Attempt writing in a state… part II

When I read the prompt for my previous entry, I was conflicted. Sure, I can be in a bad mood sometimes and be exactly the least congenial possible, but how could I write in that way when I’m in a good mood?

So what I ended up writing and posting was something short and filled with quips- not bad for a half-hour of work. Kind of cute, actually, after I uploaded the old photo from Florida.

However, if I’m going to be less-than-congenial about a topic, it’s of my future.

Fact: I’m 28.

Some might guess that I’m 25 (may fortune and luck find you, sirs and ma’ams!) but it’s true that I’m pushing 30.

What does this mean exactly?

Diddily shit.

I believe that age is as old or young as you want it to be… YOU!

I heard a really inspiring quote/fact the other day:

Stan Lee is 90 years-old. Which means he created ‘Spiderman’ when he was 40. Which means you haven’t even started to live your life yet!

Family, friends, acquaintances, and colleagues continually ask me about my goals and dreams. But when my dear baby sister gave birth to her first child, a new string of questions entered the conversation. Being a very proud aunt can sometimes be misconstrued as longing for a child- believe me, they are not the same. A couple of questions have only been asked on a few occasions, but I imagine that the frequency at which these questions are asked will only increase as I get older.

When are you getting married?

When are you going to have children?

When my sister and I were girls, we would stage pretend weddings in our basement. We would adorn our heads with veils made out of pillowcases and marry our Ken dolls (Barbie had been barred from these ceremonies, that jealous bitch). Playing pretend at that age was fun, but the fantasy of becoming a wife would soon wear off. I watched my parents’ marriage dissolve during my teenage years. My exterior hardened in opposition of the idea of marriage because I decided that I never wanted to go through divorce. I guess that my parents had been happy together at one point, but if it was possible for something to become so rotten so quickly, I didn’t want any part of it. My parents’ constant back-and-forth arguing left no room for explanation. At that age, I couldn’t ask a question to either of them without receiving a caustic answer in return. I did my best to remove myself from the situation at home, but I know that it was too late: I had already consumed the Kool-Aid. I became cynical and without a real, clear idea of the person whom I wanted to be: I can’t think of a worse time in life to begin fostering cynicism.

During the years of my parent’s troubled marriage and their ensuing divorce, I was still able to daydream from time to time. I imagined looking through my old yearbooks and boxes of mementos with my future son or daughter just as I had with my mother. Telling them stories about growing up in the nineties and explaining the legitimacy of my fashion sense and hairstyles. Being just like my father when he would swat my little hand away when I tried to change the radio station in his car, except Nirvana would be The Rolling Stones in my version. But as I grew older, these images became less and less tangible. As I’m sure every parent struggles/ed with the idea of who they would become as a parent, I knew deep down that I was not the right person for the job at all.

I’ve thought about having children very thoroughly and frequently; I know how I feel and I can’t change that. I’ve been interested in men who have envisioned children in their lives- those relationships did not last long. In all of my ponderings and utterances, I haven’t come up with the most eloquent way to answer this question. The first two words of my answer would be “I’m not,” but people expect an explanation even though they’re not owed one. Honestly, I loathe that I even have to give this much thought to answering the question, but I do believe that those who are near and dear to me have good intentions and care about my quality of life. And for shit’s sake, I need to come off as serious when I speak about this subject because no matter what, I will not change my mind.

Over the last several years, I’ve opened up to the idea of marriage. I may not want to start a family, but I love the idea of committing to someone and sharing a rich, satisfying life. To be able to take off and travel with only a moment’s notice. Pack a bag that doesn’t include pacifiers and diapers. Enjoy the calm and quiet of a well-kept home on a summer night. Decide to go out to a restaurant instead of cooking at home. My decision to get married and not have children is not a selfish one. I consider my reluctance to have children a completely unselfish decision because I can’t see myself as the maternal type that I would have to be to raise the child that I would want to bring into this world. In many ways, I don’t feel as if I’m cut from the same cloth.

I will make myself available to babysit for my friends and family who are parents, so that they may experience what I get to and I can put myself in their shoes for a brief moment… and then I can hand their children back to them when the moment is over.

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*Attempt writing in a state of mind that seems least congenial

I think that you and I both know it; it’s been a while.

I’m not remorseful at all. I’m a busy person. Each week greets me with chores and responsibilities; that never changes. If there is any change at all, it’s that a new item gets added to the never-ending parade of bullshit that is adulthood.

I recently saw a photo of myself, at around age four. I was covering my mouth with my hand, as if I’d been caught doing something that I wasn’t supposed to be doing. My long, wild blonde hair was pushed away from my face by an enormous pair of red swimming goggles. I was at a beach in Florida with my family and I remember sharing a grape-flavored Popsicle with my younger sister. The only way the day could have been better is if someone had given me a small pony to ride up and down the shore; me and Sparkles riding into the sunset.

Image

I could go to the beach now. I could get in my car, which I pay an exorbitant payment each month to own, and take off. I wouldn’t go too far at $3.99 a gallon, but I would find sand somewhere. I could bring a swimsuit, which I would begrudgingly fit over my aging, fleshy body. Take a bottle of SPF 50 to slather over myself, but what does it matter? I’ll probably die from some mysterious ailment that seemed to come out of nowhere.

                “She always made sure that the trash was taken out to the curb,” someone would say.

                 “She never left a dirty dish in the sink,” another would recall.

                This would be my legacy.

When I was younger, I always wanted to be older. If I was 12, I wanted to be 16. At 16, I wanted to be 21. Now that there’s nothing to look forward to, no more rites of passage, what’s the point? I used to be able to party and stay up all night. Now one beer gets me intoxicated because my diet only allows me 1,500 calories each day. I would consider it a cheap way to relax if I still didn’t have a headache in the morning.

Everyone wants something from you and when you need something, no one can be bothered.

Whatever happened to “Do unto others as they do unto you?”

Now it’s “Every man for himself.”

And why is it HIM?? I’m sick of the misogyny.

MailPERSON. FirePERSON. OttoPERSON.

Let’s start evening out the playing field. It’s the 21st century, goddamnit.

In all honesty, I couldn’t enjoy a day at the beach. I’d be too preoccupied with what I had to do when I got home or arrived to work the next day. Days of leisure would be squandered on me.