I have never been a "cool kid." At least, not that I know of. I'm making the assumption that if you're cool, you know it. I'm guessing there's some sort of official notification in the form of a certificate, a multi-media text or a super secret ninja handshake that says "Welcome! You can stop trying so hard now."
At some point, I accepted my lack of coolness. Which I why I carry around a personal fan. (And now that I think about it, that may have more to do with peri-menopause.)
In kid-land, being cool was uber important. It was the life or death of your social status and it was probably fair to say that mine was on life support. And oddly enough, once I was far removed from lunch tables, lockers, and student council elections, I still coveted the "coolness".
I was never able to grasp the concept of being cool as an adult except that I knew I wanted it but didn't have it. And this was annoying. I had a car, a mortgage, cats that hadn't died, co-pay money, and "adult responsibility." Yet, I was still classifying myself as decidedly not cool AND there was no discernible way for me to become cool.
This type of thinking reminds me that regardless of how many wrinkles we have (or don't have because we've Botoxed them away), we're never all that far from that lost kid in the lunchroom looking for a place to sit.
What I also find interesting is how radically my concepts of cool have changed. In the early years, it was having a Liz Claiborne purse, not having glasses the size of my face, and being invited to everything. Now, much of it has to do with the amount of blinky and furry per square inch on your outfit (And I did the blinky/furry thing thing for a while. But eventually, apathy won. Apathy always wins my elections. Even if I don't vote. Which is the really beautiful thing about apathy. You don't HAVE to vote.)
So, even though apathy tends to be my soup du jour, there's still a part of me that wants to be cool. Except, there's a problem. Aside from entering sparkle-pony land (which becomes much easier the higher you are on the blinky/furry continuum), I don't know what that is. So, essentially, I want something that I can neither define in any concrete tangible way or even describe to a blind person. That. Is. Fabulous.
And so I swing in my Hammock of The Undefined. Not a geek because I have a low tolerance for trolls, RPG's, and an impatience for people who think that having a fleshed out gaming character somehow erases social awkwardness. Not a sparkle pony because again, I have a raging case of The Apathy. Not really a dork either... well, I had to look that one up. And apparently it can mean a slow-witted person, a penis, or someone who is silly "at times." I tend to be quick on the draw, have never identified as a penis and would classify myself as silly more than "at times." You, dear reader, are welcome to draw conclusions as you see fit. I'd happily draw them for you, but the apathy wins again.
Tomorrow is my birthday. Tomorrow lands me smack dab in the middle of my 30's. I will be 35. There are no "almosts" or "just a hare past". It's the creamy center of a decade with no room for ambiguity. Edwards says that the only reason that number has any social significance is because we have 10 fingers and 10 toes. While this may be true, it doesn't change the fact that I've held very definite ideas of what 35 looks and feels like.
I think there's a sort of denial that happens around the age of 18. Sure, your responsibilities increase and your landscape may change dramatically but I think there's a self protective mental shift that happens where we unconsciously decide that we aren't REALLY going to get any older. We will explain away wrinkles and aches with poor life choices but certainly not because of age.
And then.... there comes a point where we accept that yes, this is actually happening.
I thought 35 would look like... being a mom and probably driving a mini-van or possibly a less safe but more stylish SUV. I would be "done" with growth and know exactly where I'm headed in life. I would be responsible with a capital R. I would watch television appropriate for my age like NCIS or gardening shows. Better yet, I would read grown-up books with a little light that clips onto the cover. My kitchen would smell of delicious baked goods made for kiddo fundraisers, complete with perfect icing flowers. There would be minimal swearing because my vocabulary doesn't require it.
And the reality? I have two husbands, two cats, 3 step-animals, and I bake for burners who want bacon in everything. I still watch The Real World and Teen Mom. There are days when I still want my mommy. The thought of actually being the soccer mom in charge of small people who need stuff makes me want to give an Oxycontin addiction a try (you know, just to see). I have a decent vocabulary but have yet to find a word that adequately replaces the sentiment of "fuck." I am still learning things about myself and even sometimes feel like the new girl showing up for the first day of work for a job that hasn't been explained yet. I look at my closet and think "More sparkly!". I have a job that I love very much, allows me to set my own hours, gives me control over who I work with, and affords me plenty of free time to do other things (which doesn't feel very grown up at all).
