Dear Darling Ones,
I am frustrated. I’m nearly 50* and not only do I still get crushes on men, I still get all sad and stuff when those crushes start seeing women who are not me. It sucks. Isn’t this a stage of life I should have outgrown by now? Why does this keep happening and when will it all end?
God, why does being attracted to someone and having feelings have to be so embarrassing all the time? I hate it. I need my ice-robot heart to re-engage and save me from this humiliation. I’m blushing as I type. This is all so gross.
To make matters worse my stupid brain keeps singing those two lines from The Replacements’ “Valentine” on repeat. Are you strung out on some face? Well, I know it ain’t mine.” Sometimes my brain is a real jerk. I get it, brain, he does not like like me. Thanks for being an asshole about it.
I’m not shattered by this development. It’s not a cry your eyes out while listening to “Someone to Pull the Trigger” situation. It’s more annoyance. I don’t even want to date anyone right now. At least I don’t think I do. I keep telling myself that I will investigate that portion of my life once I finish revising The Beast. And yet here I am, low key angry that he doesn’t want me back. How dare he find someone more appropriate and who knows what they want and is not me? Rude. How dare he not want to spend his free time making me feel good about myself and listening to me talk about the new Liz Phair? Disrespectful. How dare he give up the opportunity to make me feel less alone while I spend my time figuring out if I want to be in an actual, factual relationship? Barbaric.**
Ugh. I am burning with so much shame I picked up my phone to see what the temperature was because it suddenly feels very warm in here and I kind of need the AC to kick in ASAP.
Today I finished reading a biography of Truman Capote and at one point after he breaks up with a lover Capote says something like, no matter, to really write one must be truly alone. I keep trying to hold the idea behind the sentiment in my chest, but then my fucking brain keeps singing Are you strung out on some face? Well, I know it ain’t mine.”
All I want in life is to have two contradictory things at once. Also, someone to figure out what to have dinner every night for the rest of my life. And also, to go back in time two hours ago when I returned that biography without finding that passage and writing it down.
In happier, unrelated news, I got another new shirt. This is technically my third new shirt. First was Stevie Nicks, then Joan Jett, and now the wise old owl. I’m digging wearing clothes that were made for women and have some character. I am not digging how expensive clothes for women are. I think the last time I bought shirts they were from the Big & Tall Men’s store and I got six of them all in black or navy blue for like $40.
Also, as you can see, I’m still knee-deep in my yellow period. What you can’t see in the photo above is that my underpants are also yellow. That wasn’t planned. It was just a happy accident.
In fact, I’m so deep into my yellow period that when the plant store that I ordered my birthday tree emailed me to say they were out of yellow pots I had to have a long, frank discussion with myself about whether I should choose another color or cancel the order. I decided the tree was more important than the pot so I chose another color, but I wasn’t thrilled about it.
Bleh. I’m gonna go eat some ice cream and try not to think about stupid crushes and being embarrassed by being so stupidly human all the time.
P.S. I am for sure eating a Tootsie Pop while wearing a Tootsie Pop shirt. Much like the yellow underpants, it wasn’t planned, just a happy accident. After I popped the sucker in my mouth I was all, “Oh, I’m gonna take a picture.” I keep a small jar of Tootsie Pops on my kitchen counter because I’m a grown-up and I can.
*I’m only eight days into being forty-nine, but I’m just gonna play up this FIFTY thing for an entire year. Deal with it.
**I spent a lot of time writing today and with the thesaurus because I tried to use the word “pain” thirty-nine times in one paragraph.