Life in the Middle Lane

I have 3 siblings.  You’ve heard me talk about my brother that’s in Afganistan, and my youngest sister, Kelly Belly, who is the smartest person I know.

I don’t often talk about my sister Maretta, so I’m going to tell you a story about her today.  Maretta (Retta Feta) is only 18 months younger than me.  Apparently, my mother didn’t realize that she could get pregnant so quickly after birthing me.  For all intents and purposes, I cannot remember my life without Retta being a part of it. We went to the same elementary, middle and high schools. I used to hang out with her class and go with her on field trips. (I don’t know how I got out of my classes to attend all her events.) Maretta and I were never in the same class because Maretta has Down’s Syndrome.

Maretta’s Down’s Syndrome was never a issue in our family. Often when friends meet her for the first time they are surprised by it because we don’t think it’s something that needs to be explained in some way.  She was never treated any differently. Mama expected her to go to school and do well, the same as the rest of us.  Specialness was not a hot commodity in our family. Everyone is special. I’m special because I was the oldest, Maretta’s special because of Down’s Syndrome, Matthew’s special because he’s the only boy, and Michaele’s special because she’s the youngest. See how that works? No one was ever jealous and no one had “middle child syndrome”.

I’ll be the first to admit that my siblings and I don’t have a traditional sibling relationship. We just love each other too much, and we’ve always gotten along way too well.  That doesn’t mean that there haven’t been times when I’ve wanted to bang their heads together.  With Retta, I rarely wanted to bang her head against something; I was more likely to want to bang my head against something. She has never liked it when I’ve told her what to do, and she is WAY more stubborn than I am. And quite honestly, she’s stronger than I am, so I never could bang her head into anything the few times I’ve tried.

Maretta is very caring and loving but, like all of us, she has her flaws. Maretta had a couple of years between her birth and our brother’s.  She was none too pleased to have Matt in the family.  She didn’t want to touch him, she didn’t want to play with him, she didn’t want him around and she had HELLA tantrums when he was a baby.  I, on the other hand, treated him like a new toy.

And when Kell was born a few years later, things weren’t much better. Maretta was indifferent to her at best.  Kell was is an attention whore, and I don’t think Maretta liked having this little screaming meanie monopolizing Mom’s and Dad’s and my attention. Maretta ignored her when she could and tolerated her when she had to. (Now they have a great relationship, and their closeness makes me proud and a little jealous).

Maretta’s disdain for children extends to all babies and toddlers. Under the best circumstances she ignores them and pretends that they don’t exist.

So when I, my Mom, Maretta and Michaele decided to visit Matthew’s wife and babies this Christmas we weren’t sure how Retta would react to the little ones.  Honestly, we weren’t sure how ANY of us would react.  We all were meeting Matt’s family (wife included) for the first time and it was a little scary for all of us.  Moreover, since Matt’s in Afghanistan, we could not even use him as a buffer.

Luckily, Christmas was AWESOME. My brother’s wife is really sweet and we had a lot of fun. We each made sure to get some one-on-one bonding time with Maria. And I, personally, think Matt did a good job of adding her to our family. And my boy has made some pretty babies.

The babies are the cutest creatures I have ever seen.  They are cuter than puppies, kittens, bunnies, and strawberry pie a la mode.  I am madly, dangerously, irreversibly in love.  And I’m not the only one.  Maretta couldn’t get enough of those children. Almost immediately she was curious about them, peeking over our shoulders so that she could get a good look at them while we held them, or showering them with kisses whenever they were close to her. And before long she wanted to hold them by herself and talk to them.  This was the ONLY time that Maretta has ever given two hoots about a kid, and now she’s cooing, and kissing and rocking this beautiful child. *shaking my head*

Life is grand. And I’m an auntie.

If we are Facebook friends, check out my “Christmas in Colorado photo album”. And if we aren’t facebook friends, check my photos out here.

It seems like a lot of people lately are getting engaged or married. The overarching theme that I hear at engagement parties, and wedding showers and on invitations is the idea that marriage means getting to spend the rest of your life with your best friend.

What a wonderful idea.

Presumably, when two people decide to get married they have things in common. They know each other’s likes and dislikes, favorite foods, favorite movies, personal styles and so forth.  But more importantly, these two people are able to identify each other’s smells and the taste of one’s skin.  They know what they expect to feel when they touch a favorite body part.  If one were to hear the other’s voice at a distance, over the phone or across the way, they know unconsciously that it is them.

