Maybe it’s the fact that I’m PMSing (truism: I wanted chocolate today, and I haven’t wanted chocolate in a long while. My sweet tooth has waned considerably in the past year or so, as my cravings for creamy, fattening things has tripled) but I’ve been having the same obsessive thought for weeks now: I truly think I am going to be alone for the rest of my life.
We all know those narcissistic motherfuckers who are chronic compliment-fishers.
“Oh, I’m feeling so fat and bloated today!”
“You’re a size 2…you could never be fat. You’re skinny!” (In my mind: “Ho, your ass is still wearing junior sizes. Gently go fuck yourself with a splintery stick.”)
For those of us who truly have the self-esteem that Honey Boo-Boo Child is destined have by the year 2020 (witness the soul-changing fuckery if you haven’t already: )
other people’s coerced flattery isn’t soothing. So what I’m saying is, for those of you issuing a standard, “Oh, silly! You’ll find someone!” I am not convinced…though your insincerity is more than mildly annoying.
This isn’t a passing nagging thought like I had when I was 27 and still hopeful. No, now it creeps in at the worst times. And it seems…constant. I think about ending up alone with the frequency that a 16 year old boy thinks about sex.
Though I did have a convoluted dream the other night. (Let’s see if I can a) relay it in short order and b) not bore you senseless with it.) There were groups of people grouped according to colors: red, blue, yellow, white, purple, etc. My future was going to be determined by the color I chose. I knew a few details of each group. Some contained great looking men (i.e potential partners), others contained money, others world-class destinations, one famous people. One group, the red group, didn’t have any discernible perks. It was sort of a surprise. There were no guarantees. After much thought (especially after I learned the white group contained Ben Linus – the sexiest mofo on TV… EVER…)
and after almost choosing the blue group which contained my high school crush, I chose the red group. When I joined them, I realized it was full of women….really independent women I instantly respected.
Then I awoke. Was that supposed to be comforting? Because I spent the next hour chiding myself for not tackling Ben Linus to the ground and dry-humping him voraciously. (Seriously, creepy is sexy to me. Will probably meet a serial killer online in 3…2…)
Reassuring dreams that turn my pitiful singlehood into a scenario worthy of a Beyonce song or not, I am still scared out of my fucking mind. Because after my parents are gone, that’s it. I got nothin’. No family. Sure, you always have friends…to a point. But unlike Courteney Cox, I don’t expect them to drag my single ass along on vacay with their kid and cracked-out husband.
A friend may extend a pity invite to you for Thanksgiving (along with several weirdos they also pity-asked),
but at some point you’re going to find yourself in front of a half-dead Christmas tree, watching Miracle on 34th Street at 3 am while you drink Wild Turkey straight from the bottle. It’s going to be lonely. It’s going to be depressing.
And yet…what’s the alternative? Run out and try to find someone? That could be just as, if not more, disastrous than being alone. There’s a reason the TV show, “Who the (bleep) did I marry?” exists (and that I experience extreme relief at being single while watching it). I fully believe desperate women attract horrible men.
I wouldn’t mind a late-in-life marriage, if I knew that the time leading up til then would be filled with great sex and a vibrant social life. I mean, look at Streisand. She landed Marcus Welby (I still would, any given day). So how did she fill her single days before The Brolin? Hell, I wouldn’t mind being single, either, if I had her money. I’d have a few gay guys on payroll (gayroll?) to lunch and bitch with. I’d pay my girlfriends’ way on a roap trip up the Amalfi coast. I’d turn my housekeeper Helen into a confidante whether she liked it or not. It wouldn’t be horrible. Money may not buy happiness but it can sure as hell buy you a willing entourage.
I was thinking about Butters, for example. If not for my mother, Butters would probably be put in the pound if something happened to me. Who would care? Who would she go live with? All my friends either have tons of pets or live out of town/state. See? That kind of shit is depressing to me. That’s literally the kind of stuff that wakes me up at 5:30 am and keeps me tossing and turning. It’s terrifying. Not to mention the thoughts of rotting away in a nursing home without a spouse or kids or grandkids to even bring me a pack of Werther’s and a word search puzzle. Fuck!
