Homecoming

So this year marks 15 years since my college graduation and I have decided to go to my homecoming, as I did for my 10-year anniversary. On the one hand, I am excited. Excited to see old friends, excited to see New Orleans, excited to go on a trip. On the other hand, the very idea of seeing my peers makes me want to hurl. I'm not ashamed to admit that I am obsessed with my old college peers. I follow them on social media and take in their lives like junk food. Me on Instagram on any given day is the equivalent of eating 22 Big Macs back-to-back, inhaling without chewing images of weddings, gender reveals, promotions, home and car purchases, partying, traveling, etc. Sure, I understand that social media is simply an endless stream of someone's best moments. No one is posting images of eviction notices, being served divorce papers, or being diagnosed with a disease. However, I can't help but feel behind. I am 2.5 years short of 40 and single. The only thing I own outright is my debt. I am just now getting a MA degree. Once I receive it I will finally get to live at some standard of living...in middle age. A part of me wants to attend in a disguise but I have been told that my voice, figure, walk, laugh, and general energy is very identifiable. Everyone will know I am me, in a mask and black hoodie, trying to tiptoe through the crowd. I have seen the advertisements for the club parties that will be taking place. Honestly, the very idea of going to a club and standing for hours while watching people twerk makes me want to go lay down someplace. I'm hoping that my anxiety melts away the moment I get some gumbo in me and hug someone I haven't seen in years. If it doesn't, I can always post up in my Air B&B, watching my friends enjoy homecoming live through their Instastories. We'll call that a seclusion and chill. 

Love and the Pessimistic

I would say that since I was a wee lad, I have been able to see through a lot of the doodoo when it comes to love. I have vivid memories of teachers reading stories like Snow White and Cinderella and me laughing out loud. I was the 5-year-old girl that rolled her eyes at Disney movies. Never ever ever did I think that there was some ripped hottie on a horse coming to rescue me. So you can imagine how shocked I was going to college and realizing that there were young women who actually drank this Kool-Aid, basing their real adult love lives off of children's cartoons. The shock only grew as I entered my 30s where otherwise logical friends were telling me that not only did they believe that the fairytale was real, but that it was something they deserved! Now you tell me, how nutso is that?

You can call me a love pessimist and I would have to agree. Over the years, I have prided myself on this. I have friends who also value this quality in me, for I can see the love train wreck coming from miles away. So you tell me why that at almost 40, I feel myself slowly and slightly buying into the relationship bull like a toddler in a princess dress?

The change in me began when I started going to church. I entered the sanctuary believing that there is not someone for everyone and that only the most lucky of us get to live our lives happily with someone else. Now, one year as a Christian, I find myself crossing my fingers for a soulmate like the rest of the single ladies at the alcohol-free singles mixer, hoping Mr. Right decided to drop into a church dance. 

Ugh, that whole last paragraph is embarrassing, but not as embarrassing as how big of a fan girl I have become of shows like Married At First Sight and Love is Blind. I find myself on the edge of my seat, heavily invested in the relationships of people I don't know, praying out loud that their relationships work. For if there is hope for strangers who got engaged after never seeing each other, there is hope for an inherently negative person like me, right? 

No matter how hard I try to get rid of it, there is faith the size of a mustard seed that one day happiness will come knocking at my door. I want to get rid of it, not wanting to be disappointed by yet something or someone else, but this sliver of hope continues to burn eternal out of my reach. Let it be known that there is no bigger buzz kill than hopefulness. 

Optimism

I turned 37 at the end of 2021 and I have one thing to say: I think that I am fresh out of optimism. I gotta be honest, my cup didn't runneth over with it to begin with. Never really been a cup half full type of gal. But I find that as a depressed, overweight, single, Black woman I had to at least pretend to be optimistic for the greater good. You see, me and all my single homegirls are all participating involuntarily in a game of Jenga, and if one of us so much as looks like we are not keeping hope alive, we're all going to fall. Better yet, we are in the Squid Games. If one of us so much as exerts an inkling of negative energy by saying something as mild as, "Maybe I will just be that single, rich aunty," that big plastic girl thing will turn around and shoot us all in the face. And I don't want to get shot. So I continue to fight the good fight, encouraging my homies when needed, and to do so, I have to ignore some hard truths. We are sliding on the banana peel towards 40. Maybe we will be single forever. Maybe those who want kids won't have them. Perhaps we will never be rich or even as financially secure as we want to be. I hate to say it but perhaps we are doing ourselves a disservice by remaining as optimistic for these goals as we are. Perhaps it is time to sit down all adult-like and begin to polish up our plan Bs. And we have to have one right? Because talking to some of my friends I find that they are so committed to some of these life goals that I am scared that if they don't come to fruition they will just stand up and explode into a million little pieces. And maybe (Big plastic girl things shoots me at my computer, blood splattering on the screen). 

Dateline 30-Something

Did you know that people are still dating? I honest to God had no idea! I thought that all of us that are not married by now had agreed to give up years ago! I mean, can you believe it. People are still trying. I mean, I am shocked! Do you know how much energy it takes to try? It takes all I have just to roll over and groan into my pillow! 

My friend Ashley said she went on three dates last week. Three. One. Two. Three. Three dates. On three separate occasions, she showered, did her hair, got dressed, left her apartment, drove to a location, met with a man, had banter for two hours, then came home. She did this three times. One. Two. Three. Wooo! I need a nap from just typing that out! 

