I’m not the forgiving type. I’m the “Let’s forget and fake move on” type. The type to not so secretly harbor what you did when I’m up thinking throughout the night. I was told forgiving means letting something go for the betterment of your spirit but misery loves company and I haven’t been ready to to be alone without my burdens from the transgressions from others. How else was I going to blame someone else for my shortcomings if I forgave them? How could I continue to to live life without playing the blame game for previous heartbreaks if I forgave them? Who could I chastise them for unresolved hurt and pain if I had forgiven everyone?
I have to be honest. It is SO EASY to be an angry and sad woman. Being happy? That takes work.
Someone who will remain forever nameless told me in defense of his wrongdoing, “You can let go of everything that is causing you to be sad and get back to your happy”. While he was trying to explain that me being unhappy about his actions was somehow my fault, he dropped a gem. Even after heartache, loss, etc, I can decide whether I’m going to be happy. Normally I picked sad/unhappy. Why? Happiness is a choice and that choice required work that I wasn’t willing do. Especially when I had “excuses” not to.
“Those face masks help your spirit?”
My Aunt had knocked me off my feet and didn’t even know it. We were discussing self care and of course the conversation of face masks and baths came up. While my cousin and I shared our favorite sheet and peel off masks, our aunt came through with the swift kick to the chest. She knew the answer to that question and so did we: no, no they don’t.
My first six months of my thirties seriously flew past me. Don’t get me wrong, I felt it go past me. Ever since the day I entered the “No Longer Twenty Something Club”, I have been hit with signs that I am older left and right.
Men are finally getting called out for being sexual abusers…woooooooow.
When the allegations started coming out about Harvey Weinstein and the Me Too dialogue began, I tried to back away from all conversations about sexual assault. It was both draining and infuriating at the same time. I was angry and sad. Uma Thurman’s reaction during her interview was all me. It was like a wound being reopened and having lemon juice squeezed into it.
Yeah, I have a #MeToo story too.
“I can’t do this anymore, it’s over”.
“What?” I heard him properly the first time but was still shock from hearing it. My ears burned because of my growing anger and the emotionless phase sent through them. I mean, I was everything he asked for. Every day, I tried to be the perfect girlfriend, the perfect potential wife but that proved to not be enough. Or maybe it was too much. He rambled on about life and the current state of our relationship but it all went over my head. He was leaving me? For who? What is better? Who is better? What is he thinking? Those and a million other questions were bouncing around in my head while I watched my now ex get his things and leave.
Your girl has been thirty for almost a month now.
I was seriously waiting for thirty at the door with the patience of a toddler. I’ve been ready to hit thirty ever since I turned twenty-seven. There is something defining about turning thirty. It means that you no longer entertain or deal with the childish drama from your twenties but you also have to GROW THE HELL UP (if you haven’t already). You get way fewer excuses/passes thrown your way. Nobody wants to justify your ridiculous behavior, they expect you to know better. You will hear people talk about a lightbulb that clicks on when you turn thirty and I’m here to tell that lightbulb clicks on loudly and it is dramatically bright.
When I first started running through the streets of NYC as a beginning “distance runner”, I was intimidated. I mean INTIMIDATED. Here I was, attempting to run alongside people who made running look effortless. Soooo unlike myself, whose face consistently showed my desperation to stop and never run again. They were decked out in either Nike’s latest running gear or their infamous run club’s attire while discussing crushing PRs (personal records). When I ran by myself through my neighborhood, I was in my zone. My music was turned up, I breezed past the blocks like I was chasing the ice cream man and I felt like a “real runner”. But when I joined the group runs, I was back to feeling like I didn’t belong.