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.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Monday, June 13, 2011
Girl Talk
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...
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...
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Dead Presidents, Yo.
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.
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.
Friday, June 3, 2011
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.
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.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
The Birth of a Never-Parent
"Just wait. When you have your own kids, you'll understand."
"Sure, I will. I'll understand that you're mean and I will NEVER be that mean to my kids," I replied. Under my breath. From the safety of my bedroom. To no one in particular.
This exact conversation happened ad nauseam between my mom and I. During those times when I thought she was being wholly unreasonable, I would sit in my room and think about how much nicer I was going to be to MY children. Because I wasn't a mean person. And because cake was a totally valid option for dinner.
I went through my childhood assuming I'd have kids. I dreamed about living in my own version of a Barbie-house with my fabulous husband, gorgeous children, and possibly a dog. Or a pony. I hadn't made up my mind about that one. Details aside, I definitely wanted the family I didn't have.
Shortly before graduating high school, I was sitting on the couch with my then-boyfriend. He made a comment about never wanting to get married and never wanting children. Although I'd already had my suspicions, I knew in that single moment that we would have to break up. Coming from a broken home, those things were too important to me to even consider compromise.
However, as a teenager, I knew that I absolutely did not want to become Afterschool Special fodder. Birth control was a very high priority and although it meant getting my lady parts poked uncomfortably, it was a price I was eagerly willing to pay.
Edward and I met freshman year in college and our relationship was the stuff of romance novels. Passionate, unyielding, and nearly all-consuming. We agreed that a family was in our future but we needed to finish college.
Fast forward to college graduation, getting married, moving away from my home-state, getting adult jobs and having MONEY for the first time. As we were deciding how to celebrate our first anniversary, the subject of babies came up. It was the first logical time in our lives when we had the means to raise a child. However, having moved out west put us much closer to Disneyland and we decided to do that instead since I was a horrendously deprived child and had never had the pleasure of doing Disney. Our Disney trip was wonderful... riding Mr. Frog's Wild Ride during the day and watching hotel porn at night. I ran around the park riding every single ride like a 10 year old... except I got to do it with my husband. I experienced not one single pang of envy as I watched the moms kid-wrangle and face-wipe.
Again, we evaluated parenthood on the next anniversary. By this point, we had purchased a home and although we were somewhat cash poor from the move, we had a "good situation" for breeding. Nice home, stable relationship, steady jobs. And still, neither of us felt ready.
As the years passed, I started to wonder if I would ever be ready. And I started to consider the possibility of never being ready. Somewhere in our mid-20's, Edward and I both said out loud that neither of us wanted kids. Although we both enjoyed the idea of creating a person that was the combination of the two of us, neither of us wanted to be a parent.
I struggled with this. I was supposed to want to drive a mini-van and bake brownies for classroom parties. I was supposed to love the way newborn babies smell. I was supposed to want to "complete" my family. I was supposed to want to change diapers? And I was supposed to want to deal with green boogers and temper tantrums? And talk endlessly about my children and other people's children?
That's where it all started to make sense. Not having kids was a valid option. Unfortunately, society at large doesn't really agree.
Somewhat surprisingly, we never got any flak from our families about our decision. It was other people. I had started a new job and was getting to know my coworkers when one of them asked me if I had kids. I told her that we did not have children and that we had decided we didn't want kids. Ever.
She smiled, patted my shoulder condescendingly and said, "Oh, you'll change your mind." If I had a dollar for every time someone said this to me, I'd be able to buy a really nice pair of shoes. Maybe two pairs.
Apparently, it was okay to disregard my choices but not socially acceptable for me to say "Oh, I'm sorry. You probably haven't seen any recent movies then and your husband has become familiar with throwing a hot dog down a hallway" upon learning that someone had kids.
I don't begrudge people who have children. Someone's got to do it. It's a valid choice. Just as my decision not to have them is a valid choice.
Just as eating cake for dinner is STILL a valid choice.
"Sure, I will. I'll understand that you're mean and I will NEVER be that mean to my kids," I replied. Under my breath. From the safety of my bedroom. To no one in particular.