And so here I sit, one day away from mid-decade and think... Really? Wandering into my mid-30's feels like a tour of Willy Wonka's house.... so many strange, wonderful, and horrifying things.
"Candy doesn't have to have a point. That's why it's candy."
It's something that's on my mind frequently although I am often thinking about it in a greater-scheme sort of way. More recently, I've been examining my own attitudes about it and attempting to understand not only how I feel but also why.
I hold a fair amount of socially liberal attitudes. Recreational drug use is fine, marrying your best friend, dog or favorite vehicle should be permitted, and I think unconventional families are fabulous. However, I hold sex in a somewhat different regard.
Despite the appearances of my dramatic sitcom "My Two Husbands", I'm fairly conservative about sex. Sometimes my attitudes protect me and sometimes they annoy me, but they are unquestionably me.
Getting back to basics, my mother was uncharacteristically open about sex. She always propped the door open for me to talk about it and there was a veritable parade of men marching through our apartment. The parade also brought much drama and heartache. I paid attention and decided fairly early on I wanted no part of that. To matters more interestingly confusing, I wanted there to be a clear separation between my mother and myself which is why I clung like a drunk sorority girl to my neo-Puritan values. I certainly didn't save myself for marriage (that's just crazy talk), but I married my second sexual partner. And although polyness and my unconventional social life have brought a number of new sexual experiences my way, I still remain firmly judicious about with whom I partake and under what circumstances.
Although it is not my natural inclination to seek out new experiences, the nuts and bolts of our poly paradigm make it that much more difficult. With a few exceptions, physical contact with a new person must be cleared with each partner. So, before I make out with Potential Bad Decision, I must go chat with Edward and Stuart. I must address their concerns all the while keeping my own codependency on a short leash. And then, if Potential Bad Decision is still available and has not moved onto You're Cuter Now That I'm High, I may proceed. Post make-out, I must check-in with both Edward and Stuart and process their feelings, my feelings and the impact of all of this on the 2012 presidential campaign. Most of the time, it hardly seems worth it.
Don't get me wrong - I think our methods are the most ethical way for our family to proceed and I completely admit that your mileage may vary. This is what we've decided works for us and if left to my own devices, I would probably structure it the exact same way. It just makes the spontaneity nearly impossible. And again, with a few exceptions, I'm okay with that.
I like sex very much but am rarely sexually attracted to people. I've concluded that this is probably not terribly normal. So many things need to be in place before I am remotely interested in allowing someone into the Holy Lady Garden. Stuart has said on more than one occasion that I address his bisexual side (meaning that I am, in many respects, a guy) but this is one area where I am unfailingly female. I don't necessarily need Fabio, candles or rose petals on the bed. But I do at a minimum require the illusion that you are a good person, would never kick an animal and that you would ask me before eating the last Reese's Peanut Butter Cup. It sounds fairly simple but my vetting process is the equivalent of a menopausal Jewish woman - cranky and suspicious.
In terms of my poly ecosystem, sex has presented some interesting challenges. Maintaining two sexual relationships is a test of my internal processes. Two separate sex lives will never be equal. And for a codependent person, this is very difficult. I have learned (and am still learning) that sex cannot be doled out like red Skittles. Sometimes somebody gets more. And sometimes somebody eats the whole package. As the mayor of Fair Town, I find this rather uncomfortable. I suppose we could forgo the sex thing entirely and just eat the exact same number of red Skittles but eventually, someone's going to want a green one.
I find myself actively working on just letting things be but get tripped up on the oxymoron. I often feel compelled to have sex with one partner simply because I had sex with the other in order to somehow balance an imaginary orgasmic teeter-totter. I know neither partner would want this but yet again, we've arrived at the Red Skittle Conundrum.
Neither partner has indicated having a problem with this and I accept that this is all a product of my neuroses. Intellectually, I know that at times, you have to stomp on the Moral Compass of Fair and allow things to be what they are assuming everyone is okay with it. My brain knows this and is continually trying to chloroform the "But...but...but" that comes from the heart.
