|
|
01.13.02 - 9:59 p.m. its stressful. i have a self imposed bedtime of 11 that keeps me from crying when i cant find the mail room at work. Im turning into a sleep junkie. Im totally unreliable and emotionally caustic when ive not had enough sleep. I didnt used to be like this. I used to float through days at school with d-76 on my hands and glue in my hair and boys in my head and living off a strict diet of mochas and brown sugar pop tarts. Now that ive started paying rent everything has changed. There is an immediate barometer in me when the alarm goes off that says either: you are going to be okay today or, just focus on not crying until you are alone. When the latter occurs i spend the majority of my day concocting fatalistic scenes that include my mom dying in the bathtub or my neice growing up with out the faintest idea who i am. I decide that im a bad friend, i decide that i dont spend enough time on me, that before i know it ill be 50 and wishing i had partied harder. I watch the minutes wash by on my phone/clock and so on. I wish that my entries werent always depressing but most of the time, its what i need to write. If i dont, everything feels wrong and i just want to cry, or make out. Ive decided--while mopping-- that you can only be in love with a certain number of married men in your life, and definitely not more than one at a time. The reason i fall in love with married men is not the chase, or the intrigue, its an attraction to something that feels like peace. Unmarried men are always prowling, theyre always propping you up and measuring you with the same ruler that theyve measured every other woman with, from the chick at the opposite gas pump, to their boss, to their 2nd cousins. They are in a sense of panic and spend great amounts of time trying to make wrong girls right before cheating on them with other wrong girls. This is all very distressing to me. Conversations come to crucial intersections where the truth of your affection for long baths sends their eyes scanning the room searching for someone else who isnt so lenghty in their bathing process or has curlier hair or sharper incisors or whatever it is that makes 22 years of you all wrong. And its such a waste of time. Married men dont do this. They have already made their purchase and dont care about that table with the wobbly leg or the chest missing a drawer pull and therefore its easy to rest your eyes upon them. And converstaions about your mom and dad become simply converstaions about your childhood instead of a quiz sheet of normalcy and decency. This doesnt make loving married men right. It certainly doesnt make loving married men easier or more worthwhile. In fact it is much more traumatic and empty in the long run. I dont know why people do it. There is no closure to this long drawn out thought process. I never felt fulfillment from my crush on my softball coach in the 7th grade and ive never been granted any fulfillment since...but the process, the present moment is so much more tolerable than trying to be the right girl to every man you meet. Does this make sense?? and yes, i believe that there is the right one out there for me. I believe that he's being crafted out of a billion experiences to be just perfect. I hope that this is true. Im terrified by the dating process. Im terrified by going out to a bar and competing with a thousand other girls in black bants and Abercrombie tops with pretty hair and a knowledge of football. I wont win. Guys in bars are looking for girls to have sex with, and im not her. Im not going to go looking for a boy and this upsets my best friend becca who belives in the bar scene and correctly applied mascara and the power of flirty hair, but i cant do it. I dont want to. However, its what 22 year olds do. Im 22. I dont know where this leaves me. I need help from a wise woman who paints and makes pumpkin pies and loves a man who fixes her engine and likes footrubs. I think she might be tall and she has strong arms from babies or gardening or swimming. She wears pj's long into the afternoon and doesnt count the calories. Her husband loves her hair and comes home to talk to her about why people dont talk on elevators. He is certainly tall and maybe he sculpts or teaches physics. He loves her body regardless and feels like the luckiest man in the world just to watch her empty the dishwasher. She reads and plays with the dog and works hard and goes to bars to drink and avoids the men with gelled hair, and perfect khakis and alabama baseball caps and measuring sticks. I need help from this woman. I need her to tell me where to go. Its my bedtime. I have thirty minutes until i have to be in bed and im torn on whether or not i should eat dinner and risk not sleeping until 12 thus risking a weepy, long day researching blue mold. � 
|