On Pride.

Let me be real with you. You'll allow that, won't you?

I realize that I may have spread myself a little thin over the last six months. Said "yes! where do I sign up?" when I probably should have been saying "slow down, now." I hate the thought of losing out, giving in, waiting for life to happen when there's so much of it happening all around me. But there's a level of pride in taking on too much that's just uncalled for. In the most literal sense, I find myself panicking that someone will see me struuuuggling to carry a large box at the office and will offer to help me. Or worse yet, they'll help without asking and then I'll feel a little inadequate in the whole "sister suffragette" sense (which, if you've known me longer than 10 minutes, is kind of my soapbox message).

After a particularly stressful morning this week, I went into the bathroom and noticed hives all over my chest. A big old nasty rash that was just so flattering against a red v-neck. And I'm like, "well, aren't you just a mess, Stevie."

My point being: there's a classiness to being able to laugh at yourself. Pride is such an ugly trait. And for goodness sakes, is there any fun in being superwoman, anyway? Besides the cape, I mean. Everyone wants a nice cape.