Perhaps I should stick to candy that is all the same color.
When I was in college and a big project or paper was due, I cleaned my apartment first. I never really thought about why I did this but I suppose the taunting of dirty dishes and clutter were enough to distract my mind from the necessary state school level productivity. Or possibly, it's what I call "productive procrastination."
I like the end of things. As in, getting all my work done so that I can play unencumbered with adult responsibilities, obligations to others, and possibly unbrushed hair.
This presents a problem in real life. There is no end other than the one where you're the filling of a dirt sandwich. Until you take that final gasping breath of "Rosebud", there isn't a final glorifying moment of "Okay, NOW I'm done."
This annoys me.
For much of my life, people have encouraged me to "enjoy the journey and not focus on the destination." It's good advice although admittedly, when I hear this now, I primarily want to enjoy the journey of watching them roll down Lombard Street in a shopping cart.
So, let's be honest. I suck at "enjoying the journey." There, I said it. As much as I try to be zen about the motherfucking journey, my brain just isn't wired that way. It isn't how I roll, unless of course, we're talking about an annoying person in a shopping cart whizzing down Lombard Street. I want to do things once. And I want to do them once in the most effective and practical way. And then I want to be done with those things. Forever.
Maybe the core of this is my laziness. Or maybe it's the heart of my depression. Or maybe it was that I embraced the model of "if you do your homework, you can go out and play" a little too much. Doesn't really matter. Because this is who I am now and trying to force myself into an artificial "live in the now" state of mind is just as confusing as a cow on Astroturf.
I struggle with trying to reconcile this almost primeval inclination with the realities of life. They go together like cheese and fish - which is, kind of but not really. It's hard to amend a personality trait that appeals to me. I like working hard followed by playing hard. I like that feeling of a Pavlovian reward after a job well done. Except that afterwards, there's... oh yeah. Today.
My best attempt at making this unlikely marriage work is remembering that I can do this in the short term. It works within the space of a day, maybe two. But long term... not so much. There will be more doctor appointments, more dentist appointments, more car repairs to be done, more fixing of stuff that breaks.
(Maybe this is where a healthy dose of Jesus comes in handy? The whole "there's a greater purpose to this all" thing where I just accept that I'm spinning my wheels continuously for the hope of being able to float on a cloud and eat calorie free buttercream cupcakes. I wish.)
Despite my inclination to always constantly think ahead, I really DO try to take things day by day. But I will keep a shopping cart at the ready just in case.
I haven't had a meaningful conversation with a girl in probably the last ten years that didn't include some variation of "I don't really get along with girls very well" followed by a multitude of reasons why girls suck. How is this possible? None of us like girls but most of us have a best friend. We openly state how catty and bitchy girls are yet we've ALL taken strides to avoid spending time with certain women (often to the extent of excluding them which almost always creates hurt feelings).
I've come to the conclusion that much like the mother-daughter relationship, the chick-chick relationship is special, convoluted, and complicated.
Inexplicably, there is nothing like having a really great female friend. I don't know if I can explain it other than postulating that perhaps it's an aligning of the uteri or a magical estrogenic e-harmony match. Amazing bonds can exist between women. Whether it's the brutal honesty of "No, I don't really care for that on you", the validation of "My partner does the SAME thing and I ALSO want to stab him/her in the eye" or the fairy-tales of ice cream having no calories because it's Girls' Night, it's an intensely intimate kinship that can be fulfilling and rewarding or exhausting and destructive.
So how is it that things go sideways so often? Why are we not more careful with how we handle these precious and sacred relationships?
I think ultimately, the ties that bind us are the same ties that tear us apart. We tend to be insecure and emotional creatures. It's easy to invent reasons that a girlfriend no longer likes us. It's easy to decide that she's jealous of us because why ELSE would she have done that? It's easy to assume rather than check things out. And to be fair, we're a terribly codependent gender which means that frank conversations can't happen all that often because feelings are bound to be hurt. And that's bad. We learned long ago that hurting other peoples' feelings is bad. Unless we're talking about Susie. She deserved it. That bitch.
