Did you just say "vaginal tear"?

Remember my pregnant friend- the one who’s pretty much been MIA since she got married and who had the Baby Couple’s Shower? Well, a week before I went to Alaska and found my true calling (to hug whales, of course!), there came a flurry of texts from her husband announcing she was having The Baby.

I sent a card and flowers, then waited a few days after an initial “Congrats/ love you” text message to her before I called. I didn’t want to impose and didn’t want to take time away from The Baby, but I still wanted to personally tell her how happy I was for her and see how she was feeling. Alas, but unsurprisingly, I had to leave a message.

Later that night, the phone rang and her number came up…except it turned out it wasn’t her at all. It was her husband. Calling from her phone. To tell me all about The Baby and The Birth and the current state of my friend’s HOO-HA. Yeah. I’m completely serious right now. He told me about what happened down there and bodily functions and how big “it” got and how many stitches and how sore and…and just…fuck no.

Here’s the thing, I think it’s great that my friend’s husband is so “present” for her and I’m really glad that they found each other and got married and now have The Baby and all that “American Dream” stuff. Really. But, I don’t need him to be so “present” in my friendship with her. I don’t need him to be my friend too. I have nothing in common with him and have little interest in knowing him better. The way I see it, the only thing I need to know is that he treats her well and makes her happy. Other than that, I can like him well enough as her husband without having to also like him as a friend to me.

So, no matter how he or anyone else wants to wrap it up and say he’s just being “nice” or “helpful” or whatever, I don’t want him returning my phone call on her behalf, especially without her knowledge of him doing so, let alone that I called in the first place. I don’t want him to receive instead the very heartfelt and personal message that I left for her on her phone. And I don’t want him telling me the details of her going into labor and what The Birth was like. That’s the kind of thing I want (well, as much as I can want to hear about childbirth- honestly it gives me the heebie-jeebies) to hear from her, not him.

The whole conversation and the context in which it played out made me feel uncomfortable, icky, and apprehensive about calling again. Rather than her husband, he’s beginning to come across as her gatekeeper and it’s just….weird. Yes? No? Sort of?

Call me selfish or an asshole. Accuse me of refusing to embrace change. But, as far as I’m concerned, no matter how much I may or may not like a friend’s significant other, that person is not a replacement for them.

“Let me just pull up your account…..I see you have our SUPER-DOUBLE-WHATEVER-WE-WANT-TO-REBRAND-OURSELVES-TO-COVER-OUR-INCREASE-IN-PRICES package.”

“Yup…same one I’ve had for the past nine months.”

“Right. Well, due to an increase in operating costs, I’m sure you can understand, we’ve had to raise our prices ever so slightly. I do see that, as a special thank you from us, you’ll receive HBO for the next six months for free.”

“Yeah, I’ve had that for free for the past nine months too. What if I just trade you HBO for my $10 back each month?”

“Are you unhappy with your services?”

“No, I guess not. I just don’t know what value I’m getting for $10 more a month.”

“We’ve recently enhanced our Internet speed….”

“Really? It’s working the same as before….”

“Well, if you want to upgrade to our…”

“No, I don’t want to upgrade. I just don’t see how I’m better off.”

“We can look at other SIMILARLY-PRICED-IF-NOT-MORE-EXPENSIVE packages if you…”

“No. You know what? No. Maybe just don’t acquire a network on its last lap around the drain (sorry 30 Rock, I still heart you) and stop hiring Don Draper to do your commercial voice-overs. Maybe then you wouldn’t have to raise prices.”

“……….”

“Well, not you. You know what I mean. Hey, are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“Anyway. So, $10 more a month?

“Yes.”

“GREAT.”

How the conversation really went….

“Hi, I’m calling because I keep getting cryptic calls from this number and want to know why.”

“Let me just check your information………..right. We’re just calling as a courtesy to verify your service disconnection request.”

“My what?”

“Service disconnection.”

“Ah, no. I didn’t request that. Don’t do that. No.”

“Okay, well, that’s why we have these sorts of calls! Hehehehehehehe…”

“Yeah, but you didn’t even leave a message or anything. Also, why am I even being called about this?”

“With computers these days you just never can tell. Somebody pushes the wrong button here and it comes out wrong there and….you know how it is. Anyway, I do see that you have our SUPER-DOUBLE-WHATEVER-WE-WANT-TO-REBRAND-OURSELVES-TO-COVER-OUR-INCREASE-IN-PRICES package.”

“Um, yeah. Just to be clear, I’d like to keep it. Again, do not disconnect anything.”

“Right. I also see that while your rate will be only $10 more a month, you’ll also receive HBO for six months for free as a special thank you from us.”

“Yes. Great. Already get it, but okay. Thank you.”

“Is there anything else I can do for you today?”

“No. Just don’t get rid of anything.”

