These are my top 10 wishes for the summer:
1. He will develope a condition on his noodle that prohibits any contact.
2. I will stop being insane.
3. I will keep going to the gym, and be asked to be the oldest 'Bud Girl', and be in an ad that will make him regret his leaving me.
4. He will contract the exotic and rare "shrinking noodle disease."
5. One of my "get rich quick schemes" will be successful.
6. He will develope 'man-boobs.'
7. His noodle will fall off.
8. Someone at the fancy gym he drove me out of will compliment his noodle in the locker room.
9. My sense of humor will graduate from kindergarden to first grade.
10. I will stop thinking and writing about his noodle.
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
One thing I hate about 'He's just not that into you':
OK, it would have been nice to have the book during the second year of the relationship- when I chose to ignore his broken promises, and when he started to choose his comfort over my safety and sanity. But I didn't (and I'm sure would have chosen to 'waste the pretty' for the next 5 years anyway regarldess of Greg B's advice.)
But I can't stand how this phrase is buzzing from the everyone's lips whenever a guy poops out, regardless of history or circumstances. I mean yes, it would be nice to have Greg B as my personal relationship crossing guard for the courting stages of the relationship. But for some of us, after 4 years of passion, pain, happiness, firsts, traditions, and compromises, it feels a bit vulgar when in referencing my defunct love affair there is some listener squawking "I've got it! I think he just wasn't into you!"
Gee thanks. I'm so relieved that the last 5 years of my day to day life were a lie. And I suppose I should interpret 5 years of telling me how unbelievable it was that he could feel so passionate and yet so comfortable- am I supposed to interpret that as an overcooked expression of lukewarm feelings? Spoken to what, get into my pants on a nightly basis? To get invited to those exciting annual Scrabble tournaments where he was 'honored' to converse with my grandmother with middle-stage Alzheimers?
If I'm not that into somebody, I don't want to see them naked. I don't want to lay with them while they're sick, and go out to buy their Kleenexes and tampons. I don't want to talk about my difficult childhood with them. I certainly don't want to drive 6 hours in a day to see them for 2 hours, and then get 3 hours of sleep before work.
OK, it would have been nice to have the book during the second year of the relationship- when I chose to ignore his broken promises, and when he started to choose his comfort over my safety and sanity. But I didn't (and I'm sure would have chosen to 'waste the pretty' for the next 5 years anyway regarldess of Greg B's advice.)
But I can't stand how this phrase is buzzing from the everyone's lips whenever a guy poops out, regardless of history or circumstances. I mean yes, it would be nice to have Greg B as my personal relationship crossing guard for the courting stages of the relationship. But for some of us, after 4 years of passion, pain, happiness, firsts, traditions, and compromises, it feels a bit vulgar when in referencing my defunct love affair there is some listener squawking "I've got it! I think he just wasn't into you!"
Gee thanks. I'm so relieved that the last 5 years of my day to day life were a lie. And I suppose I should interpret 5 years of telling me how unbelievable it was that he could feel so passionate and yet so comfortable- am I supposed to interpret that as an overcooked expression of lukewarm feelings? Spoken to what, get into my pants on a nightly basis? To get invited to those exciting annual Scrabble tournaments where he was 'honored' to converse with my grandmother with middle-stage Alzheimers?
I mean it's horrifying to hear that, right? Please, everybody- be careful when throwing around the HJNTIY.
If I'm not that into somebody, I don't want to see them naked. I don't want to lay with them while they're sick, and go out to buy their Kleenexes and tampons. I don't want to talk about my difficult childhood with them. I certainly don't want to drive 6 hours in a day to see them for 2 hours, and then get 3 hours of sleep before work.
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
I can tell I'm gaining weight quickly. Not only because of the usual symptom where the stomach distends to a point where I'm actually fascinated and can work it like clay or dough, but also because there's so much more of a rub between my rib cage and my (underboob?), a la National Geographic. I always do this after a breakup. Usually there is a period of near starvation for 6 weeks or so, followed by a period of non-stop gorging. And this time I really can't afford it, I mean I'm 35! There will come a time when I will get to the upswing of one of my yoyo-ing weight cycles, and I will never ever swing down to a normal weight again. I'ts like some women who have children. After the second or third child they were just DONE, there was no recovering their figure. I think that might be like me and breakup weight. At some certain point I'll just give birth to a Krispy Kreme donut and declare "Game Over."
