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I knew it was coming. And it did. “What brings you here?” she asked. And without indulging in my usual verbosity, I just blurted out the first thought that forced its way through all of the noise. 

 

I’m a fucking cliché. Oh, God. I’m a Desperate Housewife. Well, Desperate Housewife-ish. But still…

 

Suddenly it had crystalized. I’m a walking, talking cliché. A forty-something-former-type-A-career-woman-turned-part-time-stay-at-home-mom-part-time-lawyer-part-time-home contractor…with foggy purpose and no clear direction. A jack-of-all-trades and master of none.

 

In that moment, I hated the cliché. Hated what I had become. And maybe, just a little bit, in my otherwise self-assured life, hated me. 

 

Fast forward through lots of Netflix binging, Candy Crushing and Barefooting (of the Sauvignon Blanc variety) – interspersed with making school lunches, taxiing to kids’ activities, tiling a bathroom or two, negotiating and drafting many contracts – more than a little therapy, self-reflection, and few pharmaceuticals (of the anti-depressant variety). 

 

And then, what felt at the time like out of nowhere, I was faced with a crumbling marriage. It thrust me unwittingly into a quest for emotional, intellectual and spiritual growth. Overwhelmed and inundated by self help books, religious texts, mental health articles, podcasts, Facebook groups, Tik Toks, armchair advice and, of course, many (many!) wine fueled conversations with friends, I found myself spinning my wheels and collapsing under the weight of the mental archeological dig. Left crushed and paralyzed by information overload, I realized I had to tackle life – its trials and tribulations, joys and celebrations – in a more manageable way. 

 

I needed to find a way to access my emotions again. And so, I began to write my way through it. I started by breaking things down into bite sized pieces using the lens of clichés, quotes and tru-isms. They are often real, profound, and deep, if you stop and think about them rather than dismissing them as, well, cliché. They can also be fucking funny sometimes if we stop taking them, and ourselves, so gosh darned seriously. And I settled into my existence as the Okay Cliché. 

 

It worked. For a while. But then the now twenty-year marriage did in fact fail, and I found myself in a whole new category of cliché – the Bitter Ex-wife. Oh. The horror! Seriously, I was a shit-show. 

 

My writing stalled out, and after a bit of self-licking wounds, I had to begin anew the process of tearing down and rebuilding in front of the proverbial mirror. After many, many failed attempts to jump start “me” again, I began to love it again. To love the cliché again. And to love me again. Most days anyway - I'm still me, and I'm still a work-in-progress. As are we all.

 

To be clear, I’m still an Okay Cliché. I’m no longer a Desperate Housewife or a Bitter Ex Wife (well, maybe a little…). I am now a 50 something divorcee and mid-life crisis survivor. I bought the sports car. I slept with a (much) younger guy. And I made an appointment with an attorney to “get my affairs in order.” I’m not sure there’s a catchy little cliché for that, but if there is one that’s okay. 

 

I still don’t make my bed. I’m still a shitty housekeeper. I still curse like a sailor and can be a bit self-indulgent. I still have moments of self-doubt and, if I’m being honest, mental self-flagellation.

 

But...I have also been reminded, that I am a masterpiece. A messy one. But a masterpiece nonetheless. I like to think of myself as a knock-off Pollock. That way, I can make changes here and there – it will still be me, only better with a little more color splashed across the canvas blending into the messiness with ease. Plus, I haven’t mentally defaced a multi-million dollar piece of art, being a knock-off and all. 

 

So, if you are messy, if you are a masterpiece, or if you are both, welcome. Let’s have a laugh, a cry, celebrate our victories, accept our failures, have the courage to change the things that we can, and start loving the hell out of ourselves. 

 

In love and like for who and what you are,

 

mack