sticky

Do you have dresses that stick? You know. That are full of static and that stick to your legs unless you spray them with magic.anti.static.make.dresses.happy.spray?

One of my most favourite dresses is just like that. I wore it out the other day, forgetting to spray…eek! A sticky.static.y mess with none of its usual, amazing make.me.walk.tall.power.

A couple of things over the last week have made me think about stuff that sticks. Not dresses (which, naturally, are annoying but hardly, really, tragically, life-shifting).

More with people.

I wrote an email this week that was tough to write. I thought about it a whole lot. I wrote. Deleted. Wrote again. Asked My Lovely One to read it to make sure I wasn’t being A Mean Girl. Then I clicked send. The email was difficult for me because, while it involved me sticking up for myself, it had the potential to make a few people Not Like Me.

I sent it knowing that that would be the case. Knowing that my response was considered and polite and important. And knowing that not everyone has to like me. That being authentic, true to myself is far more important to me. Still. I found myself thinking, worrying. Until I remembered that while reflection is helpful, rumination is definitely not, until I reminded myself that what I did was right. So, I left it there. [Sort of.]