Countless times a day I think a thousand variations of “I have to share this with the GF!” when I read or see something that makes me laugh or cry. And I sometimes send her half a dozen emails when I read something that I know she will find interesting.

So when I hear about friends that have been in relationships as long or longer than myself going through the messiest of break-ups or even those that end because “We just aren’t right for each other anymore” I automatically put myself in their shoes and try to figure out what the GF and I can do to avoid their fates.

I understand what it feels like to want to spend the rest of your life with my best friend.  And it makes my stomach hurt to think about living my life without her in it.  I’ve lost best friends before, and it ain’t fun. I don’t want to go through that again.

When I see my newly single friends bouncing back from a break up, I marvel at how they do it.  How do you turn off the “I can’t wait to share this with them” button?  How do you forget about this person that meant so much to you? How does one go from sharing the most intimate details of life with a person to never speaking to them again?   Call me crazy, but I get attached.  Once I’ve shared myself with you, I find it difficult to just forget about all those details and go about my existence without at least wondering about the other person.

Unfortunately, the reality of life is that break-ups happen.  People, interests, desires all change. Sometimes we make stupid mistakes that change the course of our lives and relationships.  And while I know a break up would not literally kill me, that pain is not one that I relish having.  And maybe that’s why I try so hard to keep my relationship together.

I hate everything about this stupid war in Iraq. And all the stupid articles about Iraq just make me angry.  My brother’s in Iraq for the 3^rd, count ‘em first, second, THIRD time. I mean, the second time he was over there, his HumVee got blown up, and his knee cap got BLOWN OFF. He’ll never walk without a limb. His first born child will be born in October, and he won’t be there. Twenty Four is TOO YOUNG to see the all the death that he’s seen. And I miss him, damn it.

I’m sick of every news report starting out with how many soldiers and marines died in Iraq. It’s TOO much. I want this war over now.  I’m all about diplomacy, but for fuck’s sake, just end it already!

I generally have a pretty f-ed up view of the world. I expect the worst to happen.  I expect people to behave badly.  I have a horrible time trusting people.  I’m a cynic and a pessimist. I’m naturally sensitive, but I try VERY hard to keep my emotions under wrap, in a box with a key in a vault.  In a cave, under the ocean. (Being called a crybaby as a child will do that to you)

So when I read beautiful things written by beautiful people it makes me really happy and my faith in the world is restored (at least briefly).  And Marie had made me pretty happy today. In her post, Take Care, she asserts that we are in the lives of our friends, lovers, families because God trusts us to take care of them.

Read it again to make sure you got it. God trusts us to take care of them.

WOW. I got chill bumps while reading that statement!!! It is such an amazing and empowering thought. I am responsible for taking care of the people with whom I’ve been blessed to interact.

Sometimes I think about packing up my life and running away and living in a cave in the Midwest.  I’ve wondered if anyone would notice or care if I was no longer around. Most times I think I make a so-so friend. So to think that God (in her/his all-knowing wisdom) trusts me?!?!?!

I have friends and family with whom I have a cosmic (in my mind, at least) connection with.  People with whom I immediately feel comfortable.  People with whom I can be my total ridiculous self.  People who know me better than I know myself.  People who (on the days that I believe in reincarnation) I believe I’ve been living and dying with throughout the millennia. People I would die to save.

People who I am very guilty of occasionally treating badly.  People who I haven’t called, texted or even tweeting in forever. I ignore phone calls. I hold grudges.  I hurt feelings.  I rush to get off the phone or off the IM. I have horrible trust issues. I have hang-ups that keep me distant and invulnerable.

Sometimes I consciously tell myself that I shouldn’t care about anyone.  Caring makes one vulnerable and out of control. And I don’t want to be vulnerable and out of control.

When I think about how I treat people, I feel like an asshole.  Because Marie is right. How dare I not care? How dare I not trust myself to be the kind of lover, friend, family member that my loved ones deserve? I mean, if God can trust me (and my friends and family trust me) to do it properly, what’s my f-ing problem?

I’ve been admonished.

Thanks, Marie for reminding me that love, friendship and family are beautiful gifts that shouldn’t be taken lightly.  I promise to do better.  And I printed out her post and am taping it on my Vision Board.  I want to be the kind of person that God, apparently, thinks I am.