“Got it. Thank you for calling OVERPRICED-REBRANDED-COMPANY-THAT-JUST-PUT-ONE-OVER-ON-YOUR-JANKY-ASS.”

“Yeah, okay, thanks. Bye.………wait, what? Ten dollars more? Hello? Hello? Ah, hell.”

There is of course the typical and to be expected mourning that the “trip of a lifetime,” which went smashingly, is now over. And there is of course the realization that I actually miss my boyfriend now that we’re back in our 12-16 hour workday routines, wherein we’re often too worn out at the end of the day to do anything except retreat to our separate couches in our subsequent separate residences. Who knew that spending eight days in the “snug” (although we were upgraded!) quarters of a cruise ship stateroom would go so well or would in fact prove (though I can only speak for myself here) to be a catalyst for a greater sense of companionship- even if (comically) one breakfast conversation turned to the theoretical merits of one form of melon over another? Sigh…

While those reasons are each valid and currently coursing through my reflective mind each day, I am instead writing today to admit that one picture (out of over, holy Nikon, a whopping 1000) has given me pause and disappointment. It’s a bit embarrassing to admit, and I only do so in an admission to you now because I feel too ashamed to admit it to those who know me offline. But, before I admit what about this picture has me feeling this way, I want to assure you- especially you kind and thoughtful readers who do in fact know me- that there is absolutely no need for you to argue against or try to soothe my poopy feelings. Please, sincerely please, feel no necessity to try to make me feel better or tell me I’m mistaken.

So, with all that said, the picture in question is one of my boyfriend and I on my birthday. That night was also a formal night, which means I was one happy birthday girl to be wearing a fancy dress. But, because the cruise et. al wound up costing double the amount of the bonus check that was intended to fund it, I opted not to buy a new dress. Instead, I wore the white and black BCBG dress that I’ve only been able to wear once before and years ago at that. Before we left for our vacation, I tried it on and found that it still- though barely- fit and that (hooray!) the strapless top actually fit even better (I would still classify them as “booblets” however). Unwittingly, I packed the dress in anticipation of the perfect trip and birthday.

When the time came to don the dress, I did so without any concern for how it would photograph. I wore the dress all night through an impeccable five course dinner ending in chocolate soufflé, through a champagne toast with the ship’s captain, through after dinner drinks while listening to the (Titanic-like) string quartet. I didn’t want to take my fancy dress off. I didn’t want my special day to end. We took a picture to capture the memory.

Looking at that picture now, the only one it turns out in which the two of us appear in full view in our formal night fanciness, it would appear as though taken (it wasn’t) with a wide angle lens. I’ve NEVER been someone who says “I look fat” or asks the like. In fact, I feel guilty saying anything negative about my body because it gets thrown back at me by people who weigh more. Notwithstanding all of that, it cannot be helped that the picture is…not good. So while I may refuse to say I’m fat even after gaining 12 pounds in the last year, I can’t deny that the picture and the dress I’m wearing in it do me no favors. I may not be fat, but I certainly look fat. And my heart sinks with the admission. There, I’ve said it.

The picture is embarrassing and I don’t want to share it with anyone. But I fully anticipate friends and family asking, “Where’s The Birthday picture? Where’s formal night?” Do I shrug and pretend it never existed? The truth is, I wanted my “30th Birthday Picture” to be the one I could always point to and say, “There…that’s me on my 30th and it was absolutely special.” Instead, The Picture nearly brings me to tears.

I realize that I sound ridiculous, I do. And I realize that after the picture was taken I went on to spend the next seven days taking many other pictures that turned out spectacularly. But the thing is, even though I wasn’t bothered at all by turning 30, I’m bothered by the picture that very clearly shows the decline of my figure since I was formerly photographed in the same dress at the same angle when I was 27. Three years: who knew that three years without change in eating patterns or lifestyle would produce such an effect? I’ve simply gotten older…and more “filled out” (I write with a scrunched nose).

Ultimately, I know I can’t let myself focus on this picture or how it makes me feel inside. I hope to expel all my yucky feelings here and have done with it. I know in all the other pictures I look happy and healthy and older but not fatter or uglier. And I know that none of my friends or family would, if I showed them, look at that picture and think, let alone say, “She’s really let herself go.”

So, the lesson here? Get a new dress and/or a new camera, but most importantly, a new perspective. Because what matters most is not the picture that didn’t turn out so well, but the fortunate memories created that it unfortunately neglected to capture.

The reality I’m facing is that I’m now 30 and I weigh more than I did when I was 27. I’m one dress size and pant size bigger. I guess you could say I’m more “womanly.” And, whereas I’ve managed to grow into and even celebrate my age, the time has come for me to grow into accepting my new shape as well.

With the noise of city buses and honking cabbies, the screams of the crosswalk signals, the smell of urine and sewer, and the veritable maze of people in various states of movement that mostly involve standing in your way; you have State Street.  

