“What would we do, baby, without us? Sha la la la…”

I just got called “cold” and had Sad Singleton noises made at me when I mentioned to coworkers that I consider Thanksgiving weekend a short vacation, not family time, and that I hoped my family didn’t host dinner, because I’m looking forward to relaxing alone.

“Jeez, some people LIKE spending time with their families.” Hey, good for them. I am not one of them. Sorry, is my childhood trauma bothersome to you?

For me, Christmas is the family holiday. I will happily (well…) attend. But a pregame four short weeks BEFORE Christmas? Having my parents insist on family “closeness” now that they’re older, not realizing they were my age 25 years ago while they were inadvertently teaching me NOT to value family? Sorry it’s not my top priority as an adult.

(I know I don’t have to attend either holiday, but skipping both is more of an emotional hassle than it’s worth. Plus, ham.)

Thanksgiving weekend is for me to sleep, watch movies, and cook something delicious, not to drive 2 hours to make shitty small talk or silently ponder which mood medications my father should be on.

I can be thankful and reflective by myself. It’s better than being asked if my ex is seeing anyone, hearing how much my family misses him, and explaining to obscure relatives looking at me quizzically that I “recently” ended a long relationship. Oh, and don’t forget what a good mother I would’ve been, and how maybe I’ll change my mind — that is not at all like being punched in the uterus. (Also, c’mon, my eggs aren’t exactly fresh from the farm. They’re, like, Walmart eggs at this point.)

Besides, I promised a friend who’ll be spending Thanksgiving with HER family that I’d be her on-call getaway car if she needs an extraction (SEAL Team Smug!). So I’m not the only one not singing “Kumbaya” for family time.

BTW, yes, if you know me, “cold” is exactly the right word. I am a complete, dead-inside asshole, and people I love mean nothing to me. You nailed it.

 

Burning sage. Only mentally, because I can’t be trusted with fire.

I’ve stopped calling it decluttering at this point. I’m a writer, goddammit — these are “life revisions.” I’m deleting the parts of my story that don’t work, expanding and carefully editing the parts that do.

Remember when I was Slut Singleton? My email and cell phone no longer do. (OK, yeah, my brain totally still does, but I’m working on it.)

Sad Singleton apartment? I won’t let the door hit me.

Couch of Horrible Life Choices (AKA the whorecouch)? Out by the dumpster.

Lingerie I wore when making said bad life choices? Let’s call it what it was: Trash. Not the good lingerie, don’t be silly. Bad decisions got made in $12 Target shit…and also a $6 super-clearance dress from JCPenney. (Don’t judge.) I threw that out, too.

I’d throw out the mattress, but I think that was just ONE bad decision, and I can’t afford to buy a couch AND a mattress. I’m clearing my brain, not my bank account. Though I did order new sheets and a new mattress pad. That should cover the bad bed juju.

Oh…and I guess I should replace that bathmat. (Ahem… Shut up.)
P.S. I just have one more post about clutter/moving after this, and then I’m done, I promise.

Pfft. I’m not decorating this hellhole.

I won’t paste her whole post, but it’s worth reading. It’s like Elizabeth Gilbert​ can see right into my wheelhouse. All of this, exactly, and this is why I never bothered putting a lot of furniture or decor in my Sad Singleton apartment. (By the way, I’m not an idiot —  I’m sure writing, like, a bajillion-dollar Oprah-endorsed didn’t suck as far as helping Gilbert get right with life, but I enjoy the general idea.)

 

“I almost went furniture shopping, in other words, to decorate my rut.

 

“I almost made that rut my permanent address.

 

“But some other, more stubborn, part of me, was like: ‘NO. We’re getting the hell out of here.’

 

“If you keep doing the things that take care of you, the general direction will be upward. It may be slow and twisted, but it will be mostly upward. You will rise. No matter how long it takes.

 

“In my case, the things that took care of me were: therapy, prayer, meditation, exercise, antidepressants, the solace of good friends, the comfort of reading good books, the practice of forgiveness and atonement, exposure to nature, looooooong walks, heart-opening acts of generosity, sometimes awkward attempts at self-compassion, listening to non-sad beautiful music, trying to get perspective on the human condition through philosophical study, trying to distract myself by learning Italian, getting rid of objects that held bad memories, setting boundaries with people who hurt or shamed me, moving to a new place…etc, etc.”

 

Well, this is disheartening.

This made me sad. (And before anyone yells at me, I’m not saying I agree with anything. Merely that it makes me sad.)

Via Slate: Why We Cheat: Spouses in happy marriages have affairs. What are we all looking for?

“You would think an unhappy person would leave. So by definition they must not be that unhappy. They are in that wonderful ambivalent state, too good to leave, too bad to stay.

“That’s why an affair is such an erotic experience. It’s not about sex, it’s about desire, about attention, about reconnecting with parts of oneself you lost or you never knew existed. It’s about longing and loss.”

Don’t worry, I lack the motivation needed for disorders.

The only way my fridge door could get more “Sad Singleton” is if this “fitspiration” was taped up next to a “Cathy” comic.

Whatever — six-pack, great rack. Get it, girl.

(I realize this is kind of unhealthy [and, um, sad]. But all it makes me want to do is exercise moderately and eat a carrot now and then. And I think that’s acceptable.)