Worthy of the people in my life.

My mother expected us to be make good grades, have a strong work ethic, have an active spiritual life, and to give back to the family and the community.

She raised my siblings and me to be successful.

When I was 16, I had two jobs; I worked as a cashier in a grocery store and I worked as an intern in the local County Commissioners office. I made quite a bit of money for a sixteen year old.  And all my money was not mine. Every pay day (every other Friday) I was responsible for dinner.  That was usually the day that we ate out; on my way home from work I would pick up Subway, Pizza Hut, Taco Bell or KFC was usually on the menu.  I often helped out with my own and my younger siblings’ school shopping. I was responsible for a quite a bit at a relatively young age. I mean, I was the oldest of four, being raised by a single mom.

Additionally, my academic life was absolutely not to suffer because of my jobs. I had to maintain a 3.5 GPA and keep up with the Latin Club, French Club, Key Club, and African-American Club activities.

You know what? I loved my life; I was busy, I was happy, and I had money. (If only life stayed that simple.)

I don’t remember if my mom ever asked me to contribute to the household or if I just decided it was the right thing to do.  And I don’t remember being upset about

Over the years, I’ve watched my mom give back to the community. Whenever we outgrew anything, she bagged it up and gave it away. I’ve seen her give people at church, in the neighborhood or at her school money and food when they fall on hard times. I’ve also seen her give kids (the ones that were less fortunate than us) a dollar per A on their report card.  I’ve seen her take people into corners to pray, I’ve heard her call out the names of friends, family and acquaintances in prayer from her bedroom.  I KNOW she gives hundreds of dollars to programs as church that she believes in.

She’s awesome.  She may not be a saint, but she’s pretty dang –on close. For her, being successful isn’t about money or materialist goods (She will likely not be a rich lady). Success is about doing the right thing (even when it takes money out of your own pocket), success is about taking care of your family and touching the lives of others. Success is being about to look in the mirror and being happy with the person that you are and the life that you live.

She’s likely a big part of the reason that I’ve decided to go into public service.  Whenever we talk about my career and my life, she tells me that my purpose in life is the help people lead better lives. Luckily, I agree with her. She thinks I have a future in the ministry. I gotta say, I’m fighting that one.

What does success look like to you? Who has been a major influence in shaping your ideas about success.

I’m surrounded by amazing women.  Ambitious, smart, beautiful, I-can-take-over-the-world women.  More often than not, these women are partnered with the wimpiest, honey-can-I hold-your-purse, AVERAGE men ever.  And I don’t understand how these relationships work.

Disclaimer: I’m not saying this as a lesbian that feels that all strong women would be better with a woman; I don’t think that’s true.  I’m just saying that life partners should be well and equally matched (my mom would say equally yoked).

Several of my female married or nearly married friends now that when they decide to have families, they will continue to be the breadwinners and their husbands will be stay at home dads.  I also have a few male friends who can’t wait for their wives to pop out some babies so that they (the husbands) have an excuse to stay home and play house.

Disclaimer: I’m not knocking the stay at home dad (well, maybe a little). I guess it’s ok that men my age are evolved enough (or shrewd enough) to see the economic potential in their mates and support their careers.  Similar to the way one of my college girlfriends supported the promiscuity of her roommate and pawned her off on football players with Lincoln Navigators and Cadillac Escalades.  Needless to say, I think it’s underhanded. But that’s neither here nor there.

Since about age 16, I’ve considered what I wanted in a mate.  I knew I didn’t want my mother’s life. God bless her, she is the best mommy ever, but I knew that motherhood, kids, and domesticity were not for me. When I started dating in high school I considered boys based on their athletics, their looks, their family life, and whether not they would (or could) support the lifestyle of a national politician. You see, even in HS I had every intention of being, Monica Carol Evans, President of the United States (it is even on my vision board) and I needed a First Husband that wouldn’t embarrass me and would support my ambitions.

When I think back to the boys I’ve dated I must say that in many ways, I dated boys that turned into the men that the very ambitious women that I associate with on a daily basis have married.

Then I think about the GF.  There is nothing average or wimpy or subservient about her.  She matches my ambition and passion on every level.  If either of us turned into a new virgin mary right now and birthed an alien baby we would have to play “paper, rock, scissors” to decide who would be stuck with it.