All in all, it is an assault on one’s senses. It makes me want to yell SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!!!!!  At babies. And old men. And people asking for money. Which brings me to my point…

On Saturday, I came across what may be the most creative, if misguided, epitaph on why someone needs money. The kid, he couldn’t have been more than 19 or 20, looked so sad standing there with his wobbly cardboard. His eyes- and I looked him in the eye, searching his grimy face for reason- looked so earnest. He didn’t look back at me long before putting his head down as he leaned against a street sign post.

I have to admit, I was almost affected by his demeanor. And then I read what it was that he wanted the world to know, what it was that had him asking for money. In black block letters, he had written:

PLEASE HELP. GIRLFRIEND KIDNAPPED

BY NINJAS. NEED MONEY 4 RANSOM.

Yes. Apparently, he was doing it all in the name of love. And ninjas.

I have to hand it to the kid- that’s one way of looking at a break up. I mean, looking back, I guess I too could have been asking for donations to stage my counter maneuvers for boyfriends who were “kidnapped by x-box,” “kidnapped by that ho-bag on match.com,” and “kidnapped by a mysterious ‘I just need to be me’ persona.”  I mean, how else does one explain it? That’s obviously the real reason they were unable to return my phone calls. Anyway….

Standing there contemplating the audacity of the kid’s claims (holy crap, could you imagine if it was actually true?!), I almost wanted to give him money for the sheer ridiculousness of his reasoning. Almost. In the end, I guess his girlfriend, and all of my ex-boyfriends, are going to have to sort out their own ransoms.

My new neighbor/roommie moved in the first weekend of May and it didn’t take long (all of three nights) for me to introduce myself in the bitchiest manner possible. At approximately 11:27 p.m. on a Monday night, he thought it was a good time to move boxes from the living room into his bedroom, dropping them on the floor above my bed each time. Later, he put a hammer to use. A hammer.

After 30 minutes and more than a few “Ah, hell no’s,”  I threw the covers back and sprung into action. I’m going to lay down the law now before months or a whole year goes by. I’ve lived here five years and I’m entitled to throw my weight around. Or, at least that’s what I told myself as I scrubbed the night-time mask off my face in a fury of angst, shoved my feet into my slippers, and barged upstairs where I banged on his door like a hell-bent census worker.

On the other side of the door, I heard a scramble take place between the bedroom and the living room where some hitherto unheard country “music” bullshit was quieted. Moments later, the door opened, showing the perp’s identity. A mangy, skinny, baby-faced 22-24 year old hobbit. YOU’RE the one making all that noise, I instantly thought. Instead, what I said was something along the lines of…

“I’m your downstairs neighbor and I realize you just moved in and probably have a lot of unpacking to do and whatnot, but whatever it is that you’re doing right now above my bedroom is loud and just…no. You have to stop. Maybe do it during the day, or I don’t know, before 11 o’clock at night.”

I tried, I really tried. I wanted to sound just scary enough to be taken seriously but also not completely off my rocker. In retrospect, I’m sure the threadless t-shirt I was sporting reinforced my intent more than my words. It was a gift.

This is not me. In case you were uncertain....

After a wide-eyed initial apology and just as I was about to return to my den of haterade, he says, “Can I ask you something? [dramatic pause] Is it really that loud?”

I’m going to be honest: with that, my mouth fell open. “You’re building furniture above my bedroom at 11:30 at night. Yeah, it’s that loud.”

I didn’t wait for him to respond further. I marched downstairs and went back to bed. After another 10 minutes of noise, he finally quieted down. The next morning, I awoke proud and empowered. Take that, world! But by Wednesday, he was at it again. He came home after 11 p.m. with a slam of the door and swiftly returned to his “construction zone.” The boxes must have been emptied and the furniture built, but dammit, he still had his hammer. I can only imagine that the thought process, or lack thereof, ran along the lines of: “Have hammer. Have walls. Must. Hang. Objects.”

What can I say? With all his late-night woodworking antics and home improvement tendencies, my neighbor’s a regular “Geppetto.” Also, a real asshole.

So this morning, as I sat in the center lane of an intersection to turn right (because crossing traffic for the Lake Shore Drive on-ramp backs up and blocks the right-hand portion of the intersection), I was simply doing what any city driver would do. I was going to work and I knew where to avoid getting hung up. Apparently, the silver BMW X5 in the right turn lane next to me didn’t share that knowledge.

When the light turned green, I pulled forward to turn right around the line of stopped cars blocking the intersection, which is when the X5 moved to cut me off. Incredulous, I laid on the horn for dramatic effect and made eye contact with its driver- a twenty-something platinum blond sporting sunglasses on a cloudy morning. I’m going to be straight with you, neither the make and model of her car, nor the physical traits of her persona did her any favors with me. Before I knew what I was doing, I muttered, “cunt.” GASP!

