jerk face


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My name is Michelle and I’m kind of a jerk.

It’s true. This isn’t a shout out for, “oh, Michelle, you’re so not…” because this is me owning it.

I already spent my morning apologizing to my husband for said jerkiness. And rather than spending the rest of my day handing them out, I thought I’d just save us all the trouble and send out a mass apology.

I’m back in school. This isn’t news. But today, I have to read a story I wrote aloud, in a circle, and then listen patiently and unflinching as it’s critiqued.  

In all fairness, it’s a great class. I’m kind of in love with it. But public speaking is my kryptonite. Public speaking of something totally subjective that I created? Just ten times worse.

And because I have hugehugehuge issues with feeling weak or vulnerable, I become a jerk. It’s my self-defense mechanism. I didn’t say it worked, or that it was good, but that’s how I roll.

Apparently, I have reached new heights of jerkiness, because this morning, as I was lying on the couch, my daughter approached me. Pen in hand, hello kitty notebook at the ready, she began to diagnose me.

What was the problem I was dealing with? How did it make me feel? And could she please have a fruit snack?

After listening to me for a few minutes, she started scribbling away. Tore off the hello kitty paper and handed it to me with a flourish.

This is what it said:

That’s right, folks. Come on down to our house. We’re fixing the world’s problems one hello kitty paper at a time.

And your chonies? They’re fantastic.

 

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