Disclaimer: Nah, just playing, we’ve already decided. I’d be responsible for the baby while it was little and vulnerable. When it learned to talk, I’d pass it to her, and she would be responsible for it until it turns 14.  At 14, we’d have joint responsibility and teach it to be an adult.

But seriously, I don’t try ANY of the stupid sh!t on her that I tried on past boyfriends. There is no “steamrolling” or cuckolding the GF.  She is my equal partner is ways that I have never experienced.  As smart, passionate, ambitious ladies, we each have career goals that are very important to us. At important junctions in our relationship we share and remind each other of our personal and professional goals, and completely cheerlead for each other. 

Recently I met an older woman who is very much who I want to be in 15 years. Her career path is amazing; her work experience is crisscrossed with policy, lobbying, and politics gigs. She is doing or has done lots of work that is currently on my career to-do list.  In a recent conversation, it took us 45 minutes to hashed out how I’m to start my consulting business, she gave me a list of possible projects AND she invited me to work on her next political campaign (I think it’s her third successful one).  Then she told me her 5 year plan (which is phenomenal and crazy and BUSY) and while she’s telling me, basically, how she’s taking over North Carolina politics, I couldn’t help wondering, “What the hell does her husband do? And what does he think about her plans?”  I don’t know her well enough yet to ask her those questions. Honestly I’m not even positive that she’s married, which, in my book, would make perfect sense. It takes a strong and secure man to handle a strong, career-minded female. (and they are in SHORT supply, these days.)

What kind of husband (or wife) does a really ambitious and motivated woman need?  She needs someone who is self-assured, secure, and smart for sure.  But I always get hung up on supportive. 

Can a partner who is equally ambitious really support a mate whose ambition may be pulling them in a different direction? For a relationship to be successful, someone has to be willing to compromise, and potentially forsake themselves to preserve it.  I have two friends left great jobs and moved (joblessly) ACROSS the country for their mates. I thought they were crazily romantic and I wish them the best.

I wonder to myself, would I be willing to do that? Last summer in Atlanta would suggest that I would move to be with my partner, but I’m a nomad by nature and was curious about the big city. But what if I was settled and the GF needed to move away to pursue an opportunity, would I be so quick to follow her? How quickly would she be willing to move for me? Thinking about it makes my stomach hurt.  We’ve even had conversations about what would happen if only one of us gets a job soon in San Francisco.   

Does a wimpy, but dedicated mate make it easier for an ambitious woman to be successful?  I wonder if the formula that my girlfriends and their husbands are using (daddy daycare) really means that they will be able to fully concentrate on their careers while hubbie takes care of the house and kids? I’m skeptical. Can the working woman depend on her trailing spouse? 

How the hell do people make marriages work long-term?

50% of marriages work, so some people have figured out an arrangement that works for them.  I wonder if those are the relationships with a clear dominant and a clear submissive partner or if those are the marriages that are truly equal?  

What makes a relationship equal?

For the past 10 days, the prodigal son my baby brother has been in town. He hasn’t been home in over 2 years, and the last time I saw him, he had a cast covering his entire right leg (courtesy of a roadside bomb in Iraq) and I couldn’t stop petting him out of gratitude that he was still alive. So it was EXCELLENT to get to see him this year whole and walking without assistance. Additionally, my super awesome cityslicker baby sister has been home from college since my birthday.

As my siblings and I are unnaturally close, I’ve been spending a LOT of time at my mother’s house since their arrival. Beating each other up, fighting over the remote, laughing at mom (and each other), burping in each other’s faces and blaming each other for eating the last of the banana pudding (I promise it wasn’t me). It was amazingly fun and I’m so glad I was able to play with them.

I couldn’t help but notice, however, that I’m not 14. My sister isn’t a precocious 5 years old and my brother isn’t a shy preteen.  We are all adults. (That’s a f*cking scary thought).

In addition to our extremely juvenile antics, we also had some real conversations about life, love, depression and death. (Funny how those four go together).  At any rate, my babies are grown. They have opinions and ideas. Nevermind that our conversations, even on those heavy subjects, still result in oodles of raucous laughter.

The lives of my siblings do not revolve around our neat little nuclear family unit any more. I think my mother did a fantastic job of raising fully formed humans, even though, she sometimes (and I when it comes to my siblings) have a hard time adjusting to the way our family roles have changed.

