It’s Not “Sex in the City” Anymore . . .
I’m a late-twenties married woman who’s been feeling old and lonely lately. Why? Because I’m starting to lose my single friends to insanity and my coupled friends to conformity.
Let’s start with my single friends. While the crazy comes in all kinds of forms, one thing is consistent – single women in their late-twenties and early thirties are scary. One of the classic archetypes is the whiskey-drinking, sharp-tongued party girl who is “focused on her career” and “doesn’t want a boyfriend.” And to prove it, she fucks married men, and really anyone else for that matter. While some see this as empowered sexuality and all that crap, what they tend to not see is the late night tears and drama when that brave persona disappears as she faces going home alone. The other version of the single woman is the one with such naked desperation for a boyfriend that she thinks she’s in love with every man she meets. Had a chat with a guy at the coffee shop? She’s at home knitting him socks, going on and on about how he’s different. I understand that relationships make people crazy, but it does put a strain on friendship when every conversation is focused on her boyfriend-du-jour, and that your input is not welcome because you’re “married” and “wouldn’t understand.”
Not that my friends with spouses are baskets of fun, either. I get together with my “married” friends about 3 times a year, because that seems to be the amount of time we can rip ourselves away from our husbands. The conversations are fun, full of shared stories of the trials of living with men. You know how annoying it is when he leaves whiskers on the bathroom sink? Your husband grabs your friends’ boobs too? (OK, admittedly, I haven’t found anyone who shares this with me yet). Every get together ends with, “Oh my god, this was so fun. We have to have a girl’s night!” Great, right? Yeah, except that in order to make girl’s night happen, planners are retrieved, dates scrutinized, husband’s needs weighed, until girl’s night is 3 weeks away, from 6-8, because they already have plans to see some new movie on release night. Any girl’s night that requires an Outlook invite and a month’s planning really seems to defeat the purpose.
What happened to the glorious days in college when we just conformed to each other’s insanity, and went through the same craziness together? When I could look into a girlfriend’s eyes and say that maybe he is the one, or that you’ll meet someone else, and actually have some degree of hope? Or when boyfriends were a Monday – Thursday thing, and the weekends were about drinking with the girls and going out. I guess I long for the days when we were kind of on the same playing field, before our paths diverged on the boyfriend no-boyfriend path. I don’t even want to know what happens when babies are introduced. I can’t afford to lose anymore friends.
You Deluding You
Each of us is made up of some ratio of self-loathing and delusions of grandeur. When in the right balance, this combination helps us function as whole beings and actualize our potential. Our self-loathing propels us to do better, makes us reach out to others for approval and support, and humbles us. It gives us community and perspective. Our delusions of grandeur help us to get out of bed in the morning, tune others out, and persevere in the face of failure. I gives us confidence and purpose.
I have a number of personal examples of this ratio, but a tangible one is my body. I hate my thighs and how short my legs are. But I don’t know a single person in my life I would trade bodies with. Does that make me the hottest of my friends? No, but it certainly enables me to live in my own skin, and to get my big ass to the gym.
But what happens when the ratio gets out of whack? Too much confidence, and you lose drive and miss opportunities to learn from others. Oh, and you become a bitch. Too much self-loathing, and you let people walk all over you, and you never feel good enough to try anything.
Our sense of self fluctuates like the stock market, so you have to have a plan to develop a diversified portfolio of self-esteem. My advice:
- Buy confidence low. This means finding easy ways to feed your ego and boost your self-esteem, like buying new clothes, nurturing a harmless crush, taking up an easy hobby, talking to your mom. Whatever it is you do to make yourself feel better.
- Sell that confidence high. Use your ego boosts to do something that matters, like sell your boss on the idea you need a promotion, ask someone on a date, pursue a dream.
- Watch the fuck out for a crash. Surprises happen, and not always in a good way. Like getting laid off, or dumped, or rejected. But if you’ve got enough good things going on (the diversified part), you’ll be able to weather the bumps. Getting fired + supportive partner + casual hobby = you’ll be just fine. Unemployed + dumped + dog dies = just jump out the window.
