“Look out there!” my mum tells me while I’m playing Hearthstone — in the middle of my first match against an actual opponent. I’ve been hearing something beep, and yes, I know it could be brilliant, but I have to defeat this player first. But she’s very excited, so I get up mid-turn and hope I don’t come back to a Game Over screen or some such. I have to admit I’m curious myself, now. She’s acting like this is something I’ll really enjoy.
“I see the truck,” I say through about a gallon of snot. Oh, allergy season, piss off.
“Look through the window!” She points. Finally, frustrated with my utter cluelessness about Good Things What Come From Home Depot, she says, “We bought a grill!”
It’s a very nice grill, I’m sure, and like she says, the old one nearly killed us; it was rusted through and the gas had begun to leak everywhere. So that was what she was smelling. But I stand there, dumbfounded, sniffling. Did it occur to her that I’m not going to care what they grill on given I don’t eat what they grill?
I don’t even want to know what they paid.
. . .
Summer’s end, and the livin’ is definitely not easy. I’m titrating up on my Celexa because I guess my body notices when I go from 15mg to 20 in one fell swoop. Settling in at 17.5, the lows aren’t so extreme, but I’m missing a particular high, and it’s not mania, I’ll tell you that. I have no periods. Sometimes Pepsi gives me hot flashes. Now I’m barely alive below the waist anymore. Good grief, I’ve managed to induce menopause in myself somehow.
No, I haven’t. But that’s what this feels like. It goes with the general sense that I am getting old. You can laugh, but I feel caught between ages, as if I am both too old and too young for where I want to be. I miss dorm living, of all things. I miss what it might’ve been. At the same time some part of me wishes I were part of a DINK couple where he’s normal but he understands my quirks because we can’t all be Suits, you know? Some of us have to be people-helpers. And maybe he’s widowed, maybe he’s divorced, but he’s never younger than forty. Maybe I am even a soccer stepmom ferrying my preteen and my teenager to all their activities while I keep house and quirk my days away.
Too much “Modern Family”.
I do feel a little like I’m shambling along, though. Going through the motions. Because where is the good excitement? My aunt’s not coming this year. She’ll try to make it in time for something spectacular next year, and after she’s bailed on us twice I’m not sure I trust that. I’m twenty-eight and I think I’m middle-aged, because the most I can hope for at this point is a nice double-occupancy house in the city, with me living on the top floor and my parents on the bottom. Maybe a foster child. I think my thrilling days may be done. The romantic scenarios that normal women use as consolation prizes when they are pushing thirty are closed to me. Is this why I don’t want to be a therapist in a nice suburban practice? Is this why I hope for a job with the police or an ER or something else that’s meant to be taxing?
Really, I’m surprised you’re still reading this, if you are. I could make this private. I feel like I’ve made so much private lately, though, filing the less palatable slices of myself away. Withdrawing because I don’t want to hurt anyone. Hiding so you all think I’m perfectly normal, the Cass girl who started this blog, when I think I turned left somewhere out of her skin. So I’m going to leave this pretty public (ugly public?). The sneezing’s died down, as has the revulsion from last night’s dream — and it felt like a warning, and I think I’ve got it now, but will I do anything about it?
Will I hell.