FIVE. MORE. DAYS. God help me...
I have had heartburn for several days running and antacids aren't helping. I have been having nightmares about work. For the past two days I have been feeling lightheaded at work and sick to my stomach like I'm in an elevator going up and down and up and down. Am I going to pass out?... No, not yet...whoo, uh-oh. Jeez, I think I'm anemic again. Every minute I am hoping that the universe will see fit to deliver me from this evil into a quiet office setting where I can function autonomously. Tomorrow I start harassing the agency to place me. Wish me luck.
Monday, January 30, 2006
Friday, January 27, 2006
The Countdown Continues
Oh god, I don't want to go to work tomorrow! Eight more days, eight more days....
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
one of the worst books I've ever read
One day last week I walked into Barnes and Nobles' "Women's Studies" section in search of some insightful reading to occupy my rides to and fro on the train, and I was having a difficult time choosing something. The bulk of the section is made up of schlocky woman-feely sister crap written by educated, white, upper-middle class women who tell other women how to connect to their woman-ness and talk about running with wolves and how the world used to be ruled by goddesses of peace or something. There are a few second-wave feminist gems, but I've read them, and mostly they are about body-image issues or are anti-porn (which I used to be, until I realized that I like some of it--unfortunately for me, this realization occurred while I was writing my anti-porn senior thesis at the university). I saw "Listen up! Voices From the Next Feminist Generation" but I've read bits of it, and mostly it is made up of coming to consciousness stories, and I just don't have that kind of patience.
The I saw a little blue book with an orange flower on the cover that would fit nicely into my tote to travel back and forth to work, and it had a title that would most likely ward off unwanted small talk from men AND women: "Cunt" by Inga Muscio. Cool! I flipped through it quick because I was running late getting back from lunch. I can pretty much tell you now that I am 50 pages in that it's a major disappointment. Already she has described each of her three abortions in graphic detail, the third one being of the "kinder, gentler" variety in which she explains that all she had to do was take certain herbs, get massaged by some woman who is not actually licensed to put her hands on people, and think about miscarrying every waking moment, or as she calls it, "imaging." Apparently this worked for her, and she was pleased to notice her embryo on the bathroom floor after eight days: "Me and my women friends did magic" (p.50). This actually made me ill and I'm pro-choice. Although, I guess when I argue that women should have the right to choose whether to carry a pregnancy to term, I am presuming that the getting pregnant part was a one-time accident. I also presumed that if medical abortions are what they are made out to be, that subsequently post-abortive women will then use greater precautions, not be so careless as to get pregnant and abort two more times!
Before that point Muscio went on and on about how great her menstrual blood is: we should save up our blood to feed to our house plants or use it to paint with. And we should all use sea sponges and keepers and cotton rags instead of giving our money to the man. I'm as eager to take down the man as anyone, but let's be realistic. I have actually used a keeper-type device and they're not at all what they're cracked up to be, and contrary to the little anecdote Muscio provides, coming out of a bathroom stall with a handful of some bloody device to wash off in the sink does NOT result in women bonding about being women together! And no, I am not ashamed about my menstrual fluids--I think being a woman this time of the month is pretty fuckin cool--for me it's a privacy thing. My menses is no one's fuckin business. Well, I guess it is NOW, isn't it? But at least I didn't paint with it.
Lastly (and probably leastly after all that) is the fact that she is an white upper-middle class college educated woman who has had opportunities in life. She has enough leisure time and money to live off of to write a book before she's even 30 (suggesting to me that she is not obligated to be paying back any student loans), and then somehow get it published. Then she uses this opportunity to make a mockery of herself! She continually uses hokey pseudo-urban slang like you would hear on bad primetime WB white melodramas in combination with intentionally poor grammar. It's a sad display all around.
