I ended up having the same conversation I have all the time the other night with a guy I work with. I still go to my former place of work twice a week to teach knitting, and every once in a while, I run into this guy. He's at least twenty years older than me, and must be doing that swing-for-the-fences thing that older single guys do because he cannot stop hitting on me. He was watching me set up the needles and yarn for my knitting class, talking about how Gino is such an idiot for breaking up with me. "I told him, I said, 'Gino, you're a fuckin' idiot for letting her go, you have no idea'"
I kind of tried laughing it off, but that bothered me. I don't want everyone shitting on my ex-husband. I'm over that stage of grief. I no longer want to hear that people are criticizing him just for doing what he thinks is right for him. I also didn't feel like it was coming from someplace genuine. This guy, who is way too old and way too boring for me, only told Gino that so he could tell me about it, probably. Does he think that insulting my ex will be his in? That I'll be so overtaken with gratitude for pointing out what a dumb move that was that I will repay it in blowjobs, or whatever 50-something-year-old guys like. I don't know what they do.
"You always had this, I don't know, unconditional love for him," Tim remarked.
"Yeah," I agreed, trying to cast stitches on at double-speed just to get away, "For him, specifically."
He then started listing off my "qualities" in a way that made me feel even more uncomfortable. "So, you're young, talented, attractive, with domestic inclinations," he said, "Just the type of girl I've been looking for."
I didn't even look at him when I answered, "Tim, I'm the girl every guy is looking for."
He laughed and tried to say something about how I'm sassy, too, and I chuckled, hoping he would just leave me alone so I could just relax and do my job. I like attention just as much as the next girl, but duh, Tim. Of course every guy in the world is looking for a woman who can knit them a sweater and cook them arancini di riso on a weekday night. And who is short enough to make them feel tall and has a weird figure that looks like it was put together by Russ Meyer. That's pretty much a gimme. I know what my good attributes are, and I don't need a maintenance man in his fifties to tell me what they are. I might sound like I'm full of myself, but until someone else is at least partially full of me, I'll continue to toot my own horn, and then I'll say something shitty about myself to negate it.
I could look at it from the point of view that he was just trying to be nice, but I know better. He's been hitting on me since I started working with him, when I was still happily married. And, when I was married, I did all of the things I did for Gino because I loved him, not because it's just what I would do for any man. Tim doesn't know anything about what my marriage was really like. I might know what my good features are, like my ability to appreciate a joke and my big, fat ass, but I also know what my bad attributes are. I have a temper, and I'm irresponsible with money, I tend to tune out when I become disinterested in a conversation topic, and for years, before I learned to tone it down, I was exhausting with all of my hard opinions on things. I didn't recognize all of the things about me that suck until I became single. Along the way, though, I also figured out what is awesome about myself all on my own.
Sunday, March 17, 2013
Saturday, March 9, 2013
Sick In The Head
I had a head cold this week, a sinuses-full-of-concrete, sneezing non-stop, half-tempted to take a power drill to my own nostrils head cold. No cough, no chest congestion, everything in my head. "It's all in my head", I though at one point, and then I laughed that weird, raspy, sick laugh that comes from drinking NyQuil well before bedtime and finding everything suddenly hilarious and kind of squishy around the edges. I was more miserable than I've been in a long time because for one, I haven't had a cold for at least a year and a half, and for another thing, this is the first time I've been sick since I started living alone.
Gino was not perfect, nor was I, but we took care of each other when we were sick. It wasn't a rule we announced or anything, it just kind of became the law between us after a few years. I remember one time, feeling really awful with some kind of stomach bug. Gino was about to leave to go see his best friend, but when he saw me looking so gross, calling to tell him, "Yeah, I can't come over, Liza's sick. She told me I could leave but she just made an adorable sicky noise, so I can't go," and then asked me if I needed more ginger ale.
Most people probably read that and think, "...and?"
The fact that anyone would take care of me, other than my parents who, let's face it, kind of had to, is still amazing to me. It's what I miss. That's what you do when you have made a commitment. It's not just in sickness and in health, it's in accepting the person you love while they look disgusting, while they are vomiting convulsively right in front of you, and not letting them know just how grossed out you are. It's committing to staying home instead of going out while they are passed out in bed, exhausted from being sick as fuck, just in case they need anything from you. Being sick when you're single, even with something that passes pretty quickly, like a cold, is the worst. It's like Valentine's Day had an illegitimate love-child with a wedding you don't have a date for. It makes you feel more alone than anything else, when you have no one around who feels obligated to get you hot water with lemon and put a cold compress on your forehead and tell you to feel better. As I tried to clear my sinuses for the third day in a row with a Neti pot I was convinced had it in for me, I imagined I would give up all of my stupid ideals if anyone was willing to take care of me at that moment. I told myself I would put up with a guy who lied, never picked up after himself and was really, really boring if that person was willing to go to another pharmacy and get me more tissues and then put VapoRub on my back. It was mostly exhaustion talking, but Jesus Christ, it's hard being sick when you are single and have to do these things for yourself. I did an okay job, making myself chicken-coconut soup and ginger tea and all the dumb bullshit I always think I need when I'm ill, but I annoyed myself a lot. I was passing myself tissues and measuring out decongestants for myself, thinking, "Uhh, get over it, you bitch, it's just a cold."
