The Mean Reds

“The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you’re afraid and you don’t know what you’re afraid of.”  – Holly Golightly, Breakfast at Tiffany’s

Today I have the Mean Reds.

It’s one of those days, where my biggest fear – that every bad thing I’ve ever though about myself is true – feels so very, very true.

It’s one of those days when I look in the mirror and think, “Ugh. I am never going to lose this baby weight and I am disgusting” because on days of the Mean Reds, the only thing that helps is chocolate, ice cream, or bacon. Preferably chocolate ice cream with a side of bacon. I’m only sort of kidding.

It’s one of those days where I wonder “what’s the point?” of this blog. Am I ever going to be a writer? Am I ever going to write anything anyone thinks is worth reading?

It’s one of those days when I take a look across my kitchen floor at the mud-spots, dog-hair, and dirt that never seems to come off, and want to simultaneously scrub my life until it shines, and take off in the car and never return (not that I would ever do it).

It’s one of those days where I secretly fear that I am a horrible mother, and I am, as we speak, ruining my daughter’s life by any number of choices I make daily.

It’s one of those days when I wonder if all my pants will either have elastic waistbands or make me look like a muffin for the rest of my life.

It’s one of those days where the thought of another baby makes me want to, literally, run screaming down the street.

It’s one of those days where even the sweetest of my sweet girl’s grins can’t penetrate my hard heart.

It’s one of those days where it’s either going to be takeout or bloodshed.

Today I have the Mean Reds. They really are horrible.