But I guess her objectives are consistent with other feminists of her caliber, who are always looking for ways to be more "woman-identified," and on getting in touch with themselves as "women": looking at their vaginas in the mirror, pretending to be moon-worshipping lesbian pagans running with wolves and saving their periods up in mason jars for arts and crafts day. She and her cohorts needn't sully themselves with the gritty issues of race, class, gender, sexuality, globalization, and the "third-worldization" of America. They worry more about interjecting the most politically correct turns of phrase into conversations with each other over margaritas than about Ronaldo in the kitchen who has to scrub their lipstick off the rims of their glasses after they leave. Wealthy white feminists are concerned with the glass ceiling, but don't consider that their prestige granted them access in the first place. Self-exploration and woman-y bonding crap might be acceptable feminist exercises in some future society where no one is hungry, uneducated, un- or under-employed, and uninsured. But as it stands right this minute, my priorities lie in fighting my way out of this shit hole and bringing as many pissed off women with me as I can.
The I saw a little blue book with an orange flower on the cover that would fit nicely into my tote to travel back and forth to work, and it had a title that would most likely ward off unwanted small talk from men AND women: "Cunt" by Inga Muscio. Cool! I flipped through it quick because I was running late getting back from lunch. I can pretty much tell you now that I am 50 pages in that it's a major disappointment. Already she has described each of her three abortions in graphic detail, the third one being of the "kinder, gentler" variety in which she explains that all she had to do was take certain herbs, get massaged by some woman who is not actually licensed to put her hands on people, and think about miscarrying every waking moment, or as she calls it, "imaging." Apparently this worked for her, and she was pleased to notice her embryo on the bathroom floor after eight days: "Me and my women friends did magic" (p.50). This actually made me ill and I'm pro-choice. Although, I guess when I argue that women should have the right to choose whether to carry a pregnancy to term, I am presuming that the getting pregnant part was a one-time accident. I also presumed that if medical abortions are what they are made out to be, that subsequently post-abortive women will then use greater precautions, not be so careless as to get pregnant and abort two more times!
Before that point Muscio went on and on about how great her menstrual blood is: we should save up our blood to feed to our house plants or use it to paint with. And we should all use sea sponges and keepers and cotton rags instead of giving our money to the man. I'm as eager to take down the man as anyone, but let's be realistic. I have actually used a keeper-type device and they're not at all what they're cracked up to be, and contrary to the little anecdote Muscio provides, coming out of a bathroom stall with a handful of some bloody device to wash off in the sink does NOT result in women bonding about being women together! And no, I am not ashamed about my menstrual fluids--I think being a woman this time of the month is pretty fuckin cool--for me it's a privacy thing. My menses is no one's fuckin business. Well, I guess it is NOW, isn't it? But at least I didn't paint with it.
Lastly (and probably leastly after all that) is the fact that she is an white upper-middle class college educated woman who has had opportunities in life. She has enough leisure time and money to live off of to write a book before she's even 30 (suggesting to me that she is not obligated to be paying back any student loans), and then somehow get it published. Then she uses this opportunity to make a mockery of herself! She continually uses hokey pseudo-urban slang like you would hear on bad primetime WB white melodramas in combination with intentionally poor grammar. It's a sad display all around.
But I guess her objectives are consistent with other feminists of her caliber, who are always looking for ways to be more "woman-identified," and on getting in touch with themselves as "women": looking at their vaginas in the mirror, pretending to be moon-worshipping lesbian pagans running with wolves and saving their periods up in mason jars for arts and crafts day. She and her cohorts needn't sully themselves with the gritty issues of race, class, gender, sexuality, globalization, and the "third-worldization" of America. They worry more about interjecting the most politically correct turns of phrase into conversations with each other over margaritas than about Ronaldo in the kitchen who has to scrub their lipstick off the rims of their glasses after they leave. Wealthy white feminists are concerned with the glass ceiling, but don't consider that their prestige granted them access in the first place. Self-exploration and woman-y bonding crap might be acceptable feminist exercises in some future society where no one is hungry, uneducated, un- or under-employed, and uninsured. But as it stands right this minute, my priorities lie in fighting my way out of this shit hole and bringing as many pissed off women with me as I can.
