Sorry Not Sorry
“You’re fucking with a savage … and it’d be nice of me to take it easy on ya, but nah”, are the words to Demi Lovato’s perfect pop hit, Sorry Not Sorry. And holy shit do I relate to that song. Firstly, because it’s an anthem about unapologetically being a badass and secondly, because I love saying “nah” with as bogan an inflection as I can get. I like listening to stingers like this when I run too, because it makes the perfect backing track for me cheering myself on in my head “Go Maz! You rule! You’re the best!” Because the narcissist I am, I find it motivating to tell myself how good I am as I exercise. I’ve told some people this and they have one of two reactions; either horror that I’d dare to encourage myself using such douchey, positive mind-language or, if they know me well, just roll their eyes with an affectionate grin, because I am a delightful rascal. Really, it comes down to the fact that I love me some Maz, wanting to big her up at all times and I am stubbornly unapologetic about it. Which brings me to the rest of the things I am not ashamed to have done this year (and some of the things I am).
I’m sorry for… Not always being available.
This is the number one thing I feel like a dickhead for this year. I am super sorry to the friends I have ignored at some point in 2017. Be it via text message, instagram, messenger, whatsapp, phone call, Facebook comment, Snapchat or email. Here’s the thing, I get totally overwhelmed by these thousands of communication channels and sometimes just have to pretend they don’t exist and go watch a pirated version of 90 Day Fiancé. A typical way my myriad of communication tools haunts me is as follows. I get a message in messenger and I don’t have the time to reply to it, or need to formulate a response better than a single emoji, so I leave it unread and go about my day. Then when I go on Facebook, just frittering away a spare minute, I feel I can’t actually “like” anything for fear of the person who messaged me seeing that I’m doing something on social media other than replying to their message. Then I see people in life and they ask “did you see my photo on Facebook? Did you like it?” And then I feel horrible because I did like it but couldn’t “like” it because I hadn’t got around to responding to someone else on messenger. And so my attempts at a moment alone with reality television send me into a spiral of shame and regret.
*But please also note, not everyone is going to actually like everything you put on social media so never ask this question, because people don’t like being railroaded into fawning over things they don’t actually like.
I’m sorry for… Being a mean girl.
This is a tough one to admit to, but I mean girl people. Only gently, but I do it because I am scared of my friends liking someone else more than they like me, because I need to be loved the most, by everyone, at all times. My mean girl tactics include, but are not limited to:
gently asking my friends not to like the people I don’t like
bringing up in-jokes in front of people who aren’t in on said in-jokes
making lists of “first impressions” of people and then reading them to my close friends so I can gently manipulate them into thinking they are also their first impressions
being an insufferable know-it-all who is constantly contrary
looking up people’s half marathon or fun run times, when they’re boasting about having completed one or the other on the socials, and being disgusted if they did so at a walking pace rather than actually running it in their expensive fitness gear, when at that pace it could have been completed in jeans and a collared shirt
reverse image searching one particular person’s Instagram because she constantly posts photos of girls from behind who look like her but aren’t actually her, and then when I go to credit the actual model/photographer in the comments section I wimp out on pressing send at the last minute. This coming year I am going to actually press send, because what you are doing is plagiarism and you fully accept the comments of “you look great babe” “gorgeous”. That’s not you mate, stop being dishonest. And yet I’d look crazy for exposing your weird visual lies because it’s not weird to be a catfish but it’s weird to be an awesome online detective.
I’m sorry for… Not doing drugs 2010.
In 2010 I had friends who bought cocaine on Silk Road with Bitcoin and had it posted to them in the mail. Although I wasn’t cool enough at the time to actually do these drugs, it seemed like a clever little way to not have to go to some disgusting dealer’s house and also what a cool advancement in technology guys! You can buy anything on the net now! Anyway, back then, each Bitcoin was 8c. And I can’t help but feel, had I bought and done those drugs, I would have ended up with a couple spare Bitcoin left in my account and forgotten about, as I do with any gift card, overseas travel card or account which has something other than Australian cash in it. Oh how I wish I’d bought some cocaine on the dark web in 2010 and had just 10 Bitcoin left (which would now equate to hundreds of thousands of dollars, old folk reading this) turning my very poor, early 20s decision making into the greatest investment of my life :(
I’m not sorry for… Exercising and eating well.
This year I have taken up trail running, and when people ask why I’ve started running and I say I do it to run away from my family I AM NOT KIDDING. I’ve read that it’s really common for new dads to start training for marathons or massive bike rides or the Sydney to Hobart, anything to get out of the house, and this is probably what started it for me. Unadulterated freedom. Just running away from my kid and being completely, blissfully alone. With the mournful black cockatoos overhead and the brilliant red punctuation marks that are Waratahs in early spring and native meadows of grasses and teeny flannel flowers and sheer sandstone cliffs like wedges of aged cheddar beckoning me in the early morning light. I also start everyday with a smoothie that contains one carrot, one cucumber, two cups of spinach, ginger, an orange, LSA and a cup of water. I know, “fuck me” for putting lots of veg into my body in the morning. Why are people so mean to me about this? Seriously, can you let a girl live and eat what she wants? You all know I also eat entire wheels of brie in a sitting and drink passionfruit UDLs and cans of coke and sour candies like they’re going out of style. I’m just trying to balance it out ok? OKAY?!?
