We Plan and God Laughs...and laughs...
God: IJBOL
Hi dear friends. Happy Friday.
I hope everyone is on their knees thanking God for Friday as I surely am. Speaking of God, He and I are having a bit of a classic “Will they? Won’t they?” You could cut the spiritual tension between us with a rusty butter knife — or a gentle gust of wind. It’s palpable and people are talking. He’s obsessed with me. If God were a 12-year-old boy he’d be calling me fat in Geometry but then telling me he is actually in love with me over AIM.
I love the phrase “We plan, God Laughs” or its counterpart “God has a sense of humor.” Because both can be cross-stitched on a pillow and it’s comforting to believe that the never-ending humiliation of being alive is actually just an omnipotent creator pranking you. It’s just way more fun to believe that the Great I AM is just new boot goofin’ with your entire life. What’s the alternative? That you’re just embarrassing? Eye roll.
I’ve been planning lately. Planning HARD. And God has not only just been laughing - but he’s been BUSTING OUT ROLLING ON THE FLOOR SPIT TAKE LAUGHING at me. Last night I did 12 minutes of great amateur* standup comedy. My jokes hit. My crowd work hit. Two drunk 20-year-olds from Manchester, ENGLAND told me I was their favourite comic of the night. Moments later I learned that I had toilet paper on my shoe the entire time.
I wanted to die, for a moment, and then I realized very quickly that God was just accessing me through the first way I ever learned how to make sense of the world: UNDERDOG FEMALE LEADS IN EARLY 2000’s MEDIA. God wasn’t punishing me. He was ushering me into the life I’ve dreamed of — tropes, trials, PLOT — just like all of my sheroes before me. (Josie Grosie? Need I say more?)
A big realization that has been rattling around my brain lately is how when I was young, I promised myself that when I grew up, I would become perfect, and perfection would shield me from pain. It’s how I coped with everything unpleasant around me that was out of my control. I think up until blacking out on stage last Sunday, I was truly maintaining that belief that I can actually achieve perfection. I made that promise to 5, 10, 15-year-old Chloe that I was going to get us out of this mess. I really shook on it with myself. I would stare in the mirror for hours and make sweeping promises about my future. I’m going to get us boobs and a good life.
The pursuit of perfection and maintaining that promise is what has landed me in rehabs, psych wards, and so so so many waiting rooms. When I looked down at my feet last night, toilet paper and all, I just heard a voice so playfully tell me the following:
Just let the movie play out. This is the plot — I’m making you the character you most love — you are not perfect, that’s not your thing, but I promise there is a happy ending.
I wish you all a happy Friday and the chance at your own toilet paper moment.
*Emphasis on amateur