Monday, January 23, 2006
Final Countdown
I am in the final countdown to the end of my full-time employment HELL at the mall. 11 days to go, and then I will work 8-5 with weekends off temping around the city. I have acquired quite a taste for short-term gigs so adapting to new environments every couple of months is appealing. I will certainly be making more money--dare I say a living wage? In addition to this full-time venture I am going to keep my mall job and put in just 8 hours a week. This income will be spent solely on clothes until I have an adequate business wardrobe. Not a bad plan, if I do say so myself!
Saturday, January 21, 2006
Surgical Anorexia
With much chagrin, I admit that I watch a lot of daytime television, but every once in a (very long) while, I find a little seedling of something interesting mucked in with the manure of Hollywood gossip and "baby daddy" DNA dramas. Dramatic weight loss bios on talk shows have always piqued my interest just because I am fascinated with the idea of "shedding" (the favorite term) the weight equivalent of two grown adults from a single skeletal structure. Mostly I am curious about logistical concepts like where do all the excess muscle tissue and blood vessels go? The human lymphatic and endocrine systems are amazing.
Anyway, in the past year or two, these stories have revolved less around the sheer triumph of the human will, and have focused instead on a horrifying quick fix: surgery! Gastric bypass is fast becoming a drive-through fix for fast-food consumers. I have seen many evening news programs with interviewees talking about having nearly died from this procedure. Mostly these people had submitted to the knife only because they were so morbidly obese that their health was failing, or their quality of life was miserable due to their inability to engage in even simple activities. In other words, their weight had taken them to the point of disability and near-death.
Gastric bypass surgery is a procedure that REMOVES most of the stomach as a way to restrict caloric intake and force the body to burn its stored reserves. Successful patients are committed to life-long strict dietary management, and any mistake or trouble healing can be life threatening, resulting in serious problems.
I have lately been astonished and horrified at some womens’ flippant attitude toward this procedure. I recently worked in plus-size women's retail and the atmosphere there is very young, hip, and fat-positive. The associates and management are “fat fashionistas,” and many of the store employees are even cuter than the corporate models and did their best to try to pump up the clientele as well.
However, some people cannot be reached. I was helping a woman in the store one day who I presumed to be a complete stranger, until I was running her credit card. She turned out to be an old friend of my mom's who had lost a significant amount of weight--160 pounds. I exclaimed, "Holy shit, how did you do it!?" Her response: "Oh, I got that surgery. It's great!" It did not look great ladies and gentlemen. Her skin was hanging in deflated flaps from her chin, waist, and hips. I can only imagine what her arms and legs must have looked like.
A few days later a different woman returned a sweater. She changed her mind, which is sufficient reason, but people are generally driven to give too much information: "Yeah, because, well I'm going in to have that surgery so this won't fit me in a while anyhow." O.k., nice to know... But then I took a better look at her and this woman was smaller than me, and I'm a solid size 20! She was a plus size, sure, but nothing a committed exercise regimen can't cure. "Morbidly obese"? NO.
Then a few days after that, I had just about had it. I was talking with a candidate for a sales associate position and she mentioned she had been out of work for a while due to complications of having had gastric bypass. This woman was the same size as me. She gotten a septic infection from leakage and ended up IN A COMA. I wanted to ask, “Was it worth almost dying?”
I wonder who these hack doctors are that are letting just anyone undergo these procedures. They should have their licenses revoked. In the cases I am talking about, the risks of the surgery far outweighed the risks of the patients maintaining their current state of health. NONE of these women needed a little go-cart chair to get around the grocery store. All were perfectly capable of climbing a flight of stairs, and probably could fit comfortably into movie theater seats.
