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IAmNotBritish, episode thirty-three


I have given myself permission to not be happy today. Glennon Doyle would be so proud. I don't have to smile, or write the perfectly-crafted Sunday Brunch email.

I can be real. 

I wanted to stay in bed. I didn't.

I wanted to not shower. I did it anyway. It's uncomfortable to not be clean. It's a Should that I espouse willingly. We all should be clean. I don't care what culture or country you originate from, (Germany.)

I wanted to put on another old t-shirt but forced myself to wear this creamy white tank with a scalloped neckline.

My thought was: if I dress up, maybe I'll feel better.

I grabbed a necklace, the lavender amethyst piece my mother gave me for my 51st birthday and the lotus flower from my daughter.

Three bracelets: rose quartz for (self) love, amethyst for protection from negativity and green agate for inner strength and spiritual power.

Every other finger got a ring on it: Norwegian rune, daughter's pearl, rose quartz nugget and the silver "Adoption Ring."

A few days ago, to cheer myself, I got my nails done in a covid-desolated salon, color choice: lavender.

My hands look quite lovely today. Elevated.

My heart though. It is heavy. That's okay, right? Expected? Sure. 

Some say we are happy maybe half of the time in our lives. I'm due. I've had 33 previous brunch emails. Even for the snarky ones, I was happy-ish.

By those stats, I could indulge in some negativity for seven more months. Hurray. That's a cheery thought. 

What I had wanted to talk about today was weight loss, guilt and judgment. Very cheery. Maybe next week. 

In the meantime, here's a snippet of a chapter I wrote this week:

Back in February, when my husband and I opened the bottle and part of the truth genie finally fell out, I drove the next day and purchased a new set of underwear. It was a Sunday, I remember because the traffic was incredibly light on Orlando freeways. I sent a video on the Marco Polo app to my buddies that said something along the lines of: If I’m going to get divorced, I need new underwear.

Once inside the store, I was choosy.

There was no desire for fancy or sexy.

I just NEEDED good, solid pieces that I’d be okay getting in a car wreck in. Like if they had to cut off my clothes to save my life, at least I would not have an elastic strand popping out of my belly or laundry-worn pilling bumps.

Fresh white, I thought at first, but that seemed too marital.

I looked at every pair of panties in the department store. After isolating non-sexy and non-fancy styles and the cotton—because that’s just smart, I got to the colors.

This is important.

I’m not sure I can articulate why.

In the additional 45 minutes it took me to choose colors, this concept of transition color emerged and has been important as I dress each day of the last eight months. I open the drawer, and half of the undies are five shades of lavender. It’s like a power suit.

I am in transition.

I am strong.

I will come out on the other side with a clear, grateful mind.

I’m ready for this.

Today's Deep Breath: Here's a practical juju nugget, a collective Next Best Decision: 

My dad retired from Ford in Detroit, and wore navy blue suits to work and church on repeat for years. The green shirt I gifted him still hangs in his closet. The family cars have mostly been blue. He wears blue jeans. It all matches still.

Color speaks to me. I realize it may not speak to all, but it’s not just a girl thing.

If you are ever in transition, I encourage you to choose a color and get the underwear. It’s a psychological trigger each morning, when your body is clean from the previous day, when there is hope for a new one. The color should bring you comfort and self-adoration. It’s a beautiful thing to feel taken care of next to your most sensitive skin.

Here's a color emotion chart for your convenience:


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