what would iggy azalea do?

She would probaly say, “fuck love gimme diamonds.” Which is basically what I’m saying right now to moving and packing and the logistical nightmare that entails. If I had a nickel for every time I said to Royal, “I really wish I was Harry Potter right now,” I would be a rich bitch. Like Iggy. Plus, when I listen to “Work,” I substitute with my own lyrics of “No money, no family, 27 in the middle of Seattle” because that’s how I feel with $1900 a month rent.


Here’s the thing, though. Remember yesterday when I mentioned that I feel like I’ve been sleepwalking? That most days I get to work and have no idea how I got there? The entire walk there is a blur? Yep. That’s my MO. And this week, now that moving is really happening, I keep staring at the clock and the calendar and wishing away the next three weeks just so it can all be over and my new reality started. But here’s the other thing: I’ve been thinking that way since I was 8.

When I was 8, I couldn’t wait to be in middle school so I could go to school dances. (HAHA. Sucker. Little did I know I would never dance with a single boy. Puberty, man. The shits.)

When I was 12, I wanted to be 16 so I could drive.

When I was 16, I wanted to be 18 so I could go to college.

And when I was in college, I just wanted to be OUT of college. And when I got out of college, I wanted to be married. And then I was married and god only knows how many other things I’ve wished for. The “I’ll be happy when” trap. It’s happening again to me right this very second with me thinking, “I’ll be happy when I’m done packing shit and I’m eating multi-grain Cheerios and watching The Killing.”

I’ve always known I do this, and I’ve tried billions of times to fix it. To be present. It doesn’t work. But the other day I was listening to the NPR TED Radio Hour, as I so often do on my walks to work, and Carl Honore’s snippet came up. It kind of blew my mind. Just a teensy little bit:

But why is it so hard to slow down? I think there are various reasons. One is that speed is fun, you know. Speed is sexy, and all that adrenaline rush. It’s hard to give it up. Another reason, though, I think, perhaps even the most powerful reason why we find it hard to slow down is the cultural taboo against slowing down.

That slow is a dirty word in our culture. It’s a byword for lazy, slacker, for being somebody who gives up. You know, he’s a bit slow. It’s actually synonymous with being stupid. I think there’s a kind of metaphysical dimension that speed becomes a way of walling ourselves off from the bigger, deeper questions. We fill our heads with distraction, with busyness so that we don’t have to ask – am I well? Am I happy? Are my children growing up right?

Jeez, Carl. Way to really hit me in the feels. You’re right–I’m trying to speed through it all. Which is a bummer. And YEAH! You’re right! There’s totally a cultural taboo against being “slow.” And as someone that’s never been entirely fond of cultural taboos, I’m not stoked about it. And I’d like to challenge it. I’m going to move slowly this week, suckers! Which, for me, means working on ONE thing at at time. Because for some reason I’ve told myself that multi-tasking is absolutely necessary, but the truth is…multi-tasking gets me nowhere but a rat’s nest of tangled thoughts and anxiety.

One thing at a time. Move slowly. Work, work, work, work, workin on my shit. Who’s with me?

enter comfort zone cliche here

I don’t like feeling uncomfortable. And all of those cute prints you like to pin and buy on Etsy about life beginning at the end of your comfort zone–those can suck it. I like my comfort zone, and I like my life inside my comfort zone. It’s safe here, and it’s warm here, and it feels the way a toaster strudel tastes. Good. Fluffy and flaky and full of preservatives.

But here’s the thing. We are moving to Seattle. In like…three weeks.

It’s blowing my mind.

I’m a born and raised Utahan, which isn’t optimal, but it’s safe. I thought I wanted to move out of state for the last six years, and I bitched about it and complained and whined and moaned about how shitty Utah is. So Mitch applied for jobs in Seattle. Because we’ve always wanted to live in the Northwest. Always, always, always. But then he actually GOT the job, which was unexpected. It was awesome, but it was unexpected, and it blindsided me. And now we’re moving, and I feel crazy. All kinds of roller coaster feelings of YES! to omg to holy shit to what?? to no…..really? to ok to I’M TERRIFIED.

But here’s the real question here….HOW DO PEOPLE DO THIS ALL THE TIME? I know that moving out of state is totally normal, and I’m sure tons of you have done it. But how? The logistical pandemonium is enough to make me stay in tiny Utah forever and always because I can’t fathom working out these logistics. Moving vans and selling condos and finding new apartments and figuring out how to transport two finicky cats in a Vanagon. I don’t know how you guys do this.