My brother, who, when we were growing up, would easily toss my sisters and I around like his own personal rag dolls, acknowledged yesterday while he was struggling to carry my sister up a flight of stairs, either she’s getting heavy or he’s getting old (both, of course, are true). But I couldn’t help remembering how easily he would have accomplished that same task a few years ago.

Over this holiday break, I have had a chance to hang out with some of my “big” cousins.  I mean those cousins that were grown (and uber cool in my young eyes) when I was a teenager.  Lil’ Moni used to sneak and listen to the “adult” conversations that would flow around them.  They were usually about who’s having sex, is it any good, how often and with whom -apparently conversations that I was too young to hear then (and I didn’t understand them anyway), but now …. now is a different story. Now, not only is my participation requested in these conversations, it’s damn near mandatory. I can’t count the number of times this week that my family asked me about my “social life”.  And the stories that they tell, wow. I could write a book.

And now my big cousins have kids of their own, kids whose ears are routinely covered or who are flat out told to go outside and play, but who I am sure are smart enough to figure it out what the hell is going on.

But I have a very important question. Where did all the time go?

I say all this to say that time keeps on ticking, ticking, ticking, into the future. And there is NOTHING we can do about it.

As much as I’d like to keep my siblings young, carefree and innocent of the dirt, evil, and suffering in this world, I can’t. Life happens, man. As much as I will always remember my big cousins, some of whom are in their 40’s now, as young and bright and shiny twenty and thirtysomethings marching toward the prime of their lives, I must remind myself that I am now in that position.  If my life is to move forward (and it must) then I have be aware that time stands still for no one.

We get two choices: move of our own volition or get run over. I’m not getting run over, but repeatedly this holiday season has reminded me,

Cherish this time. Soak it up. Remember this. You will never live this moment again.

And luckily, I listened.

Every since Eysqueen wrote about Santy Claus, or maybe it was just seeing the fat man EVERYWHERE, or maybe it was the lady behind me in a store telling her kids if they didn’t straighten up she was going to tell Santa to give their toys to kids who could behave. Or maybe it is just after December 13 and no one is talking about my birthday anymore.

Whatever the reason, my HATRED of Santa Clause has doubled tripled.This week I went to a X-Mas party, and the host had Black Santas everywhere. And I wanted to stomp their little fat faces in.

On other occasions this week, I have gotten a chance to play with a few of my very cute little cousins, who have been very excited about getting presents (and having new people to play with). And every so often one of the stupid adults would say something stupid about Santa Claus coming, and I would grit my teeth and hold my tongue.

Why?

Because all I wanted to say was: SANTA CLAUS DOES NOT EXIST!!!!!!!!!!!

I think it is ABSOLUTELY wrong to trick kids into believing in this FAKE person. I mean, boogyemen don’t exist, right? And there isn’t (and has never been, according to my mother) a goblin living under my bed, waiting to eat my toes and suck me under the bed, right?

Then why the F*CK to very educated parents persist in lying to their kids about a fat happy man that breaks into homes EVERY YEAR?

My mother never told my siblings and I that there was a Santa Claus.

And I thank her dearly for it.

WHY?

Because when we got Christmas presents, we understand the SACRIFICE and HARDWORK, on my mother’s part that went into making sure that we had presents at all. AND we were F*CKING grateful and hugged and kissed our mother to let her know that her good deeds did not go unnoticed.

Unlike these badass kids today who do not understand the meaning of thankfulness, giving and sharing.

All they know is MINE and GIMME.

The meaning of “Christmas” has completely been forgotten. So forgotten that I was forced to send out the following Christmas Day message

Merry Hanukkah, Happy Christmas, Kwanzaa, Winter Solstice and other pagan and commercial gift-giving season.

I feel that I have to acknowledge the season, but I kind of hate Christmas and all it has come to represent. I would rather get presents during the year for being good, rather than having the pressure and the competition of getting (and giving) the right present for Christmas.

And while I LOVE my family, I would rather visit them individually at their homes, than trudging from house to house on Christmas Day forcing myself to smile and be f*cking merry.

I’d rather be a home in my sweats watching a movie (or a House marathon on USA).

Why do we continue to buy into the forced merriness of this time of the year? (while it is cold as BALLS, and we can’t even go from house to house without repeated layering up (to go outside) and stripping (once we get into the house)).

