There are so many reasons to celebrate November. Namely:
1. I was born this month.
2. This month is my birthday month.
3. My birthday rocks big time.
4. I like gifts.
But on the other hand, I’m getting older and older and older…reaching an age that I no longer like to acknowledge…and so frankly, my birthday now stinks. Gifts, however, do not. So although I’m no longer willing to accept my advancing age, I do accept presents. Especially ones wrapped in pretty pink bows. Especially ones of the Louis Vuitton variety.
(Yet another shameless hint to my husband. After nearly twenty years, I’m getting soooo tired of having to give this same one. Must I do everything around here?!?)
Anyway, it’s November, which for writers means its National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) again. Which, for a writer like me, means it’s another chance to feel like a complete and utter failure at this writing thing.
Here’s the deal. I’ve written in one form or another most of my life. When I was in fifth grade, I wrote my first song. A brilliant little ditty creatively titled “That Girl,” set to a tune oddly similar to an old Amy Grant song. If “similar” translates into “exactly.” I totally thought it would shoot me to the top of the charts…that I would miraculously follow in the footsteps of all the other ten-year-old girls who paved the way ahead of me. Which, if I remember correctly from my thorough research back then, consisted of Aileen Quinn from “Annie,” and…that’s it. Still, a girl had to dream. And dream, I did.
What a delusional idiot.
Then in seventh grade, I wrote a short story about a man who hides in a house and murders an unsuspecting family, meticulously picking them off one by one. Not much different than the romantic comedies I write today. (*scratches head at the bizarreness of it all.*) My English teacher loved that story and read it to the class. Apparently she fell in love with it, because she sent it off to some contest for kids where it must have died a quick death (maybe it was murdered along with that poor fake family?) because I never heard anything about it again. But at that point, I was hooked on writing.
After that, I wrote more (terrible) songs. Tried my hand at poetry. More poetry. Moved on to basic classics like “Amy luvs David…Amy luvs Kevin…Amy luvs Brad…Amy luvs Steve” all over my bedroom wall. I got totally grounded for those.
Then, I moved on to diaries, then term papers, then college newspaper articles, then greeting cards, then little magazine descriptions, and on and on and on…
And then four years ago, I decided to do the one thing I’d never been insane brave enough to try, even though I’d always wanted to. I wrote a book. A whole, entire, honest-to-goodness book. And then later that year, for the first time since I picked up my first pencil and started scribbling that awful first song, I heard about something called NaNoWriMo. Writers everywhere set aside the month of November to write an entire book—from start to finish—on purpose. And since I’m not one to turn down a challenge that doesn’t involve sweat, exercise, sugar deprivation, or anything else I will never agree to even if you give me your $200 million lottery ticket, I decided that I was definitely doing it. Nothing would stop me. I would write a literary masterpiece, the next best-seller. And I would do it in thirty days.
Ready, set, go.
I made it exactly a day-and-a-half before I quit. Five-hundred words in, and even my mathematically-challenged brain knew there was no way I could hit eighty-thousand by the end of the month at that pace. Besides, I got sucked into back-to-back episodes of “24,” and that was that. But I resolved to try again the next November.
Fast forward four years, and I’ve never even attempted it. I prefer not to see it as a failure. I prefer to see it as a mixture of a love for reading, hanging out with friends, and consuming insane amounts of pumpkin pie. I would rather do this in November, anyway. NaNoWriMo—It may never be for me. But NaNoReadMo? NaNoEatMo? I could totally excel if someone would please invent them.
It’s No Shave November again, and I really think it’s unfair for all the men out there to assume us women aren’t going to take part. I mean, really. A man doesn’t shave and we have to put up with the equivalent of rug burns on our faces. But a woman doesn’t shave and everyone thinks it’s gross.
How is this acceptable? Seriously, men already get to walk around topless when they mow the front yard. They already don’t have to diet. They brag about putting on a few pounds. They go bald and still look sexy. They don’t use face creams or hair color. They scratch themselves in public. They pat each other on the butt as a symbol of encouragement. They burp on command. They make bathroom jokes at dinner parties and laugh hysterically about it. And after all that…after all that…now they have an entire month devoted to not shaving?
I ask you, how is this fair???
So women out there everywhere, I think it’s time to stop the madness and come up with our own holiday. After much thought and intense prayer, here are my suggestions:
1. No Bathe November
2. No Deodorant December
3. No Make-Up Mondays
4. No Teeth Brushing Tuesdays
5. No Flossing Fridays
6. No Cooking 2013
So those are my suggestions. Let me know if any of you gals out there can come up with some of your own, and let’s get this holiday on next year’s calendar. But while we’re waiting, maybe ya’ll could help me out.
Speedy bag. Louis Vuitton. Brown color. With LV all over the outside. Quick, someone please tell my husband…
…so I can quickly get over the disappointment and move on to picking out a new purse at Target.
Happy Birthday to me.
Enjoy No Make-Up Monday!