A Day in the Life
7:30 a.m. Wake up because Maggie is, as usual, dancing a jig on my head. Let dogs out.
9 a.m. Wake up again because dogs are howling like lunatics in back yard, perhaps because they have run out of landscaping to destroy.
1 p.m. Wake up again for the reason that has become more normal in the past few weeks: I can't breathe and my back is spasming violently. Take a Soma; soon feel marginally better. Repeatedly prevent Maggie from trying to eat Margot, the kitten, as she has been named by her soon-to-be-owner Alex. Eat some cottage cheese, thus padding stomach enough to take Vicodin. Begin watching more of excellent second-season 24 (I totally knew Marie was so irritatingly needy that she had to be bad). Begin feeling better. Then, have four-second coughing fit that leaves me in such extensive, spasming lower back pain I assume I am going to die. Take another Soma. Pass out.
4:30 p.m. Wake up, again, after having delirious dreams about wild parties involving hordes of gay men and Paris Hilton's naked breasts; and about buying a lovely silver collar with a tinkling silver bell for tiny Margot. Prevent Maggie from eating Margot (lather, rinse, repeat).
4:45 p.m. Call mother to mewl at her and beg for food and car (my brother drove me home last night because I was too dizzy to do so myself). Mother kindly acquiesces.
Now Stare balefully at nightmare horrorshow of apartment, which I completely lack the strength and health to straighten up even marginally.
Feel rather sorry for myself, obviously.
I know that I am extremely lucky to have a good, loving family in uniformly good health, and for that I am grateful, I really am. But I feel like I'm a little too old to have nothing but that. It's Christmas (or was), and if I'd known this was how things were going to turn out I probably would have just gone ahead and married Mike when I was 22.
At the moment, I'm deeply stung by a recent, hideously protracted rejection, but it's more than that; there just aren't any opportunities anymore, and I can't remember the last time I really felt like there were. As far as I can tell, I might as well be unemployed and illiterate and weigh 300 pounds.
I don't have a single close friend anywhere nearer than New York (or Boston or London) not in a serious relationship, which is basically to say I don't have a single close friend. Because, especially over the holidays, everyone is so heavily involved in his or her own personal lives and speaking in "we"s and essentially being completely unavailable to anyone but the person he or she goes to bed with every night.
Is this sort of whiny desperation attractive? Of course not. But my God, what a fucking disaster I am right now. There is no one to commiserate with. There is only my singularly revolting whiny desperation and the detached, patronizing smugness with which I realize everyone is viewing it.
So, this is it. Much like I decided I just wouldn't talk about Adam anymore about a month ago in effort to finally force him out of my consciousness, this is the last time I'm going to talk about this. I'm just going to focus on my job -- for which, frankly, I'd at least expect someone to want to use me for its fringe benefits, but then again I think the same thing about my body -- and accept that my personal life doesn't consist of anything but a stack of DVDs and some dogs who would throw me over in a second for a T-bone steak.
9 a.m. Wake up again because dogs are howling like lunatics in back yard, perhaps because they have run out of landscaping to destroy.
1 p.m. Wake up again for the reason that has become more normal in the past few weeks: I can't breathe and my back is spasming violently. Take a Soma; soon feel marginally better. Repeatedly prevent Maggie from trying to eat Margot, the kitten, as she has been named by her soon-to-be-owner Alex. Eat some cottage cheese, thus padding stomach enough to take Vicodin. Begin watching more of excellent second-season 24 (I totally knew Marie was so irritatingly needy that she had to be bad). Begin feeling better. Then, have four-second coughing fit that leaves me in such extensive, spasming lower back pain I assume I am going to die. Take another Soma. Pass out.
4:30 p.m. Wake up, again, after having delirious dreams about wild parties involving hordes of gay men and Paris Hilton's naked breasts; and about buying a lovely silver collar with a tinkling silver bell for tiny Margot. Prevent Maggie from eating Margot (lather, rinse, repeat).
4:45 p.m. Call mother to mewl at her and beg for food and car (my brother drove me home last night because I was too dizzy to do so myself). Mother kindly acquiesces.
Now Stare balefully at nightmare horrorshow of apartment, which I completely lack the strength and health to straighten up even marginally.
Feel rather sorry for myself, obviously.
I know that I am extremely lucky to have a good, loving family in uniformly good health, and for that I am grateful, I really am. But I feel like I'm a little too old to have nothing but that. It's Christmas (or was), and if I'd known this was how things were going to turn out I probably would have just gone ahead and married Mike when I was 22.
At the moment, I'm deeply stung by a recent, hideously protracted rejection, but it's more than that; there just aren't any opportunities anymore, and I can't remember the last time I really felt like there were. As far as I can tell, I might as well be unemployed and illiterate and weigh 300 pounds.
I don't have a single close friend anywhere nearer than New York (or Boston or London) not in a serious relationship, which is basically to say I don't have a single close friend. Because, especially over the holidays, everyone is so heavily involved in his or her own personal lives and speaking in "we"s and essentially being completely unavailable to anyone but the person he or she goes to bed with every night.
Is this sort of whiny desperation attractive? Of course not. But my God, what a fucking disaster I am right now. There is no one to commiserate with. There is only my singularly revolting whiny desperation and the detached, patronizing smugness with which I realize everyone is viewing it.
So, this is it. Much like I decided I just wouldn't talk about Adam anymore about a month ago in effort to finally force him out of my consciousness, this is the last time I'm going to talk about this. I'm just going to focus on my job -- for which, frankly, I'd at least expect someone to want to use me for its fringe benefits, but then again I think the same thing about my body -- and accept that my personal life doesn't consist of anything but a stack of DVDs and some dogs who would throw me over in a second for a T-bone steak.