This time, I will deem it as HIS fault. I mean, last year at this time I had a hoppin' body. I was at the top of my game. It's not uncommon when you're with a commitmentphobic man, that you are at the top of your game. I mean you can never OFFICIALLY relax, so you're always working on yourself like a single person, like someone who's in the early stages of a relationship. Sustaining that independant, at the "top of my game" crap became quite tiring after 5 1/2 years. I mean, there were many times I displayed vulnerability, but after responses like "Hmm. Sorry, babe. What are you gonna do?", I pretty much gave up.
This time, I will deem it as HIS fault. I mean, last year at this time I had a hoppin' body. I was at the top of my game. It's not uncommon when you're with a commitmentphobic man, that you are at the top of your game. I mean you can never OFFICIALLY relax, so you're always working on yourself like a single person, like someone who's in the early stages of a relationship. Sustaining that independant, at the "top of my game" crap became quite tiring after 5 1/2 years. I mean, there were many times I displayed vulnerability, but after responses like "Hmm. Sorry, babe. What are you gonna do?", I pretty much gave up.
Saturday, May 07, 2005
I have two things to share with you:
#1 My emotional cripple of an ex-boyfriend has not come back. Considering he has not resurfaced for 1 month longer than it took for him to crawl back crying last time, I figure I am officially abandoned. And SINGLE. And 35. Holy Crud. It was a lot easier in my twenties getting on after a breakup. Back then, Mrs. BeenThere, Carol and I would mix up some new cocktail, watch taped reruns of 'Melrose Place', and possibly end the night shaking our fists and barking the chorus to 'Who Let the Dogs out.' We always had a lot of fun, even at our most abysmal moments, except that one time we experimented with a new cocktail called a 'Dirty Bird.'
A word of caution: Do not, ever, ever fuel a night of misery drinking with 'Dirty Birds' or any other milk-based concoction.
So anyway, breakups aren't as much fun anymore. Not now that Mrs. BeenThere is in Chicago with her two small children and Carol is in Connecticut with the same.
#2 I loved ex dearly but with the death of the relationship also comes the death of a life construct, a fantasy I thought I was close to acheiving with my ex of 5 1/2 years: The Barbeque Fantasy. I was conviced that at 35 I'd be spending many Saturdays with my best friends and family (like, kids+husband+ canine), in the same way my parents spent their Saturdays. You know, getting together, deciding between macaroni and German Potato salad, arguing over who took who's cheesburger (or gardenburger in this age), and capping off the night with the couples battling it out over a game of Taboo or maybe even Jeopardy. OK, OK maybe my BBQ fantasy sounds a little hokey to sophisticated readers, but really, that's what some people are doing. And it sounds a lot better than my current reality of sitting home alone on a Saturday on a bare mattress that needed to be stripped after the foster dog I brought home peed on it when I refused to adapt to sleeping alone. How is it that the closest I can come to my BBQ fantasy is taking the train down to Nathan's Hot Dog's with my foster dog? I mean, he's not even mine.
#1 My emotional cripple of an ex-boyfriend has not come back. Considering he has not resurfaced for 1 month longer than it took for him to crawl back crying last time, I figure I am officially abandoned. And SINGLE. And 35. Holy Crud. It was a lot easier in my twenties getting on after a breakup. Back then, Mrs. BeenThere, Carol and I would mix up some new cocktail, watch taped reruns of 'Melrose Place', and possibly end the night shaking our fists and barking the chorus to 'Who Let the Dogs out.' We always had a lot of fun, even at our most abysmal moments, except that one time we experimented with a new cocktail called a 'Dirty Bird.'
A word of caution: Do not, ever, ever fuel a night of misery drinking with 'Dirty Birds' or any other milk-based concoction.
So anyway, breakups aren't as much fun anymore. Not now that Mrs. BeenThere is in Chicago with her two small children and Carol is in Connecticut with the same.
#2 I loved ex dearly but with the death of the relationship also comes the death of a life construct, a fantasy I thought I was close to acheiving with my ex of 5 1/2 years: The Barbeque Fantasy. I was conviced that at 35 I'd be spending many Saturdays with my best friends and family (like, kids+husband+ canine), in the same way my parents spent their Saturdays. You know, getting together, deciding between macaroni and German Potato salad, arguing over who took who's cheesburger (or gardenburger in this age), and capping off the night with the couples battling it out over a game of Taboo or maybe even Jeopardy. OK, OK maybe my BBQ fantasy sounds a little hokey to sophisticated readers, but really, that's what some people are doing. And it sounds a lot better than my current reality of sitting home alone on a Saturday on a bare mattress that needed to be stripped after the foster dog I brought home peed on it when I refused to adapt to sleeping alone. How is it that the closest I can come to my BBQ fantasy is taking the train down to Nathan's Hot Dog's with my foster dog? I mean, he's not even mine.
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