Toast

It is January in Alaska. (It is most likely January in other states as well, but I can't say for certain.) The sad truth of it is, January in Alaska is typically cold, ugly, dark, and depressing. Don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to blame January - it's a perfectly respectable month in all other regards - that's just how things are. And for me, January means something else: epiphanies. Sad, gloomy, self-esteem-robbing epiphanies that, thankfully, dissipate by mid-February when we start seeing a respectable amount of daylight.

This January is no different.

Epiphany, January 2010: In the great bakery of humanity, I am toast.

Don't try to argue, either. You don't argue with January epiphanies. It's bad luck. Besides, I've told you before, I'm not exciting or bubbly or outgoing. I'm toast. I'm toast, surrounded by cinnamon rolls (like my cool friend down the street who introduced me to the joys of sushi and uses the word "yo" in casual conversation) and chocolate cake (like my husband, who can act like an eight-year-old boy and somehow pull it off with great aplomb) and blintzes (like the produce guy at the grocery store who juggles oranges to distract my daughter from her tears while I'm trying to pick out tomatoes) and maple bars (like my sister, who is basically my hero). But I'm toast.

I wonder if I need a tattoo or a sports car or a strategically-placed piercing to pull me out of my funk. (Sadly, I can't afford any of those things this month because last month, I succumbed to a split-second moment of sentimentality and decided that when I go to visit my maple bar-esque sister over spring break, Riley should come with me. And plane tickets, as I'm sure you're aware, are not inexpensive.) Some days I feel so toast-like that I have to think of things I do well, to prove to myself that I am not toast: I'm a good cook; I'm a great housekeeper; I have a cool blog. But then my toast mentality takes over and I tell myself that lots of people can cook, and even more people can keep house. As for a blog, well, any idiot off the street can start a blog. (Hey, Paris! What up, LiLo?)

So what's a poor slice of toast to do?

Well, I'll tell you. I'm going to buy the sports car.

He, he. No. Not really.

I've decided to start validating myself instead of relying on others to validate me. I don't need a friend to think I'm cool so that I can think I'm cool. I don't need my husband to tell me I'm beautiful (although that's always nice to hear) in order to like the person I see in the mirror. And I certainly don't need to be "as good as" anyone else to be good at something.

Now, if someone could just tell tell me how to accomplish that, I'll get right on it...