On Broken Teeth and My Jell-O-to-Crème Brûlée Evolution
I’ve been in a bad headspace this week. It’s hard to explain, but it felt like the entire energy of my universe tilted in another direction last weekend and ever since, my brain and body have been stuck in a dense fog. I’m not in touch with my emotions, I can’t prioritize my day, I’m exhausted, I’m angry, and I’m sad. My insomnia is worse than it’s ever been and now the late-night anxiety attacks are back in ways I haven’t experienced in probably five years.
And still, I’ve been finding ways to joke and smile through meetings and milestones. In fact, that was what I was doing yesterday afternoon when a chunk of one of my upper left bicuspids tumbled out of my mouth while I was eating a stick of string cheese. Ever cheerily participated in a brainstorming session about company culture while putting a chunk of your body in a Ziploc bag?
So yeah. How am I?
And it should have felt like a great week. The kids went back to school, with my firstborn embarking on her first week of high school. I hit all my work deadlines. The skies were sunny, and the bills all got paid. Everyone in my care got what they needed. Or so I thought, until I went from Girl Boss™ to a gap-toothed Appalachian hill jack.
I had not been to the dentist since before COVID. Remember last week in my advice essay where I talked about knowing the difference between creating the pressure and responding to the pressure, and I used a dental emergency to illustrate the point? Talk about a self-fulfilling prophecy. This broken tooth was avoidable, and I knew that. I knew that because all my little stories are rooted in some level of truth.
I am not taking care of myself, friends. Sometimes I have extended stints of self-care and I think, this is it! I’ve cracked the code! I’m free! In those moments, I’m like Cameron Diaz in her gauzy linens, retired from the rat race, selling organic, tannin-free wine like a Goop protégé. But while I might have an occasional gauzy linen week – sometimes even a month or two – I’m never fully Cameron Diaz. I just don’t have those legs. She’s crème brûlée. I’m Jell-O.
In 11 weeks, I turn 40. For the purposes of this piece, I looked up “what happens to women in their 40s,” you know, because needing a dental implant simply wasn’t enough fun for this week. Here’s what I found: your muscle mass decreases, it’s easier to gain weight, UTIs may become more common, your skin starts to wrinkle, there’s an uptick in joint pain, your hair thins, you experience brain fog, your bladder starts leaking, and YOUR TEETH AND GUMS BECOME LESS HEALTHY. Ding ding ding! Check all dem boxes.
So am I just inherently Jell-O? Or do I just treat myself like Jell-O? I think, perhaps, the truth is somewhere in between. I can’t control time as it marches forward, but I can still invest in myself until there’s no more time left to chase. I need to sleep. I need to breathe. I need to slow down. I need to move to feel good, not to run down another deadline. Our girl Cameron chimes in:
The average life expectancy of a female in the U.S. is 77 years. That means I hit middle-aged almost two years ago. Nearly four decades of a Jell-O mindset. Maybe it’s time for me to serve a little crème brûlée. And, if not, it’s always there as a literal solution – a perfectly soft treat for my rapidly aging teeth.
EPILOGUE
It’s been four months since I launched this newsletter, with 21 issues under my belt and 100 subscribers on the roster. Thank you for reading and encouraging me as I’ve kickstarted this journey. Some weeks are really hard in terms of finding the time to nurture this passion, but your engagement continues to egg me on. That said, I do want to give advance notice that there may be some weeks that I’m going to give myself permission to not send out my weekly hot takes in exchange for rest. I hope you’ll stick around even if I temporarily fall back into the shadows to work on my Jell-O-to-Crème Brûlée evolution. I’ll always come back and hope you’ll be here when I do.