I’m sitting here on the sofa with an incredibly full mind, and no easy way to empty it. The thoughts I have are swirling in fifteen different directions –
I’m in my favorite pair of grey sweatpants, and an oversized sweater. I have no make up on, and a slight craving for another piece or two of salami. I’m pretty comfortable, but I’m also wishing I had socks on my feet. My toes are like icicles. I’m stuck right in the middle of get-your-ass-off-the-sofa & let-your-feet-be-cold-it’s-almost-time-for-bed.
“Babe. Babe, can you bring me a pair of socks?” There are about 999 bones in my body that do NOT wish I could make that statement, but tonight all I can feel is that 1 that wishes I could.
Usually, I’m pretty outspoken about my hatred of love. Well, hatred is a strong word. Too strong. & completely dishonest. I don’t hate love, I love it. I love love. And that is – well, that is The Ugly Truth.
Overtime, I’ve become so cynical, and jaded, that I nearly convinced myself I don’t believe in love anymore. That I don’t want it. That looking for it is a pointless venture I shouldn’t even think about embarking on. But, day in & day out, I do. I think about it the moment I wake up, and the moment I’m about to fall asleep. I think about it when I’m driving, or sitting still. I think about it when I’m talking to my mom, or out with my girl friends. I think about it all. of. the.time. So why should tonight be any different?
‘Tis the season after all – so, I finally went driving around town with one of my best friends to look at Christmas lights. And I thought about all of the people who took the time to hang them (or, given some of the neighborhoods we were in, all of the people they paid to do it for them). I wondered if they did it for their love of the season, or their dedication to winning the neighborhood’s contest. Or maybe, they did it for their children. I guess their motivator is irrelevant – but what motivated me was them. Their little lives, locked up behind closed doors & dancing Christmas lights. Who were they? How did they meet? and when? More precisely: where the hell is he & when will WE meet?
I know that twenty-seven, in the grand scheme of things, is a fairly young age. Some people are still working their way through a Bachelor’s degree at my age. Some are finishing their masters. Some are just beginning their careers (maybe physicians, or lawyers), and others have been working since they were seventeen. But, at the same time, twenty-seven sometimes feels really … old.
I feel like I am too old at this point to fall into a fairytale. And it’s killing me. It’s literally crushing all of my dreams. I wish I could be the girl who doesn’t care if she finds a man, buys a house, adopts a dog, and has a baby girl – but I can’t. I am that girl – through and through. And I am scared to death of never becoming her. Back to the neighborhood – as we drove through I told my friend “I can’t wait to do this – and by do this I mean make my husband do this for me.” And then my mind immediately turned against me and I thought – What I if I never find him? What if I never get married or buy a house? What if there are no lights on my house because I have no house, and no one to hang them for me? What if who I am today is all I’ll ever be? Never a permanent plus one. Never a mother. Never the house with the white lights & garland.
That, well, that would suck.
Everybody always says that it’ll happen when you least expect it. It’ll happen when you stop looking for it. And when it happens, you’ll “just know.” And I sit there, and I smile & nod and say “yeah.. I know.” But secretly, I hope they’re wrong. Not because I don’t love love. Not because I don’t want it to happen for me. But because I can’t stop looking for it. Because there will never be a day I least expect it. Because I spend every waking moment of every single day scouring the lanes of traffic next to me; the occupied machines at the gym; the aisles of the grocery store constantly looking for it. I don’t think there’ll ever come a day I don’t wish it was my turn. and if they’re right, if it only comes when we don’t want it anymore, I’m never going to find it. My feet will always be cold. and that is the ugliest truth of all.
I really hope they’re wrong.