Super-me vs. reality-me

Image This post isn’t entirely wedding related, but something I’ve been pondering a lot lately, and something I think a lot of my friends face too.  And that’s the incongruence between “Super-me” and the real me.

“Super-me” is how I think of myself in my head.  It’s a combination of how I wish I was, and how I think I could be if I could ever just truly got all my shit together.

Reality-me is cool, but not nearly as awesome as super me.  Let me show you with a day in the life of each of the mes, to give you a better understanding:

Super-Me wakes up at 6am and goes on a 30-40 minute jog each morning, then showers, straightens and curls her hair daily.  She puts a trendy, cute, figure-flattering outfit on her size 6 frame, and she never forgets to put on jewelry.  

Real me finally stops hitting the snooze button around 8:00 and throws on a t-shirt and jeans, again.  I drag a brush through my  hair, and almost always forget to put on earrings.

Then, Super-Me goes downstairs, feeds all the animals, and waters her glorious garden, plus does a quick-clean of the kitchen before heading into work.  At work, Super-Me is acutely focused all day long, and is incredibly productive while working at her standing desk. She never misses an email, and her inbox is incredibly organized.  She takes the stairs, not the elevator, to get places.

Real me usually remembers to feed the animals, but almost never has time to water the garden or do much of anything else before rushing in to work for my endless litany of meetings.  My inbox, despite valiant efforts, is a huge effing mess.  I do a good job at work, but make it harder on myself by not being as productive and organized as I could be.  I rarely take the stairs.

After work, Super-me comes home and makes a healthy, organic, and most of all, delicious meal–from scratch–for herself and her fiance. Instead of sitting in front of the tv the rest of the night, she takes the dog to the dog park, reads the current “it” book, brushes up on her Spanish with Rosetta Stone, or bakes amazingly complicated desserts, like French macaroons.  She treats herself to one, and only one, glass of red wine.  Around 10:30, she goes to bed, and has magnificent, mind-blowing, Cosmo-worthy sex with her fiance, every single night.

I usually get home around 6pm carrying some take out, and/or make a not-healthy (but tasty) meal with at least some pre-prepared ingredients.  Then we watch a couple hours of tv, and/or I do more work on my laptop until it’s bed time.  By that point, I’ve usually had at least 3 glasses of wine.  I never know what the “it” book is and so am currently re-reading Harry Potter for like the fourth time.  I rarely do things that are Cosmo-worthy.

On the weekends, Super-me wakes up no later than 9am, and heads straight to the farmers market with her already-planned out menu and list of ingredients for the next week.  She cleans the entire house top-to-bottom, does all the laundry, and hits a yoga or dance class with one of her friends.  She always has a great social activity planned for every weekend, whether it’s having friends over or going to a hip party.  She never feels antisocial, aggravated, or lazy.  She writes handwritten thank you notes for everything, and is fantastically good at craft projects.

Real me sleeps till 11am or so, and then maybe does one of these things all weekend.  Half the time, I forget to plan anything for the weekend, so we just sit at home and watch Netflix.

So, I think you get the gist.  It applies to weddings too. I torture myself with these gorgeous DIY wedding blogs, featuring countless thin and beautiful brides who have hand-crafted every single damn thing at their wedding, and have managed to keep their wedding budget to a fraction of what mine is.  Super-me could do that too.

Recently, a friend of mine posted something on the Facebook that was a similar rant, but with a focus on parenting. Her plea was why all her female friends and herself were trying to turn themselves into Stepford wives and be perfect all the time.  Our men aren’t perfect.  And they don’t beat themselves up over taking a nap, or eating the occasional fast food, or not looking like David Beckham.  So why do I feel the need to be Marissa Mayer at work, with a body like Gisele, who cooks like Ina Garten, keeps house like Martha Stewart, plans a social calendar like Carrie Bradshaw, and has a sex life like Megan Fox?

I don’t really know what the solution to all of this is.  But I do wish I could either find a way to be a little more like Super-me, or a way to stop obsessing about her.  Either one would likely do, and make me a happier gal as a result.


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