I’m not sorry for… Putting myself first.
I am thirty, but it is well and truly still my prerogative to act like a teenager. Although, my third decade teenagerdom is tempered by my incredibly structured, adulty weeks. I work full time, so my Monday to Friday looks like this:
5am wake up, or more accurately, get out of bed after enduring a solid hour of being kicked in the ribs by a toddler. Get him dressed, get me dressed, give him breakfast, make and drink smoothie. Wee if I get a chance. Put our lunches in our bags. Put our bags in the car.
6.33am start walking to car, look at snails, look at the letterbox, look at the moon, eventually get in the car.
7am arrive at childcare. Either hold sobbing toddler who doesn’t want me to leave for ten minutes while trying not to cry myself, or have him wave bye immediately and run off. There is no in between.
7.30am fang it to work and arrive late. Starting late means finishing late, so the later I start, the later I finish. Hence the fanging.
4.30pm hustle out of work, dirty and tired (but happy) after a nine hour day of physical work in the sun.
5pm collect toddler, ask carers about his day. Check when he slept, what he ate, when he pooed. Carry Paw Patrol bag to car, trying not to drop litany of trash crammed in bag while toddler wrangling (once Max’s lunchbox actually fell out onto the head of another child while I was carrying it). Look at lavender, argue about whether it’s called lavender or watermelon, look at lady beetle, look at chairs. Get in car.
5.30pm get to Coles to buy the food for dinner I didn’t buy in advance like a good grown up. Battle with a toddler who wants to pat the guide dog money box for an hour. Battle with a toddler who wants to eat all of the blueberries in Coles. Chase a toddler weilding a stolen pool noodle through the aisles. Carry screaming toddler to check out and check out items one armed.
6pm get home. Feed toddler. Cry at him ignoring the food I gave him. Wash toddler. Read the same book seven times. Sit by toddler’s bed until he’s asleep (this part can be done with or without husband, depending on how long his day was and if he’s home yet, after he left the house before we even woke up). Try to avoid liking anything on Facebook until I’ve replied to 7 unread messenger messages.
7.15pm eat dinner, reply to all emails/messages/do any life admin I can be fucked doing. Live life for approximately one hour, fall into bed exhausted.
Subsequently, when I get free time I grab it with both hands. This year I went camping in a gorge after work, swam in the river and drank beer while Nick and Max stayed home alone and then hiked back to work in the morning, learnt to abseil after work followed by Vietnamese food, went to Tasmania and drank more than I should have, went to Halloween in Lithgow, drank more than I should have, walked into town without shoes and was driven home in a police car (I wasn’t in trouble, I just have connections), saw my three favourite bands live, drank a lot of beer, spent every Sunday morning out of the house running and alone, spent every Tuesday night playing basketball and occasionally getting into basketball related altercations.
Beyond these extracurriculars, the other “putting myself first” activities I’ve enjoyed include; wearing midriff tops, not sharing food, posting little to no photos of my kid on Facebook because it’s MY Facebook and I want the online kudos and don’t want to hand it over to him, because these people are MY Facebook friends Max, and having crushes on boys.
I’m not sorry for… Having crushes on boys.
Let me expand on this previous point. Since I was small, I have loved having crushes on people. The giddiness, the capacity for silly convos with your girlfriends about abs and smiles. The safety and comfort of going home to the person you married and knowing you’ll never have to navigate tinder, awkward rejections or shaving your legs. Having a crush brings joy to your days and I recommend it 100%. I know people like to scream words like “emotional affair” and if that’s the vernacular you want to use then sure, I’m an emotional affairer. My best friends for example, get access to parts of me Nick doesn’t; they know my secrets, my thoughts, can comfort me in different ways… basically I don’t think your partner can fulfill every emotional need you have, so I look for comfort elsewhere a lot, which is where best friends and crushes come in. And it works and I’m happy. And he’s happy. And we’re all happy being emotional adulterers.
I’m not sorry for… Being way to honest all the time.
I pooed my pants recently. I had some sort of bug, had a day off work with fluey symptoms and then, as I was out the door the next morning, thinking I was ok I just pooed in my pants. I still went to work, because I am an amazing employee, and as soon as I arrived on site and looked my work mates in the face (one of whom was my boss) it just came out of my mouth
“I pooed my pants. Not just then, but about an hour ago. It's ok, I changed pants”. And here is this weird thing that I do. I feel like I'm lying if I don't tell the complete, inappropriate truth. Like now, I'm broadcasting on the internet that I crapped my pants. I just can't help it. I think I feel like it inoculates me against people thinking I'm shady, or disingenuous. Or maybe it feels like it will help honesty flow the other way and lead to one of my other favourite past times, knowing people’s secrets.
To conclude, I have done a lot of questionable stuff this year, will continue to be a questionable Maz into the new year and if you have secrets you need to share please send them to me ASAP via messenger. You won’t get a read receipt, but you’ll know I’ve received them when I suddenly ghost your social media channels and stop liking everyone’s photos of lizards, baby videos and snarky memes that end in white lady names like “Susan”.