Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: aging, alcoholism, anxiety, asexuality, claire brosseau, facebook status, grey hair, insomnia, low self-esteem, Marianne Baker, night sweats, Valentine's Day
Hey Squirrels,
I don’t know about you, but this has been a pretty rough week for my ego. I might as well just come right out and say it. And you know, I think the whole “Valentine’s Day” sham might have something to do with it– the whole focus on romantic love and feeling like you need to have everything perfect, be perfect, have a perfect relationship, pretend everything is just fine and dandy because if it isn’t, well then you failed this Valentine’s. Of course, if it weren’t “Valentine’s”, none of this would matter– you would just go on living your life, coping the way you normally would, in this big ol’ boring, pathetic, hate-yourself-of-a-month that is February, anyways.
And on that note, a little mid-Feb love Day ISN’T such a bad idea, now that I think about it– at best it brightens things up a bit, no? But I think it’s only fair that we declare an “Insecurities Weeks” to accompany the week of this famed Hallmark holiday, just to be fair. Are you feeling me?
Ok, here it is: I have just got my first grey hair. Possibly, many. And to top that, I discovered such in the mirror just before entering the U of T campus for a little field trip I had to make that day. Wonderful. So I spent the next two hours trying to keep my head low as I waded through crowds of what seemed like teenagers– teenagers with a higher education level than little ol’ moi, I might add– feeling like they were all staring at me, thinking they must be thinking “who’s that old girl with the grey hair? What’s she doing here?”. GREAT.
I’m 27-years old, people! I don’t need to be getting grey hair NOW!!! I mean, my mom doesn’t even have grey hair yet, and she’s way older than me! WTF??
What could be causing this? Stress? Anxiety? All this adult talk lately? You know, I went from spending Saturday nights dancing in a window in a wig and go-go boots, to spending them negotiating with my man about how or what time or how often or how not often enough we are having the you-know-what, between his schedule of kid visits, parenting classes, going to work early, and then me staying up all night (I am still an insomniac, probably always will be…), needing to find time to write, record, find a new job (it has become apparent I am more or less chronically un-employable, it seems… this really helps my ego too… ahem… NOT!!), find a new apartment (more on that later…)… It seems like there is no spontaneity anymore. I fear I am becoming a bit of a drag. An adult. UGH.
On that note, it occurs to me.. I really should try to get my job back. I liked being a window model. It was really too bad about the whole stalker incident, the ex-wife-wanting-me-dead thing (guess I can’t blame her, really…); it all just got to be too much. But it was the greatest job I ever had. I miss all those girls. I miss having no other responsibility than to show up, look pretty, smile and waive. I was both famous and completely anonymous, all at once. Boy, that was GREAT!! I can’t help but think of the good times. Now I worry that if they do take me back, it will only be out of pity, and behind my back they’ll be forcibly saying nice things like “wow, she’s such an inspiration. Still dancing, and at her age….” That is the worst. I have become another victim of the cliche trap that has ensnarled and destroyed so many other females in this brutal society. Aaaaaararrrrghh!
What should it even matter? I’ve always said, men and women shouldn’t die their hair when they get old; they should just let it turn grey or white, because it kind of rocks like that. And on that note, I– for many years– bleached and died my hair “ash blond”– which was super-hot, I might add, but waaaaaaaaaaaay too much chemicals and effort for a lazy squirrel like me— and that is, really, only a shiny version of grey. Silver, if you will. So how can that be a bad thing if it happens naturally? I guess it’s just… the thought of it.
I’m not afraid of being old; I’m afraid of growing old. It’s that awkward in-between stage, you know? It’s like, I’m still too young to roll with the old ladies (they won’t accept me yet– they’re too busy fighting against me and apparently everything I represent or remind them of, like a slap in the face, no fault of my own…), but it’s become painfully apparent that I’m not on the team of the young ones anymore. I’m having flashbacks from 6th grade– I was the first girl in my school to get boobs, and boy did I ever!! The ironic part was, prior to this, I prayed to God every night to give me huge boobs, to make me this insatiable sexy lady (strange, but true… I obviously didn’t get enough attention as a child…), and then BOOM! Boy did the man come through. And it was BRUTAL!!! (Careful what you wish for, ladies!). Suddenly I’m like this freak of nature in my school and all the boys are onto me, and all the girls hate me cause the boys are all over me, and the ones that are angry cause they’re not getting something they want from me are spreading lies about me, calling me names, and the jealous ones are joining in cause they’re just looking for something to make them feel better about themselves, and I’m just there– feeling pretty uncomfortable in my poorly-fitting training bra to being with, and this certainly isn’t helping– and I’m like what did I do??? People are brutal. Change is hard. It’s just a fact of life.