As far as I am concerned, the bypass is merely surgically induced anorexia. The patient is restricted to eating portions of only THREE OUNCES of food at a time. That’s like 1/4 cup of food! Caloric restriction on that scale puts the body into starvation mode, becoming more efficient by storing fat calories and burning muscle. What it going to happen to these women in the long run as their bodies try to become accustomed to so few calories?
No, forget about that. Because what this is about is what’s going through a woman’s mind when she’s sitting on the operating table in her hospital gown signing a waiver on her life: when it comes down to it, she--and millions of others across the country--WOULD RATHER DIE THAN LOOK LIKE ME. Call me narcissistic if you like, but there are times when my resistance is worn thin and I take it personally. I get pissed.
Obviously, I am no decathlon-er either, but someone like me can still get out and exercise—shit, I can even jog a 5K (albeit pretty slowly). I've got rolls where I'd rather not, legs like tree trunks, and stretch marks. BUT I LEAD A FULL LIFE. I surround myself with people who love me, and I respect myself. I cannot comprehend how someone in my weight class could gamble with their life over some extra fat. The very idea that so many women starve themselves, puke after every meal, take prescribed or illicit drugs that wreck their hearts, even go under the knife rather than look like me, is completely absurd. I just want to say, “You know what sister? Get over it.”
Anyway, in the past year or two, these stories have revolved less around the sheer triumph of the human will, and have focused instead on a horrifying quick fix: surgery! Gastric bypass is fast becoming a drive-through fix for fast-food consumers. I have seen many evening news programs with interviewees talking about having nearly died from this procedure. Mostly these people had submitted to the knife only because they were so morbidly obese that their health was failing, or their quality of life was miserable due to their inability to engage in even simple activities. In other words, their weight had taken them to the point of disability and near-death.
Gastric bypass surgery is a procedure that REMOVES most of the stomach as a way to restrict caloric intake and force the body to burn its stored reserves. Successful patients are committed to life-long strict dietary management, and any mistake or trouble healing can be life threatening, resulting in serious problems.
I have lately been astonished and horrified at some womens’ flippant attitude toward this procedure. I recently worked in plus-size women's retail and the atmosphere there is very young, hip, and fat-positive. The associates and management are “fat fashionistas,” and many of the store employees are even cuter than the corporate models and did their best to try to pump up the clientele as well.
However, some people cannot be reached. I was helping a woman in the store one day who I presumed to be a complete stranger, until I was running her credit card. She turned out to be an old friend of my mom's who had lost a significant amount of weight--160 pounds. I exclaimed, "Holy shit, how did you do it!?" Her response: "Oh, I got that surgery. It's great!" It did not look great ladies and gentlemen. Her skin was hanging in deflated flaps from her chin, waist, and hips. I can only imagine what her arms and legs must have looked like.
A few days later a different woman returned a sweater. She changed her mind, which is sufficient reason, but people are generally driven to give too much information: "Yeah, because, well I'm going in to have that surgery so this won't fit me in a while anyhow." O.k., nice to know... But then I took a better look at her and this woman was smaller than me, and I'm a solid size 20! She was a plus size, sure, but nothing a committed exercise regimen can't cure. "Morbidly obese"? NO.
Then a few days after that, I had just about had it. I was talking with a candidate for a sales associate position and she mentioned she had been out of work for a while due to complications of having had gastric bypass. This woman was the same size as me. She gotten a septic infection from leakage and ended up IN A COMA. I wanted to ask, “Was it worth almost dying?”
I wonder who these hack doctors are that are letting just anyone undergo these procedures. They should have their licenses revoked. In the cases I am talking about, the risks of the surgery far outweighed the risks of the patients maintaining their current state of health. NONE of these women needed a little go-cart chair to get around the grocery store. All were perfectly capable of climbing a flight of stairs, and probably could fit comfortably into movie theater seats.
As far as I am concerned, the bypass is merely surgically induced anorexia. The patient is restricted to eating portions of only THREE OUNCES of food at a time. That’s like 1/4 cup of food! Caloric restriction on that scale puts the body into starvation mode, becoming more efficient by storing fat calories and burning muscle. What it going to happen to these women in the long run as their bodies try to become accustomed to so few calories?
