When I was in the third grade, I would doodle in class. Not of puppies or flowers or random shapes and shades, but I would draw my daughter and son. Or at least, the daughter and the son that I envisioned having in the far far future.
I drew one curly hair on each that made them both resemble Alfalfa from Little Rascals and they both had diapers with a safety pin. The only thing that distinguished them were their names on display underneath: Rebecca and Toby.
Ironically, Rebecca was the name my teacher thought I had for the first three months of school, and even after meeting with him one-on-one for a half hour after previously exchanging emails. And yet, he said, “Have a nice day Rebecca.”
Oh please, call me Megan. That’s what they call my daughter. I can’t wait to use that when I’m older and people try calling me Mrs. *insert the last name of my future husband here*.
Whatever my name is to anybody, I have decided that I am going through an identity crisis. A midlife crisis, if you will. Yes, maybe I’m a little young to be going through one, but I was also a little young to have vertigo at the age of 12 but I did that didn’t I?
No, I haven’t dyed my hair pink or gotten any crazy tattoos. I did get my cartilage pierced but that was pre-crisis and just plain fun. I haven’t divorced my husband and started dating a man twenty years my junior and I also haven’t quit my job to open my own Goat Yoga Studio. To many, these could all be great signs.
There are times, however, where I found myself not being able to trust my own gut. Those were the times I found myself most vulnerable and susceptible to my anxiety, who I named Claire. All the Claires I have ever really gotten to know super well were always just really conceited and overbearing, meanwhile they were wrong 99% of the time. Hence, Claire was born.
Claire is so annoying. I will tell you straight up and there is no tiptoeing around the matter. It’s just a fact. She doesn’t shut up and I HATE people who don’t know when to stop talking. Like. I didn’t ask you? We aren’t friends and yet she decided that it’s cool to literally invite herself and accompany me wherever I go. Whether that be the few times I leave the house or a trip to the bathroom, she just assumes it’s fine. Like. I didn’t invite you? God she really grinds my gears.
Claire, if you’re reading this - wait no.
Claire, I know you’re reading this because you are watching me write this from over my shoulder. Back. The. Heck. Off.
Stand down Claire. You are no match for this emotionally unstable -chunky -somewhat blonde- less pimply faced thanks to the low histamine diet- girl.