This exact conversation happened ad nauseam between my mom and I. During those times when I thought she was being wholly unreasonable, I would sit in my room and think about how much nicer I was going to be to MY children. Because I wasn't a mean person. And because cake was a totally valid option for dinner.
I went through my childhood assuming I'd have kids. I dreamed about living in my own version of a Barbie-house with my fabulous husband, gorgeous children, and possibly a dog. Or a pony. I hadn't made up my mind about that one. Details aside, I definitely wanted the family I didn't have.
Shortly before graduating high school, I was sitting on the couch with my then-boyfriend. He made a comment about never wanting to get married and never wanting children. Although I'd already had my suspicions, I knew in that single moment that we would have to break up. Coming from a broken home, those things were too important to me to even consider compromise.
However, as a teenager, I knew that I absolutely did not want to become Afterschool Special fodder. Birth control was a very high priority and although it meant getting my lady parts poked uncomfortably, it was a price I was eagerly willing to pay.
Edward and I met freshman year in college and our relationship was the stuff of romance novels. Passionate, unyielding, and nearly all-consuming. We agreed that a family was in our future but we needed to finish college.
Fast forward to college graduation, getting married, moving away from my home-state, getting adult jobs and having MONEY for the first time. As we were deciding how to celebrate our first anniversary, the subject of babies came up. It was the first logical time in our lives when we had the means to raise a child. However, having moved out west put us much closer to Disneyland and we decided to do that instead since I was a horrendously deprived child and had never had the pleasure of doing Disney. Our Disney trip was wonderful... riding Mr. Frog's Wild Ride during the day and watching hotel porn at night. I ran around the park riding every single ride like a 10 year old... except I got to do it with my husband. I experienced not one single pang of envy as I watched the moms kid-wrangle and face-wipe.
Again, we evaluated parenthood on the next anniversary. By this point, we had purchased a home and although we were somewhat cash poor from the move, we had a "good situation" for breeding. Nice home, stable relationship, steady jobs. And still, neither of us felt ready.
As the years passed, I started to wonder if I would ever be ready. And I started to consider the possibility of never being ready. Somewhere in our mid-20's, Edward and I both said out loud that neither of us wanted kids. Although we both enjoyed the idea of creating a person that was the combination of the two of us, neither of us wanted to be a parent.
I struggled with this. I was supposed to want to drive a mini-van and bake brownies for classroom parties. I was supposed to love the way newborn babies smell. I was supposed to want to "complete" my family. I was supposed to want to change diapers? And I was supposed to want to deal with green boogers and temper tantrums? And talk endlessly about my children and other people's children?
That's where it all started to make sense. Not having kids was a valid option. Unfortunately, society at large doesn't really agree.
Somewhat surprisingly, we never got any flak from our families about our decision. It was other people. I had started a new job and was getting to know my coworkers when one of them asked me if I had kids. I told her that we did not have children and that we had decided we didn't want kids. Ever.
She smiled, patted my shoulder condescendingly and said, "Oh, you'll change your mind." If I had a dollar for every time someone said this to me, I'd be able to buy a really nice pair of shoes. Maybe two pairs.
Apparently, it was okay to disregard my choices but not socially acceptable for me to say "Oh, I'm sorry. You probably haven't seen any recent movies then and your husband has become familiar with throwing a hot dog down a hallway" upon learning that someone had kids.
I don't begrudge people who have children. Someone's got to do it. It's a valid choice. Just as my decision not to have them is a valid choice.
Just as eating cake for dinner is STILL a valid choice.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Equal Parts
I'm not a good bartender. Or a good cook. I can follow a recipe and make something that tastes alright but I do not have that innate ability to eyeball measurements. I have multiple measuring spoons and cups in my kitchen. Occasionally I cheat and use the big soup spoons, but I almost never pour almond milk into my chai without measuring it first.
Consequently, I've found managing two relationships simultaneously to be challenging. Because time and energy are finite, you cannot feed and water them the same. Additionally, one might need more food and less water and the other might prefer to be scooted out of direct sunlight.
This weekend marks 5 years that Stuart, Edward and I have been making this work. A stable poly situation for 5 years! We should get a prize. But I would settle for a gold star. Or a margarita. On the rocks with salt, please.
