Sensitive Skin

It's a blessing and a curse.  I'm a sensitive person.  It's hard to pin down whether it's a case of nature or nurture but considering that my mom is pretty sensitive too, I'd guess it's a bit of both.  


For much of my life, I've wished for a thicker skin.  I've prayed for the ability to let things roll off my back like a windshield treated with Rain-x.  I've pretended things didn't bother me all the while knowing that "it" was burrowing beneath my skin.  I have hoped that the wisdom and maturity that comes a la carte with growing older would afford me the protection of a moderate-SPF sunscreen.


And yet, as I settle firmly and mostly comfortably in my mid-30's, I'm beginning to accept that this is simply me.  It's an innate part of my personality and to deny it would be like denying my big feet.  It's there and I suppose I can choose not to acknowledge it (or them), but really, the world is a much better place if I'm wearing shoes that are the correct size.  


In recent years, I've managed to create several workarounds to my sensitivity.  When I start to become irritated, I look desperately for my rational-with-moisturizer to soothe it and make it all okay.  When I do determine that my hurt is legitimate, I am generally able to communicate that effectively without betraying the whiny little girl inside of me.  She's there regardless but I try to ply her with cookies while I conduct adult conversations.


Coming equipped with sensitive skin also means that I'm not very good at not taking things personally.  Pretty terrible, actually.  However, instead of taking a probably innocent comment to the natural end (right?) of my relationship with someone, I am usually able to remind myself that their behavior is about them and not a ninja-sly passive aggressive swipe at me.  


This works pretty well.  Except when it doesn't.  And when it doesn't, it's a complete and utter fail.  


Presently, I am struggling with the nebulous and rapidly changing relationship with two of my closest friends (whom are married).  Over two years ago, she became pregnant and they entered the large and unending amusement park called BabyLand.  I have surgically addressed my tickets to BabyLand and therefore, have no desire to visit, even with a day pass.  When I learned she was with-neverending-responsibility, I was depressed because I knew the inevitable was...  well, inevitable.  "No, no" they assured me.  "Things aren't going to change that much."  


Although I tried to be positive, I knew better.  Pre-baby, they already ticked many of the boxes that put my How-Come-They-Don't-Like-Me-Anymore-ness on high alert.  They don't often respond to text messages and emails.  When plans were in the works, they were often the last to respond and that usually necessitated a pretend-we're-not-annoyed phone call to ask if they wanted to join us.  


Although I love them very much, the relationship has been difficult for me.  Rationally, I know that this is just the way they are and their behavior isn't about me.  Emotionally, it's been a tougher sell.  And lately, they seem to have become happily lost in BabyLand with talk of MORE tickets.  The disconnect was already present because of their inclinations to be last minute and failures to communicate coupled with my uber-sensitiveness and now that our lives are quickly moving in very different and not terribly compatible directions, it's become that much more apparent.


Recent invitations have gone unmentioned and while this is nothing new, I'm struggling with it even more.  I miss them (especially one of them) and I long for the times when I felt like a priority, even when it was their iteration of a priority.  I keep trying to remind myself that their behavior really hasn't changed much but it still feels somehow terribly personal.  It hurts more than it did before.  And I find myself constructing negative feelings towards them even when the "offense" is the same-old-same-old.  


To be fair, I'm changing too.  I'm less interested in spending time with them because it almost always includes their child.  Those times turn into chase-the-baby-around-before-he-destroys-anything-and-omg-he-did-the-cutest-thing-yesterday which aren't terribly appealing to me.  I'm an adult, I enjoy adult things, and watching your kid spear my sushi with wayward chopsticks isn't my idea of a nice evening.  


Although they were a somewhat wobbly part of my support system, they were still like family to me.  Now that things have changed, I'm feeling the loss pretty acutely.  The dynamic of my social life has changed significantly and I find myself with two fewer people with whom I'm comfortable and willing to make a fool out of myself with.  The hard part is that when our paths do manage to cross, I fall into that familiar sense of love and comfort only to feel rejected and forgotten about the next week.  


So, MeowOnFire-san, I tell myself that I must follow the admonitions of Don Miguel Ruiz and not take this personally.  


But I think I'm going to need more lotion.