The magazine article is out. The hard copy dropped Friday in the city and the digital version dropped a few days prior. I was out-of-town on business when my phone blew up with a few congratulatory-type text messages from coworkers who have anxiously been refreshing the magazine’s website for days to see the feature on fabulous moi.
And it does feel fabulous. I mean, again–I did not donate a billion dollars to the pediatric wing of a local hospital. I simply know how to dress for the occasion if I did so. Though if you saw my bedroom post-travel the past two weeks it looks like a bomb went off with dirty laundry basket overflowing and dry cleaning hanging off every available door knob. Not too stylish in that area. Ahem.
So, yes. Posted the article on all my social media and the positive feedback and love feels really awesome. Because while everything reads all shiny and bright on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram, I could barely get out of bed Saturday.
I did manage to get to the gym as any type of exercise clears out depression cobwebs. So that worked for a bit. But I quickly fell into ‘what’s the point’ mode upon returning home. I pitched the gym threads, wanked it like a bitch in heat, and fell into a deep afternoon nap till 4pm. The whole effn’ day shot and I didn’t care one iota.
Sunday’s warmer temps and bright sunshine elevated my mood enough to get dressed, post-gym, and stroll downtown. I was scraping hangers across the cheap(er) suits section at MACY’s when that familiar text bing interrupted my ear bud music flow.
And there, in the cheap(er) suit section, I read the text, smiled and moved on with my day. I only read it once. I didn’t need to read it again. Nor did I respond. OPRAH said that if one can’t take people talking shit one isn’t ready for success. I’m paraphrasing but that seed of truth bubbled into my reality Sunday afternoon. A former acquaintance felt moved enough by the magazine feature to text me his feelings about the demise of our close friendship. And while I know– and own, my role in that breakdown I chose not to reflect too deeply or read too much into the tiny words that had popped up on my phone. I didn’t care. Much. Folks who try to bring you down are usually beneath you. I’m Rick James, bitch. Suck it this month.