Quitting like a Fat Babe does.

 

stardust

Babes. I fucking quit my job. A job I loved. A job I was good at, that I think made a tiny difference. And, let’s be real, a job that paid half the bills and meant that we could have fancy cheese sometimes.

That is some messed up, holy shit, mid life mother fucking crisis business, no?

Rhetorical question – IT IS OBVI WILDLY RECKLESS. Especially for a fat babe with a protestant prairie work ethic. YOU NEVER QUIT A JOB WITHOUT ANOTHER JOB. It is the middle class mantra of prairie people since time immemorial. But I totally fucking did. So there.

Welcome to the party. Confession: by party I mean the exact opposite.

I am fucking exhausted. Babes I’m tired. The kind of tired that makes me want to sleep for days. The kind of tired that makes nothing seem worth getting up for. The kind of tired that often requires expensive therapy and significant life changes. And, y’all, I have been tired for a while. So I quit.

Look it was either quit or lose everything, so the choice was a no brainer. I mean, babes, I pretty much have it all : partner that I love and that I still think is a total babe who is kind and patient and knows how to fix shit, a scrappy kid that is pretty much the best thing that ever happened to me, a couple dirt bag dogs, a mostly un-fucked up family that loves me, enough disposable income to ensure that I look sick as fuck, and a place to lay my head every night – not the worst life. In fact, kind of the best life.

And then there was a moment in time (my fucking birthday if we are going to be specific – which I am) where my S.O. was all ‘get your head out of your ass and engage with the people who love you like you love them back or I am outta here’ – Babes that is the kind of sentence that you fucking pay attention to. And then you fix it.

The reality of my life is that my anxiety has always been a tricky little fucker. And the other truth is that the kind of work that I do is deeply impactful – in all the good ways and all the really fucking bad ways. And then this other shitty thing happened where my crazy went and tied itself to land and humanity and the ways that this planet and her people are so sick. Babes, there is no escape from a sick planet. A lover once said to me ‘i don’t know how you can manage your anxiety when the world is so full of hurt’. She nailed it, babes, how do we manage in a sick world? How do those of us with giant hearts who feel things hard and long and deep stay afloat?

The hard truth is I have no fucking clue. I can’t tell when I am sick and when I am just anxious. I feel like I am dying every single day. I can’t turn off my worry about dying and leaving my little girl, I can’t stop being afraid that she will turn out like her mama, hurting in a world that needs more love and heart and peace than we can give. I can’t stop wondering whether today will be the day when my partner has just had enough of it and walks out the door.

Honestly, babes, anxiety has pretty much meant that I can’t have nice things (or maybe, secret confession, that I don’t deserve them). Or at least that’s how it feels. A lot.

That is why I had to quit the ever loving hell out of my job. Cause this is the kind of wonky brain stuff that fucking destroys lives and I may be crazy but I am not stupid and I was not gonna go down like that. Hell to the fucking no. Cause babes, on my clear days, I know that we are all worth fighting for, I’m worth fighting for fer crissakes. My people and community and this planet deserve a fat, kind hearted, blaspheming warrior femme to bring the noise, the chaos and the motherfucking style.

Now I get that quitting a damn job is maybe a large-ish gesture and that many people just hire a life coach or do yoga or something less, well, drastic. But I am a babe that tends to lean towards the dramatic, the hysterical, the ‘burn it with fire’ approaches to significant life problems. I mean why do anything halfway, amiright?

K, and to be clear i am also fully aware that quitting a job the same day you first think about quitting said job is not just born out of enormous balls and recklessness, but also privilege and a partner who works, so I get that I sound actually ridiculous. But here is the goddamn lowdown: I have until mid February to figure out what the fuck do with myself that will give me energy instead of suck the life out of me. I gotta figure out how to live in this world in a good way for my family and my community.

So the current plan is to start by doing myself a solid and taking some time to chill the fuck out. And from there, I am banking on the fact that adventure awaits.

