I was going to write a big resentful post about how before yesterday, my blog had received no more than 36 views on a post. And then yesterday’s post got 104. I was going to whine for five or six paragraphs about how I’m vulnerable and all you strangers are feasting on my pain.
Then I remembered it’s my own damn blog and I capitalized on my own vulnerability.
In other news, the Chimpanzee movie was clearly made for children, but I really enjoyed it.
A few weeks ago, Bill and I made the decision to finally bring this whole long distance thing to a close. We’re both getting tired of it and I’d been planning on doing this anyway. I was going to move in with him in his two-bedroom apartment in Oklahoma. It was exciting. Finally, I was going to see the man I love every day instead of a few days at a time with weeks or months in between. It was exciting. It seemed inevitable that we would do this. I’ve been told by acquaintances that we look like a couple who has been together forever and who will be together forever. When we were both living in Oshkosh, if I went somewhere alone, I had a half dozen people ask me where Bill was. It was the kind of relationship I’ve been longing for since I was fifteen – one where you’re inexplicably tethered to the other. My past relationships were nothing really like that. I often felt like an optional accessory, one my boyfriends felt they could wear when they wanted and throw in the back of the closet when they were bored.
Basically, I felt unimportant. And my romantic experience hadn’t afforded me opportunities in which I felt allowed to feel important. That fact is an issue entirely its own. Berate me for low self-confidence and I’ll tell you every girl struggles with that. Berate me for dating assholes and I’ll tell you if a girl hasn’t, she’s at least been tempted. Berate me for realizing the signs, allowing this to happen and I’ll tell you I have no idea what I was thinking. I have no explanation.
But then in walked Bill and all was changed. He constantly made me feel beautiful and important. Other boyfriends told me they valued my intelligence, but Bill was actually interested in what I had to say. Bill challenged me and loved when I could challenge him. It was invigorating. I always felt free to share things with him. Early on, I was able to tell him the things I was most ashamed of. Scary yes, but I was not afraid of him judging me as other boyfriends had. I felt as if I had found a partner and an equal with whom I could spend years with.
Of course everybody feels like that early on in relationships. The beginnings are always blooming with possibilities and anticipation. You’re eager to learn whatever you can about the person. You kiss them so many times you become numb to what a kiss actually is since you never have to worry if another will follow. You take for granted those silly moments – naps on rainy afternoons, white zinfandel-soaked Scrabble games, Arrested Development marathons, and the times you unenthusiastically watched Star Wars movies with him. Those moments become lost in your mind because every day is full of them.
When things changed and I was 900 miles away from him, those moments took on a fresh sweetness and importance. Each interaction we shared on visits was something to be cherished since they were so few and far between. So the prospect of the distance closing and being able to create new moments and memories was exciting to me. It was that same invigoration I felt at the beginning of our relationship.
Relocating from the home I’ve known for 24 years was an intimidating prospect. But the fact that I had someone there to help me figure things out and to support me when I became overwhelmed, lonely, or scared made it easier. The fact that I was going to be with the man I love made it okay. So I got excited about it all. I decided to take this move as an opportunity to sort of reinvent myself. I began to work out and eat better. I started getting rid of things I hadn’t used in months. I started looking at all the possibilities. Instead of limiting myself to searching for clerical and administrative jobs, I began applying for writing and editorial positions. I began writing more. I read more, studying the way great essayists craft their pieces, seeing how the at first apparently unrelated threads of an essay braid together to create the meaning.
I was excited about the future and I couldn’t wait to do this with Bill at my side again.
But yesterday I woke up to something that put all of this on hold. Without going into detail, I’ll just say that the plan to move to Oklahoma has been put on hold. I’ve been a mess ever since. Having to re-evaluate my plans has caused all sorts of crying spells. I go through moments when I mourn what might be lost, then I think of the newness of my situation and I’m a little hopeful at the prospect of figuring this all out for myself without that tether to Bill. But it inevitably relapses to the mourning bit. It’s been incredible to see the amount of support of family, friends, and acquaintances that has come pouring forth.