At the very least, can’t we move Christmas to August? And make it a mandatory beach vacation full of beautiful half-naked people and margaritas?

*sigh*

Anyone wanna co-sign that?

In the meantime, I, evil demon that I am, have been whispering under my breath all week, “I hate f*cking Santa.”  And it has been oh so hard not to randomly tap little kids on the shoulder and say, SANTA DOES NOT F*CKING EXIST!!!!

Would it be so bad to just gather all the munchkins together and say, Kids, your moms and dads work hard. They work and save (or borrow and steal) to make sure that you get that Big Wheel or Xbox or Barbie doll, so when they tell you to do your homework, or clean your room or eat your veggies, YOU better f*cking do it! There is no Santa, there is no naughty/nice list. There are just the parents that you drive crazy 364 days a year. Be NICE to your parents, and be NICE to your teachers. Behave yourselves in public, and stop being an embarrassment.

It’s the least the little rugrats can do to repay their lemming parents for keeping Toys R US in business, right?

Ok, I’m done.

I hope everyone had a nice semi-religious, pagan holiday season.

Love,

Your neighborhood Grinch

I am the oldest of four children.  Luckily, my mother gave birth to excellence all four times. We are smart, beautiful, gifted, funny and one day we will rule the world.

While I do believe the genes worked in my favor in a lot of ways, there is at least one way that my siblings are better than me.

My brother and sisters have awesome fashion sense.

And I don’t.

This comes to my attention every time I look at my youngest sister.  This woman is 18 and she dresses beautifully. She always looks well put together (even when she’s wearing sweatpants and t-shirts).  It is so not fair.  And my brother, goodness, this boy makes jeans and polos look as good as anything I’ve ever seen. They can wear colors and shapes and style and so many things that make me look dumpy and old. Or too young and fat.  Either way, my babies always look great, and I often look a step-child. And they are quick to point out all the fashion mistakes I make.

Well, this year I made a decision.  I am an adult andI need to dress like an adult. And just any old adult. I need to be hot, sexy, (but professional) lady.  I need to be a bombshell at all times.  I need walk into a room and hear my theme music.  [It is Dancing Queen, btw]

I need confidence.

I think better clothes will give me more confidence.

Furthermore, I’m in transition. I’m about to start the last semester of MPA school.  I’m going to going on interviews soon. I’m moving across the country. I’m starting a new life.   I am an adult, I should look like one. And I need to feel good about myself.  Now. Not just when I lose 20 pounds.

I’m growing up, and creating my personal style. Most importantly, my outside needs to match my inside, which we all know is peaches and cream, sugar and spice, super cool and awesomeness.

So this year, when my mother took me out for our customary “its your birthday, let’s buy clothes” shopping extravaganza, I made my super awesome, fashionista sister come with. And I made her give me lessons on putting outfits together. She had some good things to say:

• Make sure that shirts are long enough, so that you aren’t fidgeting with a too-short shirt
• Pants, likewise, should be long (my sis is tall and thinks highwaters are the devil)
• Stick to colors that are easy to match (but don’t get stuck)
• Take risks and don’t be afraid to try new things
• Love accessories (belts, necklaces, earrings, etc)
• Layer- camisoles and cardigans are your friend
• Buy clothes that fit (not too tight or you look skanky, but not so big that you look like a balloon)
• Create a long leansilhouette (no bulges)
• Be comfortable

This shopping trip was fun. For the first time, i didn’t fret that all the trendy jean styles didn’t look good.  I didn’t buy pants thinking, well, when I lose weight it’ll look  better. And I wasn’t in charge of finding my sizes (my sister was).

[Aside: This girl is a Economic major, but I swear she should be an image consultant. I'd PAY her for her insight, or to just go shopping and bring the clothes to me.]

I bought clothes that fit well and made me look more awesome than usual. And I’m really f-ing happy with my purchases.

Granted, some things never change so most of my new clothes are black, gray and red (I bet 80% of my closet consist of those colors). But wait, i bought a green cardigan and I bought something purple.   I also bought a few items that I normally wouldn’t wear, like buttondown shirts and hip hugging sweaters. AND I bought one of those wide belts that is supposed to accentuate my figure, and  long pants that fit. (no muffintop or highwaters for me, lol).