I guess the point is that if you can’t name something you’d improve, or something you love in your life, then you’re missing out.
Reality Bites? Try Actuality.
While watching crappy TV the other day, I saw an astounding commercial for TruTV. TruTV amazes me because it is a network dedicated to taking the reality show to the next level, which I gather is “actuality” based on their tagline “Not Reality. Actuality.” As one who is not sure what the difference is between reality and actuality, especially since they are synonyms, this feat is on par with splitting atoms to me. Imagine bringing the reality show to actuality – what the fuck does that mean? I’m not sure, but it may have something to do with their “high-stakes, action-packed originals”, which sound slightly different from the “drama-filled, slut-packed imitations” that are featured on other networks. So, good for them for figuring how to make reality more actual. I’m still holding out for the network that is about “Not actuality. Just really good fiction.”
It’s Draft-y
Given the free time I have now to curl up on the couch and write on these chilly winter days, one would think I’d be in a joyous prolific state. It’s just not so. I have been writing more regularly, only to have several drafts of pieces that are so incoherent and contradictory I’m afraid to post them on this blog that no one reads. I don’t know how to reconcile the inconsistencies in the pieces, and I don’t have anything else to write about. I don’t know what to do.
Ok, maybe I have a few ideas. Like Snoop Dogg’s Fatherhood probably shouldn’t be on in the background while I’m trying to write. And maybe I shouldn’t try to rush and finish something before the Daily Show starts. And maybe I need to get out of my house more (despite the weather) to find something to write about.
But what I’m actually afraid of is that I have nothing to write about because I’m too happy right now, too content. I’m having a hard time channeling my inner bitch, who is in fact the better writer, the one with something to say. My sated loving self writes corny poems that fail at being well-written or poignant. But the cunt in me sure knows how to write shit. Quite the catch-22 I’m in.
I’m happier lately because I’m working from home, which means starting the workday in pajamas, working out more, eating well, and having time to write. It is precisely these conditions that are making it so fucking hard for me to have anything to say. It wouldn’t exactly be riveting material to write about the joys of working from home, or why working out everyday feels good. That’s the type of shit that makes me want to puke, or at least the old me who spent time in cubicles reading pukey stuff to avoid doing actual work.
My only hope is that my husband starts to annoy the shit out of me, and then I’ll have tons of material to work with. Until then, I’ll have to settle for pieces on puppies that don’t make sense, or just give up and watch Snoop. Fashizzle.
You Better Recognize
Given that I am almost 30, and have checked off several of the traditional “accomplishments” of life – high school graduation, college graduation, marriage, etc. – I try to control my expectations of recognition these days. I go about my work, completing tasks without a “thanks” or “nice job”. I long for a break from the incessant need for acknowledgment and attention. I consider it yet another sign of achieving adulthood, like being able to get up early or change the oil in the car on time (neither of which I am able to do). To have some zen-like satisfaction in the face of ingratitude, the perspective to realize that life is work, so I should just get over myself and get busy – ah, that would be nice.
Of course, there are still days when I regress to the 2 year old version of myself and am thrilled with my own shit. And I want people to recognize. Did you see the eggs I made you honey? Were they the best eggs ever? Did you see I did the dishes? Look, I’m writing an email! And so on. And it is on these lonely days that I turn to a good friend, one who always provides support and appreciation. My dog Doodle.
Doodle gets excited the very moment I stir in bed when I wake up. Turning down the covers and sitting up is rewarded by leaps and licks from my furry friend. Morning pee? He’s right there, cheering me and waiting his turn. Sheer pandemonium breaks out once I start putting any clothes on. Doodle is blown away by this. He jumps in excitement nearly to my shoulders. While others expect me to do things like be on time, or return calls, or finish projects, Doodle is happy if I manage to make it out of bed. And frankly, so am I. After years of anxiety and pressure and perfectionism, I enjoy Doodle’s standards for celebration, and take my appreciation when I can get it.
