I've been haunted by them lately. They won't leave me alone. I am PLAGUED by them!!
And not the soft, squishy, fun kind.
I'm talking about Disappointment and Depression.
Lately that seems to be all I have to dole out to those I love.
I say I'll go to the concert, and then I cancel.
I say I'm coming to the family reunion, and then I cancel.
I invite a friend along to the family reunion and once she calls to ask when we're leaving I realize I forgot to tell her...I CANCELED!
I don't plan to cancel. I don't want to cancel. But I didn't want to say yes in the first place.
Not that I don't want to spend time with people I love. I do. I just don't want to spend time with ME right now--and the thought of inflicting that ME (that I don't even like) on others seems like cruel and unusual punishment.
Admittedly, I ain't the sweetest grape in the bunch on the BEST of days...so imagine how unbearable I am when the voices in my head (that usually laugh at all my jokes and say how charming--no, funny--no, absolutely undeniably irresistible I am) are talking about what a snarky bitch I can be.
I've started writing an "open letter to the dipshit in the green BMW." Stay tuned: it will be premiering soon! In fact, I could write an open letter to every idiot I drive behind, because every person I find myself on the road with, IS. AN. IDIOT.
I think the same thing in the grocery store. And watching the news. And hiding behind my blinds from the neighbor who wants to smile and wave at me.
All of my life part of me has been attracted to the "sweet spirit." To those women who are always sunshine and light, and even after visiting the loo, leave butterflies and flowers in their wake. Part of me wants to be like them. Wants to be the woman that makes people say, "Oh, she is just SO nice!"
But I'm not.
And, as my ex-husband once said (after a quite rabid rant on being the "sweet one"), "You don't really want to be like them. You're far too interesting." (I KNEW I had good reasons for marrying him--he often knew just what to say!)
Yet, as I sit here typing away and sipping a glass of chardonnay, while the litter box needs to be cleaned and the fridge is full of (only) condiments (and soda--there was a great sale!) and the floor needs to be vacuumed and there's a pile of unfolded laundry on my bed, I have a fantasy.
And in that fantasy, I AM that other woman.
The one who's never as happy as when she's cleaning and baking. The woman who would NEVER serve her family processed food (and ramen? Forget it!) In these horrible, Delusional (that's another D--now I'm up there with Terri in the Triples!) fits of Donna Reed nostalgia I feel like everything I've ever done has been sub-par--and the fact that I'm writing this instead of dealing with any of that other, CONFIRMS that I will ALWAYS be sub-par.
And I'm almost out of time. Can I even make up for the past with my kids half-way (if only!) out the door to adulthood? And what about when they ARE gone? My time as a divorced woman is breathing down the neck of my time as a wife.
But before I start to hyperventilate and spiral even more deeply into despair, I need to fill my wine glass...get a bath started...find my book...and light a candle. I need to tell my girls goodnite and that I love them. I need to thank the Lord above for the roof over our heads and my continued ability to keep it there with work that I am passionate about.
And after I do all of that, and lean back into the steamy water, take a deep breath, and close my eyes for just a moment, I know that those Double D's are only temporary--and I'll be back to my own, comfortable B's (Becky, bubbly, boozy?) soon enough!