I had mild panic attack an hour ago.
But this time, as I slowly entered flaccid paralysis, I opted to do a little bit of self-awareness assessment (might’s well, I thought, seeing as there wasn’t much else I was capable of managing). So… what was the source of this sadistic corporeal sorcery? Was it because A.) my detour to Facebook today featured my best friend(who was one’a the last to remain single like me)’s wedding pictures? Or was it B.) I recently exchanged vows myself – when I apparently became a polygamist and got wed to work, cardio, and classes? And now I dunno which one to invite into my bed on which night? So they’re cat-fighting in my brain? Or could it be C.) that I just saw the last guy I hooked up with – a great-guy-but-not-right-for-me whose time in my world’s led me down a lifestyle choice self-inquiry rabbit hole while my biological chick-pscyhe battles all logic with the strength of of seven sword wielding Spartans?
I’mma go with… D.) Screw this game.
’cause I’m pretty sure it’s all of ’em.
As you may know (if you’ve spent anytime in my little literary world here), it’s definitely not that I want to get married or have kids and feel envious. Not direct envy, at least. And before you go all “methinks Misspants protests too much”, hear me out. ‘cause I realized something else today. Aside from the fact that there’s no (acceptable) prospective human man to fill the alleged (according to a cohort comparison) husband shaped chasm in my life. Aside from the fact that there should be a qualified copilot first for the creation of a progeny tribe. Aside from the fact that I can’t lower myself to the comedic act I see the desperate do – trying to make a trapezoid cinder block fit a pin puncture in my life balloon. (Like my aforementioned hookup choices.) I can’t imagine a world in which that’s silly spinster of me. It’s more like these occasional upsets are cognitive dissonance induced seizures.
That and that other thing I don’t have a problem with…
Yeah, the denial bit’s got legs to it (as many as an octopus crossed with a Hindu god, to be specif).
But at least one of them’s to do with my inability to accept that I officially turned the “th” word last year. Even as I feel that disparity (both in my body, my inability to relate to other girls eight to ten years younger than me in the work, and… let’s just gloss over the case in point fact that I just referred to myself as a “girl”) between age brackets, I refuse to accept it worse than my mom refuses to get a hearing aid (somewhere right now she’s saying “WHAT?!” to someone. And someday that’s gonna be me, too.) Especially since – as mentioned – I’m just getting back into the finish-school bit of my life plan. That’s big. My life was on hold for some prime years there. So, I suppose I’m kinda still in that “Have kids? Already?!” mindset my 22 year old coworkers (rightfully) have. Even though I myself am thi-…not twenty-anything anymore.
And same goes for the cog-diss deal. Part of it’s the obvious: everyone around me is doing something that goes against what I personally desire – what makes sense to me. So it makes me upset to receive lifestyle information about the majority of my peers that counters everything I want. How can they want things I decidedly don’t want? Especially when they seem genuinely happy doing the same thing whose mere thought makes me start internally reenacting the Jesse Spano Pointer Sister stimulant serenade?
I mean, I can’t imagine not vomiting onto the ivory colored fabric I’m wrapped in as I sign my life away while pretending I’m a princess at a ball I can’t afford. Or, soon after, being charged with a shrieking lump of flesh that doesn’t come with a receipt. Or at least a gift certificate. So, no, when I saw my best friend’s nuptial uploads, my throat lump wasn’t about envy or being green eyed over her white dress. In fact, if there’s any envy about any of these milestones, it’s not in a shade throwing way. It’s more ’cause I wish I felt like other people do but I legit don’t. That feeling’s the one that get’s a Lemongrab level lack of acceptability reaction outta me. ’cause that’s when life starts to feel like you’re going streaking alone down the street without the rest of your frat.
(Old School? Olds cool? What’s that? Hashtag NUCLEARNOPE, you say? Mmmkay…).
Yes. It’s like that.
Except without the alcohol to assuage how stupid and alone you feel.
But the final part I realized today is something I can feel less alone about.
Mostly because I’ve heard at least a handful of people describe it back to me now too. It’s something dubbed “The Truman Syndrome”. That solipsistic sense as you go through life that the world around you’s synthetically built around you – and just being controlled by a bunch of people for entertainment purposes with you at the center. (And if you’re part of that group I referenced earlier who I can’t relate to whose parents opted to have a flesh-lump called you before that Jim Carrey flick came out, think “Cabin in the Woods” except without any of the horror at all.) Just a dude getting expertly trolled into thinking life is spontaneously happening around him versus being tweaked by a team for a reality show. Tell me you don’t relate to that at least a little? Sometimes? On those glitch-in-the-matrix days? Yeah. Me too. Espesh when it comes to the topic at hand. That guiding feeling is the chronic soundtrack to my life, telling me this is all just a test to see if I’ll settle if they bombard my Facebook feed with sufficient updates about friends turned home (and human) makers. So, at least something’s come of this. We’ve found at least one tile of common ground to make me feel less alone. And while you enjoy your wedding cake, I can enjoy the fact that I’ve just added more answer layers to my perpetual panic attack cake with its tiers made of tears.
This’s all solid confirmation that, no, I’m not waiting for my ship to come in.
I’m waiting for my grip to come in. Camera team ‘n all.
And tell me how I’ve won the grand prize for not giving into domestic incarceration and body desecration.