I’ve been in another fit of what Anne Shirley would bemoan “The Depths of Despair”, not to be confused with The Princess Bride’s “The Pit of Despair”. They’re both dramatic places to be but one involves torture by albinos, and the other just involves moaning. And possibly hair dye.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I have a feeling it’s hormones. I mean, I’m not going through THE CHANGE or anything (that’s a reference to menopause and not lycanthropy), I’m just…moody. I just thought….I don’t know….I guess I thought that grown-up life would be different. I thought…I thought I’d have more fun. More friends. More potlucks.
I envisioned my life at forty as something like the Ya Ya Sisterhood or something. You know, hanging out with my girlfriends, wearing vintage swimsuits, drinking margaritas and stuff while our kids run around and our husbands try to feel us up in the kitchen.
But, I don’t have a group of friends, nor do I own a vintage swimsuit, and my kids are at their bio dad’s half the time. Sometimes I get felt up in the kitchen, which is nice, but…it’s just not what I envisioned.
I’ve tried to make friends with different women lately, and I pretty much came off as drunk and desperate, mostly because I was drunk and desperate.
I’ve given up. I’ve given up on asking people over to play games and eat food, of trying to maintain friendships, and I’m realizing that life isn’t like the movies. THAT’S WHY THERE ARE MOVIES.
So there’s that.
Then there’s that I’ve sent out 50 query letters on “Popsicle Toes” and not one agent has asked to see the manuscript. I never heard back from the agent who asked for it back in April. And I’m telling you, this memoir is GOOD. It’s raw and vulnerable and awkward and real, because it’s pretty much me. On paper.
And then I was meeting with a nice writer fellow and having so much fun talking about writing again and critiquing and being critiqued, but he’s moving now, so I put up a somewhat sad and desperate personal ad on Facebook looking for a new writer group, and I got nothing on that too.
I’m like the reverse of Sally Field’s infamous acceptance speech. “No one likes me! No one really likes me!”
Sometimes I get really sick of living in my own head. I’m very glad that Kealoha likes me and likes hanging out with me. Maybe I can get him to put on a vintage bathing suit and I can pretend we’re girlfriends.
Actually, that’s a horrible idea. I’m now firmly creeped out, which I guess is better than being in the Depths of Despair.