Psychic?

There is very little left of today, Roger's 35th birthday, but I've had a lot of the previous hours to consider my life, my current state of being, and of course the sweet man of the day.

Particularly over the last year and half, a specific friend of mine and I have joked that I must have some level of psychic ability, even if it exists at the lowest level. Most of the time I'm joking; there are the rare occasions when I'm not.

I am an optimistic pessimist. As far back as I can remember, I have prepared for the worst so that I could handle the worst in the best possible way, or be incredibly grateful when the worst did not come to pass. Example in point: as a young child, my parents would leave my sister and I with my grandparents every year on their anniversary trip to McDonalds. I was always so afraid, even as a little kid, that they would be in a car accident on the way back. I spent the couple of hours they were gone considering how I would need to handle the situation should they die, be crippled, or awaken from a coma with no memory of their children like in a soap opera, all while my grandma dealt the next hand of Gin Rummy. Dark for a 7 year old... I know. Of course, my parents returned safely each year, and my mental over-preparedness for the worst allowed me to be overjoyed when the worst was not.

Years ago, I was recently out of college, working hard, living alone in a small apartment plenty big for just me, miles away from my version of "civilization", feeling very isolated in this world and life in general. I felt very out of place with the rest of the people in my community. Dating any of them was out of the question. Had I wrongly assumed I'd have the white bread, all-American husband and family? And so my optimistic pessimism kicked in. By the age of 23, I had literally begun playing out in my head the future in which I was 40-something spinster (old maid), spending my money selfishly on just myself (since I wasn't married), with two beautiful dogs (mini-schnauzers in that imagination that were replacing the children I didn't have), a shabby chic house (I was so young...) and a career like Betty Pierce. I figured if I told myself this reality long enough, when it came to pass I'd be okay with it, and if it didn't, well, awesome! All kidding aside, I imagined this future for myself a lot. I'd even say it loud to friends or family. I'd talk to my mom about her future grand-dogs, laugh, and then seriously look through those little shops and trades day shows in Fredericksburg for kitschy ways to decorate the house I'd be sharing with those two dog children.

About a week ago it occurred to me that I'm not far off.

Granted, I haven't won Honor Band (yet), and I don't have croquet mallets holding up curtains (like I once thought would be cool), but here I am... Sharing my house with two dogs, thankfully dachshunds. Telling them they are going to see Grandma. Taking vacations to Hawaii because I can afford to lavish myself with travel.

Psychic?

Last year at this time I had my hand in a box of ashes. I was certain that was the worst. 

A year later, I wouldn't call this the worst, but I certainly don't feel prepared. 

Facebook Tells All

I finally finished one of my crochet projects that I started months ago. It was so long ago that I don’t remember which month it was… Anyhow, here’s a picture of the simple shrug that required almost as little brain power as the collective intelligence of the Real Housewives of OC. The hour or so I spent finishing the shrug really reminded me how much I enjoy crocheting, even if that puts me in the good company of women born during the first of the Roosevelt’s administration. (Yes, I know this is a ... "special" outfit....)

I’ve been watching a LOT of Real Housewives… Like a day’s work worth at a time.  The bulk of my Saturday and Sunday were spent on my butt, snuggled with puppies, 100% committed to the witchy words spewing forth from over-inflated lips. I loved every minute of it. J And not just OC; I’m primarily addicted to the New Jersey crew. As jacked up as my life has been for the last year, I can watch Housewives and be thankful that not every second of my life is a scene from Mean Girls on crack. My life, I have to hope, will one day go back to “normal”, where every other thought is not focused on things I can’t change, explain, or rationalize. 

I changed my relationship status on Facebook… I’ve debated it for a while.  There’s a big part of me that was violently opposed to choosing from a drop-down menu the qualifying descriptor of my personal life - the part of me that has put out more pictures than I had out before, the part that won’t move the tennis shoes in the bedroom, the part that despite all I may believe (or not) has silent conversations when something important happens.

But there was the other voice, the voice that is far more logical and maybe even truthful than I like hearing from on issues like this. How is it that the approaching week makes 4 months? How is that possible? I feel like I’m in some sort of limbo; I’m obviously not married, but I certainly don’t feel single. What an important choice to make though… I mean, the status you choose on Facebook, as we all know, is exceedingly important in defining who you are and your general course in life. (…feel the burn of my fiery sarcasm…)

But still – the act of clicking that drop-down menu took a lot of energy.

I opened it, looked at my choices, and closed it, no changes made.

I sat there for a bit, thinking, mulling over my options.

I opened it again.

I’m not married. I come home to dogs.

I’m not single.

Or maybe I’m just not ready for that word.

But then what does that leave me with? I opened it again. There’s the “W” word I could choose, but that seems a little more real than I want to advertise.

Without

Wistful

Weary

Wanting

Widowed

I clicked it… Leaving it set to “married” doesn’t make it any more true. Not changing it doesn’t make my current situation any less real. If nothing else, at least it’s a truthful representation of 2011, and if I’d like to come across as anything, I’d prefer it be truthful.

VERITAS