Do I have any people aboard the hot mess express with me? Any sistas on the struggle bus? On rough days I refer to myself as “Struggle Pants Stacey.” Zack is a kind soul who believes that I’m not as much of a mess as I think I am. I hope he’s right. But really, I am a hot dang mess.
-On my very first big girl job straight out of college. Day 1: I can’t figure out how to get to my car. Fatigued from adulting without a collegiate nap or just plain stupid, I couldn’t think. I see my car in all her dusty black glory in the giant parking garage as I stand from a distance, but it looks parked in between the levels where I cannot directly access the parking spot from the level I’m standing. I can NOT remember how I parked it 10 hours before and managed to enter into the building. So I do the only logical thing my struggling brain can muster. I check my surroundings for witnesses, hike up my black pencil skirt, and climb over the cable barrier that separated me from my car. Just as I land from the cable barrier to the hood of my car, on my knees, panty-hosed legs spread apart with my suede pumps in hand, the car immediately to my right begins to slowly reverse from their parking spot. I die.
-I recently lost my IPhone for the very first time. I dropped it in a gutter while running through my parking lot to make it to the office without melting from the rain.
-I got an actual warning ticket from a police officer for jaywalking.
-I also got a speeding ticket in my car from a police officer on his bicycle in the same year.
So you get my drift. Hot.Dang. Mess.
And the worst instance of hot messery to date: (Messery is a word; I just used it)
This past weekend driving back to Houston from Oklahoma, I hit Dallas traffic hard. I’m FINALLY on I-45, when I just put my car in park. Everyone puts their car in park. I’m parked an overpass in the middle lane. I pass the mile marker that says, “1” and then I don’t pass anything else because I’m chillin’ on the interstate, with my deaf dog copilot in the passenger’s seat. But then, OH.NO. I start to have all the wrong symptoms. Clammy hands, metallic taste, dry lips. I can feel my face draining of color. I can actually hear my stomach. At first it’s low and nearly inaudible, but then the low growling crescendos into a full chorus of embarrassing, loud churning (even with my deaf dog as the only other being in my car, still humiliating). Nauseous, so nauseous. Blast that a/c! Open all the vents! Can my face actually fit into a vent? That should help. But my face doesn’t fit into a vent, and it doesn’t help. It’s not mind over matter. I’m about to explode. My car is still in park, and so is every other car in Dallas. There’s no exit in sight. OH LAWD. I text Lindsay, “I’m definitely about to sh*t in my car.” And then the unthinkable happens. And it gets worse. I can’t roll down my windows because it’s pouring down rain. Jaxon wakes from his napping copilot position and crawls into the floor board. Even my dog is ashamed of me. I blame Crohn’s, but I could blame Dallas truck drivers, just as well. PERFECT timing. I get a text from the hospital to confirm my infusion appointment for later this week. Actually, just about half an hour too late. I reply with three enthusiastic capital letter “A”s in a row instead of only one. I’m finally able to exit an hour later, meander through the scenic rough part of town near the Cowboy’s Stadium (not even worried at this point. Someone try to kidnap me. I dare you. I have [literal] sh*t you won’t even know how to deal with, because I don’t even know how to deal with it.) and finally find my way to Lindsay’s house, who cheerfully greets me with towels, laughter, a smile, a shower, and a washer/dryer.
I hope you all have a friend you can call when you’ve crapped your pants in the middle of the interstate who will still love you, or at least pretend to. If so, cherish them. Never let that person go. Lindsay is actually my sister, so she’s staying put. But her sisterhood could just as easily given her an easy out of this situation. I definitely could’ve made her childhood a lot more enjoyable than I did at times.
All I’m saying is genuine friendship, even if found through family, is rare and special and should be fully and completely appreciated. It’s not always picture-perfect and cute. Sometimes it’s grabbing towels and running through the rain to help a sister and her deaf dog out of a crappy situation. Lindsay is my person. And if she ever has to take a harsh break from girl bossing to explode her pants on the interstate, well. I’d gladly laugh about it with her later. Love the people who love you through all of your hot messes.
Friendship > Poop.
Friendship > Traffic.
Keep moving forward 🙂