This is just another example of how with others, I am a good caretaker, but I suck when it comes to taking care of myself. This is why I still give Gino so much credit for taking care of me when I was sick for all of the years we were together: Healthy Eliza is annoying enough. Sick Eliza is so fucking emotional and whiny it's amazing my parents didn't drop me down a well and leave me there. I think being sick just made me appreciate my parents and my ex-husband that much more, because if I was this bad just with a cold, imagine how awful I was when I was a little kid, getting strep throat twice a year, every year? Or when I would get a cluster headache at least once a week and Gino couldn't watch hockey at top volume because I could literally see my own brain throbbing? In the future, if I ever do meet someone, I will probably just quarantine myself so they don't have to deal with me when I get sick or have a migraine. It's just safer that way.
Gino was not perfect, nor was I, but we took care of each other when we were sick. It wasn't a rule we announced or anything, it just kind of became the law between us after a few years. I remember one time, feeling really awful with some kind of stomach bug. Gino was about to leave to go see his best friend, but when he saw me looking so gross, calling to tell him, "Yeah, I can't come over, Liza's sick. She told me I could leave but she just made an adorable sicky noise, so I can't go," and then asked me if I needed more ginger ale.
Most people probably read that and think, "...and?"
The fact that anyone would take care of me, other than my parents who, let's face it, kind of had to, is still amazing to me. It's what I miss. That's what you do when you have made a commitment. It's not just in sickness and in health, it's in accepting the person you love while they look disgusting, while they are vomiting convulsively right in front of you, and not letting them know just how grossed out you are. It's committing to staying home instead of going out while they are passed out in bed, exhausted from being sick as fuck, just in case they need anything from you. Being sick when you're single, even with something that passes pretty quickly, like a cold, is the worst. It's like Valentine's Day had an illegitimate love-child with a wedding you don't have a date for. It makes you feel more alone than anything else, when you have no one around who feels obligated to get you hot water with lemon and put a cold compress on your forehead and tell you to feel better. As I tried to clear my sinuses for the third day in a row with a Neti pot I was convinced had it in for me, I imagined I would give up all of my stupid ideals if anyone was willing to take care of me at that moment. I told myself I would put up with a guy who lied, never picked up after himself and was really, really boring if that person was willing to go to another pharmacy and get me more tissues and then put VapoRub on my back. It was mostly exhaustion talking, but Jesus Christ, it's hard being sick when you are single and have to do these things for yourself. I did an okay job, making myself chicken-coconut soup and ginger tea and all the dumb bullshit I always think I need when I'm ill, but I annoyed myself a lot. I was passing myself tissues and measuring out decongestants for myself, thinking, "Uhh, get over it, you bitch, it's just a cold."
This is just another example of how with others, I am a good caretaker, but I suck when it comes to taking care of myself. This is why I still give Gino so much credit for taking care of me when I was sick for all of the years we were together: Healthy Eliza is annoying enough. Sick Eliza is so fucking emotional and whiny it's amazing my parents didn't drop me down a well and leave me there. I think being sick just made me appreciate my parents and my ex-husband that much more, because if I was this bad just with a cold, imagine how awful I was when I was a little kid, getting strep throat twice a year, every year? Or when I would get a cluster headache at least once a week and Gino couldn't watch hockey at top volume because I could literally see my own brain throbbing? In the future, if I ever do meet someone, I will probably just quarantine myself so they don't have to deal with me when I get sick or have a migraine. It's just safer that way.
Sunday, March 3, 2013
Disapproval Rating
My parents shocked the hell out of me this week by calling me en route from Florida to let me know they would be in town for a little while. They shocked me even moreso when they told me the reason: my stepsister, Jenny, is in the hospital after a head-on collision. She is doing better, but is still recovering from surgery. I am happy to see my parents, always, but I hate that in order for me to see them, they have to be going through this. I am also worried for Jenny, despite the fact that we, truth be told, don't know each other very well. She is family, though, and of course I was concerned not only for her, but for her children, who are my niece and nephews, and for my stepmom, who had to deal with seeing her daughter in the hospital again.
My reaction to any crisis is, of course, to just be a goofball and keep them from thinking about it, tell them stories about my dumb life, and show them my tattoo so they can disapprove of it. They did not disappoint. "Why did you DO IT?!" my stepmom asked, looking completely aghast.
"Because I'm a grown-up," I had to remind them, "And because I can. And I wanted it."
