This is what I asked for. I think I may have mentioned that before. But really, this is exactly what I asked for:
- I didn’t want my profession anymore
- I didn’t want my job anymore
- I wanted time off to write
- I wanted to get my affairs in order
- I wanted to go to school
- I wanted oodles of money
- I wanted to be a rock star
I got everything I wanted (except for the two exceptions as noted. Very few people get those, and a lot of the people who get them end up without those things, in obscurity and/or poverty, misery and suicide). So why am I trippin?
I’m going through a bit of an adjustment period. It’s not that easy. I thought, in my fantasy, that everything would be fun as soon as I didn’t have to work every day. Stupid, right? Well, more naïve. I need to be gentle with myself. I didn’t think that I had all of these “affairs” to get in order that I wouldn’t really be enjoying, things like unemployment and student loan deferment and getting my taxes done and that goddamned unfair $1600 hospital bill that will not die and financial aid and student loans for next year and getting a place to live and figuring out a livable budget and and and.
I’ve had a couple of years of massages and Trina Turk and not worrying about how much gas costs and it’s been nice. It’s hard to go back to figuring out how close things are and rolling up errands into packages so I can keep everything very economical. In the year 2005 I made $5,000 while working 55 hours a week (twelve were free! Yay for internships, the indentured servitude of the student class). I can live like that. (How did I dress? Tank tops. Camo fatigues all the time. Smelling my pants to see when they needed washing.) But it’s hard to go back to living like a little kid when I thought I would be a grown up by now. I thought at 34 I’d be married and have someone else to help me with all this. I thought I’d have a house and some place to feel at “home” in, instead of feeling so loose and unbound.
But who’s to say I wouldn’t be taking care of my imaginary husband’s ass? Who’s to say I wouldn’t have unresolved business from him? I tend to plug fantasy into every area of my life. I could have bought a house with someone that had an infestation of garter snakes. Or a meth house. Or a mercury house. (Not Freddie. That would be awesome. I mean quicksilver, the kind of mercury that causes madness of the hatter variety.)
So yeah, I’m learning to settle into this new life. I have not yet won lotto. Right now, I’m realizing that lotto might just help my ass break the fuck even. Jesus. That’s depressing. Or real.
I’m getting there. But honestly, I go back and forth between being okay and not being okay at all. Everything is soft, like walking on top of a tarp on top of a pool. I want certainty. Like I ever had it. That’s fantasy again.
Tarpaulin is now one of my favorite words, and will be the name of my first-born son, should I ever have one, and should I end up living in a trailer park. Despite my fears, my Magic Eight Ball just told me that its sources said no, that won’t happen. Sorry, Paulie!
No, it’s getting okay. Like I said, for five minutes, I’m perfectly serene, and everything is copacetic. I’m doing really well. And then it really isn’t. It’s on a different rhythm than my heartbeat, and the not-okayness is smoothing out a little, getting smaller. I’m easing in. But it’s not a gentle process.
But it will happen. I can feel it.
Stevie Wonder– “Living for the City” (1974)