Things I’ve been doing lately: buying a lot of “date” outfits. Things I haven’t been doing lately: trying to meet someone for said date.
(Source: whatyousaybabyk)
Things I’ve been doing lately: buying a lot of “date” outfits. Things I haven’t been doing lately: trying to meet someone for said date.
(Source: whatyousaybabyk)
I try not to be a Thought Catalog reblog but this one is really good and poignant. I’ll probably say that again about another post in 24 days or so. Fair warning.
Yes Mindy, you’ve landed your book on my Amazon wish list with this article. Congrats.
Funny haha, not funny oh you poor thing ;)
(Source: joannagoddard.blogspot.com)
“When can I see you again?” said the text message from the lawyer. The same lawyer who could only list his high earnings potential as the answer to: “What do you have to offer a woman?”
”;)” said the new friend. The same new friend who is a great listener and offers advice without judgement and will have a taco with me just about anytime I ask.
“Do you want to go to Mallorca? I have a Groupon for $25.” said the IM from the actor. The same actor who has repeatedly asked to hang out and time after time getting the cold shoulder or no response at all.
“No one is perfect.” said the wise friend who I’ve always looked as an older brother and probably treated as such, without much respect or investment of time.
“I still get excited for him to see me if I think I look cute that day.” said the best friend. The same best friend who has been married for 5 years. We used to steal pencils and erasers from the Pottery Barn design desk and then we’d sit in the brown leather couches that we’d try not to scratch while we ate our candy from Sweets From Heaven because our dads only gave us $5 and a ride to the mall.
“I know I’m a bit of a trophy, that’s ok.” said a friend of mine who is a doctor is dating someone a few years younger who makes her laugh. She thinks about her ex in Philly a lot between rounds in the ICU. She’d love to buy a single shotgun house and drink bourbon on her porch in the hot NOLA sun but as a late-twenties gal, she has bought into the idea that she needs a husband and a kid somewhere in her life plan.
I spend my days thinking about tactics to make my bills disappear so I can save money for my own place come spring, surviving 13.1, how to be a nicer friend, my best friend’s 3 year old and the lovely life ahead of her, my mom and her never-ending battle with health issues, my cat, and furthering my career. I also sprinkle in a little NPR and wine here and there.
The Single Ladies features I keep reading and liking on Facebook are a testament to the fact that I’ve been there done that and it’s time for me. I know I’m still young and I haven’t written off future possibilities, but this is me. Now.
IN AUGUST I traveled to Wilkinsburg, Pennsylvania, a small, predominantly African American borough on the eastern edge of Pittsburgh. A half-century ago, it was known as “The Holy City” for its preponderance of churches. Today, the cobblestoned streets are lined with defeated clapboard houses that look as if the spirit’s been sucked right out of them.
I was there to spend the afternoon with Denean, a 34-year-old nurse who was living in one such house with three of her four children (the eldest is 19 and lived across town) and, these days, a teenage niece. Denean is pretty and slender, with a wry, deadpan humor. For 10 years she worked for a health-care company, but she was laid off in January. She is twice divorced; no two of her children share a father. In February, when she learned (on Facebook) that her second child, 15-year-old Ronicka, was pregnant, Denean slumped down on her enormous slate-gray sofa and didn’t get up for 10 hours.
“I had done everything I could to make sure she didn’t end up like me, and now this,” she told me.
It was a clear, warm day, and we were clustered on the front porch—Denean, Ronicka, and I, along with Denean’s niece, Keira, 18, and Denean’s friend Chantal, 28, a single mother whose daughter goes to day care with Denean’s youngest. The affection between these four high-spirited women was light and infectious, and they spoke knowingly about the stigmas they’re up against. “That’s right,” Denean laughed, “we’re your standard bunch of single black moms!”
Although this article in my hometown newspaper makes a really shaky connection between 9/11 and people who get tattoos, I was struck by a few points:
Millennials are much less likely than older Americans to say that the United States stands above all other nations. The vast majority believe that the United States is one of the greatest countries in the world, “along with some others,” according to Pew. Over 70 percent of them believe this nation is among the greatest, but does not stand above all others.
They aren’t unpatriotic, but rather more realistic than their elders and maybe even more curious about the world beyond our borders. That realism breeds a certain amount of humility that may, in the end, serve this country well. It may embolden us to fight harder to preserve our place on the world stage, a stage that the millennials understand that we don’t own.
This confident generation, coming of age when they can’t find a job, may look at China and India with a pang of envy. They may miss the days of American dominance even though they were skeptics about it from the start.
IMHO, the sensationalism over the 10th anniversary of that thing we’re to NEVER FORGET was beyond annoying. In college, I participated in Save Darfur rallies as well as toiletry drives for the troops. It would be nice to acknowledge historic events happening in other countries as a nation because you know for sure that several countries that we don’t even think about (but might read tweets about when they have revolutions) were wearing red white and blue this past Sunday.
There have been a handful of times when I’m driving in the car, listening to NPR, when I reach my destination but stay in the car to hear the end of the piece. This morning was one of those moments.
