Ridiculous in the City

As someone who lives in a perpetual state of ridiculousness, there was no worse after-effect of the 2016 presidential race than the loss of my ridiculous spirit in the days following the election. Well, that and the immediate concerns brought on by being forced to accept a reality fueled by waves of falsely placed negativity, intolerance and the kind of hate I like to think doesn’t exist. But as the initial sting began to numb, subtle hints at the blow my ridiculousness had sustained floated to the top. Humorous graffiti went unnoticed, little dogs in absurd sweaters elicited no comments, my Tina Turner greatest hits CD developed a thick layer of dust; I was a shell of my former ridiculous self.

Weeks went on. The streets of my beloved New York City offered no respite from the depressed, beaten-down mood that had become my new m.o. The holidays came and went. Thanksgiving was a listless, albeit tasty, exercise in giving thanks for all that was now somehow in doubt. By Christmas, it was as if Santa had come by, found the door locked and left a flaming poop in a paper bag on the doorstep.

And then George Michael died. I had hit rock bottom.

I needed no excuse to imbibe on New Years Eve, having begun my non-revelatory liver drowning weeks before. My attitude was crap, my skin was dry and sad, my hair staticky and brittle, just like my ridiculous soul had become.

Roundabout the second week in January, as I was lying on a yoga mat drinking a watery iced latte in my Obama jammies, listening to “One More Try” for the seventy-fourth time, a feeling of lightness came over me. Had the milk gone bad or was it the spirit of George Michael coming to show me the way à la It’s A Wonderful Life? God, I hoped it was George.

“I’m here George, I’m here. And I never burned my leather jacket,” I wanted to say. I took a deep breath, exhaling into the meditation of George’s voice and remembering better days.*

“So if you love me, say you love me. But if you don't just let me go.” Let it go, let it go, George was telling me. “So when you say that you need me, that you'll never leave me, I know you're wrong, you're not that strong… Let me go.” Yes, yes… let it go. Let go of the shell-shocked, sad feelings I’d been holding on to. Let go of the negative energy that was squashing my ridiculousness. Those gravitational pulls may be strong now, but nothing is forever. And nothing is stronger than my ridiculousness.

“And teacher, there are things that I still have to learn. But the one thing I have is my pride…” So right, George, so right. I can’t know everything this election has brought upon us, but walking around in a state of non-acceptance isn’t moving anything forward. Above all else, the one thing I have is my ridiculousness.

George Michael forever.

Had I really been that upset about the fact that so many Americans were, at the very least, willing to attach themselves to the momentum of racism and hate speech, or was I just too wrapped up in my own views to see the intolerance that is still there, that was always there? I hadn’t seen it because I hadn’t cared to, preferring to live in a consciousness where everyone thinks the way I do and, inevitably, it all works out. If history has shown us anything, it’s that things rarely work out and when they do, it’s a long time coming. Nothing works unless you work it. Letting intolerance take over by sitting idly by, recovering from election overload and blocking reality is, well, ridiculous.

I hadn’t bothered to notice the depth of the intolerance out there. Just like I hadn’t bothered to notice my ridiculousness had been lost somewhere mid-November. Because it went unnoticed, because I had allowed myself to get thrown off of my game, to become used to things, assume things, accept things—things had changed when I wasn’t looking. I had changed when I wasn’t looking. And in that way, I was just another casualty of the election.

Thank god George was there to show me the way.

So, today I am moving forward with a renewed sense of ridiculousness and strangely, a feeling of optimism. I mean, why not be positive? The apocalypse may be here, but I’m still standing and there is no time like the present to get out there and spread some ridiculousness. Laugh at a good pun, stop and smell the lattes (“Is that almond milk?” “No, I’m down with bovines, bro.”), wear my old “My mom went to Paris and all I got was this stupid t-shirt” t-shirt, ponder the eternal question of who buys the hard boiled eggs at the bodega—there is no end to the ways to promote catharsis.

Letting outside forces strip me of my unalienable right to think positive and believe that we can affect change is downright un-American. Letting those same forces push me into a state of blocking news and information for the next four years is dangerously ridiculous. It is imperative that we all stay on our toes and stay informed. We need each other and our ridiculousness now more than ever.

Spread the word: Ridiculous lives.

*Dancing around to "Faith," obsessing over the "Freedom 90" video, experimenting with mousse.