I haven't been writing very much over the past few months, and STOPWAITNOCOMEBACK I'm not here to apologize for it. No. What I'm doing here is just thinking aloud. Er, typing silently. It's silent for you, at least. Because I can certainly hear the clickity clack of the keyboard. Punctuated by the beau's farts.
Since January, in preparation for the move, we've been going through our stuff and donating or tossing the items we no longer want or need. "You know what would be fun?" I thought. "It would be fun to keep track of what we're getting rid of!"
Last week, just one day after Jessica Simpson finally had her baby, I came across an internet article about her "post-baby weight loss plan."
One. Day. Afterward.
This shouldn't be a surprise. I shouldn't have been remotely surprised.
But I was, because how ridiculous is this? Why is losing weight immediately after childbirth glorified? Why is it held up as a shining standard when, in truth, an average woman lacks the time and interest in getting back up on the treadmill after popping out a kid? Not to mention that a woman who's just been through a physically and emotionally traumatic event needs plenty of time to heal before attempting diet and exercise?
On two separate occasions in recent memory, I was called upon to act like a girl.
The first time came when we were visiting a quaint little town in Oregon with the beau's parents. The beau and his dad decided they wanted to go get a drink at a pub, and his mom decided she wanted to browse the shops. They all turned and looked at me, waiting to see which one I'd choose.
I'm going to be a bridesmaid next year, you guys. First time ever. Always a bride, never a bridesmaid, was my problem. Until now.
I feel so proud and excited. I'm going to be in a wedding party! That's a rite of passage, right? It's special. You get to sit or stand in certain places and perform certain rituals. Just like having a baby. Speaking of which, another friend is having a baby. The first baby and the first wedding in my personal circle of close friends. 2012 is the year, you guys. The year of weddings and babies. The year my people all finally grow up, apparently. The year shit gets real.
You know what hasn't grown up? Me. Some part of me, deep inside, is still twelve years old. Because some part of me, deep inside, is angry that my friend getting married has been stolen away by her fiance.
Well, this is new.
I finally did it. I finally got my ass in gear, redesigned the blog, and made the move from Wordpress.com to self-hosted. As of this writing there are a still a few kinks I need to work out, and I might mess with the styles a bit more in the coming days, but this is pretty much it.
Every day is an exercise in futility.
Oh, what? I'm sorry. I couldn't hear you over my raging self-pity. Also, you are likely located hundreds, if not thousands, of miles away from me, so you might want to consider speaking up.
What's got me so glum, chum? I don't know. That ol' clock just keeps on beating me down. Father Time: what a dick, right? Talk about the long arm of the patriarchy — they can even screw me over metaphysically.