I’d like to think that I am a relatively sane person, although “insane” has been bandied about every now and again when describing my behavior. However, in the insane/sane production credits last night, insane definitely got top billing.
My boyfriend went into the city yesterday, that’s New York City yo, for work. He was going to pick up his daughter at her college dorm afterwards and they were going to have dinner, and then come home. She was spending the weekend with us. Easy breezy.
I had the whole day to write (lucky me) and went to my new favorite coffee shop, Turnstile. I’m still having trouble focusing and physically (no joke) putting my fingers onto the keyboard, and typing sentences and paragraphs. Instead, what I’ve been managing to do is check Twitter for stories and Facebook to see if anyone’s commented on my posts. All so very important.
After a few hours of painful procrastination and nursing a cold soy latte, I drove home. I managed to do a killer workout called Insanity, and let me tell you, the workout lives up to its name. I planned on taking advantage of being alone in the house to write, but I realized that I hadn’t eaten very much all day, and it was already four o’clock in the afternoon. “A sandwich and Ellen it is,” I thought to myself. Oh, and I put in what would turn out to be one of three loads of laundry. I figured I might as well be productive in some way.
Whenever I suffer from writer’s block, I find that redecorating my workspace or writing in another room, helps with my concentration. Changing up my surroundings allows me to refocus. Yesterday, I felt compelled to work upstairs in our bedroom because it faces the beach, and if you look straight ahead, and ignore the neighbors’ hideously trashy backyards, you can actually see the ocean.
I turned around a desk, which will ultimately find its way down in the basement where all of our odds and ends furniture that we don’t know what to do with goes to die. I was excited about my new digs. I plugged in my computer, had a notepad at the ready, and zeroed in on the water. And lo and behold, I started to write.
Moments later, I got a text from my boyfriend, “Probably won’t be home until later… going to a lingerie show.” WHAT? I pulled a Jekyll and Hyde so fast, I got dizzy. The shift was swift. I bought my ticket to ride the anxious and senseless train, and strapped myself in. Control? What’s that? Before I had a chance to process, I was losing it one nerve at at time.
The plans changed, and as my inability to exercise restraint suggested, I clearly saw this as a problem. Come on, a lingerie show? Really? With his daughter? Has everyone lost their minds?! Oh, I went there, people. Not only did I go there, but I bought a house, got a dog and joined the church choir, and I’m not even Catholic. THAT’S how wacko I was becoming.
I felt my entire relationship unraveling. A part of me knew how irrational I was becoming and how grossly over the top I was acting, but it didn’t seem to matter. I started to scare myself.
Why Girlfriend Mom? Why did I sit on the toilet, head in my hands, a tear in my eye, becoming unglued, unhinged and unbelievably reactive? Well, given some of the inappropriate behavior which I’ve regaled you all with in past posts, I thought it was inappropriate for my boyfriend to attend a lingerie show with his daughter! I tried to calm down and come in off of the ledge, but I was stuck in a hailstorm of hysteria. I was lucid enough to know that I had to get to the bare-bottom of what was causing my inability to deal with this situation rationally.
I regrouped and did some think talking with myself about what to text back. I wrote, “Whose,” as in whose lingerie show were they going to. He texted back, “Victoria’s Secret.” I blew my gasket. I was apoplectic. What the f? Where? What is going on? I’ve seen those shows! They’re all half-naked! You can’t do this without me!
And then the gates flew open. He’s in NYC having a great time at a show, and I’m doing freaking laundry. He’s having fun and I’m redecorating our bedroom? He and his daughter are going to see a Victoria’s Secret lingerie show? I can’t take any more inappropriateness. I can’t take this ‘mother’ thing. I might be overreacting but I don’t care. I should be at the show with him. I want to be at a lingerie show in the city. F’ it. I want to be in a lingerie show.
Clearly I have some unresolved issues in need of resolving. And that day, a hot button was pressed that happened to address said unresolved issues. I decided not to respond to the text because I didn’t know what to say. What could I say? I’ve learned (the hard way) that nothing good or productive ever comes from reactive behavior, oh, and I was mother f’in reacting.
I felt left out, like a loser, and all alone. It was like high school all over again. For the next two hours, and I’m talking balls to the walls honesty here, I Googled “Victoria’s Secret lingerie shows in NYC’. I learned that it’s fashion week in the city, but other than that, I came up empty.
And what, pray tell, would I have done if I had found out where the show was taking place? Call the venue and tell them to track down my boyfriend and his daughter and throw them out? I was possessed and on a mission, and becoming more and more embarrassed by my behavior with every click of my mouse.
I looked up at Anderson Cooper on the television, who was reporting on the bloodshed in Syria and I stepped away from the computer. Reality check. Finally. I had spent enough time on something inconsequential and idiotic. I was ashamed but I didn’t beat myself up either. I realized how deranged I was acting but I also knew that something else was going on with me. I went downstairs to get something to eat. I had forgotten about food (again) while I was setting up shop on the corner of enraged and crazy.
My boyfriend called a little while later, and I picked up the phone with an attitude, that I tried to hide until I had more information. I asked, “So, how was dinner?” I was trying to play it cool, to see if he would bring up the show. And here’s the kicker. It was eight o’clock and they were already at the dormitory. It turns out the so-called ‘lingerie show’ consisted of a couple of women, wearing tasteful lingerie, walking around a store, in honor of Valentine’s Day. A store that his niece manages.
I was both relieved and I wanted to strangle him. He had no idea the effect of his little jokey joke had on me, although he does now. When he got home, I asked him if the VS text was on purpose, knowing that he might get a rise out of me, which at times he finds amusing. He told me that he didn’t, and that after he sent it, he meant to text me back where they were, but that he forgot.
What was my paranoia, and furious behavior about? Jealousy? Maybe. Envy? Perhaps. Trust? Could be. I think it goes deeper. At the end of the day, I believe that my emotional distress had more to do with how I was feeling about where I am in my life, both professionally and personally. Or it could be the beginning of The Change, in which case, God help us all.
I cannot blame nor attribute the entire episode on hormones or illogical and irrational behavior. There is a truth lurking beneath the surface, and it is my job to figure out what that is. Great, like I have nothing better to do.
