There’s a quote floating around the internet that ladies are spreading like a picture of shirtless Ryan Gosling. And if you’re a twenty-something woman who is even remotely paying 5 seconds attention to the modern blogosphere, you’ve probably seen it, too:
“You have just as many hours in the day as Beyonce.”
“YES!” “Love!” “So true!” women respond to their preacher of the Church of Beyonce. They buy prints with the phrase to hang above their freakishly non-messy desk (seriously, who are you and why do you have no miscellaneous collection of stuff on your desk?). They purchase mugs so they can Instagram their fresh, non-chipped manicured hand holding onto the handle as they drink their low fat soy milk concoction of a morning coffee. And they declare it their new motivational motto they just have to live by now.
While I’m all for motivational phrases, this one has driven me crazy for one little truth.
That’s why I need to tell you something, something big and life-altering.
You should probably sit down or huddle in your favorite corner for rocking back and forth in a moment of emotional crisis before you read what’s next.
Are you ready? Are you sitting?
Are you sure?
Okay, here it goes:
You will never be Beyonce.
I know, I know. Take a few breaths into a brown paper bag. Nice and slow.
But really. YOU WILL NEVER BE BEYONCE (yep, I went there with the ALL CAPS). And part of this revelation means coming to the understanding you will never have as many hours in the day as Beyonce. This is not because she lives in some strange time-slowing alternate universe (though I really wouldn’t be surprised–if anyone figures that out, it’s probably her). The reason is because Beyonce is not just Beyonce. Beyonce is a team of people, meaning Beyonce’s 24-hours translate into, like, 124 per day.
Do I know who is on this team? No. But I imagine it to look something like this:
- A nanny for Blue Ivy, one who chauffeurs her about to magical playgroups and classes that groom her to be President of the United States, Nobel Prize recipient in medicine for curing all modern plagues, and Oprah
- A cleaning staff that makes sure all cobwebs and dirt are transformed into sparkle.
- A personal chef to prepare gourmet meals that make that Pinterest recipe you half-succeeded at look like something you scraped off the interstate and adorned on a plate with a few weeds growing in your backyard.
- A person who breaks up said gourmet meals into manageable, bite-size hunks and tosses them into Beyonce’s mouth like she is a magnificent seagull.
- A personal trainer to make sure Beyonce’s thighs continue their reign of world domination.
- An exercise surrogate who works out 16 hours a day and donates the results to Beyonce’s thighs (and arms…and abs…) through some type of computer hook-up that looks like that Johnny Depp movie Transcendence.
- A make-up artist and hairstylist who have perfected the art of in-bed-while-sleeping service, making sure that Beyonce always rises from her sheets–1 billion thread count Egyptian cotton, I’m sure–looking ready for the cover of People’s Most Beautiful Person issue.
- A stylist whose sixth sense is finding all butt flattering clothing items in the globe that will perfectly glide over Beyonce’s curves.
- A personal assistant to manage all of these team members, her rehearsal schedule, her performance schedule, her bathroom breaks, her feuds with Kim Kardashian, and her playdates with Michelle Obama.
In our little, real, non-Beyonce worlds, we are charged with the task of working, scheduling, cooking, cleaning, bathing, grooming, reading, learning, exercising, sleeping and other fun things like raising tiny humans or going on dates or pinning 457 oatmeal recipes (guilty). Most of us will never have the luxury of handing off a lot of those daily tasks to other people so we can focus on our professional lives and creative pursuits. And if you do, I fully expect to move in with you and mooch off that lifestyle.
Do I like Beyonce? Sure. I’ve been known to flip my hand back in forth in single lady fashion while listening to my wrist pop and creak (because I’m cool and old like that). I’ve blasted “Love on Top” while on the treadmill planning my hypothetical wedding to Jason Segel. I’ve found the lyrics of “Survivor” playing in a continuous loop as I lie in bed at night, trying to sleep. And I’ve piled many things on my desk to the left, to the left, until my cat knocks them all off in a 3 a.m. rage.
But this isn’t a matter of whether or not I like Beyonce, or whether or not you do. It’s a matter of us realizing we are just mere mortals. That means the hard truth that we, in our everyday lives, will never know the powerful glory of being Beyonce, for there can be only one or else the world will likely implode. Instead, we get the honor of shoving our work and play into one jumbled mess, carrying on with our heads held high as we wear the badge of modern woman who seems to have everything together (but who really shoves most of it into a junk drawer in the kitchen). Embrace it, knowing that when the going gets tough, there will always be a Beyonce YouTube video rabbit hole you can spiral into for comfort.