An odd name for a cocktail, to be sure. I’ve said how much I hate long, drawn out paragraphs to recipes because we don’t need to know every minute detail of the weekend you just had, but this one does owe some backstory.
It was the week of the launch for Wild Wednesdays. I was exhausted, suffering from Impostor Syndrome, questioning everything I’ve ever done and will I ever make enough money to like, have a savings account much less buy a house or send my plant babies to college. The spiral hit and every issue I’d bottled up inside came bursting forth. I couldn’t stop it. Family issues, hurt and disappointment from romantic relationships, that comparison of legit everyone is better and more talented than me, feeling like everything I was touching wasn’t good enough, people were disappointed in me and I was running at 100000% but the production was 50%. That I was choosing to do this thing that I felt so compelled and drawn to but was it all a complete joke and should I just go get a desk job somewhere and let them start calling me Kathy and die a slow, drawn out death but be able to chat about my 401K.
So, instead of working out, my roommate sat at the kitchen table with me, tears streaming down my face, my breath catching and voice shaking as I unloaded it all, ashamed that I was feeling and acting like a child and yet I couldn’t stop. My chest ached and my heart hurt. Barely able to see through the barrage of tears, my hands fumbled around my bar cart, picking up bottles, putting them down, keeping the ones that felt right, until I had ingredients in front of me.
I needed to play and produce one thing right. Something to end the day. To close on a high note and be born anew in the morning. It wasn’t really about the cocktail, getting drunk or showing off my perfect life and perfect skills on social media. It was about the familiar, the unknown and, mostly, trusting my instincts. The same instincts that I’ve trusted through this entire process and that haven’t let me down, but because of the world, insecure people projecting their shit, lack of grounding and burning the candle at both ends, I’d started second guessing.
So I played.
I didn’t think. I didn’t second guess. I didn’t measure carefully. Tears ran down my face and splashed onto my arms, I’m sure a few forayed into the shaker. I felt.
It was exactly right.
And so was that night. While I don’t advocate for always treating your friends as therapists, there are time and places when that happens authentically and I am always and forever grateful to the humans who have been there for me in moments like that, and feel honored when I can be that person for one of my friends. We skipped a workout for a walk and Mexican Food, a movie and margaritas. I handed my worries to the next day and in the end, it was perfect.
It can be hard when you live the type of life that no one has a rule book for or hands you the to-do list to be successful or is like, here’s your tasks for the rest of your life. It’s exciting and thrilling, freeing and inspiring. The world is ours and can be intoxicating with the possibilities. And yet, to produce all the time can take you to dark places, is terrifying, constantly putting yourself out there because the separation between art/work/self is a constant battle.
So, close your laptop at 5, put down your brush, place your camera back into its case. Do something creative that isn’t for production. Write some thoughts to burn. Treat yourself like a child and eat some food and put yourself down to bed early.
