I try, for the most part, to keep my blog light and fluffy.Lately though, I have had one pressing issue on my mind...so this is my chance to get it out, I guess. How many of us read The Tortoise and the Hare? You know, the story about the cocky ass rabbit who thought he had the race in the bag...but he was all flighty, crazy and distracted by shiney things or something. Meanwhile, the pokey little turtle slowly dragged his ass across the finish line, in the end, beating out his flakey counterpart with sheer persistance. We get it...slow and steady. Whatever. I think if there were a back story, the two of them were probably besties. They probably grew up together, had dinner sometimes and swaped recipies and bitched about some other animal with it's own bag of issues. It seems though, that we are in constant competition with each other, and even more to our own detriment, with ourselves.
So I was out with one of my girlfriends at bingo the other day. Yeah, I go to bingo. That shit is hilarious. We have been ostrasized...but more on that later.(It merits its own post, trust me). Anyway, I was talking with my bingo buddy about all the ways in which we are fabulous and all the ways we fall short. I had an outloud epiphany "I guess, I measure my own success by the things I dont have". Whoa. It stopped my thoughts when I realized how much I have achieved, how much I have to be grateful for and how little I am able to realize it.
My life is pretty different than my married friends, some of whom have 3,4 even 5 kids. Okay, my life isn't a little different its 100% nothing like that. I have embraced other endeavors. I said I wanted to have a graduate degree by the time I was 30. I was 28. Done.That is an example. There are alot of things that are unique to me accomplishments, goals, struggles, and things to be happy about. Thank God I am good at being me. Too bad though, that I compare my own accomplishments with those of people who are not even running the same race. We are so hard on each other...so hard on ourselves that we are damn near blind to the goodness that wells up all around us.
So to my friend, who may take her sweet ass time to get wherever she is going. And to the one who is confident enough to let go and look at the shiney stuff. Run your race girl, however you want to, however long it takes, its yours to win.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Thursday, August 19, 2010
full circle
So I have a date. He is 40.4-0. Forty. Lordy,lordy look who's forty classifieds 40. Sweet mother of moses when did I become old enough to date people as old as teachers and parents. 40. I'm 31 which is like 23 but smarter and with cheaper car insurance. Fuck,I think about insurance and I am going on a date with someone who is 40.
When I was 22 I was something of a fabulous trainwreck. Young with good hair and potential. My life was something of an open ended question that I could answer however the hell I wanted to. It was a good spot to be in. Let me make this very clear, its safe to say that from 18-22ish I had no idea how good I had it. I just wanted whatever was next. My grandma used to warn me not to wish my life away.
For a little while,at 22, I dated a 31 year old man. Let me paint a picture of my 22 year old day dreams.
I bet he has wrinkly old balls.
Ill probably have to start eating dinner at 4.
This is embarassing. 31. People will ask if he is my dad.
Are those coaches shorts? Maybe he IS my dad.
Please, for the love of all things sporty, just bend the bill of your hat. YOU LOOK LIKE MY DAD!
Did you just refer to me as a kid?
I can't do this.
I can't date a man with one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel. Think of all the years I will spend alone. After all, I am 22 and fabulous and he is beating down death's door. He is 31, the new 84.
He had cars or socks or underpants older than me and this was no way to love. Imagine my shock,surprise, and dismay when I realized I was 31. There is turning 31 (or whatever age scares you) and then there is realizing you are 31. Sobering I guess. So to you, my dear friend, who was 31 and isn't anymore... I HOPE YOU CAN READ THIS. I HOPE IF YOU CAN'T, SOMEONE IN THE NURSING HOME IS READING REALLY LOUDLY FOR YOU. I hope your balls don't knock against your boney knees and that here isn't tumbleweeds of grey hair protruding from your giant old man ears. Thank you for paving the way to 31 for the rest of us. I hope 40 is treating you well. Wait. 40?! Shit.
When I was 22 I was something of a fabulous trainwreck. Young with good hair and potential. My life was something of an open ended question that I could answer however the hell I wanted to. It was a good spot to be in. Let me make this very clear, its safe to say that from 18-22ish I had no idea how good I had it. I just wanted whatever was next. My grandma used to warn me not to wish my life away.
