It’s taken me years to be selfish about my own time. I had been giving away my time like grains of sand — endless and unwanted. I was spending my time with men that didn’t appreciate me. All because my psycho mother convinced me that marriage was necessary to be a worthy human.
I was giving my time trying to make boyfriends happy, but they weren’t. I was giving endlessly and not getting back. Those were countless seconds, endless minutes, and piles of hours wasted for dipshits who just didn’t give a rat’s ass how much of myself I was wasting on them, all because my mother injected the idea that marriage was what I was supposed to do with my life. I wasn’t worth anything unless I was married.
During my dating years, men constantly cheated or returned to unhealthy women just because the woman made shows of absurd tantrums, citing endless love—when in reality they were all just insecure and trying to manipulate the situation so they weren’t rejected and alone. You’d think I was one of those sappy, sniveling girls who begs for a man’s attention. But I wasn’t. I was relatively independent. One friend would tell me almost too independent while another friend would tell me not independent enough. Either way I felt screwed. Too this, too that. Never quite perfect, but somehow still too perfect. And yet I prayed continuously for the dipshits to see my worth and reject the hoochies like the heroes in novels. How could they be so easily fooled by stupid, selfish women? Wouldn’t it all work out in the end? Don’t they know better?
And the worst question of all:
Why bother being good at all if it never, every amounts to anything?
The man I asked that question to actually did return to an alcoholic bipolar cheater. How do I know she really was? She left a psycho message on my voicemail, confessing.
Men have proved to me over the years that they’re not worth the effort. Oh, believe me—my male friends are brilliant and I love them dearly. But men to date? I’ve found them all incredibly bitter disappointments, saying they were divorced when they weren’t. Saying they were getting divorced when they weren’t. Saying they weren’t alcoholics when clearly their police record revealed they were. Saying they were done with abusive women but returning to them. Cheating and blaming their impotence on me. The list was endless and quite laughable, if not horrifying. I was floored at the lack of integrity and honor. And yet I constantly forgave, forgave, forgave. For what? My best relationship even ended with an “I’ll destroy you,” from my boyfriend, via email while I sat in horror reading it at my desk.
“Why don’t you try one of those dating sites?” a friend asked. Just hearing the question made me want to peel my skin off and singe my nerves with a white-hot poker. The mass majority of men that I came across on dating sites were an insufferable mass of liars, hell-bent on not being alone. They were loaded with fear and bouncing from girl to girl like their asses were made of rubber. I could barely hear the question without wanting to scream. It was bad enough that the men I dated were like that when I had discovered them organically without inserting myself willingly into the scenario.
I had absolutely no tolerance to even think about giving away more of my precious time to a single cell of dipshit anymore. The thought was repulsive. I had so much I wanted to do with my life and was putting it off. Grossly procrastinating while searching for a dimwit to share my life with. All the while assuming that when I found such dumbass, the fool would be able to help me run my life.
What a damn joke.
“You need a sex toy,” one of my guy friends said. We laughed. I told him a sex toy with old batteries would probably be more reliable than what I’m used to. “Let me pick it,” he added.
No man who I’ve dated has ever been able to help me with anything except maybe a flat tire. It’s not to say that men are stupid or useless — far from it. It’s just the fools I’ve been saddled with knew far less than I hoped for, especially considering that I’ve been taught from an early age to believe men had all the answers and I had absolutely none.
Do you suffer from this? Did your parents teach you that you’re too stupid to make your own decisions and that you need a male proxy to think?
It’s taken me 45 years to realize that the only person who really knows bum-kiss about my life is me. That’s damn right—me. I learned that, and I learned that I’ve been wasting precious gobs of time on people who had both no desire nor intellect to my life.
When the full blast of this realization finally hit me, I wanted to vomit. I will no longer be spending time wondering what man will “save” me from my life, nor even to help me make decisions. How absurd. I’ve watched fools make a mess of their own lives, the very last thing I’m going to do is let them control mine.
