When you have a day that starts without seeing your children because they’ve slept in and you’ve left early (because tomorrow you’ll be late due to an IEP meeting – individual education plan – for one of them and you’ll have to leave early on Thursday as your normal arrangement has fallen through).
When the next step in that day is a phone call from your five year old sobbing uncontrollably on the phone saying he loves you and wants you to come home because he doesn’t want to go to school today.
When you realise that for most of your conscious life you have stoically been the ‘good girl’ – either to make up for the appalling baby/toddler you were or because you’re told to be by the extended family as your parents go through a divorce only to come to the realisation that nothing good has ever really come from being the good girl.
That being the ‘good girl’, that doing the right thing, that being considerate, thoughtful and well-intentioned will always ALWAYS be misconstrued as controlling, self-motivated and completely unappreciated – and quite regularly criticised.
That being the ‘good girl’ and defending family members from the appalling behaviour of others (while they lay down like a dying dog and take it) to then see my relationship with that person obliterate while the person I was defending goes on to have a normal relationship with the person with no discussion/repercussions/holding-to-account ever taking place.
That being the ‘good girl’ sucks.
At least we don’t look like this…
CREDIT: MOST WANTED / FLYNET from People
I mean, even the kid has her eyes shut. You can see her thinking “so.much.flesh.”
I was beginning to grow increasingly concerned that you had landed in a happy land so out of reach of my FlyBys frequent flyer points we may never meet again.
Enduring my own crankiness at myself for not sending to the home email my fabulous entry about living with a ‘good girl’ complex and how suckful it is and feeling just irritable and cranky with the universe, with everything being a hassle, an effort, and just plain annoying, I am SO PLEASED you got cranky at the Prof, sobbed and threw things at him.
Ah let the joy rain down like a mid afternoon shower in Darwin.
Personally, I have now endured two weeks of wearing a bra with the underwire sticking out – so much so it has drawn blood on my chunky upper-arms (the ones I would line up for liposuction even before the mounds of flesh that grace my girth when I’m not incubating that at the moment hangs like a little forlorn sack beneath my hard round bump) that is only my own fault (as it wouldn’t occur to the Chef to do a load of washing unless its his uniforms) as I can’t be arsed to put bras in a brabag.
Tonight was the resumption of uni. I can’t say I’m that excited by this unit as it involves interviewing strangers on public modes of transport and writing a biographical piece on someone. There’s also the pesky issue of the-arrival-of-the-incubus which is going to add another whole level of physical challenge to the studies. Apart from all that, my irritability scale goes off the richter as I endure the L90 busride home with all the other misfits and lunatics who travel on public transport late at night.
I am still itching all over from the gross dissatisfaction of the weekend – and YET AGAIN all the unresolved, strike that, rewind, the never-to-be-resolved – issues I have with my mother and her take on the world.
In accordance with my new homeopath endorsed camaign of ‘alllowing my emotions’ – I am allowing myself to be pissed off, cranky, fed up, highly irritated, annoyed and did I mention pissed off.
As conveyed previously to Bec, I am working on my ‘intention’ – at the moment all I can think of is ‘my intention is to stop being so cranky’ – which I don’t think lends itself to the most constructive existence.
Oh, the other thing, I am trying to ‘live in my greatness’ as opposed to only seeing my ‘smallness’ (the things like flabby underarms, proneness to melodrama and failing pelvic floors). Hah! Greatness my arse.
Too much grumping from me the past few days – foulness particularly directed at the poor old Prof, but also shared around among other innocent victims.
Much as I hate to admit it, there is just the tiniest possibility that there may be a hormonal cause behind some of my viler acts. But it’s not the calendar, or the more obvious physical signs, that gave rise to this suspicion, oh no.
Nor was it the annoyance with Chris yet again needing to do some semi-social work function on a mid-week night, even though it was taking away one of my rare chances for a fully social, long overdue catch up with a friend (Hi Jen, wish you were here). And no, it wasn’t even realising that the last social occasion Chris and I had together that I did not have to organise was, um, gosh, maybe my birthday in about 1996. Oh no no noooo.
No Gentle Reader, the real tip-off this month came when I couldn’t fix the underwire that had come out of my new black bra.
And why had it come out?
BECAUSE CHRIS PUT IT IN THE FLIPPIN’ CLOTHES DRYER.
But even though he should know better by now, having lived with slowly drying bras slung over bathroom door hooks for a good ten years, and even though I say again it was a new bra and a very comfy one, and even though I was completely entitled to be pissed off… I have to admit that bursting into tears, sobbing loudly and inconsolably for a good 10 minutes as the aforementioned tears dripped onto the broken bra that refused to show any sign of an exit hole for the underwire, and then stomping over and throwing both bra and wire at Chris and yelling “Well YOU try fixing it now!”… Well, in hindsight the reaction doesn’t seem quite to match up to the issue, does it?
So, there’s floating on the water, and there’s being under the water, but when do you get to the point where your sorry arse hits sand and you crawl up on the shore, into a perfect sunrise (or sunset, I’m not fussy what coast I land on)?