Whimsy feels uncomfortable, at first.
Watching Whimsy Go By
I’m not being whimsical enough.
At all. I just saw a video of a woman with Nail Books. I’m adding capitals for dramatic effect. She has these binders full of gorgeous, whimsical press-ons. Just to organize them since she loves wearing and taking care of them so much. Girl???
It’s not only fun to look at (and to touch, I’m sure, with all the 3D art), but it’s also efficient? It also keeps everything neat? WHAT?? Genuinely. I am writing this whimsy blog but I am nowhere near whimsical enough. At first I was worried about my looks not being whimsical enough. Honestly, that’s not even that important for me right now. Because that is actually me wanting to be credible. How would anybody believe a word that I am writing on this whimsy blog if I am over here looking mid and mediocre?
I honestly don’t feel whimsical enough in my actions. I am saving ritual reels and reels of people doing amazing, beautiful, creative shit and then just keep scrolling. Why is that? I never prepare to do those things.
It’s like I know the life I want to live is this close and yet I just leave it where it is.
Being your own debby downer
I’m in therapy right now, so don’t worry, I’m working on it.
But still? It’s like I don’t want to fail at something I haven’t even started yet. And, by the way, failing at whimsy? How even??? Girl… It’s supposed to be fun.
I swear there are so many people whose lives I’d want.
They are making their own candles in a forest, keeping their press-ons together in a binder, simply showing up however they want to, so unapologetically. All shapes, sizes, ages, genders, and gender non-conforming people.
It’s like I believe whatever I have to offer simply won’t do.
As if there is a secret recipe that I could never perfect. Perfect is the key word here. That is really the thorn in my side. My Achilles’ heel.
It’s something I only dip my toes into here and there (in my mind, to be perfectly honest), but never really dive into. I am inspired by it, yet that inspiration is lost on me, sadly. I have a ton of content saved and collected that resembles a life I would like to live, yet I don’t make the time for it.
I don’t really feel good about that.
Perfectionism Is Killing My Sense of Play
Especially since it is just about having fun. What’s the issue? What’s really the risk? Why do I not trust it? Why? It boggles my mind. Something inside of me wants to play and I won’t let it. I don’t look into what is needed. I don’t start anything.
When whimsy is literally this colorful, exciting, reassuring, safe spectrum that is open to anyone. Anybody can hop on that bandwagon. It, like the people partaking in it, comes in all shapes and sizes.
There are no rules.
The empty Whimsy rulebook
Which is what, probably, terrifies me.
There is no rulebook. Nobody can tell me how to do it.
The world is my oyster. What the fuck?
You mean I get to choose? I get to pick? I get to do whatever I want, meaning I, in a way, have to self-validate?
How rude!! To assume little old me has the capacity!! (Obviously it is the opposite of rude. It is very inviting, but the rejected part of my soul does not understand this language yet.)
This is a dance I have never danced before. It looks hypnotic and mesmerizing. But I fear my body will dance like a wooden block.
Something is keeping the energy from flowing.
Standing In the way of whimsy
Obviously, I’m the one keeping the energy from flowing.
I’m actually writing this on the terrace at my mom’s house while blowing bubbles. I’m cranking up the whimsy one breath at a time. They swirl and twirl with the wind into the great wide open. I hope someone sees it and smiles.