last night i read romance advice on the internet. what a loser.
i'd had a particularly trying day with my two-year-old. fresh from his nap—and by "fresh" i mean volatile like kilauea—he walked in as i was reassembling his high chair. the result of asking him to sit down every two seconds during meals, this "solution" came at a cost: one, i don't have three hands or an engineering degree; two, he found this highly insulting because "i'm NOT a baby!"
let the explosion commence.
during my hour of exasperation, i found myself mentally transported to a ranch-style home in a cul-de-sac, where i was relieved from duty to get a deep-tissue massage while my dutiful partner donned his shield to fight the dragon raging in the sweetly decorated bedroom with handmade items carefully culled from the depths of pinterest.
it is often these moments—along with holidays, instances of things that are too high to reach or things that are too heavy to carry
, and saturday nights when i'm all dressed up with no one to sex up—that i indulge the thought that marriage might not be hell.
so i went to bed wondering why the hell i can't get this partner thing right. the internet was full of answers.
one website indicated that my man is all wrong if he is too angry and all wrong if he is too passive. noted. anybody know anyone in a coma who's single?
an article on oprah.com told me i'll need to marry the wrong one first. hey. you should've told me this when i was 21, or at least two years ago before i entered yet another age demographic.
a blogger told me i should both model myself after a woman i admire and bear in mind that a man doesn't want to be embarrassed by his woman's physical appearance. hmm. i hope this mashup of maya angelou and sofia vergara works better than i think.
in the midst of my surfing, i received an email from AT&T stating that i'd used over 90 percent of the data in my freelance-writer economy plan and that if i dared to continue researching my destiny, they'd simply have to add $20 to my next bill. thank you, conglomerate with a heart, for saving me from myself.
i put down the phone and watched an episode of "diners, drive ins, and dives." i haven't had red meat for 20 years, but that gastropub BLT looked like a dream. hey, maybe there's a positive correlation between lack of animal fats and failure of commitment. if guy fieri head-butted me, would his hair make me bleed?
the clock pulled me elsewhere. better get the kid into my bed so we both can sleep through the night. after especially trying days, or even regular days, the evening ritual of bath time, story time, and bed time can feel heavy. it can have a way of painting a jackson pollock of single life and parenthood: overwhelming to the senses. frustrating. nonsensical. you look and look and look to find out what it's worth.
last night, i carried my 33-pound baby turkey from his bed to mine, with his warm, soft arms hanging limply over my small, defined shoulders; sweaty head nestled into the curve of my neck. for a moment i felt very alone, because the internet had told me i had it all wrong.
this morning i awoke to my better judgment. back to believing mass-produced advice can be a massive pile of crap. i often feel utterly hoodwinked by love, but the internet doesn't hold the answers. my world is mine to behold. some days i do think it's ugly. other days, i step back and think it's pretty cool. zoom in, zoom out.
currently reaching for a hammer and nails so i can hang this masterpiece in my living room.