I am also, without a doubt, having a “moment”.
It’s been long over due. I am learning that its bad to hold in feelings and pretend to either a) be happy when you’re not b) act indifferent when you’re not, and c) act like a cold, stone statue, when you most certainly are not.
I don’t know why I do this; as a uterus owner, it should come naturally for me to be in touch with my emotions and sensitivities and be expressive about them. But I’m not. I almost think I’d be more comfortable ripping ass in front of a hot date than talk about my feeling with someone I know and am comfortable with.
So, I’ll blog it out. Or, at least attempt to. The more I try to get it out, the more constipated my brain becomes. It is, literally, like my mental processes produce nothing but static when confronted with the harsh reality of “how I feel about things and such”.
I can easily say I’m beyond tired. That’s a given. I can easily say that I’m nervous. That’s expected. I can easily say I’m lost. That’s cliche. But I can’t seem to really reach down and do what I need to do, which is yank out my fucking guts and smear them all over this screen and relieve the pressure on my insides.
Hey, that’s disturbing!
It’ll come out eventually; it has to whether I want it to or not. I just hope I don’t blow a load in someone’s eye.
When you spend twelve plus hours cooped up in a building with the same people day after day you tend to get bored. Hence, many “getting to know you” question and answers occur amongst coworkers. I love this. My craving to know what makes peoples’ perceptions on life different from one another can be fulfilled during these times.
One coworker reminds me of a new born trapped in a forty year old man’s body. He is a wonderful human being, but very, very unexperienced in life. What makes him so wonderful is his genuine niceness by ways of his naiveness, but also his inquisitiveness parallels mine. He asks questions that I’m not even close to bold enough to ask.
He is thinking about proposing to his girlfriend, so the topic of marriage has been prevalent lately. Through his many questions, he has forced me to take a good hard look at my views and feelings on the subject. Had we been talking about this six months ago, my feedback would have been very different than what I’ve given him. I would have said that it’s a wonderful concept, something worth pursuing if you feel that connection with someone, something in my own personal life I felt was important that I experienced. Nothing would have pleased me more than to have a man that I loved look at me and feel that, despite his biology, he loved me enough to gift me with his monogamy and to share a life together. The good. The bad. The beautiful. Everything.
In horror, I realize that I don’t feel that way anymore.
Is it still something wonderful? Yes! In theory. In stories. In movies. In Disney. In some wishful thinking part of my being, I still want that. It does a disservice to hang on to a dead concept.
Marriage is impossible, because humans are insatiable. Simple as that. We take everything for granted and disregard the good and wonderful in our lives for the sake of greener pastures. Time shared and love given can be gone in a heart beat once one has a mere taste of something better. And the sad thing? There is always something better.
My boss told me once that I will never land a good husband because I’m not high maintenance enough. I’m too concerned about making a man happy and not making him work for it. I’m having a hard time with this concept. Not that it should be all give and no take, but that I should have to make high, and often ridiculous, expectations that a man should have to run around in circles to make happen for me. She promises that this is what men want to do, and it makes them happy. I reminded her that she’s been married four times and while I respect her greatly and admire how smart she is, I really don’t want to be married over and over. Seems to defeat the purpose.
I hate the sound of someone ending a phone conversation with “Loveyoubye”.
That doesn’t sound very loving at all. That sounds about as personal as a pap and pelvic exam with an ice-cold speculum at the hands of a retired, overweight gynecologist who smells like ranch Doritos.
I have a fairly practical perception of love (romantic, family, and otherwise), despite the fact that I’m female, but I still think this is a shitty way to convey the message of love. An emotion-infused, “I love you” heard once in a blue moon has more merit and value than a thousand loveyoubyes in a single week.
My family ends every conversation with loveyoubye. Then they wonder why I just hang up.