I hate waiting. Not in a typical "I'm so impatient" way. I'm not the person who quietly sighs when standing in the checkout line at the grocery store for a little too long. I'm not that subtle. And I'm not the nice old lady who gets a slightly aggitated after holding for 32 minutes just to speak to a rep at the cell phone company. No. I am a monstrousity. I am the enemy of all things slow...or moderate...or hesitant.
I cannot stand the annoying sound of the icons fighting to settle into their places on my desktop...or the visual retardation of a website loading. I hate when the intersection light lingers on red for too long. (What are the extra 15 seconds for? Get on with it already). I grate my teeth when a pedestrian takes too long to cross the street. I contemplate the consequences of homicide when a waiter pours water at a wretched slow pace during my conversation.
And there are more examples. So many more examples...like job interviews. I cannot stand arriving for an interview 15 minutes early and then being forced to wait 40 minutes for the interviewer to wobble his fat ass out of his office and greet me with a fake yellow, moldy smile. Then that same interviewer pretends to be in love with me and promises to call the next day when he, in reality, plans to torture me for two months. I don't like when cashiers take too long to count my change. I don't like Christmas Eve. Because I'm reminded that Christmas is still 24 hours away. I don't like birthday parties in December because I have to wait eight more months to have all of the attention on me. And if you think I'm lying-that I can't possibly be that crazy...you're wrong. You couldn't be more wrong.
But none of the previously mentioned madness compares to the undeniable hatred that I have for the dating/courting process. (My skin is crawling). There is nothing, in this world, that I hate more than wondering...waiting...fiending...hoping...needing...wishing that the person I want would just end the torment and loudly/boldly want me back. I have never experienced torture like the torture that accompanies wanting someone who hasn't admitted to feeling the same way. I mean, shoot me already. It's difficult to explain because the waiting isn't a "middle school crush" kinda thing. It's not like waiting on a phone call after someone asks for your number. It's unimaginable. It's obsessive. There's no appetite, no sunlight, no social life, no hobbies, no phone calls, no texting...no nothing. But waiting. Wondering.
And yes, its unhealthy. But how healthy is love...really? There's the initial bliss-sure. There's the first random accidental date (that no one calls a date) or the kiss that no one planned or the sleepover that only happened because the sun "snuck up" on you both and time "flew by." But eventually, there are just two people who don't know what the hell to do next. It's inevitable. And the trick is...the goal is...to make sure that the other person has no idea how much you think about him/her. Everything is strategic. Everything is calculated. Even if you work double time to appear nonchalant. Inside, you're crumbling with anticipation.
I cannot stand it. I'd rather stand on ice while wearing a bikini...in the forest...at night. I swear. Because, the truth is, being impatient has never bothered me until now. I've never cared about my inability to wait. Everyone else seems more burdened about my disorder than I am. I wouldn't even know I had a patience disorder if it weren't for the thousands of people reminding me every day. But, when it comes to issues of the heart, I know that patience is mandatory. I know that, if I don't change, I will spend the rest of my life with whatever is most convenient and accessible. I know that I will always settle for whoever gives me what I ask for, when I ask for it.
And, deep down, I want more from this life. I want to know what might be on the other side of the whole patience foolishness. I know one thing. Waiting will either kill me...or make me stronger. Hopefully, I'll find out that the outcome is the latter.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
I Won't Ever Be...Anything or Anyone But Me.
This isn't much more than a message. It's not intended to change your life or open your feeble mind. It's simply a message for whoever needs to receive it and for those who are in denial about the subject matter.
Disclaimer: I'm not really one to give advice to the masses. That's not my style. That's not my angle. I speak up when spoken to. But there are a few issues that I believe are universal. And the perception of beauty is one of those issues.
I've been a woman for 23 years. (My entire life obviously). And for 23 years, I have witnessed/experienced the volatile side effects of being a woman in this heinous, judgemental society. I've seen gorgeous women starve themselves to look more like Halle or Stacy Dash. I've seen women get hair cuts to look like Rihanna on a Wednesday, then get a $200 weave on Friday to look like Lauren London. WTF...
In the past, I have avoided food for weeks and survived off tea and lemon juice to get ready for collegiate pageants. I remember eating nothing but Atkins bars and broccoli for months in order to get "ready" for my freshmen year of college. And, even still-though I was damn near anorexic, I squeezed any excess flesh every morning in dismay...desperate to be perfect.
