Tuesday, November 3, 2015

One Maniac at a Time

I suppose calling November my nemesis wouldn't really be accurate since it's a month, and a month can't technically be one's enemy, but if it were a person, I'd want to punch it in its face. As you may or may not know, November and I have a not-so-happy history that goes way back, a not-so-happy history that as October came to an end, seemed destined to repeat itself once again. Tonight, though, I decided that's not going to happen. Tonight I decided I'm taking back November.

Really, despite having made the decision tonight, the movement to reclaim the month started on Sunday. Okay, kind of on Saturday, but not entirely.

An explanation, of course:

I spent last weekend in Gainesville chaperoning a field trip for debate. On Saturday, while out to lunch with some students, one of the kids I was with asked what name he should give when ordering his food. You're gonna give a fake name? I asked. Saying that he was, we started discussing the possibilities. Never once did I consider giving a fake name instead of mine, yet when I went up to the counter, ordered my food, and gave my name, Kelly is not what came out, nor is it what came out, unplanned, the next day at Starbucks, and when I sat down I made a decision: it was time to start again. To be stupid, mopey Kelly, the girl who devoted her life to the pursuit of one boy no more, the girl who let people who don't even matter, matter way too much, no more.

It was time to be reborn.

It was time to choose who I would become, and since I so ardently believe that fate and destiny have played, and continue to play, such a weighty role in my life, becoming Kismet was one of the easiest decisions of my life, far easier than the decision I made tonight, the one that made me decide I was taking back the month.

And that decision, people, ridiculous as it may sound, was to not wear a bra when I left the house.

An explanation, of course:

Since I've become a fat ass as of late, my bra was bothering me, so when I got home from work, I took it off. Not long after, when I just couldn't take blowing my nose in toilet paper instead of tissue anymore, I faced the fact that as much as I didn't feel like leaving the house, I had to go to the grocery store.

But I didn't want to put on my bra.

I also didn't feel comfortable going to Publix without one.

A conundrum ensued.

Not go to Publix? Put on a bra and go to Publix? Go to Publix without the bra? I just couldn't decide what to do.

On the one hand, I really wanted to go to Publix, but on the other hand, I really didn't want to put on a bra. On the other hand still (you know, 'cause I have three), going to Publix without a bra isn't like not wearing one while walking the dog. Going to a public place without one is just not acceptable, or at least, like I said, something I felt comfortable doing; in fact, after almost four years of breast feeding resulting in my not having the most perfect chest in the world (although a guy I dated earlier this year did tell me I had French-girl breasts and absolutely loved them, which I have to admit was pretty nice), it's something I felt downright uncomfortable doing.

But I did it anyway.

I did it anyway--and then I walked to Whole Foods sans bra after I got home--and surprise, surprise, despite my reservations and fear, it turned out just fine.

Actually, it turned out better than fine. It turned out that because I faced that immediate fear or discomfort or whatever you want to call it, I got the idea to do more of the same throughout the rest of November, that soon-to-be former nemesis of mine. I got the idea that I have to--have to--do things that make me nervous or uncomfortable or sort of scared or downright terrified as much as possible this month, every day if I can.

Throughout the month, I have to force myself to do things I normally wouldn't because comfort zones? They're for Kels.

And Kismet is not a Kel.


  1. No, Kismet is a stripper with Daddy issues. Good luck with that.

  2. Okay, wait--strippers have daddy issues or strippers named Kismet have daddy issues? Because your ignorance and lack of logic are difficult for me to follow. You see, try as I might, I just can't sustain the line of thinking of somebody like you (and to be clear, that would be the line of thinking of somebody who alleges either that all strippers have daddy issues or strippers specifically named Kismet do, i.e., somebody hateful and dumb). But if you'd like to write back and try to enable my thinking like a hateful, dumb person, please feel free.