And with a vise-grip on that thought process, I’ve started forming my bucket list. It’s getting done faster than ever before because I have so much more free time to work on it.
Ever hear of a MuffinTop? It’s when your fat squeezes over the top of your waist line and causes a puff somewhat akin to the actual top of a muffin.
I’ve considered giving up and being overweight, but I’m not happy with myself in photos. What disturbs me more is if I decide to be heavier, I’ll have to buy an entirely new wardrobe. I don’t have the tolerance for that — especially since I’d rather put the money toward a new camera lens. 📷
Imagine my surprise when — after literally saying “Hey universe, bring me a treadmill!” — a good friend texted and said “Hey, I have this treadmill I’m not using. Do you want it?” I wasn’t even surprised. I just said yes!
In the last few years I’ve learned that I have no tolerance for myself to be grossly overweight. And so I will try again to get into shape. I’m hoping my fat shrinks significantly because the only muffin tops I want to see are the ones in the neighborhood bakery.
Match.com leaves your profile online even after you’ve gone through the deletion process. I know this because years ago I deleted my profile and received the “your profile is deleted, but will be on display until…” reply. I wasn’t happy about it. I wanted the profile down immediately. If it’s still on display, it’s not really deleted, is it?
Match not only didn’t remove my profile when I wanted it to, but it continued to slam me with notifications and emails. I was then forced to change my profile to reflect that I’m no longer willing to be in the dating game, especially on Match.com. “This profile has been deleted,” I wrote. “Please don’t contact me.” Yet I was still slammed with countless emails from guys who either didn’t read my profile, or thought I’d be a fun challenge. Either way, it only proved they were mentally unhealthy.
I had a brief discussion with my then-therapist about this.
“If they’re trying to contact me,” I began, “despite me explaining the situation and vividly expressing that I’m no longer interested in dating—isn’t it really just revealing their unwillingness to get involved with someone who is available?” I asked. Yes, the therapist agreed.
“So even if their profile seems solid,” I continued, “I should probably still not bother because they’re trying to get involved with an emotionally unavailable girl, yes?” Yes, the therapist agreed again.
Hot damn, I thought, Men are just like us. They want to get involved with unavailable women. They may not even realize it themselves, we concluded. It may all be on a subconscious level.
Good God, I thought. I sat back in shock for a minute, proud of myself for the revelation, humored that I could finally see the Matrix, but dismayed over the reality of it all. Logically speaking, the theory actually proves that men who fight for their women are actually mentally unhealthy.
Soak that in. How many of us have wanted our guy to fight for us in some manner or another? So in essence, do we want them to be mentally unhealthy?
My mind was spinning. I left the therapist’s office feeling defeated. I thought about the MarriedGuy who went back to his unstable wife, “fighting” to make his marriage work. Sad, I thought, but good riddance. I realized that if he was willing to take-back someone who was that unhealthy, he couldn’t possibly be healthy enough for me. And I realized as my own self-awareness and self-assurance grew, the dating pool shrank. Significantly.
I crossed New York City’s midtown streets on my way back to work, still thinking about how the dating pool was becoming nothing more than a dried-up puddle. The thought repeated in my mind. Unhealthy men like unavailable women.
In all honesty, women do the same thing. My friends and I clocked plenty of hours chasing unavailable men. So we can’t sit-back and say it’s just the men. It’s everyone. But that doesn’t mean I have to tolerate it.
Unstable men like unavailable women. The thought persisted. I started wondering if the level of unavailability in women mattered. What if a women just didn’t want to get involved because she wanted to live her life for a while? There should be a difference between busy women and women who blatantly say “hell no,” right?
