This Little Masochist

I know where the car is parked
I know where the cupboards are
I know he isn’t you.

Tori Amos
Hey Jupiter

Sometimes I am not sure where my car is, Brian leaves it places, better than driving drunk by far.
None of the cupboards have doors, so that’s taken care of.
And of course I can tell them apart. I know who is who, and who isn’t and what is bad for me and I do them anyways.

The parable of the snake is me. I am the woman who picks them up, warms them up and gets bit.
Luckily I am also the anti venom.
Its not like bee venom or poison ivy where the toxins accumulate.
Suck it up, spit it out and around we go again.

(Oh look, another purdy snake.)

For all I know Jupiter is still in retrograde and for all my starry eyed witchyness, I couldn’t tell you what that means, nor if its even true.

I can say this.

…this little masochist is ready to confess….

Same song.

Same girl, different bad decision.

If we date at the level of our self esteem, and god help me but I believe this to be true, seriously, god help, like now, please. I am in some serious trouble here. Where was I going with this…

I am a masochist, I gravitate to pain. I wish I could stop.

I had this great opening line for a post and then I stepped in puppy pee, lost it in the clean up.

I am definitely losing it.

Surrounded by drunk toddlers, playing chess with no rules, on a season of Survivor. Cherry Bombs and hurricanes with stripper names.
And here I am, stuck in the middle, relatively alone.

I am on a carousel. Faces change, circumstances don’t.

At least I got laid this time.

And a UTI and scrambled hormones from Plan B.
I only cried a little, no wait, a lot. That was how I spent New Years Eve. Constantly reminding myself ‘these are not my hormones’. Over and over on a loop, spiked with ‘somebody do something’ and a lot of ‘fuck it’ after 2 am and sprinkled with some tears.

I had to give up my superstition of whatever happens on New Year’s is what will continue for the year. This is the island of opposites, thank fuck. Even if it is, wouldn’t be a lot different than last year and I made it through. Perspective is a beautiful thing. I can gladly say the things that once held power over me, don’t anymore. Time does heal, answers always come when they are ready and not a minute sooner. We will get there. But for now I go round and around. Not a fan of the carousel but it’s better than standing still I guess. Roller coasters are always preferred.

I missed my roller coasters this year. And my swimmable ocean, 6 am wake ups on the balcony watching the birds and looking for dolphins. Writing, I get a lot of writing done there. Hours on the road, days really. Gives me lots of time to think and not much else. The nostalgia, I has that.  Keeps coming up in my Facebook memories, I should be just getting back from Florida. My eyes turquoise from swimming, my skin tanned from the sunshine, my face brighter, my heart lighter. I couldn’t get away in time. I went to Ontario instead. It’s okay. It is what it is.

Chris D’elia does this stand up bit about drunk girls and how we make no sense. He isn’t wrong. It has been adopted into the vernacular.
Lines like “Is it what it isn’t?” and “is that your crocodile?” No, its a snake and it’s not mine either. They are never mine. I just pick them up and get bitten remember, and none of us are wearing pants and no one wants to take my job.

Nothing matters to a drunk girl at all, but I am still trying to be sober. And ya, some of it matters.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6XrTj7g714g

My current mental war is between it is what it is, and fight for what you want. Actually that is always what it is. I am tired of fighting and like I said, on a long enough timeline the truth comes out and everything makes some kind of sense.

It is what it is is winning. I knew what I was getting into and it went the way I knew it would. And if the above statement is true (not that one the other one where I stated we date at the level of our self esteem) then please don’t give me what I want. My vagina is an idiot, maybe not an idiot, but definitely a masochist.

In 9 weeks it will be mid March. At some point the trees will start to bud, the leaves and the sun will come back. The neighbors lawn will be full of crocuses, I will be able to at least dip my toes in the ocean, see the whales, wear a sundress, sit outside and be happy. The thing that is making me sad right now will have subsided to a dull ache that only hurts on cold days.

I am not even that sad. It is what it isn’t. It was never gonna be.

I forget where I was going with this.

I forget why I came here.
It happens.

Thankfully with less frequency than the time called ‘before’, but when yet another dude lets me down, I get an old familiar ache, like a long healed broken bone on a cold day, or a phantom limb that itches. Same same, here we go again. How long is it going to hurt this time around and around and around.

Then Brian and I go late night tipsy grocery shopping, or the cabbie takes the route where I can see the boats in the harbor, or something on my car breaks and I go way up the shore and find myself covered in grease laughing at a stubborn bolt in a garage. Playing with a floppy eared dog looking out over the cove as the sun goes down and I am content in the moment.

I think that is the answer. To all the dilemmas, the snakes and the heartache.

“It’s having a thing and then losing it that’ll kill ya.”*

I thought that, I really did. But now I don’t know. Having a thing and enjoying it in the moment, for what it is, then letting it go gracefully, that might be the thing that saves me.

It is what it is.

 

*Cold Mountain