I got into an argument about paintbrushes. I’m very talented. I can argue about anything.
It reminded me of the scene in The Break-Up with Vince Vaughn and Jennifer Aniston and the infamous lemons. Jennifer’s character asks for a specific number, Vince brings home fewer, and what unfolds is less about citrus and more about being seen. I don’t even remember why she wanted the lemons, because that isn’t the point. The fight wasn’t about fruit. It was about care, about effort, and about love.
That scene has lived rent-free in my head for years, and now I see why. The paintbrush fight was my lemon fight. It wasn’t about brushes at all. It was yet another sneaky parallel circling my life, pretending to be important, but actually existing to remind me about bigger stories.
One of those larger stories is about my impatience, particularly the impatience I have with my husband, something I thought I’d only just discovered in therapy, but which he’s apparently been aware of forever. Lucky guy. He gets my exclusive VIP package of impatience. Everyone else–dogs, employees, children–they get the discounted version.
Here’s the truth: impatience is a disguise. Underneath, I’m afraid I’m unlovable. If I stay impatient, I don’t have to risk finding out. Safe. Fucking geeeenius… and totally exhausting.
Fear and I live together. Every time I pretend it isn’t there, I make things worse. The key isn’t to exile fear, but to befriend it. To remember, over and over again, that I am lovable no matter what. Little old me is love itself and no outside force can take that away unless I let it.
Over my cold, dead body.
Read Fear if you’d like to dive into that rabbit hole a little deeper with me.