Now, I have to pause for a moment because this is the first time I’ve EVER called anyone this word. In fact, I never say it and I won’t let anyone around me say it either. It’s ugly and hateful and derogatory. But, while I’m not proud of my verbal reflexes today, she shouldn’t be proud of being such a c*nt either. Moving on…

C*nt or not, I knew I was going to let her through, but not before I fucked with her a little. I surged the car forward and slammed on the brakes a few times to make her think I was going to go ahead anyway. She wasn’t very happy about that. When I did let her go, I did so knowing about the double turn lane ahead where I would be cutting her off, which I did. She really didn’t like that.

Normally, you’d think that would be the end of Ms. X5 and her shenanigans, but 10 minutes down the road as I sat in a row of cars on Sheridan, she found me. She slammed on her brakes in the adjacent lane and tried to ridicule me with her own horn blaring. Notwithstanding the cars backing up behind her, her window came down and her sunglasses came off. She extended a tanned and bony arm, and then….a finger. One finger on the hand laden with the weight of her diamond engagement ring and wedding band. My own windows were rolled up and I had music playing, but I was still able to clearly hear her parting epitaph for me: “Fuck you, you fucking bitch!” before she sped off in a blur of bourgie glory.

I proceeded to spend the remainder of my drive to work reflecting on her antics. Hers was not the most creative of come backs, but she got her point across. And I have to hand it to her, she really went out of her way to track me down and tell me to “take that.” I’d venture to guess it was that level of gumption and studiousness that nabbed her the husband who likely bought her that WASPy pre-motherhood crossover. Good for you, honey. Good for you. So it must really suck for someone like her when even one little thing doesn’t go her way in life. With that in mind, I feel fairly certain from what I could see that she’ll wind up being adequately miserable simply by virtue of being who she is.

Lesson learned: driving in the leather-seated comfort of your BMW, to the job you expected your marriage to make obsolete, is hard.

After all these years of pointing my finger at guys who were emotionally unavailable, who strung me along, who meant well but couldn’t back up their words with actions, and those who quite simply weren’t that into me; what if in the end it’s me? What if I picked those guys to mask my own insecurities? What if I’m the commitment phobe?

I realize this all sounds particularly troubling considering I’ve now been in a committed relationship for over a year. Maybe I’m not supposed to be thinking about these sorts of things- not supposed to wonder, let alone admit them publicly. Maybe they’re things you only whisper in your journal, to your therapist, or relegate to your subconscious in hopes they’ll work themselves out in your dreams. The thing is, I can’t stop thinking about this; questioning my own abilities.

What is wrong with me that I can’t just be like everyone else? Why can’t I just give in? Why does the whole relationship-marriage-house-baby thing have to be such a fucking production for me? I’m in a relationship and I scoff at people who think I’m headed for any of those things. I deem them well-meaning but obtuse because I know I’m no closer to any of those things than when I was single. And there’s the rub.

All of those “life moments” might be possible for other people, but I continue to have this gut feeling that they’re not in my future. I don’t see the white dress or the ring or the baby or the yard with the flower garden. I don’t see any of that and I question whether it’s because I’ll never have them or whether they’re just going to look different from “the norm.”

Either way, I feel like one of those people who apparently had premonitions they’d die young- and then they did. Only for me, I have this growing sense that I’ll never have a happy lasting relationship. That underneath even a seemingly contented surface, my own disappointments or doubts will continue to smolder until enough time has passed to set them aflame.

I look at my friends and their experiences and become overwhelmed  when I imagine myself in their place. I get this terrible anxious feeling in my stomach and my fingers get all tingly until I don’t even feel the keys as I type. I get “sympathy anxiety,” we joke, but really it’s not all that funny. The things they’re experiencing aren’t even happening to me and I’m panicking.

When I wonder “what if,” I instantly jump to the next 40 to 50 YEARS and I freeze. Nothing lasts that long anymore. Nothing. Not a job, not a house, not a relationship. Hell, I don’t know that I can even stand myself for that long let alone someone else. At a certain point, I think you roll over in the morning and realize you hate that person. You’ve just opened your eyes and already you’re wondering, “What creative ways will you find to piss me off today?”

No matter what relationship I’m in, I see that moment as inevitable. He could be the most caring, respectful, loving person and I will still think that way because that’s how jaded and mean my heart can be. That’s the real me that every man I’ve dated has met at some point or another.

I’m not afraid of those moments of realization. I’m not afraid of being alone- in the end, I honestly think I will be. Instead, I’m afraid of going along with the ruse, acting happy and committed because it’s what you do when you find someone good and loving and just everything a person should be. I’m afraid that even that won’t be enough to keep my jaded heart quiet.