A few things caught my thoughts today: sleepies and Nac Mac Feegles.
I’m the WORST at understanding fashion. At best I’m two decades behind (I still think Doc Martens and sundresses are avant garde) and nothing in my closet matches. I’d give anything to be on What Not to Wear, just to see Stacy’s head explode at my overuse of the word ‘comfortable’.
I have to keep on top of my clothes. I throw away and replenish (from the sales rack. it’s why I never match) pretty consistently. But I realize something every six months, or so: not only is my everyday wardrobe important to my happy-boost. You know what else? SLEEPIES!
I am that frumpydump mother of three who sleeps in boxers and a tie-dyed shirt. If I haven’t shaved, it’s sweatpants and a tie-dyed shirt. Slap on some dreads and a slacked jaw and by morning I’m the next Wes Craven boogeyman.
I’m not saying that something silky will make me more beautiful. But when I have a solid rotation of cutesy sleepies I feel better able to attack a morning of screaming toddlers and baby vomit. That’s my advice for the week: feeling blue? get some good sleepies.
Nac Mac Feegles. Destructive, miniature folk from Terry Pratchett’s I Shall Wear Midnight. Maybe 6 inches tall, they travel by the dozens, fight as a hobby, and protect their hag o’ the hills, Tiffany Aching, to the very death.
I was thinking about them over breakfast because–as is standard once jobs and kids and money trickle in–I’m stressed. I’m not sleeping well and I’m having stress dreams. But I’m not dying, my family is happy, and we have a roof over our heads. So I stress and then I yell at myself for stressing.
The Nac Mac Feegles believe that they’ve already died sometime else, and that this life in the Chalk is Heaven. So they fight and drink and love and laugh, they take risks and haven’t any fear. They face death as a journey, shake hands and agree to meet again. If the Hell’s Angels and Buddha had a baby, it’d be a Nac Mac Feegle.
I’ll take my Om with a side of Crivens! today. F*ck you, stress.