Authentically Me?

Most days I want nothing more than to be the cool, single girl they write about on the internet. You probably know the one I'm talking about, don't you? She's the one sitting crosslegged on her kitchen counter at 3 in the morning, cradling a mug of tea between her sweater cuffed hands while having deep conversations with her friends or - if she's alone, (and she's quite happy being alone) - contemplating life in a contented manner.
She's the girl from the pinterest illustrations with her hair in a messy bun and a cat at her feet. She knows who she is, she reads the cool authors and she's just the right degree of feminist. (But lets not get in to "degrees" of feminism... I know that's a loaded issue.)

Most days, I feel that I am almost that girl. In my lest than perfect way, I curate a sort of capsule wardrobe that is equal parts striped-shirt-wearing-cool-girl-chic and children's-librarian-who-plays-the-ukulele. I cup mugs of coffee while curled up in my thrifted chair. I decorate with ikea white, and twinkle lights. I know my mind, my personality, my habits and pitfalls, and I can self regulate my emotions with the best of them. I have my quirks, and am loved (I think?) for many of them.

These lifestyle choices are just that: choices. I suppose I could be a children's librarian that plays the ukulele and not also dress the way I do, and dye my hair blue, but I don't think I know what that would look like. Pardon me for throwing in a half-baked computer-geek metaphor here, but I know that while my life's software is written by the Great Programmer (okay, I told you it was half-baked... I know we're not robots) when it comes to the skin of my life, the graphical user interface, how it looks and feels and acts, I get to set the parameters, and there's nothing wrong with that!

The problem I come to this this: when making those choices to dye my hair blue, and buy flowers every sunday, am I doing so out of complete authenticity, or am I writing myself into a trope - a mere storytelling device that's quite possibly two-dimensional. (not the standard definition of trope, but an accepted understanding.) I realize that with the advent of Peggy,  my trusty uke (oh glob, naming inanimate objects is not helping my case) I may have put some pretty solid nails in the coffin toward becoming the Manic Pixie Dream Girl of cinema and literature. But rather than being the savior of some poor lost white boy's boring existence, (I see you John Green. I see you.) I feel like subconsciously made myself the MPDG over the past few years to save myself  from a possibly horrible demise of boringness. (small town America will do that do a person)

Is that such a bad thing? Honestly, you tell me. If self-awareness is a key towards living authentically, (and I really believe it is...) then I should be okay. If I know why I do what I do, and do it out of the depths of my being, then I am truly myself, not a stereotype or a two-dimensional character on paper. Remembering not to use my quirks as a crutch for my fear of  change and growth will be the challenge.

Living life is hard yo.

yours in authentic striving,


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