Yeah, I’m tired.
Tired of wondering if it’s too personal for the blog, tired of wondering if the things you say don’t matter do, tired of waking up early and crushing a Diet Coke on the Henday to fill my day with uninterrupted interruptions, tired of trying to do new things and just not succeeding. Tired of not writing, of not going to yoga, of pissing off my boyfriend.
They say put pen to paper, because that’s where it all comes out. But I’ve been putting the pen to paper, filling page after page after page. I wonder, why am I doing any of this? Is this helping? Putting words “out there” for no one to read? Putting my greatest fears out there? Telling someone? Asking the question “do you feel like this too?”
I’ve spent a long year looking at myself through someone else’s eyes, trying to be everything that I can as some sort of insurance that someone will stick around. I don’t know what compels me to buy the clothes I do, to pick up my bike, to go for a run, to wear longer skirts and to take shitty jobs where my boss makes a passive-aggressive jab every other day. I don’t like any of it. My pants don’t fit. I hate running. I don’t even like making the three hour pilgrimage to Moksha. And when I shop at lululemon I half hate myself for buying into something so pretentious and marketed.
Great, there’s more pen to paper, does that make me feel any better? No.
I drove around in your lime green van and sat next to you at Folk Fest, holding your hand and looking at your dirty feet, wishing that you would put on shoes. I bought you a $500 ticket to a day at the races. I tried not to wonder when you sang me Chromeo and Justin Timberlake. And you, you I went to Cuba with, and I pretended I loved you. I have a long list of boys, and a long list of goodbyes, and I guess whether I run or yoga or mountain bike or look like Beyonce doesn’t have anything to do with it. So what is the secret then, we all end up divorced or hating each other in the end anyway, don’t we?
Aren’t you supposed to get wiser in your 30’s? I think the wisest thing I could do is to get addicted to a hard-core drug, be an addict for a while, get clean, and then be able to look back and think “Well, I really accomplished something there, didn’t I?” I’m not living life like you Mia, and I don’t think that’ll ever be me, sleeping on the kitchen table in the middle of the African desert, leopard tracks all around you, taking helicopter flying lessons, really becoming a Loiselle, running a tri, baking muffins, toning the tooshie, fact is, I don’t know what the heck I am going to amount to. Can being indifferent and apathetic be my thing?
Pen to paper. Nope. This just makes me seem like a lunatic. I should be sleeping, I have a big day of packing for Osheaga. But I already feel guilty about all the cigarettes I am going to smoke, the beer I’ll chug and the tan I’ll get. Perhaps they meant that in your 30’s you get pessimistic, not wise. Probably.
Whatever. I’m tired. I don’t know who to be anymore, I don’t know the formula, and I’m tired of trying. I’d like to go to sleep and wake up a Cheerleader who is really good at emailing and calling her friends, can play at least one sport really well and who doesn’t eat poutine. It could happen.
You know what the kicker is? I can’t even run out of paper on here, so I guess that means that I just have to keep writing.
Until next time…