a game. Mumming is serious. I can be ok with the other wibbles and wobbles, but they bleed over like watercolour into the decisions I make on the important stuff. I need to trust my mum instinct. I need to trust that when I say ‘no’ it’s the right thing. I need to not be second-guessing whether I’m doing a good job. I know I am with this. But, on a Monday, with the doubts and the go slows, it’s a bit too easy to start asking the questions.
Do you get the doubts? How do you kick them out?