Maybe.

But what about when you force change? What about when you really want change to happen, so much so that you make it happen? What then?

No one ever warned me that change like that…change for the sake of change…is playing with fire. Silly me, I somehow believed I was simply taking control of life. That I was making a command decision. That I was in charge.

I got burned.

I forced a change in my relationship and moved in with my then boyfriend. An oversimplified summary of events perhaps, but we both knew it was a bad decision beforehand and we both went through with it anyway. No matter how I describe it or the months that followed…it ruined us.

And now I’m alone. Again.

The thing is, I like being alone. I haven’t always felt that way, but over time I’ve learned to embrace it, relish it even. I’ve learned that being alone is actually easier in a lot of ways. But I threw that thinking away. I chose to stop watching my life and what happened in it. I chose to open myself up to the change of living with a man I loved, of taking that risk, of believing that what may come eventually might as well come now.

I was wrong. I regret the decision. I regret what it’s done to me. And I regret what it’s done to him.

Everyone always says that change is a good thing. Maybe that’s true. But what I know, what I’ve experienced, is something altogether different.

Change, in my case, is moving into a one bedroom apartment in a place named Bittersweet.

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While it is not happening to me, I care about the people involved and feel a gut-wrenching anguish and odd weakness in my limbs each time I think about it. I am reeling. Shell-shocked even.

Jaded as I am about proclamations of “forever” and “true love,” this sort of occurrence does little to dissuade me from my cynicism. In fact, it has me questioning why people get married at all. Where does it really get you? What does it give you that an otherwise committed relationship does not? And, do people actually still believe it will last when they’re exchanging vows? How?

The thing is, sometimes what you think you want isn’t really accurate at all- whether that’s marriage in their case or living together in mine. You think you want something so much and you strive with all your might to get there, but then when you do, it turns out it’s horrible. Suddenly, you hate it and the person you’re living with or married to. You’ve lost your way, you don’t want those things anymore, and maybe you’ve somehow lost a bit of yourself too.

I find mistakes, or perhaps I should say evolutions, of this nature anxiety-inducing. I literally feel sick inside knowing what I know right now, having watched as things unraveled in my relationship and theirs, seemingly helpless on both accounts to do anything to alter the outcome.

And it’s not just my relationship or their marriage. It feels like everything falls apart eventually, that no feeling of being in love lasts. For those who believe love does last, aren’t you simply neglecting to see that it will change/ already has changed into something else entirely? If not dislike or hate; perhaps companionship, complacency, or even apathy instead? I mentioned I was jaded, didn’t I?

Reflecting on these recent events of the heart, I can’t resolve if- given the odds- it’s better to simply ”opt out” or to just “try your best.” In the meantime, I seem to be unconsciously giving less and less of myself in each relationship I enter into…a cause or effect of  ”Post-Romantic Stress Syndrome?”

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Case in point, I spent an afternoon earlier this month looking for apartments. One bedroom. For Wendy and I. Alone. While that is another post for another day, I will simply say that what money I had saved for apartment shopping is now spent. On bills and doggie daycare and, yes, shoes.

[Pause for forehead-slapping moment of shame in which I acknowledge that I have a problem with money and saving and being a Responsible Grown-Up and everything else that a 31 year old woman should be capable of doing with ease; i.e., I pretty much fail at Life. Hi. Aren't I a catch?]

In lieu of what could easily derail at this point and become a “sad, woe is me” post in which I enumerate upon how incredibly fucking AWKWARD and lung-squeezingly TENSE cohabitating has become…to the point that I am not even living at “home” currently, I give you instead the symptoms of my illness. A menagerie of my picks for fall boots and booties (each priced at under $150) in all their empty, instant-gratification glory (click on the “i” in the upper right corner of the gallery for the brand and style information, as well as price and where to buy).

I’d surely patronize each and every one, except- as it turns out- a girl can’t actually- let alone happily- live IN her shoes no matter what the nursery rhyme says.

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There are perhaps no “right” words to write about what the last three months have brought to both of our lives. With or without meaning to, my boyfriend and I both placed expectations upon what living together would be- me, naïvely but in good faith, and he, apparently feeling coerced and knowing all too well what for-the-worse-changes lay in store. Now both of us have reached the conclusion, have actually vocalized, that the decision to live together has irrevocably destroyed what happiness we had left together and has been a certain mistake.

In the beginning, in the early days of my unpacking, of our finding a routine within the newly shared living space, I had tears of disappointment and sadness. I grieved for the loss of what I hoped this next step in my relationship, in my life, would be like. The disillusionment that it didn’t turn out to be what it was “supposed to be” would come later, and not without a stopover to rage and anger. The sullen recognition that I have no home would develop by week six and carry forward. The slap in the face that would be his landlord’s sudden awareness of my presence would land after every fiber of my being already felt unwelcome, unwanted. Just when I didn’t think it could get any worse.