I found myself saying “I can’t WAIT to be old” the other day, after a few more-than-awkward incidents with boys (the usual stuff, apparently I just can’t be friends with anyone anymore? that sucks!), and now I’m deeply, deeply regretting it, of course. You can’t just ask for things and not expect the universe to hear you. Careful with this stuff!
Why did I want to be old? Well, because one day I will be a little old lady and I won’t have to worry about any of this stuff anymore: boys will no longer be interested in me, women will no longer be jealous of me (except for my mountains and mountains of money, of course! But I will keep it very will hidden so they won’t know.. Hehe!); I’ll become invisible. People will open doors for me and help me carry my bags and not because they’re hoping I’ll suck their cock after (then again… nah nevermind! gross!)… No one will flirt with me or follow me home at night, or stalk me, or make comments about what I eat or how much I weigh… Oh, it will be GREAT!!
I just don’t want to be aging. I am deeply afraid of getting old. I don’t want to be a living comparison to what I used to be. I guess that’s it. I wish I could stay 27 forever, or, failing that, just skip ahead to 80, like IMMEDIATELY. There it is. I said it. Released. Done.
I probably got three more grey hairs last night, thinking about this stuff. The bf (codename: Monkey) is out of town on business, and you know, I can’t help but worry about him and all these other bitches… It’s brutal. Why should I even care? You know, before I met the Monk, I had joined the Asexuals Visibility Network. Seriously!! I remember complaining to my friends that it wasn’t fair that there wasn’t a status on Facebook that you could pick that just said “not interested”. Like, why does my life have to be defined by whether or not I’m getting laid? Why do I have to be either locked down, “in an open relationship” (read: “slutty”), or “single” (read: “hoping to get some soon”)??? (PS: I’m not on Facebook anymore. There is one improvement in my life I can tell you about– whew!!) Are we all really so one-track-minded? How about just, “leave me alone???”. How about “I’m a human being having a spiritual experience and I don’t need to define that in relation to anyone’s cock, or lack of…”??? That is honestly how I felt at the time. And now… this??
I should have spent the night working on my songs, taking advantage of a little squirrel-sola time, but instead, I stayed up until three AM, worrying, crying, drinking alone (???), and reading Claire Brosseau’s Manbattical blog (can’t recommend that enough, btw– and PS, I am adopting the word “codename” into my vocabulary due to her influence– you got to give credit where it is due!). I went through pretty much a whole tray of cookies (good grief…), and woke up (sometime this afternoon…), to empty beer bottles, peanut shells EVERYWHERE (???), and my head feeling like it was about to explode. WTF?? So un-Squirrel-Power of me. Blaaaaaaaaaah… I feel TERRIBLE!!!
Monkey is going to come home tonight and I am going to have to explain that yes, it was me. Between the night sweats, the strange activities after midnight, the whining, complaining, farting, indecisiveness, taking-too-long-in-the-shower, and now GREY hairs, we also have drinking-almost-all-the-beer-in-the-fridge-while-you-were-away (almost– I resisted the urge to drink the last one, but it took A LOT of willpower, and I nearly lost that war..) to add to the list of reasons why, basically, I SUCK.
Well there it is. THANK YOU for indulging me. Feel free to share you own self-hatred too (if you have any), in the spirit of things (it would make me feel a lot better about myself! Please???). Now that I have that all off my chest, I feel better about things already. I guess I’ll go do something awesome now to make me feel better; I can come back and read this another time and have a good laugh at myself.
Happy Insecurities Week!
Love always,
xoxoxoxxo
Squirrel Power
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