My father was, as usual, silent, which is his usual state when faced with an uncomfortable moment. I had to remind them that I had wanted to get another tattoo for a while, and that I felt a great deal stronger after getting it. My arguments were valid despite there being no reason for them, or for my parents disapproving of what I do with my 29-year-old body. They just went into a story about my niece's boyfriend getting a really bad tattoo and having to spend $400 getting it covered up. I can't help but feel a little crestfallen that they didn't like it. They weren't even impressed when I told them that it took four hours, and that I sat quietly the entire time and never made a sound. My ability to withstand pain does not impress them. I don't usually quote Will Smith, but he had it right in 1988: Parents Just Don't Understand.
I had a similar feeling a few months ago, when my stepmom expressed some motherly disapproval over this blog. "I just don't understand," she said, "Why you wouldn't just write your feelings down in a journal if you have something to say. If you're worried about people reading it-"
"I'm not worried," I told her at the time, "I want people to read it."
She took that in and responded with, "Maybe it's a generational thing."
"Well, yeah," I said, "I don't see the point in writing something that no one is going to see. It keeps me honest- if I'm just writing for myself, I can tell myself anything."
She sounded like that confused her even more, but she didn't say it. I wanted to say that I'm doing this for myself! I'm putting all of my pain out there! Someone called me the female Hank Moody! But, I didn't say it. I knew I wouldn't get her to agree with my reasons for doing it. When Debbie got divorced, there was no blogging. There was therapy, and Snackwells, and there were her three children to take care of. We come from different worlds, and that is fine. I know my parents might disapprove of most of what I do with my new-found freedom. It's not their deal. They want the best for me, even if what they want me to do isn't what I want. They're smarter than me, and they want me to just go through life without all of this struggle, without the fallout from, say, my sister reading my blog or having to wear a cardigan even in summer to cover up my new tattoo when I file something to court for my boss. They want me to take it easy, give myself a break, tell a trained professional my thoughts and not put them online for anyone to read. They want me to make smarter decisions, but I want to take risks. I realize my risk-taking may cause even more head-scratching on their part. I'm going to keep sharing with them, keep being a goofus and waiting for them to scratch their heads in response. It's my role, and it's one I don't mind playing. Despite their disapproval, they have never influenced me to be anyone other than who I am, and I know they only react that way because they love me. They are the only parents I have, and I wouldn't change them even if I could.
My reaction to any crisis is, of course, to just be a goofball and keep them from thinking about it, tell them stories about my dumb life, and show them my tattoo so they can disapprove of it. They did not disappoint. "Why did you DO IT?!" my stepmom asked, looking completely aghast.
"Because I'm a grown-up," I had to remind them, "And because I can. And I wanted it."
My father was, as usual, silent, which is his usual state when faced with an uncomfortable moment. I had to remind them that I had wanted to get another tattoo for a while, and that I felt a great deal stronger after getting it. My arguments were valid despite there being no reason for them, or for my parents disapproving of what I do with my 29-year-old body. They just went into a story about my niece's boyfriend getting a really bad tattoo and having to spend $400 getting it covered up. I can't help but feel a little crestfallen that they didn't like it. They weren't even impressed when I told them that it took four hours, and that I sat quietly the entire time and never made a sound. My ability to withstand pain does not impress them. I don't usually quote Will Smith, but he had it right in 1988: Parents Just Don't Understand.
I had a similar feeling a few months ago, when my stepmom expressed some motherly disapproval over this blog. "I just don't understand," she said, "Why you wouldn't just write your feelings down in a journal if you have something to say. If you're worried about people reading it-"
"I'm not worried," I told her at the time, "I want people to read it."
She took that in and responded with, "Maybe it's a generational thing."
"Well, yeah," I said, "I don't see the point in writing something that no one is going to see. It keeps me honest- if I'm just writing for myself, I can tell myself anything."
She sounded like that confused her even more, but she didn't say it. I wanted to say that I'm doing this for myself! I'm putting all of my pain out there! Someone called me the female Hank Moody! But, I didn't say it. I knew I wouldn't get her to agree with my reasons for doing it. When Debbie got divorced, there was no blogging. There was therapy, and Snackwells, and there were her three children to take care of. We come from different worlds, and that is fine. I know my parents might disapprove of most of what I do with my new-found freedom. It's not their deal. They want the best for me, even if what they want me to do isn't what I want. They're smarter than me, and they want me to just go through life without all of this struggle, without the fallout from, say, my sister reading my blog or having to wear a cardigan even in summer to cover up my new tattoo when I file something to court for my boss. They want me to take it easy, give myself a break, tell a trained professional my thoughts and not put them online for anyone to read. They want me to make smarter decisions, but I want to take risks. I realize my risk-taking may cause even more head-scratching on their part. I'm going to keep sharing with them, keep being a goofus and waiting for them to scratch their heads in response. It's my role, and it's one I don't mind playing. Despite their disapproval, they have never influenced me to be anyone other than who I am, and I know they only react that way because they love me. They are the only parents I have, and I wouldn't change them even if I could.
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