I began as the live-in girlfriend whose addition of belongings caused claustrophobia. I became a pariah within the apartment and the building itself without much understanding of how I had imposed upon or disrespected. I grew into the role of roommate, of boarder, and failed at holding up what end of the bargain I was given. I hit rock bottom as a proverbial squatter; an illegal alien in what is supposed to be “home.”

The embarrassing truth is that I am financially challenged to actively participate in the upkeep of the household- initially because of my own irresponsibility and now owing to my boyfriend’s determination that I build myself some “cushion” from which to provide a Plan B for myself or in case of emergency for us both. It would be completely and unfailingly generous on his part to allow me to live rent free, except for the sense of obligation it has assigned me and the inequality within which I now find myself caged. I would rather be poor and contributing than financially stable and an unwelcome drain upon this household.

I am, however, at liberty to free myself- that realization does not escape me. But the challenges that any couple faces in living together are difficult to separate from the challenges of our relationship itself. Is this the nail on the coffin? Did we somehow miss the dropping of the other shoe? Have “we” jumped the shark?

There is of course the loss of romance. The loss of shared interests. The complete and exasperatingly long term lack of affection. The mutual acceptance of our limited communication.  The inability to share in much laughter or fun with one another. The waning respect. The seeking of happiness in other places. And yet, there is still- still- a belief that things could be better, could be improved if not completely mended,  if only we knew how. If only.

These may not be the “right” words to articulate what these three months have been, but they are undeniably my words. Even as I claim them as my own and acknowledge that he invariably would also have his own, I desire to wash them away and hit “delete.” I find that rehashing the details and dwelling upon them is no longer productive. The decision, the mistake, was made. It’s what we do with each day forward that matters.

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Last week, though (like the bad little blogger I’ve been lately) I only just realized, marked five years for me as a blogger. Reflecting on that time, both upon blogging and the content on which I write, I’ve experienced quite a bit of Life over those years…

I fell in love. And out of love.

I went to London, Jamaica, the Dominican Republic- twice, Philadelphia, San Francisco, Napa, Seattle, Alaska, Las Vegas, and South Carolina. And New York- how could I forget New York?- again and again and again.

I met a boy. And another one. And then another one. Until there came the one who’s stuck by me- so far at least.

I got a dog and am convinced within myself I’ve met my soul mate.

I wrote letters to Jessica Simpson and openly adored Tina Fey.

I got fucking WHOOPING COUGH like it’s the Eighteenth century or some junk, birthed a kidney stone as though I’m some infirm old fucker, and managed to garner food poisoning while stranded in Vegas for 48 hours after a flight cancellation.

I observed and questioned motherhood first hand. I feared babies and their ability to, like bees, smell that fear.

I gave voice to my angst for pregnant smokers, Drunk Bus, Facebook, Icky Couples and other such Toolbags.

I threw a pity parade for myself as friends got engaged, married, had babies, and moved on.

I swore a lot and not always as a result of Who the Fuck is Sharon.

I fell into a depression. And I admitted the one thing I’ve always kept secret and for which I still feel ashamed.

I authored posts about which I am proud and not so proud, and still others I have, at times, felt disappointed went nearly without comment.

I celebrated birthdays and turned 30. Then realized, holy fuck, I’m now IN my thirties!

I bitched about work and covered my ass by requiring a password as my blog took on a more “real life” following.

I said good bye.

I wrote and I didn’t write. And other times I wanted to, but avoided what needed (still needs) writing.

I discovered Twitter and became completely addicted.

I left my home of six years and moved in with a man for the first time in my life.

I baked, took calligraphy, made Thanksgiving turkeys, and ugly Christmas sweaters.

I met other bloggers and became close with several others, and others still whom I have yet to meet in person but hope to one day soon. I greatly admired/ still admire several others from afar.

I Dressed for Dinner.

I found inner peace. Other times, not so much.

I drank. A. Lot. Of. Wine.

I allowed two people and 60 minutes to throw me into what wound up being a mid-life crisis that I still wrestle with some days.

I moved from Blogspot to WordPress and became “Nic Narrates,” then rebranded with my own site.

I contended with the Bathroom Troll. And other related topics.

I mourned for those bloggers who blogged off into the sunset…Charming But Single, Petite Anglais, Anonymous Coworker, Little Red Cape, Ashton Likes, and Surving Myself.

I wrote the things I cannot say to my dad, my mother, my brothers, and my grandfather.

Five years.

In five years, I grew to embrace blogging, found my voice, and began to identify myself as a writer foremost. I’ve been heartbroken, infatuated, furious, defeated, whimsical, sarcastic, jaded, humorous, naive, envious, and sentimental.