No, forget about that. Because what this is about is what’s going through a woman’s mind when she’s sitting on the operating table in her hospital gown signing a waiver on her life: when it comes down to it, she--and millions of others across the country--WOULD RATHER DIE THAN LOOK LIKE ME. Call me narcissistic if you like, but there are times when my resistance is worn thin and I take it personally. I get pissed.
Obviously, I am no decathlon-er either, but someone like me can still get out and exercise—shit, I can even jog a 5K (albeit pretty slowly). I've got rolls where I'd rather not, legs like tree trunks, and stretch marks. BUT I LEAD A FULL LIFE. I surround myself with people who love me, and I respect myself. I cannot comprehend how someone in my weight class could gamble with their life over some extra fat. The very idea that so many women starve themselves, puke after every meal, take prescribed or illicit drugs that wreck their hearts, even go under the knife rather than look like me, is completely absurd. I just want to say, “You know what sister? Get over it.”
Sunday, January 15, 2006
Life at the Mall
Holy shit, I work at the mall. I never thought this would happen to me. I worked my ass off supporting myself through college, with no help whatsoever, and so far my Bachelor's has earned me a lower-management job in a clothing store. And it's a bona-fide degree--I did not take a correspondence course or send money to a website or go to a tech school. I attended an accredited, top-ten university and my program was prestigious, even if my field of study wasn't that popular. I have applied to over 150 jobs, as I've mentioned before. I am not just a little disappointed, I am outright disillusioned. I am close to being bitter, but I am cursed with an irrational optimism that is the emotional equivalent to the little inflatable arm tubes kids use in the swimming pool. But that doesn't mean that I don't have days when I want to throw myself off the fourth floor balcony into the rotunda.
Women walk into my store every day and behave like complete assholes. They come in, and I greet them genuinely. They try to ignore me but my ego won't stand for it, so I make sure to get right into their space, make eye contact and beam out the warmest smile I can muster while trying to make some small talk (all this is actually required as stated in the training handbook). The reactions are mixed, some women really are just sleepwalking through the mall and are so sick of shopping that they don't even see who or what's in front of them. Other women get pissy and are uncomfortable with my lack of subordination. As far as I'm concerned, this is MY store; just like when you walk into someone's home, you acknowledge your host in a friendly manner.
I get herds of middle-aged white women that get shipped in from out-state, small towns who walk in and look around sneering the whole time. Instead of just getting the fuck out of my store and heading over to Sears and Roebuck to pick out a nice puff-paint-decorated sweatshirt and matching dickey, they travel around and around the store groaning and sneering while pulling the shit off the hangers and throwing it over the racks every two feet. It usually takes them 20-30 minutes to leave, during which time I follow them around cleaning up after them in the most obvious fashion possible without using the sigh-and-eye-roll routine. Instead I take the direct approach and tell them what great/flattering/fashionable pieces they are picking out (although they are actually just tossing things to and fro). Mind you, this did not just happen a couple of times, this is a legitimate phenomenon, and anytime any of us hears, "Oh yahhh, we came in together on the bus," we know we are in for a rough weekend. But I have to give them credit, at least for their hygiene...
A good percentage of the Super-Sized women who shop in my store just fucking REEK. I am not talking hippy-in-the-vw-vanagon funk. This smell is something otherworldly, yet consistent from person to person. Imagine a stinky twat mingled with long-unwashed feet shoved into a buttcrack and left to rot in a dark closet. Women walk into the fitting room, disrobe, and unleash HELL ON EARTH. You can almost see the fumes pouring out of the fitting room area, many of us have been forced to evacuate, sometimes gagging. One woman forced the evacuation of the entire store!!! People streamed straight out of the store exclaiming, "Oh MAN! What stinks?!" And, "Whoo, does it always smell this bad in here? What IS that??" The whole time we were apologizing profusely and trying to signal nonverbally what the origin of the stink was. Sometimes, though, a person comes along who doesn't even need to disrobe to emanate putrescense!