I mostly feel like staying in bed in my own filth, crying and drinking obscene amounts of whiskey, but I realized that in order to feel better I needed to ask for help. It’s only been a day, but my friends have been there with open ears, sushi meals, and chocolate vodka to get me through this. My family has been there, not minding when their shoulders get wet. It’s great to know that though this is incredibly difficult for me to do, I don’t have to go through it alone.
I realize that if this relationship is really over, it is not the equivalent of my life being over. But that doesn’t change the fact that it hurts like hell. I feel like I’ve lost a great deal of hope – hope and possibility and all those things we talked about. Losing hope has got to be the hardest thing to lose. Having to rebuild it takes time and determination. I have none of the latter at the moment though I feel compelled to do something. I can’t be sure what that something is, but I’m pretty sure it’s buying a puppy. However, I realize when I’m feeling vulnerable, I have the tendency to make irresponsible and rash decisions, so I’m staying away from animal shelters and instead comforting myself with Taylor Swift songs and Sloane Crosley essays.
My writer’s group has a fascination with lists. Since most of the group is composed of men, they usually don’t pertain to me. (Last month, somebody shared “Five Signs You’re Ready for Fatherhood”.) Usually they’re written with the perfect balance of intelligence and self-deprecation. I’ve been trying to find that balance in my own lists, but I’m all about self-deprecation and no intelligence, apparently. My mind has been operating in lists for the last week or so. I learned it’s not exclusive to my sober mind either. After an ER visit the other night, I walked away with a diagnosis of “Abdominal Pain, Right upper quadrant” and a prescription for vicoden. This is what I came up with while on vicoden. (Just a head’s up, my sober-minded lists aren’t much better. )
1. When my nail polish chips, I peel the rest off.
I’ll take great pride in completing a beautiful manicure only to deliberately ruin it as soon as it chips. I like how my nail feels when it takes in air after by suffocated by three layers of polish and I get an unnatural sense of satisfaction from peeling a chunk bigger than an pencil eraser. It reminds me of being in grade school, getting Elmer’s Glue on my hands, and peeling it off after it dried. A normal, self-respecting young woman would simply use remover to take off the thing when it starts looking like crap. Not me. I’d rather peel the stuff off and look like a thirteen year old who doesn’t take notes in algebra class.
2. I have no idea how to wear lipstick.
I genuinely envy women who can wear lipstick. I have no idea how to apply it. As a former Mary Kay lady, I’m probably supposed to know how to do this. I know that the “proper” way involves liner, lipstick, and tissue, but I’ve never been able to figure it out. Whenever I use liner, I’m never able to figure out where exactly my lip ends and where my skin begins. You’d think the color difference would be enough, but no matter where I trace the line, it never seems to be right. Also, if I’m trying to wear a shade other than red, I’m convinced that my liner is too dark and my lipstick is too light. There’s some comedian who has a joke about the dark liner/light lipstick; he says that it’s the most hideous look ever and it looks like a butthole. I’ve never been able to get that visual out of my head.
3. I have watched Say Yes to the Dress for more than two consecutive hours.
When I had my own television, I genuinely enjoyed Friday nights alone. TLC plays wedding shows from about 4pm until 11pm. I often used this as an opportunity to shut my door, hang out in my underwear and drink too much moscato by myself. The show isn’t exactly compelling. It’s just women trying on wedding dresses. Where’s the appeal? I don’t like half the dresses they show, and about 95% cost far more than I would ever consider spending.
4. I don’t know the words to Rich Girl but I insist on singing along anyway.
After creating a Bee Gees Pandora station (Bill used to play in a disco band and I was a supportive girlfriend), I came upon the realization that I genuinely enjoy music made before I was born. This includes, but is not limited to, the Bee Gees, Simon & Garfunkel, Earth Wind & Fire, and Hall & Oates. The last time I heard Rich Girl, I told my friend, “This is my jam!” before rocking out and attempting to sing along. As long as I catch the “it’s a bitch, girl” parts, I consider it a success.
5. I own a piggy bank.
And it’s currently empty. There is literally no reason for me to own a piggy bank. I used it for a few months before I took a trip to California and collected about $70 worth of latte-making tips. Since then, it has not held more than $13. I know that because I used the last $13 as my bar money for Halloween. But it’s cute, isn’t it? I bought it because it looks exactly like a piggy bank you see in a cartoon. Did I mention I’ve been known to spend my money irresponsibly?
