I just feel…woken up. What have I been doing for three years? Is it culminating to something?
In six days it will be the third year anniversary of the fateful trip “-” took with the woman he married after me.
#metoo Jennifer Willoughby. Hash-fucking-tag.
It would have also been my 26th wedding anniversary. And, of course, it’s a lot of other things. Good people’s birthdays, the day after Valentine’s Day.
I hate being a cliché, but I’m pretty done. All the books said three years was it.
Am I headed to more commitment with my bf? Am I ever going to change jobs to something I won’t loathe until I’m 67? Or 70?
Will I be forever menopausally fat?
I’m engaging in EMDR soon. I hope this will help, and yet, I hope it’s not just another method I’m going to try to be comfortable in my life and skin.
I get tired. You know? I’m tired of “trying.”
And yet, what’s my alternative?
I feel like I was abroad.
On the moon.
I don’t even remember some of these posts, but I like ’em.
I missed you, my people of Earth.
My id has a binge mentality — food, alcohol, Netflix — the more the merrier. I could moderate, but, I can’t ever think of a good reason to, so I just end up doing it.
My super-ego, on the other hand, keeps a balanced checkbook. Has a budget. A list of alternative activities to binge eating and/or drinking — take a shower, walk my cat, learn a language. She believes that one day…maybe even tomorrow…she will convince the id and the ego to take her well-researched-reasonable-practical-rational baby steps. And she also believes she can convince the other two to take the steps over and over again into oblivion. The id and the ego think she’s a super naggy constipated bore.
She is delusional, and my id and ego want to throw their beer cans at her.
My ego…I don’t know. I never seem to be the same person from day to day.
On a related note — gin is my kryptonite. I try to lay off, because it’s hard for me to just have one, and when I have more than one, I start gin-texting. Nasty texting. Or emailing. For some reason, last night I wrote out a gin-fueled email, the first in a long time, correcting the spelling and getting the jabs just right, and then I deleted it without sending it.
That may not sound like too much of a feat to you, but believe me, it is.
One for super-ego buzz kill! Way to show up just at the right time, for once.
From the daughter:
Dad bought a truck that looks just like your boyfriend’s.
Dad is taking me to Paris on an overnight train.
Dad is doing a lot of biking.
Dad bought a sailboat.
From the old neighbor:
They’re painting your house. It’s sage. Looks nice.
From the mom:
I’M FRIGGIN’ FINE! THANKS FOR NEVER ASKING…
There are “capital” and “small,” or “upper” and “lower” case letters — Madonna and son, moms and babies, me’s and mini-me’s, adults and children, pints and half-pints.
I guess numbers have Arabic (1) and Roman (I) versions, but it’s not as endearing.
Letters win again, in my opinion.