Monday, May 21, 2018

David Beckham at the Royal Wedding is My Confidencespiraton

I continue to maintain that royalty in general—and the Royal Wedding in particular—is ridic AF, and that the level of public interest in it cannot readily be excused by “this is a welcome bit of good news” or “let’s enjoy some nice fashion” or “stop being such a grouch” or “isn’t it wonderful how Aryan aristocracy is sort of blunting their racism in 2018 a little” or whatever. 

Because in fact, royalty is just a bunch of entitled rich people making the world wax their proverbial car in public for no reason at all for centuries, and killing and colonizing people in the process; that is, before they became modern-day philanthropic cartoons of themselves in ridiculous hats.

That being said, David Beckham at the Royal Wedding is FULLY my #1 confidencespiration. 

I thought I invented this word, but then Google once again proved there’s no such thing as an original idea anymore, if there ever was. Whether I invented it or not, David Beckham at the Royal Wedding is my definitive consfidencespiration.

I mean, look at this guy. This is the face, body, and demeanor of someone with ZERO doubts about himself. And why should he have any? 

He’s a filthy rich Anglo-Saxon male professional athlete married to a fashion icon. He has a litter of children that he made with his tatted-up virile body, and he appears to have embalming fluid in his veins where blood should be. He is wearing a perfectly-tailored, double-breasted three-piece suit and, apparently, all of his natural hair. The way he’s holding those designer sunglasses and the look on his face basically say, “I dare you to make me feel even .000015% bad about myself for any reason whatsoever today.”

This is the vibe I want to project into the world every day of my life. I want to feel about myself the way David Beckham looks at the Royal Wedding. It’s hard to imagine—in the context of my simple, Plebeian peasant life—what it would take for me to exude this sort of confidence, but I imagine that day would go something like this:

6:50 a.m.: Wake up well rested without hitting snooze (on a regular alarm clock) even once, learn from NPR that Donald Trump resigned after being criminally charged with treason.

7:00 a.m.: Get on scale, discover overnight loss of 10 pounds and yet still somehow know I’m not dying of dysentery. Look at Prozac and Vitamin D; decide neither is needed because I’m too happy.

7:15 a.m.: Get dressed and look fierce AF (or as fierce AF as possible (AFAFAP) while working only with a wardrobe from Nordstrom Rack). Take perfect, uninterrupted crap at home.

7:30 a.m.: Achieve 100% compliance from my children in departing the house (e.g., no toothpaste on the sink, breakfasts and lunches made timely with no caterwauling over who got the last Nature Valley Almond Butter Biscuit).

8:00 a.m.: Arrive at desk exactly on time with no voice mails or emails awaiting me. Boot up computer without any updates or crashes.

12:00 p.m.: Am told I am absolutely right about everything by at least three superiors and one subordinate re: a myriad of issues, all before 12:01 p.m.

4:00 p.m.: Am told by my boss to leave work early because I am spectacular and deserve it. Check mail at home, find only checks.

5:00 p.m.: Get on treadmill without children saying a word to me because they are quietly doing their homework together at the kitchen table; bust out four miles in 30 minutes and finally achieve the long-elusive runner’s high instead of the more common runner’s suicide-instinct.

6:00 p.m.: Eat healthy dinner as a family, including many vegetables that everyone happily gobbles up before which both children are bathed and have homework completed and have not fought for even one minute.

8:00 p.m.: Achieve perfect bedtime compliance from said children, before which they have folded and put away their own goddamned laundry all by themselves and without being asked.

9:00 p.m.: Put iPhone in a gun safe; Get into bed and read educational nonfiction book about economics or world health before drifting off to sleep for a solid 9 hours.*

Then and only then can I bend it like Beckham at the Royal Wedding.

*In this scenario, Eddie Vedder is also my husband who goes down on me every night like it’s his second job after being a rock star.




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