When I’m in full man-child mode, I sleep until ten, dopey and sweating, my only motivation to stand the promise of an ice-cream sandwich to start the day. The mid-morning sugar crash isn’t a problem when my only objective is to sit as still as possible while watching Naked and Afraid. People might roll their eyes at me, but they’re just jealous because their hearts-of-palm ceviche sucks. Sure, my muscles are atrophied, but stacking my dirty dishes in the sink and leaving them there has become a veritable game of high-stakes Jenga, so my physical dexterity really isn’t in question at this point.
Food and housework aren’t the real problem. The real problem is that I let anxiety cripple my relationships. I blame this paralysis on different things. It started as a money issue: I was too broke to go out. I didn’t want to spend money I didn’t have on dinners and drinks and the movies. I didn’t want to invite anyone over, because my place was gross. Once I had an income, it became a time issue: I’m working too much to go out. Even when I do have a free day or two, there’s this overwhelming guilt about planning anything recreational. I haven’t been to the dentist in a year and a half, but I’m gonna go to Lacy’s party? Out of the question. I mean, I still won’t go to the dentist, but making fun plans would force me to acknowledge that I’m not going to go to the dentist.
I get that it’s not a money issue or a time issue, it’s just a me-being-a-malfunctioning-life-form issue. I think I need to become perfect all at once, so I keep getting overwhelmed and putting it off. I can’t remember the last time that I didn’t have something hanging over my head. There are usually about thirty to eighty things. Is that normal? Don’t tell me. If it’s not, I’m a jerk. If it is, that’s super-depressing, and I know I’ll just use “this is normal” as an excuse to procrastinate even more.
I know that feeling isn’t unique to me. Yes, I’m away from home a lot and keep the hours of a meth-addicted puzzle enthusiast (it takes as long as it takes, okay?!), but everyone in the world feels like their inbox is growing faster than they can keep up, right? If there was just a little more time, or a little more money, or if you could just get through this one last rough patch, it would all be clear, it would all fall into place. It’s an insatiable trap.
And YET, I always think, This is my year. This year I’m going to get my shit SO together that I’ll always be able to see the solution to my problems. I’m going to get it so together that I’ll never have to “get it together” again. It’s like this Tyler Durden–style feeling that I’m so close. I’m so close to being a real person. I’m so close to making time for friends and family. I’m so close to being able to take out the trash without checking that none of my neighbors are outside because small talk makes me feel like the world is on fire. I’m so close to being wonderful.
Sometimes I get tough with myself. You are unbelievable! Nut up and fix your problems! You come from a long line of poor Irish women who were perfectly self-sufficient, and by the way, they had like a million babies a year!
Then I’ll play good cop. Hey, buddy, maybe you could just answer a couple emails today? The one from your insurance company doesn’t seem too scary, and you don’t want to go to jail for driving uninsured, do you? No, of course you don’t. And you’re making money now, maybe get a cleaning service to come by like once a month, no pressure, just so it doesn’t start looking like a fucking episode of Hoarders in here, okay?
But I fight back. Balance? Moderation? Discipline? These are just the many names for “smug” used by the bitches who lie to us on their lifestyle blogs. That’s right, Clean Food Cross Fit Mom1, I know you’ve got a pile of fun-size Almond Joys in your glove compartment. Now go sit in your driveway and eat your candy while masturbating to Tom Hardy like a real woman! You can see how I would think emotional adulthood is right around the corner.
I’ll just be a man-child for another three months. I swear.
scrappy little nobody
I don’t want to brag—I realize my elite lifestyle and celebrity status might intimidate you—but my car has keyless entry. That’s right. My little beauty just needs to sense my presence and, as long as I have my keys in my pocket, she opens up like a gross sexual metaphor that’s demeaning to women. Meow.
When I go out of town and drive a rental car, sometimes I will approach it, keys in pocket, and pull on the handle of a locked door. Well. It’s an embarrassing situation, to say the least. I’m forced to push a button on a clicker to enter my motor vehicle . . . like some pleb. (We’ve been hanging out long enough that it’s cool for me to make jokes like that, right?) It is an embarrassing situation, because expecting my car door to magically be unlocked makes me feel like a little spoiled-idiot baby who doesn’t remember a time when she had to insert a key into a lock to get into her car. Wahh, why won’t this open?!