I’m A Working Writer Who Can’t Always Focus On My Healing Crystals

Emboldened by coverage of Ivanka Trump’s book, Women Who Work: Rewriting the Rules for Success, I thought I’d share some hard truths about being a successful and fabulous Woman. Here on the couch right now, a latte in one hand and no health insurance whatsoever, I am a perfect example of the modern Woman Who Works. Some women might look at me and think, wow, we really can have it all- some women might even feel envy. She looks so flawless, so elegant, you might be thinking, in her dirty Vans and her Nike tee shirt. But I want to dispel that myth. These are my only shoes, and I stole them off of a drifter. Despite appearances, I am no superwoman.

In this modern, post-gender society, people see being a writer as one of the more glamorous gigs out there. Close your eyes right now, and picture a Working Woman writer. What do you see? A chic apartment? An on-trend messy ponytail? Paychecks streaming in from all sides? Well, many people don’t know this, but 80% of the average Working Woman writer’s waking hours are spent grabbing an extra ketchup for table 12. A very smart Woman Who Works said, “writing looks a lot like depression, but since you have a laptop, it’s writing.” Here’s the hard and shocking truth, honeys: it’s also depression! If anyone knows a good therapist who works for free in northeast LA, please DM me on Twitter! I’m owning my reality.

This might upset you (trigger warning?), but when I first moved to LA, I didn’t even have time for meditation. I was so busy streaming Chef’s Table and crying myself to sleep that I hardly had time for yoga at all. My chakras are all over the fuckin’ place. The other day I thought I’d spend some time sitting quietly with my Amethyst crystal, good for spiritual growth, but then my manager caught me and yelled at me to “get out of the walk-in refrigerator.” Metaphysical wellness? Maybe next week! It’s a wonder I’ve managed to keep my basic sanity. Just kidding, I haven’t. See, gals? I’m just like you.

There is so much pressure on Women Who Work nowadays to be this paragon of multitasking and physical hotness. I’m Kristin Cavallari, balancing on my Louboutins. I’m Kate Hudson, being Pretty and Happy in my superfluous burgundy fedora. I’m GOOP! But I realize now that it might be helpful to change the narrative by giving you a candid snapshot of my actual life behind closed doors: yesterday I spent several minutes during an Uber Pool ride trying to calculate when the last time I’d showered was, and it had been four full days. Last month I pulled a muscle from throwing up, reminding me that not only am I an alcoholic, but I’m also badly out of shape! I can make a caesar salad last three meals. My roommate’s dog is my only friend, and even he thinks I’m a dud. I’m just here to debunk the superwoman myth.

Also, if anyone out there thinks that my success thus far has anything to do with my father, you can stick that assumption where the sun don’t shine. I divested from him years ago. He does still pay my phone bill, though.

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