But since my birthday isn’t until Dec. 13 (that’s right, Saturday!!!!) I can’t wear my beautiful new clothes until then. BOO!   However, my lovely gf is taking out for fabulous dinner, and I’m looking forward to getting dressed up in my  new birthday clothes!

I had three really great conversations with cool, intelligent people over the course of 48 hours. And the topic of conversation?  ME!

This is what I learned from those conversations:

>>I am under tremendous pressure. Not because of deadlines, and papers and graduating from MPA School, however. I am under increasingly large amounts of pressure because I care too damn much about what other people think of me. Large amounts of my time is wasted because I am wondering, thinking, stressing over what this or that person is thinking about my decisions, my words, my life. I’ve called myself a chameleon for years, it is only now that I realize that this is not a compliment.  My chameleon behavior has caused me to wonder “Who the hell am I, really?” Because I’m someone different for everybody.

This is a problem, but I have no one to blame but myself.

>>I have carried friends and loved ones on my back, making sure that their lives ran smoothly, fixing their problems, being a sounding board but in the meantime I forgot about little ol’ me.  Who the f*ck takes care of me?  Instead of advocating on my own behalf, I have been more likely to work for the best interest of others. I ask, What works for you? What do you need? What will make you happy? Never once stopping to ask myself, What the f*ck do you want, Monica?

This behavior must cease and desist.

>>I say bad things about myself all the time. Regardless of all the great things I do on a daily. Despite all the awesomeness that seeps from my pores on the pages of this blog.   I often have feeling of unworthiness, inadequacy (this would be worse if I were a man, hee hee), I dwell on my shortcomings, my mistakes, regrets, etc. In short, I am never good enough (in my own mind).

And that is just plain wrong! I am so cool.

How do I know? Everyone tells me so .

Seriously, I have NEVER given myself a reason not to believe in my coolness. I always bring it. I rock. (Even as I say it, I don’t know why I have such a hard time believing it.)

I have to unwind my negative tape. And put in a better more positive tape (thanks for that visual, gf!) And give myself a daily pep talk.

>>My life is better when I’m spontaneous. And flying by the seat of my pants.  When I make a decision quickly, I’m a happy camper.  If I have time to stress, agonize, and worry about a problem, then I stress and worry, then make the decision anyway, but at the end I have a decision and an ulcer.

My need for spontaneity may explain why procrastination works so well for me. The last minute allows me to do what I need to do.  Then I release the decision, project, problem into the Universe, and I don’t have to worry about it anymore.  When I have too much time to work on a project, I end up stressing over it, and waiting til the last minute anyway.

>>I’m a rule breaker. I like to do things my way. I don’t like to walk single file. I don’t like to follow the speed limit. I don’t follow directions well. I will do stupid stuff sometimes just to see if I can get away with it.

But you know what? For 26 mutha f-ing years, I have done NOTHING but follow the rules and do what everyone expected of me.

And I’m over it.

I have been having a reoccurring NIGHTMARE for at least 3 years, where I’m suffocating and no one will help me, even when I scream my little head off.  Tuesday, someone that I pay to listen to me said something along the line of ” Well, if you’d let her out of her cage more often she wouldn’t try to kill you.”

She didn’t really say that. But she should have.

What she did say was that I am all I need and I am good enough. And when I free myself from the pressure of being PERFECT then I’ll stop suffocating. And when I truly understand and believe in myself, my super scary nightmare will go away. Because the real Monica is ready to stand up.

Intellectually I get all this. I see how all these horrible bad habits make my life harder and miserable. But old habits are hard to break. Will people still love me if I start caring for myself more than them? I sure hope so, but that is not the point here.

The point is that I’m learning, slowly but surely how to get back to me (for the first time, ever).

And I love my gf, ’cause she lets me be a complete teary mess and she listens to me.  She reminded me (and I didn’t even have to pay her for this nugget of wisdom) of all the things I’ve done over the past 18 months where I did what I wanted instead of what EVERYONE else expected.

• I broke up with my fiancé- who is a great guy, btw (just not for me)
• I started dating a woman
• I told my family that I’m dating a woman
• I moved out on my own
• I started graduate school
• I’m taking a hodge podge of non-finance/budget classes
• I’m moving far far away from here

And these are all things that make me happy. And I don’t care what you other f*ckers think!