One of the most difficult aspects of our lives is reconciling the fact that the relationships will not be equal nor the same. I tend to be a fair-minded person along with my fruity codependent topping so this has been something of a trial. Plus, I am a master of projection along with trying to stay atop decent person-hood and treating others the way I would want to be treated. Strangely enough, not everybody wants hot fudge on their ice cream or spankings in bed. Who knew?
There is this emphasis in poly on being fair. You get to do xyz so I must get to do the same (even if I hate xyz and we haven't spoken in years). I have learned that the sandbox rules don't necessarily apply.
Things are not usually equal. One relationship may have more fights while the other has more sex. One relationship may have more giggles while the other is struggling with disconnection. As the pivotal person in my poly-verse, this is hard. Really hard. There's the fruity codependence AND it's distant and ethnically different cousin, GUILT. There's an inherent desire of wanting to give everyone the same amount of ice cream. But, I only have so much and life just doesn't roll that way (plus, some of us are lactose intolerant). I did try early on (and with glorious failure) to micro-manage all of this so that nobody went to bed hungry. But, it made me a little nuts and things took on a rather artificial air that wasn't real or sustainable.
Allowing the relationships to just simply be has been a test of my patience and acceptance. I'm not good at letting things be. I want to bedazzle them, re-paint them, or make them glittertastic. And it's uncomfortable when things are tipped more favorably in one direction. When I am with the partner with whom things are going well, I feel like I am betraying the other partner. How could I possibly be having a good time (or an orgasm) with Person A when things with Person B are off kilter? Does that make me a bad person? Do I wait until both people are having the exact same amount of fun before I start breathing again? Should I quit my job and join the circus? Will anyone notice if I vajazzle myself?
Decisions, decisions. It is these moments when I start to kind of sort of understand multiple personalities. My head and my heart play a free-spirited game of Good Cop/Bad Cop and I can usually walk away feeling ethically stable but still irrationally emotional.
When these feelings arise, I have a go-to dialogue in my head. "This is okay. Things will often not be equal. You love them, and they love you. Everything is fine. They will still buy you Junior Mints at the movies. Wax on, wax off."
It usually works. Mostly. And in the end, everybody usually gets enough ice cream. It is not, however, my fault that they eat more slowly than I do.
Consequently, I've found managing two relationships simultaneously to be challenging. Because time and energy are finite, you cannot feed and water them the same. Additionally, one might need more food and less water and the other might prefer to be scooted out of direct sunlight.
This weekend marks 5 years that Stuart, Edward and I have been making this work. A stable poly situation for 5 years! We should get a prize. But I would settle for a gold star. Or a margarita. On the rocks with salt, please.
One of the most difficult aspects of our lives is reconciling the fact that the relationships will not be equal nor the same. I tend to be a fair-minded person along with my fruity codependent topping so this has been something of a trial. Plus, I am a master of projection along with trying to stay atop decent person-hood and treating others the way I would want to be treated. Strangely enough, not everybody wants hot fudge on their ice cream or spankings in bed. Who knew?
There is this emphasis in poly on being fair. You get to do xyz so I must get to do the same (even if I hate xyz and we haven't spoken in years). I have learned that the sandbox rules don't necessarily apply.
Things are not usually equal. One relationship may have more fights while the other has more sex. One relationship may have more giggles while the other is struggling with disconnection. As the pivotal person in my poly-verse, this is hard. Really hard. There's the fruity codependence AND it's distant and ethnically different cousin, GUILT. There's an inherent desire of wanting to give everyone the same amount of ice cream. But, I only have so much and life just doesn't roll that way (plus, some of us are lactose intolerant). I did try early on (and with glorious failure) to micro-manage all of this so that nobody went to bed hungry. But, it made me a little nuts and things took on a rather artificial air that wasn't real or sustainable.
Allowing the relationships to just simply be has been a test of my patience and acceptance. I'm not good at letting things be. I want to bedazzle them, re-paint them, or make them glittertastic. And it's uncomfortable when things are tipped more favorably in one direction. When I am with the partner with whom things are going well, I feel like I am betraying the other partner. How could I possibly be having a good time (or an orgasm) with Person A when things with Person B are off kilter? Does that make me a bad person? Do I wait until both people are having the exact same amount of fun before I start breathing again? Should I quit my job and join the circus? Will anyone notice if I vajazzle myself?
