On this blog, I celebrate the ups and downs of turning 30.
I tell myself and I tell you that this is an age of discovery and an age of the beginning of accepting yourself for who you are, for real.
I talk about trying not to make yourself crazy if you aren’t married yet. Or if you are married, it’s not a big deal if you haven’t cranked out kids yet, or if you haven’t cranked out a brother or sister for the kid you already have.
I keep this theme of you are enough, and it all is timing. It’s better to be where you are then where you think you are supposed to be and totally unhappy.
Well today, I don’t feel that way.
Today, I feel like I should be married to a great man who protects me and helps me pay my bills, like the huge, expensive car repairs I’m staring down the barrel of over the next several weeks, because well I don’t have nearly $2,000 just lying around.
I would have it if I didn’t pay an ever growing rent alone, or put gas in my car, or eat or survive.
I love my independence, but the shit is expensive.
While I say this, I know better. My married sister always tells me, that yes, financially your husband helps you out, but more often than not, your bills are bigger. You have two cars that break down, you have a much larger home, that requires more resources to operate. Your money is gone to handle business whether you are single or with someone, so there isn’t much of a difference, but having their support is what matters and makes you feel better.
I’m sure my married and divorced readers can attest to my sister’s wisdom.
It’s not just about the money.
Going through this time of separation from my local friends, it would be nice to have someone to hold me and say it’s ok, you’ve got me, or that they will come around, or whatever.
I cried myself to sleep last night, because I wanted to stop loving someone. It’s been a year, for crying out loud.
But why did he have to recently say he still loved me?
Why did those words keep ringing in my head?
Since he said those tragic, beautiful, hopeful, dreadful words, why did I shut myself off from men who were either just as good-looking as him, who definitely had more money and more assets and better careers?
Why do those exact words, coming from him, mean more to me than the combined incomes, good looks and success of all of those other men combined?
Because I guess I hate myself equally as much as I love him. I’d have to hate myself to go through such torture.
But what does him still loving me mean anyway? What would be different this time?
What set me off? Why am I so emotionally unstable today?
My car repairs, and being a stupid Pandora by doing what I said I wouldn’t do.
Go on Facebook to look at who wished him a happy birthday. (I already know. I should have de-friended him a long time ago. I couldn’t do it, and neither did he. If he did first, I would have been mad. So round and round we go.)
Not only did one bitch wish him a happy birthday, she went on about how glad she was to celebrate with him and how they would have to finish their conversation later. And ended with a damn smiley face.
It mocked me.
It taunted me.
This chick probably still dots her i’s with hearts.
I need to stop. I use smiley faces too.
But see? See how ridiculous one can become because of stupid feelings?
Feelings make normally very rational women, turn into her worst enemy…
A hormonal, estrogen rage-induced, emotional nut bag.
Think a pink incredible Hulk with a weave, skirt, painted fingernails and toenails, ripping an encyclopedia in half with just her kuckles. I’ll name her, Estrogena. The Hulk is so scared of pissing her off, he’s not even on Facebook. He deleted his account when he still didn’t change his relationship status a day after they became official.
A year later, with all the progress, all the fasting and praying, and bad mistake making, and enlightenment and business-starting and promotions; all the feeling stronger in my faith, all the relearning to love me, all the going to Zumba, all went out the window in one moment.
None of these amazing things I accomplished by my own strength and intellect mattered.
Facebook. One wall post that could have meant absolutely nothing, or absolutely everything on top of an enormous bill for car repairs, and having to acquiesce to another year of living in this apartment, paying more than I think it’s worth, having to put off said car repairs for two weeks, winging it, praying the wheels won’t literally fall off my car (as the repair man warned) between now and then. Finally, contemplating having to give up one or both vacations I had been looking forward to in order to be fiscally responsible, pushed me to my breaking point.
I told a dear friend I’m at the point I may go back to trans fats, heavily drinking and mindless sex with worthless men.
Then, I said I’d write.
Then work out, then take a shower and pray and cry while I’m in it and let the water and my tears become one indistinguishable rush of liquid on my face.
So here I am, writing.
Today, being 30, independent, alone, momentarily emotionally unstable and being fully aware if it, ain’t shit.