HHEEEEYY... ho. Why, yes, I'm attempting to do this AGAIN! Believe it or not I actually write entries that I don't post because I hate them. Or better yet I don't have the energy or attention span to extrapolate on my sudden, ill-timed motivated topic. I'm pretty sure the main issue is the lack of theme pertaining to this blog. But to attach a theme would destroy the meaning of my having a blog because (alert: metaphor ahead) I DON'T HAVE A THEME TO MY LIFE. No, really. Most people have one, some, or all of the following:
1. A marriage. Yeah, I had that. Silly me for thinking I could get by pretending to be normal. Silly Anna, normalcy is for everyone but you.
2. Kids. This is complicated because I don't have my own kids, and as much as my pelvic region is screaming for fertilization, I look at my life and become a abundantly aware that absolutely everything about my life that makes me happy would be completely and utterly destroyed by fruitfully multiplying. And quite honestly, the most catastrophic thing I could do to the world (Earth Day reference) is to spare human kind additional Anna's running amok. Sure, it would prove to be entertaining and provide a healthy cloud of confusion to replace our ever thinning ozone layer, but I'm somewhat of a nut job and we are currently saddled with our fair share of clowns.
Why is this social norm complicated? Because I don't have kids, but I DO have kids. I have the kids that come in and out of my life, leaving a trail of joy, sadness, longing, and income.
Why my job is easier than parenting: At the end of the day I return to my self-centered reality complete with bed, DVR, and managing my time alternating between crossword puzzles and Cooking Dash. And Jeopardy on my phone. I spend long bouts of the evening revving myself up for a trip to the bathroom or to the kitchen to feed my hole. All perfectly understandable having spent my day with toddlers (my most common age group because God hates me) who serve as compact, precarious time bombs. One wrong move and my eardrums become useless. It serves as a fun game; how quickly can I complete the current task before the unpredictable specimen implodes.
I go home to my life which better resembles my mid 20's than my actual mid 20's. It's actually way better. For one thing I'm smarter and have less tolerance for disingenuous people. My ability to spot bullshit is far better than my gaydar, which has only improved slightly since high school. So basically I went from a D- to a solid C. I would deserve an F if I had married or engaged in a long-term relationship with I.T. Closet, but I managed to sustain relationships with guys, who despite all appearances, bore no attraction to men. Many have pointed out that my ex husband is gay. He's not. In fact, he's a pig. A big flaming pig. Basically all the femininity with a heaping scoop of simple-minded ego. I know how to pick 'em. I do, however, know how to pick my friends, and they are who I go home to after a long work day. I don't just mean my house, though my roommates very much fulfill the definition of family, but the homes of close friends on the way home; making a quick trip to Ross, cooking dinner, or drinking wine on a patio. The idea of being unfulfilled due to lack of children is more of a suggested source of anxiety than a personal affliction. As I write this my uterus is punching me in the mouth.
Why my job is more difficult than parenting: Because I'm never the first choice. This sounds self-centered, and it would be if it were generally applicable, but it's more of a series of abrupt reminders, like getting poked with a sharp pin. I love these children (not all of them, come on now, of course I have my favorites. I'm aloud because I'm not a parent. *adding to previous paragraph*) with every fiber of my being. In a couple very special instances, I love them so much it physically hurts. I love them in a way I never knew possible, and I can love them in this way appropriately as their caregiver without infringing on the bonds between parent and child. In these few unique scenarios the parents are very much aware of my devotion and embrace it as genuinely as it's put forth. I think this is what makes me a good at my job. I didn't have to study or read books, I simply found a source to focus my love and happiness that feels unsuitable to exude in any other context. I love them so much my eyes are welling up just thinking about it, but they are not mine, which means they leave my life as swiftly as they entered. I allow my heart to sit out on the counter because it allows me to give the best of myself to one small faction of my life, but it gets left out overnight and lingers as a haunted dried up remnant of its former self. This is no one's fault. It's the job, and the heartbreak is the manifestation of the importance and relevancy of what I do. As a result I have a purpose, but my heart is feeling stretched out and gradually weakening in resiliency.
The idea of having my own child serves as a temporary emotional bandage while navigating the pain of my maternal emptiness. Making my own parenting decisions, being the most wanted and most influential. Sometimes you want something so bad and you don't know why. There are pictures I can't look at because I can't handle the separation. There are songs I can't sing and books I can't read. I can, but it leaves a dull ache in my chest and a coagulated mix of regret, loneliness, and anxiety. It's not something I talk about because I will cry, and I fucking hate crying in front of people. I'm an ugly crier and typically leaves me with a migraine.
I'm astutely aware of the things I have that other don't. I'm aware of the things others have that I don't. I know some of the reasons why, for which some I'm grateful and others I'm angry. The anger feels like a cop-out emotion, but it exists all the same. I don't treat it with the same amount of validity and rather more like a symptom than a tool for self improvement. It's there when I need it, like a spare tire, but it's not reliable for a road trip. Anger doesn't carry you to your final destination. It will typically leave you stranded at the side of the road screaming at dead possums.
In case you're wondering, I'm very aware that my posts start in one place and end up scattered in million pieces all over my neurological junkyard. I've tried to curb this habit, which admittedly prevents my posting on a regular basis. Apparently I can't fit into any box. I'm too squirmy.
I'm half-assed proof reading this installment of typed pontifications (one of my favorite words), so feel free to correct any and all errors. If you attempt to give me an English lesson, know that I'm aware of my MLA ignorance and don't give a fuck as I believe I have a firm grasp on contractions, which settles nicely with my C Average. Also, my uterus will punch you in the mouth.
