The death of the media woman

This year I'm going rogue.

If 2020 taught me anything, it was the unpredictable nature of what a day can bring. The world stopped, and time stood still, and all of a sudden, I didn't need all the things I thought I did. New clothes hung in my closet with tags on them as the seasons changed. There was nowhere to go. My makeup bag, with two hundred dollars worth of products, stayed zipped up in the closet. New spring shoes sit, to this day, with flawless soles. I didn't even like those shoes all that much when I bought them. It was just what I saw other women wearing.

Stay at home orders made me stay home with my stuff. And what of it? It crowded me. It's too much to manage. I never sought to be a manager of stuff, but it was just what I'd become, unknowingly. Dishes, decluttering, laundry, and picking up toys dominate my time. What do I have, if not my time?

I'm a high consumer of media. Media convinced me, with great strategy, that I needed more fashionable clothing. Clothing to fit in, flatter my body type, or make me suitable for a certain occasion. The beauty industry taught me to worry about the lines on my forehead, which I was previously unaware were a problem. I bought the cream, I bought the moisturizer. I bought the highlighter. The next best thing sat next to the last best thing. I fumbled to match clothing I didn't love and willed my face to look younger every time I left the house. Accessorize. Moisturize. I grew my hair out when I wanted it short, convinced that I'd learn to wand it like the women on my Instagram page. When I had time, of course. Except the time came, and the will to wand didn't.

I bought the workout plans. I bought the supplements, the shakes. The only thing I wouldn't buy into was the acceptance of the body I walked around in. I don't look like the women in the media.

I bought my daughter's more toys to have themed rooms and themed lives and themed play and live out a theme song. For what? To make their lives picture-worthy? They were happier with a bike or a ball. Just a walk around the block. It was me, the media woman that wanted the things. All the things.

The new year welcomed me with a metaphorical kiss and the promise of something new. Or maybe I welcomed it. It doesn't really matter. What matters is that the media woman died in 2020. Trial by fire burned away the image I tried so hard to project. Time in seclusion made me realize I didn't want to learn to do my hair. I didn't want a skincare routine. I wanted simplicity. I wanted to make facial expressions in peace, without being conscious of the lines that may be embedded forever. I wanted to wear clothing that made me happy, even if they weren't in style. I wanted to accept my body for the gift that it is, rather than despise it for all that it isn't.

This year, I look back and remember the life of the media woman. She was an uptight thing. Then, I look forward to what's ahead. At who I really am and the life I really want to live. This year I buy less. I accept myself more. I will stop projecting and be who I am. Flawed, but authentically me. I give the gift of time to my children. I give the gift of a haircut to myself.

2020, you weren't so bad. Rest in peace to the media woman.