NPR’s David Greene interviewed a bunch of people back in 2009 about the economy and the most striking group was the mid-twenties set who had shitty jobs but didn’t seem to be panicing or complaining yet. He wanted to check in with them today to see how they’re doing. Sam Terrell, an aspiring musician and greasy spoon team member in 2009 is now a culinary student in NY with optimism of finding a decent job after graduation.
Sam’s story resonated with me. He doesn’t have grand dreams for the future, he just wants to be able to get a decent apartment in a better neighborhood and take care of himself.
“…There’s also the nature of the age itself. Our society has put a bizarre stigma on single women over 30. Even Patty Stanger, the Millionaire Matchmaker, has told young women on her show “Okay, you’re 27, you’ve got three good years left.” At 28, you’re still in the acceptable zone of single, but in society’s eyes time is of the essence. General maturity factors in as well. You’re done with college and have most likely had a job or two in the workforce. A Quarter Life Crisis, if applicable, has most likely come and gone. At 28, you’re still young enough to change your life, if need be, and no one would think you were foolishly starting from scratch.”
These words are so, so true. Good words to read today.
I’d like to say that my world crashed down around me when I saw the texts on his phone. It would certainly be more dramatic that way; maybe make for a better story. I think I knew already. I think I knew about all of it, and just didn’t want to see it. I’m good at fooling myself, I suppose; I wanted to see the best. I wanted to think that I’d made the right decision and that I was a good person for working so hard to keep the marriage going. I was wrong, though. It was a terrible decision. I had allowed it to happen; I was just as much at fault as he. The decision to end it was firmly in my hands, and had I been an honorable, strong person, I would have ended it years ago. I was too scared to let go and admit my mistake. I think. I really don’t know. There isn’t space left in my soul for regret and shame now.
My world-crashing was a slow process; a rolling avalanche. I was numb for a while. It got difficult to get out of bed in the morning. Then I stopped getting out of bed until absolutely necessary. I stopped talking to almost everyone in person; most of my conversations took place on my phone. It took all of my energy to get the kids out of the door for school; I spent most of the day sitting on my couch, staring at nothing. After the numb came pain. I’ve never experienced anything like what I went through; I compare it to withdrawal, but I’ve never gone through that, either. Those nights, when I’d turn my light off, I felt alone. The comfort of a long-term, serious relationship was gone. It had been deteriorating for years. It still felt like it had been yanked out from under me hard, while I was at the top of a long stairway, and I was breaking every bone in my body as I fell. The absence of those hugs and those comforts hit so hard that it physically hurt. My stomach would rebel, my back and my neck were in so much pain that I couldn’t sleep and no medication would even take the edge of pain off. That black pit of aching nothingness would take over; I didn’t think I would ever get out of it. I was falling, uncontrollably.
At my worst moments I reached out to friends. I didn’t know what else to do. There were some who had offered an ear to listen, and I hoped with all of me that they were serious. Turns out, they were. Those friends helped me through this, talking to me into the wee hours of the morning. They have no idea how much pain they helped me survive. The worst part of my day was going to bed; there were no dishes or laundry to distract me. No children who needed me to think outside of my own head. There was just darkness and emptiness and loneliness. There were just tears that came as soon as I would turn off the light. I doubt that any of my friends who helped me through knew that the reaching out I did, those little ‘hey, whatcha doin’ texts from me at odd times of day were because I couldn’t get the tears to stop. They let me vent with caring, understanding eyes. They let me talk until I was falling asleep so I wasn’t alone. They empathized. And usually, almost always, they’d have me smiling through the tears before I said goodnight.
Before the pain was gone, the anger hit. It was unfocused and left me even more unbalanced. I’m not an angry person. I’m an understanding, empathetic person (or, that’s what I strive to be…). This anger…this soul-wrenching, hateful anger…it isn’t me. I felt like I was outside of myself, watching this emotion completely take over. I used words I’ve never used before, and I used them repeatedly. I shook from anger at least once a day. Everything made me angry. EVERYTHING. I knew what was causing it and I couldn’t focus. I hated myself for a while because of that. The bitterness rose to the top, sarcasm took over. I couldn’t speak his name without sneering. That seems to have subsided, thankfully. I’ve worked hard to squash the anger.
There is some good. Somewhere in there, I’m not sure where, I started re-gaining my sense of independence. I realized that I had given that up, somehow. I can take care of a house on my own. I can be fully responsible for my children. I can take care of myself. And…I can be alone. He is not in charge of my happiness. I am. He is not in control of any of my feelings. I am. My life isn’t over. I’m being given an opportunity to re-build. A good friend sent me to this article at a turning point during all of this…go. Read it. It changed how I was viewing my divorce. I made a few decisions after reading that. Whether they’re good ones, time will tell. I decided to strive to become more like the people I admire. I decided to stop wishing for changes and to work toward making them happen. And I decided that I will never let myself be anything other than who I am.
I can see the light now that everyone was telling me about when I was in that broken pile. It’s still dim. Some days, it’s brighter. Some days, it seems to have dulled to a flicker. The duller days are fewer now. I feel a little more normal every day, a little more confident. A little happier. I’m sleeping again. I can see that I have not lost hope. On the bad days, I go back and read that article, I talk to friends, I hug my kids, and I do the dishes. I breathe, I keep moving.
I’m not great yet. I’m not even good yet. I still have a long ways to go. But I’m better.
