My therapist told me to pay attention to my feeeelings and ask myself “Why?” when I don’t feel like doing something, and “I don’t goddamn feel like it and you’re not my mom” is not an acceptable answer.
And this is where mood stuff gets dumb. Because what’s she’s saying is that depression can look a lot like “being a lazyfuck garbage monster,” and we have to determine which one I’m doing, and, like… Lady, it’s COLD out, and dark at 4 pm. No one wants to do anything. I am not depressed. Have you looked around? Everything just blows. Motivated people are the problem — medicate THOSE weirdos. Leave me to my blankets.
OK, listen, I KNOW there are colder places than Philly, but it’s fucking colder than it goddamn should be and we still have to go outside and that is horseshit and I am crabby and winter can eat a bag of dicks.
I’m pretty excited to be taking a vacation that requires a plane, and leaving all my bullshit behind — if only for a week, and if only metaphorically, since my bullshit lives in my brain and actually travels quite well. I checked, though, and there’s no fee for emotional baggage on domestic flights. Score!
It’ll still be good to get away, particularly to get away to anywhere warmer than here.
So I’ll see y’all soon, assuming more pleasurable climes don’t claim me as their own.
Today I saw my psychiatrist (ie, my Drug Czar, not Talky Therapist — it takes a village, y’all). And she thinks I should start dating again, before I “get used to being alone.”
Um… How ’bout “Shut up and give me my drugs?” You’re not the boss of me. Talky Therapist is. (Though, um, Talky Therapist also thinks I should.)
You’re shrinks. Shouldn’t I be OK being alone? Shouldn’t I be happy with myself before I bring in a Crazy copilot? Did you HEAR me tell you about the last times I tried dating?
“Well, you can just date casually. You don’t have to sleep with them.”
Well, no, I don’t HAVE to. But if history is any indication, I WILL. If I kiss (and I really NEED to kiss), I will tease, and then the man will end up touching the “on” switch on my neck, then I will lose my tenuous-at-best “lady” decorum, and then suddenly we’re post-coital, and he wants me to spend Christmas with him or leave a toothbrush at his place, and then I’m hyperventilating and doing The Fadeaway because I am a big fat coward.
I don’t feel like dating right now. I’m not cute in the winter, all shrouded in big bulky sweaters and corduroy pants. (Though, it’s supposed to be fucking 74 degrees in Philadelphia on Thursday, so I guess that’s not a valid defense right now.) But generally, sundresses are more my wheelhouse.
And by the way? I LIKE being alone. I’m pretty rad. That’s how I’ll know when I’m ready to deal with a relationship — if I wouldn’t rather be alone than with the guy. This almost never happens. Normally it’s “UGH, I have to…TALK to someone? And…shave things? This will not stand!”
On one hand, I don’t think it’s fair to potential dates that I would be comparing them at least a little to these previous relationships. But Talky Therapist tells me that’s actually a good thing, because I know what I want and what I don’t. Also, I do understand it’s not doing me any good to sit and wallow about any man who, perhaps over-simplistically, doesn’t want to be with me. So maybe it wouldn’t hurt to go check out OkCupid again. (I’m not going to meet anyone in a bar, that’s not my scene. I wanna get with a dude who steps to me in a Barnes & Noble — instead of sending me a drink from across a bar, he can send his favorite book and preferably a scone.)
If nothing else, attempting to date will give me good stories here. So here’s to 2016 being the year I finally get some. (And blah blah blah, true love, soulmates, rainbows — FINE. If I happen to find that while rubbing up against people, then yay for me.)
Eh. I don’t know. Do you have the spring boyfriends in yet? I’m slightly crazier in the winter, plus there’s all that driving and family time and spending money on gifts and meals between now and Valentine’s.
My dating representative — Public Consumption Smug — is currently busy hermiting under a mountain of blankets. The only way I’d be down for “Netflix and chill” is in the literal sense — I have popcorn and bourbon cider, you bring the movie. I will wear my finest pajamas and will even locate MATCHING fuzzy socks.
This is my game at this point, y’all.
Joking aside, were there a man on this couch, I’m pretty sure I could summon the energy to have ill-advised sex with him, assuming he could get it up on spec for the presumptive bounty lurking beneath the Temple hoodie and yoga pants. #SexyAndIKnowIt
I love the implication that it’s just THAT easy to “claim” a man who’ll deal with me, and me with him, long enough to get promoted to “boyfriend.” See, what you have here, Hinge, is applicants for the “seasonal help wanted” sign on my vagina. That’s not a boyfriend, sweetie, that’s a temp — he’d be filling an opening. Like at the Gap (heh). Stop trying to make it all rom-com.