Cowgirls Never Get the Blues
Published in Underwired, October 2008
She’s neither angel nor devil, neither saint nor sinner. She’s a cowgirl, from the flame red hair she defiantly tosses over her shoulder to the scuffed boots tapping out a rhythm of her own making. She’s my inner half, my better half, the snarling voice inside that says life’s mine for the taking, so take it.
I can’t imagine why she chose me. The only time I’m within breathing distance of a cow is when I savor a ribeye while wearing my leather jacket. The last knot I learned to tie was my shoelaces. I don’t think I hold much promise as a calf roper.
She doesn’t care, this inner cowgirl. She does what she wants, when she wants, and makes no apologies. She’s not in the least bit sorry for dragging me out of bed at 5:30 a.m. this morning, forcing me to get dressed, lace my Timberlands, and take my dog for a walk. She doesn’t care about my excuses: It’s cold. I need coffee. The sun isn’t even awake yet, for crying out loud.
Her message is clear: You’re making a disaster of your life. I’m taking over now, and you’re dawdling. Shut up and walk.
I have to admit, there’s something magical about slipping into the gray haze of a wintry dawn, and by the time I pass my neighbor’s house, I’m feeling smug. Lately I’ve been sleeping until noon. I’ve stayed in flannel pajamas, looking sullenly at the laundry spilling onto the floor as I shove dishes and books off my desk to make room for more dishes and books. The inner cowgirl is fed up. Depression isn’t in her vocabulary. Neither is insecurity, self-doubt, guilt, fear, or failure. She rips those pages out, and I rewrite them. Today she’s throwing the book away.
I step on the scale, grimace, and head to the kitchen to make something healthy for breakfast. Lately, my five food groups have been Reese’s, Snickers, Milky Way, Baby Ruth, and Almond Joy. The inner cowgirl loves chocolate too — one wonderful piece of very good, very expensive chocolate every evening with a cup of coffee.
I go to my computer and stare at the calendar. She’s filled it with deadlines, goals, and daily tasks. I’m relieved to see I can mark a few things off the list. I’ve gotten dressed, made the bed, walked the dog, and eaten breakfast. I start to protest, to ask who needs a list for such basic routines, but she reminds me — I haven’t been doing most of these things. Shut up and see what’s next.
Writing. I haven’t felt like writing lately, and the inner cowgirl is tired of hearing me whine. She wants new boots, a pair of killer dangly earrings, a sexy leather jacket, and a trip to Boston. She wants me to finish the book I started last year. To pitch stories to my editor. To enter contests and compete against some of the finest writers in the country.
Earlier in the year, she slammed two nails into the wall above my desk and glared at me, tapping her foot impatiently. One nail for rejections, the other for acceptances. The rejections should outnumber the acceptances, for this is the way writing works. The more you write, the more you pitch, the better your odds of success. I balked at the idea of posting my rejections, but as I sit at my computer, I stare at those nails and feel strangely comforted. All I have to do is write, send, and write again. The rest will take care of itself.
That’s the beauty of the cowgirl’s philosophy. She doesn’t worry about tomorrow; she does what must be done today. She always gets what she wants, that strong inner girl. She kicks ass, takes names, and looks for the next mountain to climb. At the moment, she’s proposing a terrifying, thrilling concept — The Year of Living Dangerously. I laugh as I read some items on the list: Earn a decent living. Balance the checkbook every day. Pay bills on time. Eat fresh food.
That’s not living dangerously. That’s common sense.
The cowgirl gives a derisive snort, and a chill runs down my spine. There’s a paragraph at the bottom of the page:
You’ve spent your entire life afraid — afraid of being hurt, afraid of being abandoned, afraid of being alone. You’ve spent your entire life staring at your shoes, never speaking above a whisper. When did you stop dreaming? When did you stop living? If you’re going to be a writer, then BE a writer. Stop fearing rejection. Stop measuring your self-worth by other people’s praise. Stop apologizing for wanting the same things everyone wants — love, respect, comfort, security. These aren’t privileges. They’re entitlements. Stop asking, and start demanding. Nix the negativity. Stop giving in to the darkness. You’re letting it blanket your life. You’re using it as protection, but you’re suffocating. Same for the extra pounds. Food is neither comfort nor friend. It’s just fuel. Nothing more, nothing less. Why do you doubt yourself? The world is yours. Take it. One year. Live dangerously. Live.
I stare at the list. By the end of this year, I’ll have a completed manuscript and — with any luck — a writing residency. I will know how to ride a horse, rope a cow, and tie a cowboy in a knot he won’t want to escape. I will have become the girl who lives inside, the one I want to be, the one I should have listened to so long ago, the one always scanning the horizon, looking for a new mountain to climb.
I can’t wait.
Tagged as depression, inner strength, personal essays, published, Underwired, writing life + Categorized as Essays