For a little while,at 22, I dated a 31 year old man. Let me paint a picture of my 22 year old day dreams.
I bet he has wrinkly old balls.
Ill probably have to start eating dinner at 4.
This is embarassing. 31. People will ask if he is my dad.
Are those coaches shorts? Maybe he IS my dad.
Please, for the love of all things sporty, just bend the bill of your hat. YOU LOOK LIKE MY DAD!
Did you just refer to me as a kid?
I can't do this.
I can't date a man with one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel. Think of all the years I will spend alone. After all, I am 22 and fabulous and he is beating down death's door. He is 31, the new 84.
He had cars or socks or underpants older than me and this was no way to love. Imagine my shock,surprise, and dismay when I realized I was 31. There is turning 31 (or whatever age scares you) and then there is realizing you are 31. Sobering I guess. So to you, my dear friend, who was 31 and isn't anymore... I HOPE YOU CAN READ THIS. I HOPE IF YOU CAN'T, SOMEONE IN THE NURSING HOME IS READING REALLY LOUDLY FOR YOU. I hope your balls don't knock against your boney knees and that here isn't tumbleweeds of grey hair protruding from your giant old man ears. Thank you for paving the way to 31 for the rest of us. I hope 40 is treating you well. Wait. 40?! Shit.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Who's Your Flypaper, Baby?
After careful consideration, I have come to the conclusion that most of my troubles could be solved if scientists could figure out what goes through the brain of a fly just before it gets stuck to a piece of paper. Forget the monkeys, I'm pretty sure there is a direct dna link between my brain and that of the fly.
When I was a kid I spent my summer afternoons swimming my life away at my grandma's house. You could count on the midsummer flypaper decoration. One in the garage, one on the porch (which, in retrospect, seems a little unfair to the fly),and finally one in the kitchen. Appetizing. Have you ever looked at one of these things? A strip of sticky with flys trapped it...and they really start to pile up. Regardless of the horrifying site, flies clearly love this shit. The mortality rate is through the roof.
Here is the problem, I can see how gross and deadly fly paper is but it doesn't keep me from zooming right into it, full speed ahead in my own life. For me its a man or two in my life and maybe other relationships. When I get close I can fight all I want but at the end of the day I am stuck. To anyone else,the situations are fly paper...obviously gross,something you swerve to avoid,and potentially hazardous to your health...but to me ooooh what's that..aaaand stuck. Before I know it I can't move.
I don't think its just me though. (Hence the call for scientific exploration). The more people I meet the more I know for sure that each of us has our own version of fly paper. For some of us its a man who broke us down,wore us out and left us different. For others it might be drugs or a friend who leaves us drained. There is always something attractive, irresistable even and while everyone else around us can see the trap we just haul ass to get stuck. So...who's your flypaper, baby?
When I was a kid I spent my summer afternoons swimming my life away at my grandma's house. You could count on the midsummer flypaper decoration. One in the garage, one on the porch (which, in retrospect, seems a little unfair to the fly),and finally one in the kitchen. Appetizing. Have you ever looked at one of these things? A strip of sticky with flys trapped it...and they really start to pile up. Regardless of the horrifying site, flies clearly love this shit. The mortality rate is through the roof.
Here is the problem, I can see how gross and deadly fly paper is but it doesn't keep me from zooming right into it, full speed ahead in my own life. For me its a man or two in my life and maybe other relationships. When I get close I can fight all I want but at the end of the day I am stuck. To anyone else,the situations are fly paper...obviously gross,something you swerve to avoid,and potentially hazardous to your health...but to me ooooh what's that..aaaand stuck. Before I know it I can't move.
I don't think its just me though. (Hence the call for scientific exploration). The more people I meet the more I know for sure that each of us has our own version of fly paper. For some of us its a man who broke us down,wore us out and left us different. For others it might be drugs or a friend who leaves us drained. There is always something attractive, irresistable even and while everyone else around us can see the trap we just haul ass to get stuck. So...who's your flypaper, baby?
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