My solution is to find out. I’ve been researching all the things that I’ve wanted to do over the years, but never had time for. While my original “1 Year of Single” has been over for a few years now, I still want to use my 1-year, yet this time it’ll be 1 Year of Rediscovery. 1 year of rediscovering myself and things I love to do. Have you ever spent a specific amount of time purposely rediscovering yourself? That’s what I’ll be doing. And I guarantee, it won’t include spending time on Match.com.
A few days ago my 11-year-old son told me I should think about getting a hobby. If I wasn’t so shocked, I would have LOL.
“Honey,” I said, “In the last few years, we’ve moved in with my boyfriend, I’ve broken up with myself*, then moved out from my boyfriend’s. I’ve had two major surgeries, you’ve moved schools twice, my job moved to anotherstate, then I changed jobs. I’m exhausted.” Then I added thoughtfully, “I’ve only just started to come out of the haze now.” My son did an “Oh… true…” nod and continued what he was doing with no further interest in the subject.
I’ve always rolled my eyes at blogs and broadcasts that were titled, “Where have I been?” It assumes that every person reading their headline has been dying to know what happened to that blogger and why they’ve been absent. I doubt anyone really cared. If the blogger was actually successful enough, the question of their absence would have been answered by the public long before the blogger realized it was even an issue.
And still – here I am, thinking I should write a “Where have I been?” blog. No one cares. I don’t even care enough about the last few years enough to write about them. Lol > But what I can tell you – or what I’d rather tell you – is what I’ve learned along the way. I’ve learned so much. And I want to tell you about my experiences. Both good and bad. What worked along the way, and what didn’t work.
I’m so happy to be back. Ironically, after all of the shenanigans of 2017, I’m so ecstatic that I can simply call it a “challenging” year. It was probably the most difficult year I’ve ever had, and yet I only want to call it “challenging.” Why? Probably because the previous 45 years before that were what helped me get through 2017.
Let me tell you about it.
Welcome to my not-so-new hobby: 1YearOfSingle.
*Oh, look at you searching for the meaning of that asterisk! Good for you! Well, you found it. I guess I should tell you what it means then? Well, back in 2017, I had to break up with myself because my bonehead boyfriend didn’t have the balls to do it himself. My 11-year-old son and I were feeling completely unwanted, living in the guy’s house, and all the Talks in the world weren’t helping the situation. To add to the pile, he was lying to his daughters about us. So I had to shoot myself in the foot and tell him that it wasn’t working out. As soon as I brought it up, he said something like, “Well now that we know what the problem is…” I wanted to say, “No, dipshit – now that I had the balls to tell you that I already knew what the problem was.” I was furious! The kicker was that my son and I had just moved into his home after donating most of my belongings, and he was out cheating on me and telling his daughters that we were the assholes. The thing that hurt the most is that he brought my son into it. Trash. Complete trash. It pains me that his daughters will never know the truth. And yet, maybe they’re better off.
Ever have a cardiologist tell you your veins were incompetent? I’ve known morons that were incompetent and some men that were incompetent, and even some moronic men that were incompetent, but my veins? Scary.
One of my Bucket List items is the removal of some incompetent veins in my leg. For God’s sake I’d like to be able to wear a skirt in the summer without scaring small children. This is basically a sterile way of saying my leg looks like someone beat it with a Louisville Slugger. Now, because I am prone to exaggeration, I will tell you that it’s really not that bad – so maybe not a Louisville Slugger – a Sur La Table meat tenderizer, perhaps.
Welcome the endless cardiologist visits to Huntington Medical Group on Long Island, New York. Because after all, if you’re going to have cardiology issues, what better place to go than a town apply named similarly to the sunny beaches of California?
But alas, no sun and surf in Huntington Medical Group, just sunny receptionists and a very knowledgeable cardiologist who explained why my vein is as useless as a soggy balloon animal. And that before surgery I have to try a “compression stocking.”
Have you ever tried to put on a compression stocking? What about a tourniquet? Tried a tourniquet?
