Happy

The other day, I was talking on the phone to Kinfolk. He is one of my oldest friends. Just a little background: I met him in college. He married one of my closest girlfriends. He's really southern and grows vegetables. Anywho, I was talking to him about the weightloss drugs I have been prescribed and depression meds and he goes, "You do seem a lot happier Clay." (insert eyeroll). I then ask, "Uh...was I ever happy?" And he says, "Yes."

Listen, if regular people could get an Emmy, I apparently would have one. Winfrey said something similar a long time ago about my having been "happy", which left me confused and scratching my head. I spend most of my time screaming in my head and gripping my edges. Looking back, my whole life has been riddled with fear and anxiety and functional depression. I didn't know that I was exhibiting these symptoms as a kid and young adult. I was just being Holly: the overemotional fat girl that liked to make mountains out of mole hills. The ho that was COVID revealed to me during quarantine that people around the world who demonstrate Holly-ness are typically medicated. Apparently, crying multiple times a day to "relax" isn't really a thing. 

Yet, to Kinfolk's credit, I was able to camouflage these issues in college with parties, study sessions, optimism about my future and excitement about being away from home. I know longer party. I have nothing to study for. I'm about as optimistic as a man in the electric chair. And my future...don't even get me started! In my defense, it was easy to laugh and smile in my 20s because I didn't see the avalanche of BS that was coming my way. Seem a lot happier. Give me a break. When I meet people my age who are grinning like they are 22, I assume that they are either drunk or that they have accepted the fact that they have lost their minds. One thing I don't assume is that they are happy, and as glass half empty as I am that makes me sad. 

The Girl and the Gyno

I have to find a new gynecologist. 

This may not seem like a big deal, but when you are overweight with body image issues, past Pap trauma, and no money, it can be a bit of a challenge. It's not something that I wanted to do, so I have been putting it off. But today I woke up with it on my mind, so I went to the list of gyno's I found on Google weeks ago and began to call around for questions and quotes, my anxiety at an all-time high. 

The first time I called Dr. A, her receptionist hung up on me. We will give her the benefit of the doubt and assume that it was a mistake. The second time I called I said hello and introduced myself for the receptionist to say in an annoyed voice, "Can you hold on?!" Before I could answer, she clicked over to another line, leaving me to listen to bad elevator music. I ultimately hung up before she could come back on the line, but waited a good while, hoping I would get the chance to yell, "Hey! Don't you know I am the daughter of a woman who ignored symptoms in her body until she literally dropped dead? I am trying to be proactive here biotch! How about a little compassion?!" That chance never came. I was tired of listening to scratchy Kenny G songs. 

I had a good feeling about Dr. B just looking at her name on my list. Her receptionist answered the phone after two rings, and her voice was bright and sunny. I thanked her for being so nice, because Dr. A's receptionist was rude. "Oh no! Rude already? It's too early in the morning!" My sentiments exactly. She and I chatted for a moment before she told me that the price of getting a Pap uninsured is $500. Sadly, I had to pass on that. 

Dr. C was a joke altogether.  First of all, she had that annoying phone system where you have to press 1 or 2 to get to speak to the person you need to speak to. I finally got to a receptionist that didn't sound rude, just overwhelmed. She put me on hold for so long that I ended up back on her line. She then forwarded me to a voicemail box that I am 98% sure never gets checked. 

By the end of it all, I found myself in the fetal position, panicked and anxious. How is it that we have little blue pills for men so that they can be 100 and sustain an erection, yet there is no at-home Pap test for well-meaning large women who just want some semblance of healthcare with no patience or money? I mean come on, where is science when you need her?!

I gave myself a break and streamed some TV before getting back on the horse, looking for someone to tend to my kitty. No luck today. Damn America's strict medical protocols. I am sure that in another country I could get this done by a med student for $20 in the backseat of their car. 

Dissecting the Dump

In the early 2000s I was friend dumped by two people that were very important to me: FeFeDo and Brownie. Both of them cut me off like a diabetic toe and didn't look back, and to say that I was hurt by this is an understatement. I would go as far as to say that I mourned them. The loss of them in my life was great. Yet, it was a weird kind of mourning, seeing that I still saw them on social media living their best lives. They weren't a few cups of dust in a couple of erns somewhere. They were alive and well, going to cookouts and gender reveals. They just didn't want to talk to me, which was a very bitter pill to swallow. Last year, I got closure from FeFeDo via text. Long story short, she felt like I was needy which was interesting, seeing that I talked her through every single one of her botched situationships that usually ended up in a dumpster fire of her own making, but that is neither here nor there. I am grateful that we got to clear the air, even though we are no longer friends. Brownie, on the other hand, is a fart in the wind. I will never know why he friend dumped me but his exit from my life reaffirmed something I pieced together as a child dealing with paternal abandonment issues: these bros ain't loyal. 

I have said it before and I will say it again: being friend dumped is worse than being dumped by a romantic partner because you kind of expect your partner to screw you. Your friends are real. They are your support. Their care for you is different. And as someone who grew up on Saved by the Bell reruns and Babysitter's Club books, I naively and at my own detriment consider friendship to be something monumental and life-long, even though I know that is not always the case. This I learned from FeFeDo and Brownie if I learned nothing else. Perhaps this is why I am on cruise control, seeing that I am currently being friend dumped now. Here we go again. Life is nothing if not annoyingly repetitive, am I right?

