Facepainting

Sitting in a coffee shop feeling sorry for myself, I am slapped on the back of the head by the universe. “Snap out of it, you whining b*tch”, I think might be an accurate abbreviation for the actual events. As I sit, typing voraciously on my netbook, a couple of women sit behind me and begin a conversation about “the shower”. They are so excited; it will be beautiful and so much fun. And, “So, do you love being married?” Oh my yes, tales and tales of how great it is and so worth the wait and how she couldn’t have even imagined life would ever be this wonderful. Seriously, shut up! And then as if it isn’t enough that her happiness is seriously grating on me, more women arrive and start discussing the party and how excited they are about the facepainting station, like they are solving world peace or doing brain surgery or something. I mean, really, facepainting? Are you really contributing to society? Are you really this exuberant about some fleeting acrylic tagging ritual? And they are rapidly encroaching on my personal space and definitely polluting my aural airspace with their incessant chattering. Enough already, you petty, boring, overprivileged…oh, the party is for orphans? Um, well, I freeze mid-turn, the snarky comment frozen in my throat. Returning to my writing I continue to open an ear to the conversation.

“I am so excited for what g*d has in store for me. I never know when he is going to turn up and test me, like walking around in a haunted house, waiting for him to pop out.” Really, a haunted house analogy? Something I can actually relate to? Maybe I need to look into this g*d person. Perhaps, insipid blond histrionics aside, there might possibly be something there. And then they continue with all the talk of love and babies and perfect lives and the moment is gone. I pack up and, irritated, retreat to the restroom to gather my thoughts and websurf in private.

But I am haunted, not by g*d, but by this sudden awareness that I have become jaded. It is a strange revelation. I mean, I question all the time the contribution I make with everything I do, motivated by self-fulfillment but always with an undercurrent of mild altruism. I am an educator and inspiration for those around me and I am used to throwing myself on the sword for the benefit of others, even if I know it will cost me in the end because I have always believed the reward would outweigh the sacrifice but never have I let my own pitfalls make me jaded. My positive outlook has been my defining characteristic, a true Pollyanna with a kookie vibe and a splash of self-deprication, blending with completely unfounded arrogance. My own weird cocktail but it has worked for me. And I really thought I was doing something for myself this last time but in retrospect, I got involved once again with someone who, despite his overtures to the contrary, never once announced to the world, “I love this woman. I want to walk down the street holding her hand. I want to kiss her in public; I want to irritate jaded ex-lovers with my sappy happiness.”

Until now, I’ve never questioned it, but I have historically been involved with people who wanted to keep what we had private or wanted to get involved with me secretly, whether it was because they had a girlfriend or disapproving family, or they were married, transgender or socially inept. And I always thought it was a sign that they were somehow cooler or more private or that I was gaining access to a side of them that no one else did or giving eachother something we both needed, but I think perhaps I may be the one everyone wants to sleep with and no one wants to actually date. I’m not a muse, I’m a blight; a seven year itch, a curiosity… an intrigue. And I’m sick of it. Knowing is half the battle, right?

I’m having a hard time reconciling everything that has happened and even questioning whether divorce is the answer. Truth is, we never gave marriage a real, fighting chance because we decided we would define what a marriage was for us but not for years have we actually tried just being honest and in love. And I thought that’s what I wanted because that is what I was offered. But it never occurred to me to say no; to just say what you offer isn’t enough and maybe what I have to offer isn’t enough either. Same with Mr. Darcy. I wanted so much to be a part of his life that I was ready to walk away from my marriage, too late of course, but I never questioned what he was offering, which had nothing to do with what I really wanted. To him and his life I was just going to be a part, not a partner. I have always wanted the person but I never questioned the fact that I really wanted the whole package. I suppose that’s the lesson I learned from Heath. I wanted to be with him, I loved every minute of it and he made me question everything that had come before and really define what I wanted for myself without compromise. Problem was, once defined, he couldn’t actually offer me that; he already had the life he wanted, there wasn’t a place for me in it, no matter how much I loved him. And I was ready to compromise because I thought that was what love is, compromise, but I think perhaps true love is the whole package. I need someone who wants to be with me, publicly, who’s faults are bolstered by my strengths and whose strengths compliment my shortcomings. A partner, not a puppet. Someone who wants to be a part of my life in all things, someone who wants the life that I want; a life so surprisingly fulfilling that anything else feels like a compromise. I want the package, love and happiness and babies and sappiness and cool, stupid adventures that pale in the retelling to how exciting and fun they were in the doing. And if I can’t find that person, then I shall continue to be my amazing self under the radar no longer. No compromising. I leave for Europe this week and I shall spend the summer finding myself again, building myself back up, piecing myself back together. If I can’t have the romance of a lifetime this lifetime, I shall seek the perfect romance with myself and make up the rest. Maybe there is a place in the world for a muse like me. And for my readers, the next chapter begins. Without my marriage to define me, without a husband or boyfriend or lover I shall have to define myself. And I want to be a billboard, a novel, an arc of lightning across the heavens, not a secret anymore! I just don’t quite know where to start. So here is to another new beginning.