In five years, I’ve let you in, let you “know” me. Let you have a bit of myself and tried always to be honest with you despite the discomfort of knowing who else may be reading.

Thank you for indulging me (and my obnoxiously nostalgic links). More than anything, thank you for joining me along the way.

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See, the couple sitting next to me turned out to be one of THOSE couples: an Icky Couple. And they were proving to be your quintessential Icky Couple. You know, the kind that can’t seem to walk down the street without grasping hands and kissing at each red light, the kind who can’t eat an otherwise perfectly acceptable meal without rubbing each other’s backs, necks or legs (BARF!), or the kind who has to stick their tongues down each other’s throats before parting each morning like one of them is being sent off to war or something. Dude, it’s nine or ten hours apart. I think you’ll make it.

As for this particular Icky Couple, they were making quite a show of it, acting like a bunch of janky ass fifteen year olds, holding hands, kissing each other’s cheeks, practically crawling into each other’s laps, laying their heads on one another’s shoulders à la “oh-my-god-we’re-so-sleepy-because-we-presumably-were-up-all-night-hahahahahahaha,” and talking in a tone louder than a whisper. Can you imagine?

If they were “just kids,” maybe I could have kept my disdain from growing into the seething fire breathing rage dinosaur it has become, but they weren’t. No. The Icky Couple consisted of two otherwise professional-looking adults, dressed for a day at the office where presumably they hold actual, grown up, professional jobs. So I have to wonder…who’s all this ickiness for anyway? Is it really necessary demonstrater your “love” amidst your fellow CTA bus riders? And is the 15-25 minute bus ride the right place and time to properly display said love? The way I see it, romance isn’t about being an Icky Couple to everyone around you. It’s about genuine and PRIVATE moments that don’t result in PDAs on the #135 route into the Loop before 8 am on a Tuesday.

Which brings to mind the day my own boyfriend and I accidentally wound up on the same bus route downtown. Strolling up to the bus stop that morning, I decided it would be best to throw my hip into him from behind, then wait for him to turn around all surly and shit. Which he totally did, except “Hi! It’s just me! Ha ha ha ha ha!!! Good morning!”

After the initial “Oh, it’s you” moment, we go on standing there all aloof and junk until the bus comes and then we sit down side by side, barely touching. And- this is key- for the short 15 minute ride downtown we don’t talk because 1) we don’t have to, and 2) it’s fucking annoying when people do that on public transportation in the morning. Seriously. Just don’t do it. Whether you know someone riding the bus with you or you dare to use your cell phone. DON’T. And, no, there’s no “texting loophole” either- unless you have your phone on silent and don’t make Icky Couple faces while sexting or whatever the fuck else it is that you’re doing. 

Anyway, to cap off the bus ride with my boyfriend that morning, we parted ways with a blasé eyebrow raise and head nod (from me) and a “peace out” punch to the arm (from him). You know, totally normal stuff really and, most importantly, no one’s morning was stymied in the process.

In closing, all you Icky Couple toolbags out there take note and keep it in your pants. No one wants to witness your “love” on public transportation, in the gluten free aisle at the Jewel, while you’re dropping off your dry cleaning, or you know, like ever (unless it’s your wedding, in which case, fine…I guess).

Shut it down, fuckers. Shut. It. Down.

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Exhibit A: This morning, I’m walking Wendy and we’re having a lovely time in the sunshine and she’s being super cute and sassy and prancey. And then, out of nowhere, there’s a lady standing in the middle of the sidewalk about 50 feet away from us. Just standing there, staring at us. And, apparently, yelling at us. Except, I can’t hear what she’s saying at all. I just see her lips moving and her arms gesticulating.

At first, I thought maybe she was yelling at me to clean up after my dog. Wendy had just conducted her business and I had just disposed of said business, but thought that maybe the OLD COOT hadn’t seen me do so. But then I caught one word- “bus”- and thought maybe she was yelling at me to hold the bus or some junk. Which seriously? I had a dog and wasn’t anywhere near the bus, so how the fuck was I supposed to accomplish that? Whore.

Anyway, so the whole time I’m wondering what the hell this old bat’s problem is, Wendy and I are also walking slowly down the sidewalk and closing the gap between us. Just as we get within hearing distance, I hear her yell, “I TOLD YOU TO KEEP HER ON THE SIDE!” or something along those lines. As she yelled this, she scurried off the sidewalk toward the street and began to swear and gesticulate with her purse.

So there I am, standing with my dog in disbelief, and shouting at her back: “WHAT?! I DIDN’T HEAR WHAT YOU SAID- WHAT’S WRONG?” The whole time, all these people are hurrying past on their way to the bus stop and I feel like an idiot. Except all I was doing was walking my dog down the sidewalk. She wasn’t barking or pulling at the leash or anything. Just walking. You know, really vicious stuff like that.