If ever a fable pertained to my life, it’s the tortoise and the hare. While I shrugged off all my friends who got married young and started families, I went merrily along my way, getting useless degrees, taking off time to find myself (i.e. being a lazy shit), having an emotional breakdown over someone who wasn’t worth it, and dating people I knew damn well I couldn’t have a happy future with. The result? Well…nothing. Not a fucking soul on the horizon who’s interested in pursuing a life with me. Ovaries that are in the process of committing hara kari. Aging parents. Friends with lives and families. That old idiom, make hay while the sun shines? Yeah, well. I didn’t. And now I am hay-less, for whatever that means.
What’s so horrible is that I’m not, by my nature, an optimist. So do I spring out of bed in the morning and say, “Today is a new day, and I can change the course of my life! I feel strong and invigorated!” No. I grumble at 8:30 and nearly roll over the cat, as I spend at least 90 seconds hobbling toward the kitchen because I feel like I was kicked by a rabid mule during the night. My first word of morning cheer usually consists of uttering the word “fuck” about something or other, and I’m almost always late to work. (When I started last year I was supposed to get here at 8:30. I now routinely get here between 9:30 and 9:45. Screw it. If I’m staying here til 7 or 8 at night, I ain’t in a big rush to get in.) My days run together: work a little, putz around the internet for most of the day while waiting around on other people, listen to Limbaugh, eat a fattening lunch (that routinely takes an hour and a half) and feel my ass growing numb until it’s finally time to go home, where I fix a drink (or 3), microwave something that’s considered partially edible, corporal cuddle Butters and then fall asleep at 1 am. There is nothing inspiring about my life, except maybe the few hours a week I’ve begun spending with the shelter kittehs. And even that has proven to be depressing as fuck. I am only a euthanized cat or two away from crying my eyes out about it.
Like I said, I’m PMS-y. So my inner-cuntiness is coming out, which should surprise no one. (It took everything I had not to eat one of my co-workers alive today, since he apparently lives to be the biggest, butt-holiest wrench-thrower of all time — and yet, always, ALWAYS, manages to sashay his ass out the door before my team does.)
I will go ahead and attribute my alone-ness to my weight and my weight alone, because admitting it’s anything else (my salty attitude, my penchant for saying too much, my general tendency to be a misanthrope, my inherent laziness, my lack of adventure and obsession with cats) is just too hard. Chalking it up to my gigantic ass and semi-pregnant appearance makes it easier for me to pout in the corner and say, “Well, what a shallow asshole. If that’s all he cares about, who wants him anyway?” When the truth is, for the first time in a long time, I can honestly say that *I* wouldn’t even date me if I were a dude. I’m just…not attractive, and have very little to offer. I might could pull off a few good months (provided I tried really hard) but eventually I’d get all comfortable and let the real me come out, and he’d lose interest.
Once upon a time, there was this guy I really wanted to go out with. Or at least get to know better. A friend of mine recently suggested I put myself on his radar; I declined. If I weighed 130 lbs, I definitely would, and the results could very well be exactly what I’d hoped for in that scenario. But that’s not the reality. And, as Winona and Ethan reminded us in the 90s, reality bites. It’ fucking sad as hell for me to come to the sobering realization that I have pissed away my life and happiness by hating my body, and abusing it endlessly in so many different ways. All that really stands between me and maybe a family someday is weight. That’s it. What a seemingly easy thing to remedy…except it’s not.
Because for me, it’s so intertwined with comfort, rage, rebellion, habit, and numbness. If I take away the thing I self-medicate with (to say nothing of alcohol) then I have to sit in that anxiety and soul-hunger for an untold amount of time…much more than I’m comfortable with, for sure. So much of my life has been uncomfortable – painful, even – that I seek comfort wherever I can get it. It’s a hard thing to release, even for as much as it hurts me.
And for that comfort, I am paying the ultimate price.