Day 42: Superwomen, Ms. Pac Man, and the perfect storm

I am blonder than ever but I am sure not having more fun.  To start with, I am word-constipated, and it's even worse than the other kind of constipation.  Except that it is my head and heart that feel bloated with words that need to come out, that are making me toxic.

I am not Superwoman.  Not even close.  Not even on my best days have I stopped a speeding bullet or flown faster than a speeding plane.  I don't have a cape.  Lately, most days have felt held together by scotch tape--the generic kind--and a prayer or what passes as prayer for a natural doubter who feels like a hypocrite.
But this week, it has taken super human strength just to get up, to brush my teeth, to breathe in and out.

I am falling apart yet I cannot fall apart.   But I am.  Falling apart.  I am Ms. PacMan, out of power pellets with all four hungry, neon ghosts bearing down on me, and down to my last life.   I can hear that sound--that awful sound where the ghosts eat her alive--that mechanical, robot-y sound that signals that the game is over. That terrible sound has begun to haunt my dreams.

Day 41 still going:

Have cheered up a bit.  The blonding not only lightened my hair; it also seems to have lightened my hair.  And the thought of a margarita with one of my favourite women warriors from the gym, who has gone through a divorce and lived to tell about it.  

Fingers crossed that they a pomegranate margarita.  Or peach.  Who am I kidding as long as it is slushy and has booze, I am gonna suck it down.  

Day 41 continued:

I am not this girl.  How can I still be this girl?  I am smart.  And kind.  And attractive.  And funny and fun.  And loyal. And I always try to make the people that I love feel loved and supported and secure in my love.  Why isn't this enough?  More than enough?

I am a lawyer.  And a mom.  And a friend.  And a daughter.  And a sister.  I have an imagination.  A sense of humour.  I am passionate.  I am soulful.  Why isn't this enough?  More than enough?

I have a roof over my head.  And a job.  And a car.  And clothes.  And central air.  I have my (physical) health.  Why isn't this enough?  More than enough?

Why do I need the attention and affirmation and acceptance of a man?  Why do I make such bad decisions that end in such pain and such angst and self doubt? Why do open my heart and give like this?  When the ending is always the same, like a fucking Danielle Steele novel without the happy ending--me coming unglued.  

And the un-gluing is always somewhere inappropriate.  Never in the privacy of my bedroom or even a dark bar.  And this time?  I am crying in the middle of my fucking salon.  That I have been frequenting for 20 years.   On a Saturday afternoon.  In broad daylight.  In public.  Big fat, stupid tears falling down my stupid cape and onto the wooden table.  While my hair is covered in foils and I strongly resemble a troll that somebody has rubbed back and forth in his hands.

Why?  

Day 41: The more things (seem) to change,

the more they stay the same.  Yes, after an extended absence, I thought that I'd begin with a cliche.  But cliches are words too and perhaps we refer to them so derisively is because the kernel of truth inherent in a cliche clutches at our hearts and our failure to recognize it, how it drives our actions makes us feel even more stupid for behaving in a way that is so very cliched.

Yes, it is another angst-y Saturday (wonder why the Bangles did not sing about that besides the lack of alliteration, I mean).   I went to kickboxing and am not hormonal.  Or at least no more than normal.   I am going to get more blonded.  I have the evening free to do as I wish.  Yes, I remain broke and about to get broke-r.  Am still living with my ex, albeit in my own bedroom.

Yet, I continue to be tormented by my sweet maybes, my attraction to unavailable men who are obviously unavailable, i.e. married and thousands of miles away, and not so obviously unavailable, i.e. single but haunted by their own ghosts.   What the fuck?  After a kick-ass workout this morning that left me sweaty and panting but smiling and feeling strong, I drove home on another perfect summer day.  Hot and blue-skied but with a breeze.  A full afternoon of things that I generally enjoy--blonding, shopping, and getting ready to do something tonight.

OR

Then, a shower epiphany.  Another one.  One that has left me shaken and teary and on the verge of doing something that in my heart, I know that I need to do to move on.   And have not been able to do because of the way that I have been haunted by, driven by the if-only-s, by the possibility of my sweet maybe.  Such a deliciously sweet maybe.  It hit me like a ton of bricks as the hot, soapy water washed away the sweat, revealing yet another pattern, a pattern within a pattern.   A pattern disguised as something else that really is just another pattern.  Me trying to change, to mold myself to some idea to match someone's ideal person even as it becomes clear that no matter what I do, no matter how much I change, no matter how patient I am, how much I compromise, how much I settle for, that I will never be that person's ideal.   Which is really the same pattern that I, at last, recognized and broke free from with my soon-to-be-ex husband.

I have to let go.  Don't I?  To move on, I have to let go.  What will be will be, right?  Que sera sera and all that horseshit.

Fuck-a-doodle-do.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MXQTWCTc0aI (Que sera sera)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EDEEzS7OV2k&feature=related (Goodbye, my almost Lover)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zwtr19HHB4U (Falling for you)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rUhc8D7pQlQ&feature=related (Corner of my heart)