A compression stocking isn’t like anything you’ve ever stuffed your body into before. Picture Spanx on steroids. Then make it tighter. Apparently compression stockings are supposed to squeeze the life out of you so much so that it forces any remaining body liquids back up to your heart. This can’t possibly be good, but the insurance company thinks it’s fabulous. Probably because they’ve never tried to wear tourniquets.
So I sat on my bathroom floor with what I thought was going to be a helpful pile of sturdy nylon, when in reality it was a torture device that terrorists use in order to bring on sudden panic attacks of the likes of which no war hero has ever seen before. After struggling with the thing for a good ten minutes, I was only able to get it up to my knee. At that point I felt like a surgeon was going to bust into my bathroom and sever my leg. I had to remind myself that I’m not diabetic and my leg is fine, but nervous panic sweat kept popping out on my forehead.
Most nylon-wearing folks already know that with typical stockings, you can stretch them open enough to pull them up your leg, then insert your other leg into the remaining stocking hole. With compression stockings, you can’t do that. You can’t “spread” them or stretch them because they’re already tight as hell. In fact, I’m pretty sure if you looked up “tight as hell” in the Urban Dictionary, there would be a picture of compression stockings. And possibly a secondary image of me on the bathroom floor covered in a panic sweat.
Can you imagine paying $60 for nylons that do nothing better than send you to a psych ward? And to think that psych wards would wrap people in arm-tight jackets. No wonder patients rarely recovered. I know the Kings Park Psychiatric Center in Kings Park, New York is closed, but I would still consider checking around the decaying closets for any remaining compression stockings. Needless to say, I had to rip mine off before my mind punctured the barrier between sane and schizoid.
And unfortunately I now have the “privilege” of explaining to the cardiologist that the compression stockings are about as competent as my vein.
One of my friends that I’ve mentioned on this blog is Jen. We met during the commute to work and have both reached a conclusion that theres some deep sh!t going on with our parallel lives. Same alkie-type ex-husbands, same dating situations and we even look like each other. No, we’re not lesbians. (Love to my lesbian friends, sorry girls. Anyway…)
Jen talked me into trying meditation as a way of manifesting positive blah blah blah in my life. So far I’m just picking up psychic waves. This happens every time i start meditating – just ask The Funtasian – she and I also had some pretty sick moments of psychic weirdness back in the ’90s. I see things, have conversations with dead people in dreams, predict future events and conversations… When I was young I thought i killed my cat because I had non-stop, intense thoughts of my cat’s death – until he got hit by a car.
If I was bored in class I’d predict conversations or who would be walking into the room next. I also predicted just about every relationship before it happened – even if I hadn’t met the guy yet… But I can’t win the lottery.
Jen’s also dealing with the same musical madness because apparently the universe isn’t satisfied with torturing only one of us with pathetic romantic ironies and culturally dead songs over loudspeakers while we’re not buying condoms for the sex we’re not having with the men we no longer have.
A few weeks ago, as I hung out with my photo partners, I continuously had mental images of weddings – specifically, a woman’s hand surrounded by wedding celebration. My one partner then told me about two weeks after these premonitions started that his sister just got engaged and he’d be heading out of the country for her wedding.
On the subway today, two women sat down next to me, and all I “saw” were apples. They obviously weren’t really there: Imagine huge sheets of clear plastic wrap with apple designs hanging in front of the two women – that’s what it was like in my head. Huge, red apples. Then an image of a young woman – a daughter type – took over the mental apple imagery. Apples. Young woman. Apples. Daughter. Apples… “Excuse me,” I asked the two ladies. “Would the two of you happen to be involved with apples?” I asked, like a psychotic whack job. I knew I’d probably never see these two again, so who cares if I ask, right? The woman directly next to me said, “Oh I love apple picking. I go all the time.”
I stared at her and choked out,
“Do either of you have a daughter?”
I felt like a complete ass for asking a second pointless, out-of-the-blue question, but I put it out there. What the hell.