So I quit. I worked my last day Friday. So that I can live.

First Day at No Work:

Post Work Out:

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My new work has an even more casual dress code than the clinic!

My New Co-Workers and Office:

 

The bar for efficiency and work ethic is extremely low here. Like, if I stay awake and don’t pee on the couch I will have surpassed my colleagues by significant amounts.

 

 

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Dropping my truth bomb like a fat babe does.

 

if i had 14k laying around i could have this bang on print by peter buchman (2014). i dont so ima just leave it here. xo

Babes I’m sucking right now, spring has sprung and so has some grade A anxiety. I have been crazy since my early 20’s; you would think I would be a little more prepared, but alas, I am still surprised when shit gets cray cray. My kid’s been sick, I’m sleep deprived, I am taking care of my gran, who I love big time, who has a damn ulcer on her foot that is stressing me the fuck out, and, if I’m being honest, I have been a shitty, checked out partner for the better part of a month, fine, maybe longer. My adulting gameplay is currently non-existent.
I can’t shake the pit in my stomach and I am feeling pressed by the weight on my shoulders. I literally had to pull over on the way home to take some deep, calming, breaths. Yes, like a damn hippie. An idling, deep breathing, hippie, but still.

It really feels like some grownup should be here to help me find my way and the fact that I am the only grownup in this scenario is daunting as hell.

I mean really, whoever thought leaving the fat babe queer in charge of the very young and the frail and elderly must have had a significant amount of drugs on board, right? They can’t possibly mean for me to be the one making sure people are ok.

Cause Babes, these days I am barely keeping it together.

Real talk, my life is a bit of a large scale disaster multiple times a year. The worst part is, it is often of my own making. I have a total dick of a brain that enjoys a spiral of dread thought process more than any damn thing. And when I’m bad I am straight up absent, especially around my family. One minute they have a totally present kickass version of me and the next I’m gone. Poof! Like a mental illness magic trick. I have been like this most of my adult life and I feel like I’m at the best crazy version of myself yet! Which, if I am being completely honest, is still an awful lot to ask the people you love to take.

 

whew! so much dirty laundry.

 

Now what has possessed me to get all personal about shit on the Internet? Honestly? I mostly just wanted to air my dirty laundry with all of you because no. one. ever. does. I’m writing this because I think it is kind of a lie to just write about how to be a fat, fierce, shit kicking babe without also talking about the things that hold me back, that keep me inside on sunny days, and that threaten my most dear and loving relationships.

Our spirits are hurting in this world that is both the best and worst of us wrapped up in a ball of water and rock. I am tired of being only the best version of myself. I think I could be less crazy if I just started letting the worst out too.

  

selfie outakes cause this shit is as real as my insta account. It is all me.

 

And while I love social media and selfies and Instagram, it is not designed with truth in mind-how can it be? A fat babes’s life is just a hell of a lot more messy than that. We are fucking beautiful badass layers of complexities. One second we are slammin’ hot, top model realness and the next we are fighting to sustain our relationships with one another and ourselves. And when you are working from a ‘keep it cute or put it on mute’ social media strategy you know the ugly is not going to make the cut. And that is okay. Facebook is not the real-est place in real town so no need to lay down our deepest darkest there, yknow? I just think we need to take a deep breath and start saying this shit out loud to each other and to ourselves. I’m tired of thinking every other fat babe out there has it together except me and I’m tired of feeling like the best version of myself is all I am. I’m just not here for that. So babes, I want you to know my life is hard right now, but it has been hard before and I’m pretty sure I’ve got this, but fuck it still sucks. I also want you to know that I look sick as fuck on the regular and that the reason my shit looks pretty good on the Internet is cause it is pretty good. It’s all the things, cause that is what living is like.

and also cause im vain as shit, dont forget that i am also straight up fat babe on fire level hot.

Smooches babes!