And how do you dare move to a brand new city? Is it terrifying? I don’t understand how you just up and move somewhere and carry on like life is normal. Is it as hard as it sounds?

It’s not to say that I’m not excited. I’m wildly excited. But I’m also nervous. Utah is all I’ve ever known. WHICH IS CRAZY. I know there’s a big fat wide world out there. And I know I will love Seattle. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t scary. I’ve never done anything like it before.

But here’s the other thing. I think this just might be the giant jolt to my system I’ve been needing sorely for the last many moons. Since rehab, really. I’ve been in a life rut since 2006, which means I’ve been copping out to these two identities everyone here knows me by: Amy Morby Ex-Mormon and Amy Morby Recovering Anorexic. While it’s comforting to have people that know my past so well, it’s also exhausting sometimes. I kind of just want to know what it feels like to be JUST Amy Morby, you know? Maybe that’s not a thing, but I feel like I want it to be a thing. I just want to know if it’s a thing.

So, we’re moving to Seattle. I don’t have a job lined up. We maybe have a place lined up. And it’s all happening so quickly it’s like ripping off a cosmic-sized band-aid off of my universe-sized ass. But I kind of like it. It’s painful, and I cry once a day whenever I realize another thing I’m leaving behind, but it’s also making me feel alive if you want to get cliche about it. And I kind of do. Because I’ve been asleep for six years. Sometimes you don’t realize you’re hurrying through life until one day, you get to work but have no idea how you got there. And then you walk home from work and have no idea what you just did for the last 8 hours.

I’ve been asleep. I’ve been complacent in my cozy Utah bubble of familiarity. It’s probably time to get out of that. It may be temporary–it may be forever. Either way, I’m looking forward to getting to know Amy Morby and just Amy Morby. No suffixes attached. No expectations. Just Amy Morby.

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Any tips for moving out of state? I haven’t even started packing yet. I’m 110% in denial.

breaking news: get over it

A colleague said something really weird to me the other day.

I told him how hard I fangirl for Scarlett Johansson. You know. Scar Jo. Lost in Translation is my jam. She’s my jam. Sometimes she makes weird movie choices, sure, but homegirl’s got a bod. So, I’m telling a colleague this, and he says, “YEAH, BUT HAVE YOU SEEN HER CELLULITE?”

“uh…yeah, so? All women have cellulite.”

To which he genuinely tilted his head and said, “….you think so???”

Yes, colleague. I think so. And I think it’s just about time we all got the hell over it.

My name is Amy Morby, and I have cellulite. Guess what? I also have stretch marks. I’ve had them since I was 12. I remember feeling panicked the first time I saw them. And I remember my mom telling me, “I’m so sorry, honey. You got my genes.”

I think I’d credit about 40% of my eating disorder to those stretch marks. And even after thousands of dollars of therapy later, I still look at Kim Kardashian’s boobs and think, “God, what I would give for no stretch marks on my ta tas.”

And then I remember…Amy, GET OVER IT. Because guess what?

Over 90% of women have cellulite. And you know why you didn’t know that?┬áBecause we are brainwashed into thinking so. To pour those billions on billions of scrilla into the diet industry.

Guess what else? You could exercise all day and still have cellulite. Because this:

Cellulite is caused by fibrous connective cords that tether the skin to the underlying muscle, with the fat lying between. As fat cells accumulate, they push up against the skin, while the long, tough cords pull down. This creates an uneven surface or dimpling.

Even skinny bodies have it because everyone has fat between their muscles and skin.

Also, men don’t really get cellulite because surprise, surprise–they’re structurally different. Men’s connective fibers form a crisscross pattern as opposed to the vertical pattern on our bodies. Apparently this keeps the fat in place, meaning no dimples and no cultural stigmas.

Right now, I’m crossing my legs on this chair, and my cellulite is dimpling on my thigh. And while I would usually uncross my legs upon noticing this and feel an immediate pit in my stomach followed by a barrage of horrific, self-deprecating thoughts…tonight, I’m going to say…fuck it. My body is as my body does. Or something like that. And ain’t nobody got time to wallow in negative self-talk about something they can’t do anything about.

We’re women. We’re fucking beautiful. Get over it.

Now go on and have a good night, ya hear?