Princess: Sometimes you have to fail in order to succeed
The Aspen Princess
This doesn’t happen very often, but I honestly have no idea what to write about.
All that comes to mind are the same old tired themes. Like trying to get rid of the baby weight even though I’ve always had the baby weight since I was like 12 years old. But you know that already.
Then on Tuesday, one of our Airbnb guests was checking out, and she saw Gertie the pug, and she pet her and said, “When are her puppies due?”
I was so relieved she was assuming my dog was pregnant and wasn’t talking about me that I almost kissed her. Anyway, they say your dog is a reflection of you, and it couldn’t be more true. So there was that.
I could write about the baby, like how he has discovered his “voice” and uses it to scream so loud I’m surprised he hasn’t shattered every window in our house. He seems to have inherited his father’s gift of gab and never, ever stops making noise. He also loves to babble, growl and “blow raspberries” (a skill he learned from his Mimi, which entails blowing bubbles of saliva while making a farting sound). Between him and Ryan, I don’t think I’ll ever get a moment of peace and quiet in this house again so long as we both shall live. Amen.
I could talk about what a little dude the babes is, like how he already has a barrel chest and stomach muscles and could never be mistaken for a girl, not ever. And that has nothing to do with the fact that I basically dress him like a little punk or that he already has four pairs of Vans or that a lot of his clothes have skulls and crossbones on them. I know I should probably take advantage of this time that he’s a little boy and dress him in pale blue clothes that have bears or sheep or trucks or animal ears, but instead I feel the need to put him in Quiksilver onesies and quilted Carhartt hoodies and, yes, sneakers even though he can’t walk yet for crying out loud. But I know you guys are sick of hearing me talk about the damned baby.
Plus, even though I know how annoying it is, I think everything he does is fascinating. And so I feel the need to document his every move, even when he’s drooling or spitting up, and no one wants see that but his grandparents. Hey, at least I haven’t written about what I found in his diaper, but only because I promised I wouldn’t.
Speaking of grandparents, my dad has become obsessed with printing and framing photos of whatever he’s into at the moment. For a while it was all the animals he saw on his trip to Africa, when he literally wallpapered the house with his little two-dimensional zoo, including the giant photo of the lions mating that he hung in the guest room over our bed.
Thank God those photos eventually were replaced with photos from our wedding, especially every bad photo of me with a double chin, belly pooch or weird expression that I thought I’d deleted. Somehow my dad got his hands on them anyway and decided to make life-size posters out of them just in case I forgot about how I really should have worn shape wear under my dress or had the top lined with a little padding.
Now it’s “the wall of Levi” with enough giant photos of the kid to make your head spin. Even though my child is perfect, my dad still managed to find that one shot where he looks cross-eyed or maybe like there might be something wrong with him, and he blew it up to the size of a small billboard.
I also could write about how insecure I’m feeling about my athleticism, what, with all these Aspen girls who just completed the Leadville 100 (Go, Maria!) or casually mentioned the Aspen Backcountry Marathon last weekend like it was literally a walk in the park (“So fun!” one friend posted, as if running that far was like going to a party or an outdoor concert.)
I might mention how, when I was in Minnesota, it was a relief not to think about my next workout or comparing myself to every ripped, thin, Lululemon-clad woman around me with her long hair pulled into a high ponytail, gold-rimmed aviators on her suntanned face. People are just people there. They’re not measured by distance, weight or time.
I could talk about my failed attempts at wake surfing Sunday, even though I was the only snowboarder on the boat and all the skiers had no problem getting up. I basically blew out both my hamstrings and my sinuses trying, and I have been hobbling around the past two days with a runny nose thinking about how I probably should sign up for BodyPump classes at Burn to get my core strength back, because that’s got to be it, right?
And then I could finish by saying something about how it took nine months to have the baby and people say it takes nine months to get back to where you were before, so I have two more months before I can stop using that excuse. Or maybe I could write about how I won’t I finally be able to actualize my dreams until I finally sit down, do the work I was called to do, get out of my own way, take a chance, put myself out there with my creativity and do the writing I’ve always wanted to do.
I guess the bottom line is I have to be willing to fail in order to succeed, even if it means not always knowing what to write about.
The Princess wants to remind you that even your favorite TV shows have reruns and thanks you for your patience. Email your love to email@example.com.
Start a dialogue, stay on topic and be civil.
If you don't follow the rules, your comment may be deleted.