Amanda's Approach
Here's a confession. I spill a lot of things. I leave a messy trail of crumbs and bits of liquid behind everywhere I go, whether on a shiny restaurant table or a friend's freshly-vacuumed couch. All of my daily outfits are subject to a stain or two.
I don't really mean to taint my sweaters or my kitchen counters or that leather car seat with my unstable eating and drinking and holding methods, but it happens with one flick of the wrist or spiral of a coffee cup. Sometimes, it goes unnoticed, a secret kept between me and my laundry pile, but on other more public occasions, I wear stains on my sleeves.
I've dropped an entire beer on a dude's shoes before, and in the middle of my sentence, he walked away. During a "meet the boyfriend's parents" dinner, I knocked my fork off of the side of my plate and no one seemed to go with my idea of making a musical beat out of clanging the utensils.
On the way to a 5k road race with my family one summer, I accidentally tossed my cousin's inhaler down a street drain. She was recovering from a collapsed lung, so it was a minor deal.
The most recent incident was on Valentine's Day when me and my friend were making brownies that we hoped would fill in the gaps of our blatant single-ness. I went over to the oven to check on them, as my chocolate cravings were raging. With one slightly too jerky movement, I watched the pan scoot to the edge of the oven rack and fall against the oven door, leaving a mess of brownie substance splattering in every nook of the appliance. We spent Valentine's evening sitting on the kitchen floor, eating the remains of the melty dessert out of the pan in giant spoonfuls. I glanced down at the not-quite-cooked-brownies and it was like I was seeing the summation of my life in one poor, broken-down image.
Looking back on these spills and stains and mess-ups, I cringe a little bit. But now, I'm choosing to shake them off. When I tally up the stains on my scarves at the end of the day, I'm choosing to not feel bad about that. They serve as reminders of the conversations I had over lattes and the ice cream cone on that first sunny day of the season. I feel a rush of forwardness and I accept that I'd rather live a messy life than put on the brakes. I sip, I move, write, walk, go, and maybe something overflows out of the edges in the process. I keep going, anyway.
One of my friends came over for breakfast yesterday, and our conversation kept hanging around the unknowns of the future and how scary those question marks seemed.
In the middle of my serious realizations, she looked at the dirty mugs strewn around my living room and the popcorn kernels in the couch cushions and my unbrushed hair hidden under a Yankees cap. And she laughed. We both laughed. Because we knew, no matter what happened, that my life would always be a little messy. And because sometimes we need to catch ourselves and point out that we're all a mess. Sometimes life is stained and flawed and imperfect, but those stains are also faint marks of life and happy memories and big moments. Sometimes, we need to stop waiting for next year to line up or worrying about ten years from now being perfect, and laugh at the messiness that's happening now, and will probably keep happening.
In my life, spills are a constant - you know, one of those special variables that stay the same no matter how the other numbers or moving parts behave. I've been thinking about that lately, about things that won't change about me no matter who I'm friends with or how far away I am from this place. When I think about my future, I see stains in the corners of every picture. I see myself hurriedly zig-zagging around some unnamed city, holding a Starbucks cup as I walk into a big interview with coffee drips on my shirt. If I ever write a book, I'll probably have to print out a few extra copies in lieu of nearby iced teas. I see myself sipping a cappuccino on my wedding day, keeping that silky white dress just out of reach.
I don't mind this. Because spills and mess-ups always humble me and knock me down a few pegs just when I need it. When I'm getting too confident and holding on too tight, I've learned to let go of my grip. Maybe a river of liquid spills out and maybe it's embarrassing and ruins an item of clothing. But a spill doesn't stop me or put me in reverse, it's a sign of moving forward.
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