Originally posted on FB, 16 February 2020
• Written by Lesa Quale Ferguson•

Lately, I noticed that my real-time data processing skills are above average for recording incidents where I failed. I collect the shoulda-coulda-woulda, insecurities, moments of self-doubt, and humiliation into my databank. These are tracked, recorded into discrete cells, and labeled. Once stored, a board meeting of men suits who have copies of these spreadsheets arrive to roll out, examine, and finally present their findings.

These men are no Wolves of Wall Street with Leo looks; they are more like Herb Tarlek (WKRP in Cincinnati) types—the kind of guys you’d find in a strip mall brokerage in mustard-colored leisure suits.

My headspace is cluttered with their damning narrative. Lately, I’ve wondered, “Why am I supplying the cheeseballs with so much data? And, why is my role in my OWN fantasy a batch-level data processor?”

Why don’t I ever track and input the times I swoop one of my kids into my arms and kiss their whole face? Or, read to them? OK, that’s mostly Cal, but Sam will come in at least once a week for a hug. How about every moment I drive him wherever? How about all those times I smile at my husband and tell him how much he means to me? I do those things A LOT, way more than I fail. Why do I never count these overly long FB posts as writing? You are reading it, so yeah, it’s my writing. Why do I disregard everything I do as amateurish instead of looking at the pictures I took and enjoying them? Why is it that I’m always fat and never allow myself to be happy when the saying clearly states “Fat and HAPPY”?

Where is the spreadsheet for simple, happy, truthful moments? When is the regularly held board meeting of old ladies in purple gowns who give champagne toasts and call you “Daaarling” and “Dear” and “Lovey” and celebrate the passage of moments filled with goodness and love? I would work nights and weekends to be their data processor.