Then there are those shoppers who came out from under their rocks for their special trip to our store, lucky us. They trample in cussing and smacking at their crying, dirty children. Their husbands and boyfriends stare lecherously at our breasts and make inappropriate comments or requests. Sometimes when the women come to me for assistance I look at them frozen in horror at what is going on inside their mouths. They are often looking for "a sexy outfit for the club" but it seems to me that the obvious answer would be to NOT spend $150 on a new outfit and spend it instead getting those teeth fixed. "You're seriously complaining to me that I don't have jeans that exactly match this jacket, when half your teeth have rotted right out of your head?" Where are people's priorities??
I'm one to talk! I blow a good portion of my paycheck on things that are not necessities when I have bills to pay, and I haven't been to the dentist for like ten years. It is only by the grace of God that my teeth are in good condition--but for how long? I haven't gone because I can't afford it without insurance. My job only covers me for medical, barely. And what if my boyfriend knocks me up and then heads out of town and I think I can make it on my own so I decide against an abortion, only to find that my low-paying job does not have maternity leave. Then I got a baby, no job, and post-pregnancy calcium deficiency that wrecks my teeth. I'll be pissed off, maybe resent my child. I'll buy sexy outfits and hope to hook up with some dude to help pay the bills around my place. Is this how it happens? I think I am so strongly put-off by these people because I can see how easily it could be me. Shit, some of these people are fucking family.
So what to do? I've decided it's time to move on from the mall. I am headed off up the chain to the pink collar workforce where a whole new world of annoying adventures awaits me, but for a couple bucks more an hour and better benefits. It may be just a case of "out of the frying pan and into the fire" but I won't know until I try, right?
Women walk into my store every day and behave like complete assholes. They come in, and I greet them genuinely. They try to ignore me but my ego won't stand for it, so I make sure to get right into their space, make eye contact and beam out the warmest smile I can muster while trying to make some small talk (all this is actually required as stated in the training handbook). The reactions are mixed, some women really are just sleepwalking through the mall and are so sick of shopping that they don't even see who or what's in front of them. Other women get pissy and are uncomfortable with my lack of subordination. As far as I'm concerned, this is MY store; just like when you walk into someone's home, you acknowledge your host in a friendly manner.
I get herds of middle-aged white women that get shipped in from out-state, small towns who walk in and look around sneering the whole time. Instead of just getting the fuck out of my store and heading over to Sears and Roebuck to pick out a nice puff-paint-decorated sweatshirt and matching dickey, they travel around and around the store groaning and sneering while pulling the shit off the hangers and throwing it over the racks every two feet. It usually takes them 20-30 minutes to leave, during which time I follow them around cleaning up after them in the most obvious fashion possible without using the sigh-and-eye-roll routine. Instead I take the direct approach and tell them what great/flattering/fashionable pieces they are picking out (although they are actually just tossing things to and fro). Mind you, this did not just happen a couple of times, this is a legitimate phenomenon, and anytime any of us hears, "Oh yahhh, we came in together on the bus," we know we are in for a rough weekend. But I have to give them credit, at least for their hygiene...
A good percentage of the Super-Sized women who shop in my store just fucking REEK. I am not talking hippy-in-the-vw-vanagon funk. This smell is something otherworldly, yet consistent from person to person. Imagine a stinky twat mingled with long-unwashed feet shoved into a buttcrack and left to rot in a dark closet. Women walk into the fitting room, disrobe, and unleash HELL ON EARTH. You can almost see the fumes pouring out of the fitting room area, many of us have been forced to evacuate, sometimes gagging. One woman forced the evacuation of the entire store!!! People streamed straight out of the store exclaiming, "Oh MAN! What stinks?!" And, "Whoo, does it always smell this bad in here? What IS that??" The whole time we were apologizing profusely and trying to signal nonverbally what the origin of the stink was. Sometimes, though, a person comes along who doesn't even need to disrobe to emanate putrescense!