About two months ago, I got bored and decided to cut my hair. I don’t mean that I took a pair of scissors to my head, I mean that I went into a salon (Mastercuts, because I’m not rich), and told the stylist with awful hair that I wanted to change my hair style. After seeing some old episodes of 30 Rock, I decided that I wanted to go from my mid-back layered goddess hair to a Liz Lemon-styled collarbone bob. The result was a strange shoulder-ish length thing with a bunch of layers I didn’t really know what to do with. I should be more assertive when people (strangers) are messing with my appearance, but I’m not. Out of what I call politeness, I watched while the girl teased my crown and arrange the hair over the matted bump-it to camouflage any semblance of a part.
I liked it for about a week before I started missing my long hair. If I didn’t style the short style, I looked like a confused thirteen-year-old. It’s simply not appropriate for a confused twenty-four-year-old.
I turned to Pinterest for inspiration only to find that the latest craze in hair styling was the sock bun which requires longer hair. I decided to try braids which made me look like an elementary school child. I tried a french twist which immediately fell out. I tried a side-ponytail which was a failure. I tried the bang poof which deflated. I tried curling it in smaller curls which made me look like I was attempting a strange white-girl fro. I tried straightening it which only made me look like that stylist. My long hair gave my confidence, making me feel womanly and powerful. I felt sexy twisting it into a chignon, only to pull the pin out a few hours later, letting the hair fall down my back in big barrel curls.
This haircut has prompted an episode of self-loathing. I look in the mirror and see a chubby-faced girl whose eyebrows need plucking. I don’t see the beautiful college grad who only needs a pair of pumps, a coat of mascara, and a flush of blush to feel ready. I see everything that’s wrong with me – my flabby arms, the pimple on my cheek, the bra strap that constantly falls off my shoulder, the weird spot on my earlobe, and the way my nose is too round.
Frankly this is pissing me off. I look virtually the same as I did two months ago, minus about six inches of hair. Why do I allow one change affect my self-image so much? It’s a haircut. It’s not permanent. I’ll take daily vitamins and wait for my hair to grow. I’ve heard that it takes a lot of confidence to rock a short hairstyle. I always thought that was in reference to pixie cuts and short bobs, but apparently it’s true for the shoulder-length ones too.
It’s shaken me up more than I’d like to acknowledge. I think that confidence is closely tied with accomplishment, so I tried to examine when I feel I’ve accomplished something. I started to think of significant things – like completing a draft of a short story, finishing a 400-page book, or biking 20 miles on a sunny day. Then I tried to think about the small daily accomplishments I’ve had – participating in discussions in classes or finishing an assignment before the due date. Since I’m no longer in college, I had to think of other things. These things sort of bothered me. I like baking and decorating cookies. I like to paint my nails. On weekends when I don’t have anything to do, sometimes I’ll sit in front of the mirror, putting on makeup and curling my hair just so my day doesn’t feel like a waste.
So my day doesn’t feel like a waste? It’s like I use my appearance as a consolation. “You didn’t do anything today, but you sure look good!”
I have goals. I want to lose twenty pounds. I want to bike 100 miles. I want to read War and Peace. I want to learn about biological anthropology. I want to publish essays and stories. I want to publish a book. I want to have a successful writing career.
Instead of doing these things, I make myself look pretty. I could blame society and all its evils that tell girls their worth is in their appearance, but frankly, I’m not willing to use that as an excuse. It’s too easy to absolve myself of responsibility. The fact is that I’m not always willing to put in the hard work to accomplish the things I dream about. It’s easier to make my face look pretty than it is to sit down in front of my computer and force myself to write. It’s easier to complain about a bad haircut than to face the fact that I’m not willing to face my writer’s block. It’s easier to give my boyfriend three dozen cookies than to admit that to publish anything, I’ll have to submit work that will probably be rejected by a dozen small presses. I need to constantly remind myself that great things don’t come without a great deal of work. Great things don’t come to those who wait – they come to those who work their butts off.
So instead of having a pity party because my hair is shorter than I wish, I’m going to throw on a headband, and write a draft of that story that’s been bouncing around in my head for weeks.
Everything is Blooming 