This go 'round, I am being dropped by "Britney" and "Neil". Britney is giving me what Michelle Obama referred to as "The Slow Ghost". We used to talk often, now she can go months without talking to me and I am always the one to call her. Our conversations don't flow as well as they used to, and I get the feeling that she has outgrown me. It happens, but it still stings. I don't have the energy to ask her about it because due to the FeFeDo-Brownie disaster, I know what's up without having to be told. I am trying not to dwell too much on it because I don't want to cry. Crying causes under eye puffiness that takes way longer to go down at my age. 

Then there is Neil. Oh Neil. One could argue that our friendship has not been even from the start. I started out with a crush on him and just on a general human level, it was obvious that I liked him more than he liked me. Yet over the years we have kept in touch and we make each other laugh. However, that old red flag is still evident: I always have to be the one to call him. On top of this, he has a girlfriend now and it should be universal common knowledge that a girlfriend is a platonic girl-boy friendship's kiss of death. I won't even bore you with the laundry list of men that went from friends to not-homies once they got paired up. I just brought this up to my therapist and we discussed how, when people get in relationships or marriages their priorities change. I get it. That's how it should be. I just wish I was someone, anyone's priority. 

As my own emotional doctor I have to say that I am monitoring the latest dumping situation closely. I am currently A-okay, no signs of mourning malignancy or Stage 4 anxiety. But hey, it's still early in the month. This time next week I could be catatonic. Thus is life. 

Being Bernard

I am who those scientific studies are talking about when they discuss how social media is bad for people, particularly the lonely and depressed. It is a fake space that you get to paint with the best moments of your life, leaving everyone to fawn over one another's lies and fairytales. I mean come on now. No one is posting their bills or bad credit scores. For the most part (with the exception of those that post those seven paragraph emo posts on Facebook), social media has become a never-ending scroll of plastic happy moments. Even knowing this, I have become jealous and absolutely obsessed with the "life" of a man I know named Bernard. 

Have you ever wondered if people that you know think about you? I do, mostly because I often think about people I know; what they are doing and how they are feeling. In today's detached world, I think that it is a good thing when people think about others. However, if Bernard knew just how much I thought about him, he would probably block me via all social avenues. I have to say that I am a little obsessed. But not because I am into him romantically, which is usually my M.O. I am hooked on his socials because they paint a picture of him being very...loved. 

What is so interesting about that? Well, for starters, it is important that you understand that Bernard is annoying. He has seemingly gotten more annoying with age. And this isn't just my opinion. People who know of him would overwhelmingly agree. He is very excited. Very energized. Very happy. Very extra. It may even be an understatement to say that the average person might find him completely intolerable. Not the people in his life though. His family and his friends- they consistently love up on him. They are there for him when great things happen like his starting a business and they are there for him when bad things happen like his failed relationships. It is like love surrounds this man from all directions. 

If I sound a little salty it is because I am. At this stage in my life, I can honestly say that I don't think that some of my dearest friends whom I love even like me. I have been sent to voicemail more than a bill collector. I sometimes wonder if those closest to me would even notice if I vanished. Bernard's friends would notice if he went missing. He is the center of their lives. They prioritize him. They seem to pour sunlight and good vibes into his mouth, and he swallows them proudly. I often wonder if he knows how beautiful that is, for I am ten minutes away from becoming buddies with a soccer ball like Tom Hanks in that movie. Say what you want, but that soccer ball was attentive and always there. Soccer ball-type loyalty is hard to find these days. Bernard has found it though, and this makes me hopeful for myself, even through the envy. 

Ain't Never Scared pt 2: Plottin' and Cupcakin'

One of my favorite social media fake relationship counselors said that it is important for single women to know what they want from men. After much deliberation on this, I have decided that what I want most from a man is conversation. Fun, flirty, innocent conversation. 

"Do people still cake on the phone?" I asked P. 

"Are they going to talk about sex?"  he asked. 

I thought about it. "No."

"Then no."

This was disappointing to hear, but as I am now trying to be the creator of the adventure in my life, I have decided to bring cakin' back. Some of my fondest memories as a middle schooler is playing soft music on the radio while me and my gay boyfriend at the time yacked it up about the important things in life: scary movies, our favorite foods, and kids we didn't like in our classes. It was so much fun getting to know him. That is what I want: to get to know a man...to the soundtrack of Jodeci. 

Now, I have asked some of my friends what their response would be if a person they knew but was not interested in romantically slid into their DMs and asked if they were interested in having late night conversations. Their answers were not reassuring. However, the name of the game is not being scary anymore when it comes to things like this. 

There is a guy that I know that I think would be a perfect for a cake call. I have slid into his DMs, typed up a cake invitation, then erased it. Although he seems nice, the idea of him telling all our mutual friends about the shot I attempted to shoot makes me physically ill. For this particular challenge, it has been a bit hard to keep up the Ain't Never Scared energy. I don't do well with being embarrassed. 

Here is the thing: I am a graduate school graduate longing to be in a middle school-paced relationship. I am also lonely and relationship immature. I know that I am skidding towards middle age. All the singles my age on social media are doing podcasts about how they like group sex and anilingus. All I want in my life is the telephone version of hand holding. If you knew me at all you would know that that is really all I can handle. My friend Carol said she will advertise my need for a cake beau on Twitter. I will keep you posted on any developments.