Before I turned and continue on home, Crab Ass made sure to return the volley: “OH JUST FORGET ABOUT! YOU DON’T LISTEN! STUPID [indecipherable haterade]…”

What. The. Hell.

Exhibit B: Pharmacy shenanigans! There I am (this past January), waiting at the pharmacy to pick up my prescription for vicodin because lo and behold I have a jerkstore kidney stone (just wait, that post is still in the works) and there are three INCOMPETENT OLD DRIED UP TOOLBAGS in line in front of me. I’m practically sweating my face off, hanging onto the HIPPA “privacy” rope in pain, and barreled over. I literally was about to throw up.

Meanwhile, Old Biddy #1 has some old fucker prescription card and it’s not working. “But it’s supposed to.” But it isn’t at all. “But can’t you just run it again?” But the pharmacist has and can’t do anything for her.

So Grandma continues to stand there, looking at the card in silence, turning it over in her hand like it’s magically going to turn into a god damn coupon or some shit. Finally, as she begins to rifle through her wallet, she realizes that’s her old card and that- like her- it’s completely useless. It took her 10 minutes to figure that out.

Which is when Old Biddy #2 came up to bat. I’ll spare you the details of her toolbaggery and simply say that she was completely put out that the pharmacy didn’t have enough quantity of her prescription to fill it completely and could only give her 10 pills at the moment. She argued with the poor pharmacist about this and demanded that it be delivered to her home that afternoon. When the pharmacist actually agreed to do so on her own time after she gets off from work, the bitch has the audacity to say that’s not good enough and that she expects it by 2 pm. No “thank you” or “you don’t have to do that” or “viva la customer service!” Just, “that’s not good enough.”

No joke, while she’s finally being sent on her way five minutes later, Grandpa Jones starts in on the pharmacist about how he’s there to pick up two prescriptions, not one. But they only have one filled because that’s all that was sent to them from his doctor.

Another five minutes go by.

A cart ambles toward me and I see that the panting, old as fuck skank driving it is maneuvering to place her cart in line in front of me. Which is when I pretty much lose it and stare her down. We’re talking daggers. Unrelenting daggers. Old Biddy #3 takes notice and continues on her way, pushing the cart into line behind me. She takes her cane out of her empty cart and actually asks me to “watch” her cart while she goes into the bathroom. I’m speechless and just stand there giving her my best bitch face.

By the time she comes out, Grandpa Jones has decided he’ll come back later and I’m finally at the counter 20 minutes later. As I’m in the process of paying, Old Biddy #3 comes and stands at the counter beside me. Literally BESIDE ME. And she’s panting again. Also, she smells like feet.

I haven’t even swiped my card yet when she gives the pharmacist her name and tells her she’s picking up four prescriptions. I turn and stare. The pharmacist says she’ll be right with her as soon as she finishes up with me. The asshat  continues to stand at my side while I sign my receipt and the pharmacist explains that I probably shouldn’t drive or operate heavy machinery. Old Bag says, “Oh my.” So much for HIPPA!

Exhibit C: If you’re wondering if maybe it’s just me who has the problem with OLD ASS FUCKERS, let me add that Fancy has recently had an epic encounter of her own. Sick and on her way home from work early, she found herself stuck in the Jewel parking lot when her car died. She was blocking a lane of traffic. Which is when the honking began. And the swearing. She became understandably upset. She doesn’t feel good, her car just died and her husband is out of town, and now she’s being audibly assaulted. She begins to cry.

The cherry on this Toolbag Sundae came in the form of one crusty old fucker with an oxygen tank that felt it his job to actually flip her off. Because clearly she did it on purpose just to inconvenience him. Clearly.

When I went to pick her up, the only thing I could say upon hearing what happened was that he was probably just in a hurry because he was afraid he’d die before he reached his destination. Which, of course, must be HELL.

Taken as a whole, I’m still really pissed about this morning’s toolbag encounter in particular. I don’t know what else to do except to say: *(#Y)*(E$@L:E>”#:R(EU*YE$*#(y)&*^&#jnj@jio{!~”~((u#uinjwnrj}we{|#+_)#*(#ji{*(_#U*(#$&*##*@HB@Nk3u2890(***@#&)Q@&#^&#^@)Q_@(###@/+UIBN!!!II(!(O(ue807&Y#$&&^#()*(_+@!!!!!!

Also, $#$)U#*(#JIKNM@IOU)#*()@_*(@)(!I()!KO&*% TOOLBAGS!

*I apologize for the length of this post, but as you can see, there’s a SHIT TON of Old Fucker Toolbaggery happening in the world these days.

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