It's incredibly important to us to belong. And in order to belong, one must also exclude. If you've had any semblance of a normal childhood, you've undoubtedly experienced eating lunch by yourself, realizing that you weren't invited to the pajama party, and receiving hateful notes from the girl who was your best friend yesterday.
It's all ridiculously confusing and is probably what leads most of us to swear off women. It's too much trouble. Too much drama. Too much heartache. And then you meet someone who shares your love of organizing, pedicures, and HGTV and tick, tick, tick... there you are again. Usually, there's a conscious decision involved. If I let this person get close to me, how much damage can she do? Is the risk worth it? Will she be my pretend-girlfriend when the gross boy hits on me? Will she tuck my nipple back in my shirt before the bartender can get a picture?
I personally dislike the grey area that tends to accompany female relationships. It's that weird, in-between space of not really knowing where you stand. I have often wished that there could be concrete closure to the end of a friendship. Rather than screaming at the top of your lungs "YOU ARE SUCH AN UNGRATEFUL WHORE AND I HOPE YOU GET NIPPLE CANCER" or simply never speaking again, one could say "I don't think our friendship is working out anymore and I don't wish to continue being friends with you." Would it suck to receive that? Sure. But at least you know. There are no questions. There is no ambiguity. There is no wondering "Are we, or aren't we?" And you have a clear-cut point of when to start lighting your pictures on fire.
Of course, fickle creatures that we are, it's entirely possible that after such a conversation, we'd call our next best friend and talk about what a cunt Jenny is. Who sends an email like that?
So I guess there's no winning here. We want to have our cake and eat it too. The upside is that we can eat as much as we want because it's Girls' Night and there are no calories...
Perhaps it started with the never-ending arguments between my divorced parents. Or maybe it happened because of shopping in a grocery store with a calculator when I was young. And perhaps it's reinforced now as I'm still paying off student loans having graduated from college more than a decade ago.
I hate money. It stresses me out. When I don't have much, it's stressful. When I have quite a bit, I'm scared to spend it. I suppose money really does make the world go 'round but mostly it just makes my head spin.
And it's especially stressful in PolyVille. Who pays for things? Who paid last time and does that mean the other person should pay this time? Do you factor in gas required to travel to each other's homes? Do home-cooked meals count? What about bar tabs?
Edward and I share our money and this is the scenario least likely to provoke a cranial explosion. We do not have separate bank accounts (much to the horror of my mother and several of my friends) but I like it this way. Nobody "pays" for anything because it's our money.
With Stuart, it's much more like a conventional dating situation. We do not share bank accounts and Stuart has told me in no uncertain terms that he's not interested in doing that. He thinks I will judge him because of his frivolous purchases of flashy bunny ears or a toy that projects stars onto the wall. And yes, I totally judge him but that happens whether my name is on the account or not. Logistically, I'm not really sure how we'd do that even if everyone was on board.
Earlier in our relationship, we split it very evenly and alternated paying. Intellectually, I didn't have an issue with it, but emotionally, it really sucked the romance out of things. Why? Because I'm a girl and although I duly recognize that I am in charge of my own orgasm, I still like to be taken out. I enjoy the bennies that come with being a girl especially in light of having to take my boobs with me absolutely everywhere (which is kind of ridiculous) and having been the default President of my Womb. I've steadfastly maintained the Keep Out sign there for years... I think that merits a steak dinner now and then.
When the three of us go out, I usually let the guys decide who will pay. This pleases me greatly because I don't have to make a decision. It means I don't have numbers running through my math-phobic brain nor do I have the blurry totals from recent purchases darting in and out of my consciousness.
As much as I try not to think about it, there is this running total in my brain. I can't help it. It's not that I want to keep track of per-relationship expenses. I'd really rather not. But it probably stems from the fear that the most recent purchase will be why I'm humbly accepting my free bowl of soup and there's a homeless man licking my shoe. The irrational part of my brain is saying "Yes, now if you hadn't had that $8 margarita, you'd still be sleeping in your own bed instead of this cot with tablecloths for sheets."
It's yet another of my neuroses that requires a lasso and a proper shot of tequila. Check, please.
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.