Then there are those shoppers who came out from under their rocks for their special trip to our store, lucky us. They trample in cussing and smacking at their crying, dirty children. Their husbands and boyfriends stare lecherously at our breasts and make inappropriate comments or requests. Sometimes when the women come to me for assistance I look at them frozen in horror at what is going on inside their mouths. They are often looking for "a sexy outfit for the club" but it seems to me that the obvious answer would be to NOT spend $150 on a new outfit and spend it instead getting those teeth fixed. "You're seriously complaining to me that I don't have jeans that exactly match this jacket, when half your teeth have rotted right out of your head?" Where are people's priorities??
I'm one to talk! I blow a good portion of my paycheck on things that are not necessities when I have bills to pay, and I haven't been to the dentist for like ten years. It is only by the grace of God that my teeth are in good condition--but for how long? I haven't gone because I can't afford it without insurance. My job only covers me for medical, barely. And what if my boyfriend knocks me up and then heads out of town and I think I can make it on my own so I decide against an abortion, only to find that my low-paying job does not have maternity leave. Then I got a baby, no job, and post-pregnancy calcium deficiency that wrecks my teeth. I'll be pissed off, maybe resent my child. I'll buy sexy outfits and hope to hook up with some dude to help pay the bills around my place. Is this how it happens? I think I am so strongly put-off by these people because I can see how easily it could be me. Shit, some of these people are fucking family.
So what to do? I've decided it's time to move on from the mall. I am headed off up the chain to the pink collar workforce where a whole new world of annoying adventures awaits me, but for a couple bucks more an hour and better benefits. It may be just a case of "out of the frying pan and into the fire" but I won't know until I try, right?
Thursday, January 12, 2006
Regular
I never used to watch television. I had a really crappy TV so I would just go to friends' houses and watch movies, and at home I would read and listen to music or do some kind of crafty project. I would journal, go out for coffee in the afternoon, walk around aimlessly. At night I would go to the bar--sometimes with a friend, sometimes by myself. I would get shitfaced drunk and walk home through the alleys in case I had to pee. Sometimes I wouldn't go back to my home, sometimes I would go home, but not alone. Other times I would go home alone and then call someone for company. Mostly I was drunk and slutty.
Now I drink coffee in the morning before work, I read on the train, I listen to music while I do the dishes, I do crafts with my girlfriends, and walk to get myself around. If it is absolutely necessary, I pee at the gas station. I sleep in my own bed every night, make love only with my boyfriend. And I watch TV on my days off.
I never used to think I would be a regular person--the kind that just watches TV and has a regular boyfriend. I was pretty sure I would end up a barfly, hanging on men half my age. I would be a joke, but not funny. The crotch of my hosiery would sink down below the hem of my miniskirt by last call. I was off to a good start: I slept with friends of my ex-boyfriend, I slept with ex-boyfriends of my friends, I slept with guys who had girlfriends. During one year I even had dated three murderers. Being a regular person was completely outside the realm of possibility.
But at some point I got sick of seeing new people all the time and worrying that I'd forget their name. I got sick of going to work half drunk in the morning and dry heaving before breakfast. I was tired of feeling vaguely guilty every minute of the day, and of occasionally peeing down my leg. I really wanted to just be regular, even if it was boring. After a sort of twilight zone period between those days and these days, I've found that it's really kind of nice, being regular, middle-of-the-road. I'm not a corpse, but I'm not a joke that makes people sad. If I ever miss my old life, I can always just watch TV.
Now I drink coffee in the morning before work, I read on the train, I listen to music while I do the dishes, I do crafts with my girlfriends, and walk to get myself around. If it is absolutely necessary, I pee at the gas station. I sleep in my own bed every night, make love only with my boyfriend. And I watch TV on my days off.
