Traveling Alone

I like my life the way it is, mostly. I like impulse buying piles of hand-painted vintage tulle with the express intent of upstaging my cousin at her wedding. I like buying glitter, or taking my friends out to dinner. As Sempleton put it the other day, "I've got friends who are rolling money, and then there's you. You're just like, 'Fuck it. I live a fabulous life.'"

And that might sound bad.

But I love my friends. I love the place I live. (Ok, not the whole apartment, but my bedroom. And the location.) I like my crazy stories and my adventures. I like being alone. I like that when I want company, it's not hard to find.

I'm not good at complimenting people. I'm not good at asking people about themselves. Not adults, anyway. I am terrible with names. I forget birthdays and to buy Christmas gifts for people. I often find myself distracted from the things you say because I'm thinking about the no doubt fascinating things I'm going to say after you've finished. I really like to be the center of attention, but only on my own terms. I'm not good at sitting back and letting other people be the stars.

When John Irving read my question at a forum, I thought, "Of course he chose this to be the only real question he answered, because I'm much more interesting than everyone else here."

I sound awful.

This morning, I was in a really awful mood. A really terrible rare mood. Just foul. But here is the thing about my job: you can't sit there and wallow in your own filth. I might impose my values on these kids by teaching them that Jackson Browne says "Doctor, my eyes!" and to complete, "I want..." with "to dance!" (A Frank Turner song, of course.) But they actually need me. And not selfish me, not self-absorbed me. I spend all day taking care of them. Interacting with them. Meeting them at their levels, trying to provide solid scaffolding so they can keep growing, even while I feel my own soul stagnating. What I'm trying to say is, this is painful for me.

I come home from work and I don't have the energy to take care of someone else who has all these emotional needs. I can't kiss one more booboo or let one more person climb all over me just because it's fun for them. When my shift ends, I can't put aside my own moods anymore. I don't remember the last time I had a good cry, or the last time I thought about anything real. (Wrong. Last solid cry was Thanksgiving day.) I have enough to feel sad about, and not from a selfish point of view. I've lost a lot that really mattered to me in the last twelve months. More than I thought I could, more than I thought I would. I've gained a lot, too, but letting go hurts and pretending for more than half my waking hours that I exist purely to meet some tiny child's needs is exhausting. You're not even my kid and I spend all this emotional energy on you. Is this unconditional love?

So I fill myself up with these things. The tulle and glitter and fluffy music and nights spent just having a really good time. Doing stupid things like pulling my friend to the bar for her birthday dinner, on a sled, down a typically busy street. Insisting on outlasting all those other fair-weather drinkers who might be out in the middle of a blizzard. And then I want to talk about that when I have (very limited!) free time. Not war. Or human rights. Or religion.

And I'm sorry. It doesn't mean I don't love you, just because I'm not very good at reciprocal conversations right now. It just means that I spend the bulk of my day asking, "What color is this pillow? Where is the bunny in this picture? Do you need my help putting your shoes on? Why did you hit your friend?" It just means that I am tired and I'm not sure I can give you the attention you deserve. It just means I need a break, and boy do I. I might sound indulgent, a little selfish, maybe. But I spend all day being selfless for people who won't remember me in a year and a half. Forgive me if it just feels a little futile.

Or as Marie Antoinette might say, "Pardon me, sir... I did not mean to do it."