The label “superwoman” simply does not apply to me.
There are plenty of qualities that are super about me–both as a human being and a woman–but they do not make me a superwoman.
I am doing the things that the human race has been designed to do, see and be.
My mom would shriek if she walked into my house right now and decree that I am triflin’. I have clean clothes that I washed over a week ago sitting in bags waiting to be folded. Dishes that need to be cleaned.
Less than a week ago, as I dealt with my eldest daughter’s pubescent attitude, I understood why some animals eat their offspring.
Spring off, damn it.
The many hats that I juggle in my career and in life in general–these are no super human feats. Nor do they currently include a 9-5, and I’m okay with that.
Oh and my ability to love unconditionally is not superhuman–if anything it’s super got damn annoying at times.
Can’t we all just get our shit together?
We’ve set the bar entirely too low for the human race and what we choose to recognize as being worthy of the title “superhuman” or “superwoman”…
Forget superwoman–the description as outlined above is more like superficial.
The majority of us–be it woman or man–are just doing what the hell we have to do to get to where the f*ck we’re trying to go. Learning the lessons for better or repeat.
So no, I’m not a superwoman.
And that guy may seem great, damn-near perfect but he’s no superman. His breath smells like a hot pile of dung in the morning and he’s got a superiority complex. Dig deep enough and you might see that there’s some misogyny mixed in with the cream in his coffee.
But what the hell do I know, ya know?
What I’m clear on in my life is that I’m a woman who made up my mind about the things I wanted and then set about the various tasks of bringing them to fruition as best that God and I can.
And I’ve had so many detours along the way that it’s a miracle I’m still writing today. Just this morning I almost lost my shit when the person in front of me was going 10 miles below the speed limit. When I pulled up, I realized it was someone’s Grandpa Rutherford and asked for forgiveness of my savage.
There’s nothing super about moments of savagery.
What if I had flipped the bird first and asked questions later? Goodness gracious the man might’ve blamed all the ills of the world on these got damn millennials. A whole generation damned because of the woman with the shiny red nails who flew in like a bat from out of hell (and by flew I mean going the speed limit in a residential area), and beeped the horn that startled his life causing him to break so hard his head jerked some as she watched in horror.
Anywho, I digress…per usual.
I say all of this to say:
Being or becoming super isn’t a motivator or inspiration for me; it’s the humbling acceptance of being human and the consideration of how impactful that reality can be that is where the real power dwells.
So…I’m going to go fold the clothes, clean the dishes and woosah for a sec.
Okay who the hell am I kidding? I’m going to have the kids fold the clothes and wash the dishes when they get home from school.
I’M going to go make a sandwich and catch up on emails with a side of Netflix binging.
– Sincerely Syreeta