There once was a girl seated next to me at a dinner party my old friend Richard invited me to when I was new to the city. 30 people crammed together at one long table in someone’s Manhattan loft. A mix of new, old and everything-in-between friends. Basically the requisite scene from every indie film ever made.
I can get along with most people but for some reason the girl seated next to me wouldn’t even look at me. Until at one point, after enough effort on my part (and let’s face it – no doubt enough liquor consumed), she eventually turned to me and said: “Oh, so you’re with Richard.”
She had seen me arrive with him and assumed. I laugh-screamed: “Oh, no!!!” My reaction tantamount to someone asking if I was dating my cousin. I corrected her explaining: “No. We’re just friends.” Something in the way I said it landed and she visibly shape-shifted in front of me.
Now relaxed, she proceeded to share that she had had a one-night stand with Richard a few months prior. I was baffled. It was like finding out your geeky cousin has game that makes girls weak in the knees and possessive. Wait. What?
She shared she had met Richard months ago out at a bar, slept with him and then proceeded to describe herself as a total hot mess. Out of control drunk, sobbing and hysterical.
These aren’t words you hear many people use to self-describe. But here we were hours deep into the dinner party as she explained how Richard was so kind to her the evening they met despite her hot mess-ness. And then? After sleeping with her, he never called her again.
Her hot mess memory met my arrival beside him at the party. I can only imagine how painful it was for her to see him. They didn’t speak at all at the party. At. All.
But the most interesting part of this story, you guys? She was a practicing psychotherapist in NYC after graduating from one of the most prestigious Ivy League schools in the country.
Hot mess girl was a therapist guiding the psychological wellness of many humans every day. While some may be inclined to judge her fitness for the job, what I realize is, she’s the perfect person for the job (though ideally this behaviour was not a regular, ongoing occurrence but hey, who knows?).
We’re all learning. And if self-described hot mess girl can successfully psychoanalyze New Yorkers on the daily, we all need to stop using the messiness of our past (no matter how recent) to define the possibility of our future.
If we can all take away one lesson from my moody Bon Iver-esque NYC loft dinner party, it’s this:
We get to be a hot mess. And do our work in the world.
Stop waiting for permission by way of self-perfection.
It’s ok. Be the hot mess. Then go do your very best work anyway.
We all need to stop using the messiness of our past (no matter how recent) to define the possibility of our future.
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