Decisions, decisions. It is these moments when I start to kind of sort of understand multiple personalities. My head and my heart play a free-spirited game of Good Cop/Bad Cop and I can usually walk away feeling ethically stable but still irrationally emotional.
When these feelings arise, I have a go-to dialogue in my head. "This is okay. Things will often not be equal. You love them, and they love you. Everything is fine. They will still buy you Junior Mints at the movies. Wax on, wax off."
It usually works. Mostly. And in the end, everybody usually gets enough ice cream. It is not, however, my fault that they eat more slowly than I do.
Monday, May 23, 2011
The Creation of an Atheist
With the Rapture:FAIL come and gone, now is as good a time as any to get the subject of religion off my chest.
Like Fox Mulder, I want to believe. I really do. To think that there is a master plan for everyone and everything seriously appeals to my inner control freak. It means I can just sit back, relax, and procrastinate to my heart's content because everything happens for a reason. It means my OCD can have a margarita or four because everything is in the hands of the divine.
I wish.
I tried to believe in god. I tried to climb on-board the holy train multiple times in my life but never managed to hang on for very long before reason plucked me off.
Growing up (as it always comes back to that, doesn't it?), I had a strange introduction to religion. My mother termed herself a "recovering Catholic" and my father's side of the family were Christian Scientists. My mother would have sooner given me a jailhouse tattoo before dragging me to mass so I mostly attended church with my father and grandmother. They attended "adult church" upstairs while I went to Sunday School. Problem was, our church was in a mostly retired section of town so I was literally the only kid in Sunday School. I had the teacher all to myself and she asked me to read passages from the Bible to her. I gladly did so because I loved reading out loud but I didn't pay one bit of attention to what I was reading. None of it seemed important. And this is why when you say "Well, you know the story of how Mary cut her baby in half and fed it to a lion, right?", I will look at you blankly. Any Biblical knowledge is mostly from pop culture osmosis, and even then, I think my brain tries really hard not to let godliness in (it burns). I can sing Duran Duran's "Hungry Like a Wolf" from memory but I have no idea what is old testament, what is new testament and why any of it is or should be significant to my life.
Around the age of 12, I realized that the Christian Scientists were a not-very-well-disguised cult and would probably ask for an organ donation soon. I needed to find a new religion and fast. I started attending church with my friends so I could try them out. I saw the Catholics apologize for an hour, the Pentecostals wave their arms in schizophrenic unity and observed the Lutherans promising not to have premarital sex. None of it fit. I watched my classmates wearing the WWJD bracelets and it was a mystery to me. What WOULD Jesus do? I had no idea. But I was fairly certain that he wouldn't wear a pompous bracelet and then refuse to sit with me at lunch. It all seemed so absurd.
I eventually decided that I still liked the idea of god and that he would probably want me to be happy and make good choices for myself. I didn't think repenting made a lot of sense because life is about mistakes and "real" repentance seemed to be learning from those mistakes rather than apologizing to a statue. Simplistic as it was, my version of religion made a lot more sense to me than anything I observed in a cathedral on a Sunday morning.
Over the years, critical thinking kicked in and I started to understand that religion is merely a warm blanket to wrap oneself in. It's an easy way to make sense of the good and the bad. I cannot argue that it's comforting to think our loved ones are watching us from heaven. It's clear that believing god has a plan when natural disasters occur is preferable to allowing yourself to think that life just sucks sometimes. The prospect of death is much less scary when you let yourself believe that bottomless milkshakes and roller skates await you. I get it. And sometimes, I wish I could turn off the critical thinking portion of my brain and just drink the kool-aid.
But here I am, married to my rational thoughts and practicality. I, and I alone am responsible for my poor choices (and my good ones!). The shitty things that I can't control are because life sucks sometimes. And as much as I would LOVE to believe that there is a force greater than me driving the car, I don't. Sometimes life is ridiculously and horribly unfair. And it's not a test of my strength or purposefully to make me stronger. It's because life sucks sometimes.