And, quite simply, it is sickening to pursue beauty like vampires in search of fresh blood. We are never EVER going to be good enough for our worst critics...ourselves! I am terrified to raise my daughters in a society that is so obsessed with physical attributes. Every image on television is a reminder that calves could be tighter, breasts could be firmer, hair could be more bouncy, skin could be more bronzed, and teeth could be whiter. It's heartbreaking. I know that there are so many women who wake up in the morning feeling beautiful before turning on the television and realizing that beauty doesn't come in a size 14.
Beauty only exists at Forever21 and Charlotte Russe and size XL doesn't mean Xtra Lovely. I've watched full-figured friends buy socks at Forever21 just to prove that they could purchase something in that damn store. And for what? Who gives a hot damn?
We all do. That's the problem. I'm not above the societal influence of beauty. Believe me. I'm not riding a high horse at all. I am no where near a pedestal right now. If anything, I am among those who are the most concerned about image. Even when I rebel against the norms, I fail to feel beautiful or acceptable. I don't walk with my head as high if the relaxer isn't freshly applied. If my waistline isn't referred to as "tiny or well-defined" at least once a week...I start doing crunches in my sleep. Because I care about what people think. And there are days when we all want to look a little more like Lauren London and Stacy Dash.
But, somewhere deep within, beyond the hype and the insecurities, there is a safe zone that exists. There is a light that sheds on everything that is excellent about each of us. There is a reminder that there can only be one you. No one else will have those phenomenal eyes or those perfectly pouty lips. No one else will have freckles that fall across your face like consolations of stars in the sky. No one else will have legs like ladders that tempt even the most dedicated priest. No one will have that laugh or that gorgeous backside. And somewhere, deep below your inevitable hate for your own appearance, you know that God designed you brilliantly.
And I know the same to be true. I know that I was made in His image...perfectly and I won't ever be...anything or anyone but me.
Disclaimer: I'm not really one to give advice to the masses. That's not my style. That's not my angle. I speak up when spoken to. But there are a few issues that I believe are universal. And the perception of beauty is one of those issues.
I've been a woman for 23 years. (My entire life obviously). And for 23 years, I have witnessed/experienced the volatile side effects of being a woman in this heinous, judgemental society. I've seen gorgeous women starve themselves to look more like Halle or Stacy Dash. I've seen women get hair cuts to look like Rihanna on a Wednesday, then get a $200 weave on Friday to look like Lauren London. WTF...
In the past, I have avoided food for weeks and survived off tea and lemon juice to get ready for collegiate pageants. I remember eating nothing but Atkins bars and broccoli for months in order to get "ready" for my freshmen year of college. And, even still-though I was damn near anorexic, I squeezed any excess flesh every morning in dismay...desperate to be perfect.
And, quite simply, it is sickening to pursue beauty like vampires in search of fresh blood. We are never EVER going to be good enough for our worst critics...ourselves! I am terrified to raise my daughters in a society that is so obsessed with physical attributes. Every image on television is a reminder that calves could be tighter, breasts could be firmer, hair could be more bouncy, skin could be more bronzed, and teeth could be whiter. It's heartbreaking. I know that there are so many women who wake up in the morning feeling beautiful before turning on the television and realizing that beauty doesn't come in a size 14.
Beauty only exists at Forever21 and Charlotte Russe and size XL doesn't mean Xtra Lovely. I've watched full-figured friends buy socks at Forever21 just to prove that they could purchase something in that damn store. And for what? Who gives a hot damn?
We all do. That's the problem. I'm not above the societal influence of beauty. Believe me. I'm not riding a high horse at all. I am no where near a pedestal right now. If anything, I am among those who are the most concerned about image. Even when I rebel against the norms, I fail to feel beautiful or acceptable. I don't walk with my head as high if the relaxer isn't freshly applied. If my waistline isn't referred to as "tiny or well-defined" at least once a week...I start doing crunches in my sleep. Because I care about what people think. And there are days when we all want to look a little more like Lauren London and Stacy Dash.
But, somewhere deep within, beyond the hype and the insecurities, there is a safe zone that exists. There is a light that sheds on everything that is excellent about each of us. There is a reminder that there can only be one you. No one else will have those phenomenal eyes or those perfectly pouty lips. No one else will have freckles that fall across your face like consolations of stars in the sky. No one else will have legs like ladders that tempt even the most dedicated priest. No one will have that laugh or that gorgeous backside. And somewhere, deep below your inevitable hate for your own appearance, you know that God designed you brilliantly.
And I know the same to be true. I know that I was made in His image...perfectly and I won't ever be...anything or anyone but me.
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