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I made my bed; now I can barely get out of it

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 would probably say that *I* wouldn’t even date me if I were a dude.

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 what I look like. That’s it. What a seemingly easy thing to remedy…except it’s not.

 

7 responses »

  1. If the thing that is keeping you up nights is the fear/belief that you will never get married and will therefore be alone, and you find it insincere or at the very least unconvincing when people try to tell you otherwise… Maybe it’s time to just shift into a mode where you ACCEPT that you are alone and may well be alone indefinitely/forever, and decide what it is that you want to do with your life NOW instead of waiting for some possible horizon where your prince finally drags his lost ass to your castle.

    If you were just informed, like by God Himself, that you will NEVER be married, what would you do with your life? If you’re not waiting for Mr. Right, then are you willing to remain stuck with the job you hate indefinitely, or are you going to more actively pursue something that is at least marginally fulfilling? If you’re not going to attract someone, then is it worth it to you to get in shape simply so you can enjoy being in your own body and not feel so horrible each morning when you wake up, or will you be able to let go of at least *some* of your criticism of your body as it is, since you don’t have to worry about whether some guy likes your ass or is put off by your belly? And if you don’t have the constructs of wife (and mother) to help frame your life, then what is your life going to be about?

    This kind of sounds like I saw you peering over the side of a bridge and decided to give you a vigorous shove, but that’s not my intention. I just wonder if you would be able to find a little breathing room to break out of the thoughts and habits that seem to weigh you down if you could just look your fear in the face, tell it to fuck off, and put your attention elsewhere for a while. That means, instead of living in the despair of “it probably won’t happen,” you can just accept it, let go, and move on. And, as stupid and trite as it sounds, I bet you’d be far more lucky to meet someone husband-worthy (and would feel more wife-worthy) if you stopped worrying about it and just lived your life in a way that made you happy. Or even just happier.

    Focus on things that give you lasting pleasure – not just the fleeting pleasure of food or the short-term numbing that comes with booze or sleep – and put a little energy there. And force yourself to be aware of and thankful for at least 3-5 things in your life, as-is, each day. At the very minimum, you won’t be as miserable as you sound right now.

    I kind of feel like an asshole writing this, but I assure you, I write it with the best of intentions. I’m a fan. I think you’re wonderful and hilarious and a kindred spirit in many ways (I’m 35, single, with a cat named Scout and a whole lotta depression in my life), and I fully admit that I’m urging you to do what I need to do for myself. Regardless, I hope things get better for you soon.

  2. Ahh. Staci. Thanks. I love ya, chica. :) You’re so right. I will read and re-read your comment. I love readers who speak the truth, even when it’s a wee bit harsh. And you’re right — the thing I feel happiest doing, that comes the most easy to me? Writing this blog. Wish I could make a living at it. If nothing else, I have a good blueprint for a book, eh?

  3. I’ve been thinking you should write a book ever since I found your blog. It is second to none, your writing is honest, raw, captivating, and resonating. You speak a truth many of us fear to tell.

  4. GREAT blueprint for a book, whether it’s a memoir or if you want to fictionalize it (I admit there’s something appealing about the idea of making yourself into a character that you can imagine and write a happily-ever-after for; I think I’d give myself better clothing and hair if I did that for myself, too)…. and you have a guaranteed sale for a book here, especially if you release it for Kindle.

  5. Hugs. I am not a professional and never know what to say that’s helpful, but if anything ever happened to you and it was needed, I’d be glad to give Butters a cuddly home. If she could stand the rugrats. We’d also raise her with good and wise political ideals.

  6. …and we can be neighbors in the nursing home. Just like college!

  7. I’m with the others here and I think you should write a book… there’s a reason that we read this blog… because it’s interesting and funny.. even today when it’s depressing you still manage to bring the funny… of all the 4589340958734 blogs out there in the world.. we are choosing to read yours.. and that says something.

    I hope you find your happiness… I know we all struggle… I am on the same path as you with food.. I’d love to lose weight and be at my goal weight so as not to have to see the horrid muffin top every damn day.. but I just love food way too much… even now I’m craving chocolate so hard core but I have $2 in my bank account.. so there is no chocolate in my future .. and that made me depressed as shit… it shouldn’t, and I know that.. but it does.

    good luck and keep writing!

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