This is likely why I've developed a serious allergy to all things god. Mentions of religion (especially in political arenas) make me twitchy. I'm a master of nodding and smiling with the kool-aid drinkers. Since embracing my atheism, I've become annoyed with how ubiquitous religion is. I'm probably less tolerant than I should be. I try my very best to be tolerant of others but have difficulty not making jokes about kool-aid or sheep.
Now... if church were about watching actual sheep drink actual kool-aid, I might just be interested.
Like Fox Mulder, I want to believe. I really do. To think that there is a master plan for everyone and everything seriously appeals to my inner control freak. It means I can just sit back, relax, and procrastinate to my heart's content because everything happens for a reason. It means my OCD can have a margarita or four because everything is in the hands of the divine.
I wish.
I tried to believe in god. I tried to climb on-board the holy train multiple times in my life but never managed to hang on for very long before reason plucked me off.
Growing up (as it always comes back to that, doesn't it?), I had a strange introduction to religion. My mother termed herself a "recovering Catholic" and my father's side of the family were Christian Scientists. My mother would have sooner given me a jailhouse tattoo before dragging me to mass so I mostly attended church with my father and grandmother. They attended "adult church" upstairs while I went to Sunday School. Problem was, our church was in a mostly retired section of town so I was literally the only kid in Sunday School. I had the teacher all to myself and she asked me to read passages from the Bible to her. I gladly did so because I loved reading out loud but I didn't pay one bit of attention to what I was reading. None of it seemed important. And this is why when you say "Well, you know the story of how Mary cut her baby in half and fed it to a lion, right?", I will look at you blankly. Any Biblical knowledge is mostly from pop culture osmosis, and even then, I think my brain tries really hard not to let godliness in (it burns). I can sing Duran Duran's "Hungry Like a Wolf" from memory but I have no idea what is old testament, what is new testament and why any of it is or should be significant to my life.
Around the age of 12, I realized that the Christian Scientists were a not-very-well-disguised cult and would probably ask for an organ donation soon. I needed to find a new religion and fast. I started attending church with my friends so I could try them out. I saw the Catholics apologize for an hour, the Pentecostals wave their arms in schizophrenic unity and observed the Lutherans promising not to have premarital sex. None of it fit. I watched my classmates wearing the WWJD bracelets and it was a mystery to me. What WOULD Jesus do? I had no idea. But I was fairly certain that he wouldn't wear a pompous bracelet and then refuse to sit with me at lunch. It all seemed so absurd.
I eventually decided that I still liked the idea of god and that he would probably want me to be happy and make good choices for myself. I didn't think repenting made a lot of sense because life is about mistakes and "real" repentance seemed to be learning from those mistakes rather than apologizing to a statue. Simplistic as it was, my version of religion made a lot more sense to me than anything I observed in a cathedral on a Sunday morning.
Over the years, critical thinking kicked in and I started to understand that religion is merely a warm blanket to wrap oneself in. It's an easy way to make sense of the good and the bad. I cannot argue that it's comforting to think our loved ones are watching us from heaven. It's clear that believing god has a plan when natural disasters occur is preferable to allowing yourself to think that life just sucks sometimes. The prospect of death is much less scary when you let yourself believe that bottomless milkshakes and roller skates await you. I get it. And sometimes, I wish I could turn off the critical thinking portion of my brain and just drink the kool-aid.
But here I am, married to my rational thoughts and practicality. I, and I alone am responsible for my poor choices (and my good ones!). The shitty things that I can't control are because life sucks sometimes. And as much as I would LOVE to believe that there is a force greater than me driving the car, I don't. Sometimes life is ridiculously and horribly unfair. And it's not a test of my strength or purposefully to make me stronger. It's because life sucks sometimes.
This is likely why I've developed a serious allergy to all things god. Mentions of religion (especially in political arenas) make me twitchy. I'm a master of nodding and smiling with the kool-aid drinkers. Since embracing my atheism, I've become annoyed with how ubiquitous religion is. I'm probably less tolerant than I should be. I try my very best to be tolerant of others but have difficulty not making jokes about kool-aid or sheep.
Now... if church were about watching actual sheep drink actual kool-aid, I might just be interested.
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