I mean, I get it I guess. A lot of my friends want marriage and kids, so if ever there was a time to amp up the dating, I guess the time is now. I don't want kids, but I like to think that if I did, I would just cut my losses and go to the sperm bank! The motivation it takes to go on apps and get out and meet people...yikes! I just don't have it, not that I ever really did. But I really don't now. My tolerance for disappointment has decreased over the past ten years. Just the idea of being let down makes me sleepy. 

But I have to admit, I have my fingers crossed for my friends still fighting the good fight. Every friend over 35 that finds love is just indication that all the rom coms were right, and there is love to be found going into middle age! Hey, I hear you laughing at me, but whatever. Believing in fantasies keeps you young. 

30s No Bueno

Is it normal to lose your mind in your 30s? I ask because all the 30-somethings around me are cracking like walnuts. Broken romantic relationships. Loneliness. Lost friendships. Work drama. Finance freakouts. Sick parents. A GLOBAL PANDEMIC. You could fill a swimming pool with the tears from my friends alone. On top of all of this, I am trying to lose weight after being told to lose weight since I was about five. This is happening at a time when I have about as much metabolism as a foam cup, but that is another post entirely. 

You will be happy to know that P has dodged the 30s anxieties that are crippling the rest of us. While we all are doing everything possible to get into virtual therapy, he is self-soothing by holding true to his age-old motto: Toughen Up. Man, if ever there was a guy with a stiff upper lip it is P. Right now, I am about as tough as melting ice cream. 

Oh, and have any of you noticed what I am coining as Social Media Contradiction Disorder? On Instagram, everyone I know is partying on boats or eating brunch at fancy home rentals. Yet, my Facebook reads like a trail of tears. Posts are paragraphs long outlining disappointments and heartaches. Maybe my Facebook friends could brighten up if they took a lesson from my IG friends and spent their spare time taking photographs of their outfits and lunches. 

So what is the solution? I am not sure, this is my first time in my 30s. Hang in there I guess? Hang in there. Please. If ever there was a piece of useless advice, it's hang in there. I imagine us 30 somethings have to continue to be a support to each other. Or maybe we can just keep crying until we eventually dehydrate and our minds, bodies, and spirits go into some type of automatic renewal. Whatever is easier. 

Therapy

Well cool cats and kittens, I am finally in therapy. 

And not in a cute way like athletes or celebrity racists that get caught doing something bad. I mean really in therapy doing work. I always thought that I needed to be in therapy, but when you begin crying multiple times a day and losing it over minor things, you kind of don't have a choice. So my therapist is helping me to get my anxiety under control, anxieties that were on their way to becoming phobias. This is a good thing, because I was only a few days away from going completely nuttybags, yelling obscenities at people from the roof of my neighborhood grocery store.   

The thing is, I thought that anxiety was new for me, but after talking with my therapist, I realize it has always been there like an ex-boyfriend that can't take a hint, waiting to get on my nerves. I remember being at a reggae club in New Orleans with my friends and having to excuse myself to cry in my bestie's Honda while everyone else ponned the replay inside. Thinking back, my anxiety journey has been a literal trail of tears, having private crying fits before, after, and even during events in my life. 

My whole life I have been branded as dramatic and emotional because I am dramatic and emotional. So when I would get so worked up over things in college that I would race back to my dorm room, fall face-first into my twin bed, and cry into my bedspread, even I figured I was just being emotional and dramatic again. Feeling sick when I had to be around folks. Wanting to hurl at the thought of going out. It has been anxiety this whole time. Who knew?

I have to say, talking things out with someone who actually knows what they are talking about has been BEYOND therapeutic, and I would recommend it to anyone. Life has been stressful and we are finally seeing a possible end to a pandemic. If you need to talk to someone, do it. 

Flexed

I have never had a broken bone or really any serious injury because I have spent the bulk of my life being almost totally inactive. The most active I have ever been was a short period of time in kindergarten where I was hooked on double dutch and determined to be a playground champion. Well, guys, I'm a long way from kindergarten, and my body told me as much when I injured my hip flexor doing aerobics in the pool at the gym. 

Talk about a nightmare. I am still not fully recovered, I can just tell when my body is about to go south and sit down somewhere. But in the beginning, there was not a day that I didn't cry. I felt like my leg was about to pop off. Ugh, the waddling and the hopping and the maneuvering it took just to go potty. If I would have had insurance, I probably would have gone to physical therapy or something. But I don't, so all I had was prayer and tears. 

Ironically, this would happen after I took a definitive stance to get healthier. The result was me getting increasingly more unhealthy, lying on my stomach, eating junk, and watching Netflix. How many bags of Doritos do you have to eat to cure the resentment you feel towards the universe for making things worse when you wanted to get better? I won't even tell you. It's disgusting. 

I finally made my way to urgent care after I almost fell face first coming out of the bathroom. That was fun, sitting in an urgent care waiting room to be seen while trying not to breathe in coodies in the heart of COVID, only to be told that my x-rays were inconclusive, but that I do have the beginning of Arthritis. EVERYBODY SING! 

I was referred to an orthopedist who told me that he didn't know much about hip flexors, but that my urgent care x-rays were inconclusive. DUH! He wanted me to go to some imagery place and I would have, but I'd had it with being told nothing by professionals. 

So that brings us to today. I'm okay, but I won't be doing any splits any time soon. The first doc said I'd be better in 6 months. People who have had this injury say it takes over a year, realistically. Needless to say I am over it...and out of Doritos.