I’m so fucking pissed at Adele.
Adele showing up blonde and skinny and looking like Katy Perry is just about the last straw of 2020 for me.
Seriously, Adele, fuck you.
And while I’m at it, screw off Instagram people who are finding this to be the most rewarding time of their lives.
The sourdough bread people.
The organizing their kitchen in the colors of the rainbow people—I tried it. Made it through a shelf of cookbooks (I don’t cook.) and my real work clothes in the closet (I don’t wear real clothes anymore.).
The look on the bright side people
The started a charity people
The singing with full choir and orchestra on Zoom people
The “I don’t miss that two-hour commute” people
The “getting masked coffee to-go in town is just like going to Italy” people
Fuck off all of you.
Are we labeling our years now? I hear it’s Rebel Wilson’s “year of health.” Well, guess what? It’s my “year of decline.” It’s my year of not producing, of not keeping it up, of not not-eating the things I shouldn’t. I have not used this time wisely, I have not gotten washboard abs, I haven’t kicked carbs to the curb for good. I have not self-improved. I have not found this to be the most rewarding time of my life. I haven’t bullet journaled my way to happiness, or set a year goal, made yogurt in the insta pot, finally read Jane Austen, learned a new language or baked my way through the Huckleberry cookbook…. I haven’t.
In a life that has been driven for years by the calendar, my March through September was ripped out and thrown on the floor.
What have I done?
I have not gotten Corona.
I have supported my kids through this unprecedented wrench thrown in all of their works.
I have missed my son who I haven’t seen in seven months.
I have hugged my mom’s foot during a masked outdoor visit and convinced myself that’ll do for now.
I got my mammogram.
I colored my own hair and then went back to the professionals as soon as I was allowed. Yes, boobs and hair, I learned clearly those are the non-negotiables.
I ordered cherry pie from Michigan ‘cause I couldn’t go in person.
I froze the pie in separate slices so I wouldn’t eat it all at once.
I ate it all at once.
I zoomed with friends.
I zoomed with family.
I zoomed with work people.
I zoomed reunions of television shows I didn’t even watch when they were on in the first place.
I started Breaking Bad from the beginning again and binged it on my phone for three days straight until I was convinced I heard mariachi music out my office window.
I watched I’ll be Gone in the Dark
And Filthy Rich.
And the thing about the amusement park that kills people.
I had sex.
I had a dead squirrel removed from my lawn by the department of sanitation.
I swept, and I vacuumed, and I swept again.
And I waited.
Waited for a sign it was okay to stand down my guard.
Waited for an election that better bring change.
Waited for anything—anything at all—to return to normal.
For there to be something precedented, something recognizable, something to grasp on to— Something that remained as it was.
Which brings me back to blonde skinny Adele.
I’m waiting for her to gain back that weight. So the image of Adele is once again as expected. So in this insane period where nothing feels normal, I can see brunette, regular-person-sized Adele and feel safe.
I’m sorry I said fuck you, Adele. I’m happy for you. I really am.
But I’m really not.
Improve yourself later when Biden is president. When I can go to a play and meet my son’s girlfriend and hug my mom and see my friends outside of tiny little boxes on screens. Go ahead and rock your blonde skinny self then, and I’ll support you, I promise I will. Until then, I just found a piece of pie in the back of the freezer.
…Want a bite? ❏