I never used to think I would be a regular person--the kind that just watches TV and has a regular boyfriend. I was pretty sure I would end up a barfly, hanging on men half my age. I would be a joke, but not funny. The crotch of my hosiery would sink down below the hem of my miniskirt by last call. I was off to a good start: I slept with friends of my ex-boyfriend, I slept with ex-boyfriends of my friends, I slept with guys who had girlfriends. During one year I even had dated three murderers. Being a regular person was completely outside the realm of possibility.
But at some point I got sick of seeing new people all the time and worrying that I'd forget their name. I got sick of going to work half drunk in the morning and dry heaving before breakfast. I was tired of feeling vaguely guilty every minute of the day, and of occasionally peeing down my leg. I really wanted to just be regular, even if it was boring. After a sort of twilight zone period between those days and these days, I've found that it's really kind of nice, being regular, middle-of-the-road. I'm not a corpse, but I'm not a joke that makes people sad. If I ever miss my old life, I can always just watch TV.
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
Back to the beginning.
I hate January. Our culture views this as a time to start fresh, make resolutions to become better people--or at least engage in some premeditated narcissism. I, on the other hand, hate it because I can't seem to stop myself from being optimistic, "This year will be better than last year; it just can't get any worse." But as the year grows stale and rancid, my hopes inevitably face a slow and painful demise.
I am trapped in this hideous cycle and I am powerless over the passage of time. Why do I always feel like time is running out? When is the deadline? And what exactly am I supposed to have accomplished? It's like being stuck in traffic, but as a permanent state. I have heartburn all the time. I'm not getting enough sleep.
Patrick is reassuring for the most part, but sometimes we feed off of each other and end up insulating ourselves in this cucoon of self-righteous indignation with our us-versus-them dialogue. Basically everyone sucks and it's not our fault. Sometimes we drive around the wealthy western suburbs (when we borrow his dad's truck) and peer in at the multi-million dollar estates and wonder about what one must have to do to make such an obscene amount of money. We can't fathom even earning a living wage from our perspective of a combined income of a meager $26,000 per year. I feel like I'm drowning slowly.
I was the first in my entire family to go to college. It took me ten years to finally graduate, and for what? I have applied to over 150 entry level jobs since May and had one interview. I had to settle for a part-time lower management position in a mall "for the time being" but each month I stay there I fall further and further behind on the rent and all my bills. My home phone was shut off because I couldn't pay the bill--I bought a blazer, slacks, dress shoes and a briefcase-looking bag for that interview instead.
When does it get easier? I have floated at the poverty level my whole life and I always heard that education is the key to gainful employment. So when do I stop struggling?
I am trapped in this hideous cycle and I am powerless over the passage of time. Why do I always feel like time is running out? When is the deadline? And what exactly am I supposed to have accomplished? It's like being stuck in traffic, but as a permanent state. I have heartburn all the time. I'm not getting enough sleep.
Patrick is reassuring for the most part, but sometimes we feed off of each other and end up insulating ourselves in this cucoon of self-righteous indignation with our us-versus-them dialogue. Basically everyone sucks and it's not our fault. Sometimes we drive around the wealthy western suburbs (when we borrow his dad's truck) and peer in at the multi-million dollar estates and wonder about what one must have to do to make such an obscene amount of money. We can't fathom even earning a living wage from our perspective of a combined income of a meager $26,000 per year. I feel like I'm drowning slowly.
I was the first in my entire family to go to college. It took me ten years to finally graduate, and for what? I have applied to over 150 entry level jobs since May and had one interview. I had to settle for a part-time lower management position in a mall "for the time being" but each month I stay there I fall further and further behind on the rent and all my bills. My home phone was shut off because I couldn't pay the bill--I bought a blazer, slacks, dress shoes and a briefcase-looking bag for that interview instead.
When does it get easier? I have floated at the poverty level my whole life and I always heard that education is the key to gainful employment. So when do I stop struggling?
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