Sunday, July 15, 2007

This Is Where I Self-Destruct

This is when I let my doubts, my insecurities into the room. Doubt sits at the foot the bed and Insecurity lies beside me, its head nestled on my stomach.

My boyfriend is asking me why I'm quiet. If I were trying to talk things over, if I were trying to make this right, I would answer him instead of giving him the silent treatment--my favorite argument tactic--because it's the only way to I know to resolve conflict in relationships in a totally, you know, mature way. I would make an effort to communicate and tell him why this bugs me and maybe we could come to an agreement.

In the early days of our relationship, I would've been more forthcoming, probably because I was afraid he would break up with me, which scared the shit out of me, because I was barely hanging on to 155 lbs. If he had broken up with me, it would've sent me in a tailspin and I would’ve ended up rock bottom, at bottom of a bag of potato chips, party size, for my party of one.

Why is it that when I am happy, I can't just be happy? I have to think about why I am happy, how much longer I will be happy and whether I should buy some more lube just in case this happiness last longer than another 20 minutes. At least when you're miserable, you could wallow in it. But whoever heard of wallowing in happiness? If you do, maybe you should check the dosage of your medication.

I have to ask myself: Is this going to last? Is he going to stop loving me? How much longer is he going to keep doing the laundry? I have become used to having him in my life. If we split up, how am I going to keep the evil telemarketers at bay?

How am I going to survive without knowing how to operate the dishwasher?

He alway pretends to be me when a telemarketer calls, "May I speak with Paul?" This is by the way, is a dead giveaway that the caller is a telemarketer. When my friends, my family call me, they say, "Wazzup, hookah??!?" Except of course, my grandma, who is quite genteel so she says, "What's going on with my little prostitute?"

I can't deal with telemarketers because I always end up buying whatever shit they are selling or answering totally insane and ridiculous surveys about the state of our Economy. I don't know why I can't do what any normal person would do and just scream obscenities into the phone and hang up. I just can’t do that.

Why am I mad?

I'm mad because he told his mother we'd have dinner with her at the Olive Garden without asking me. I mean, how could he, when I could've been planning some big fancy dinner for us with the package of baloney and an egg in our refrigerator. I mean, it wasn't that big a deal, but at least ask me--I would’ve said yes.

Now, I have to suffer through the 'endless salad and breadsticks,' tediously asking for an umpteenth refill. Then, I have to make sure I lined my man-purse with a large baggie so I could fill it 'leftover' bread and salad.

Yes, it made me angry, which is nuts because, like I said, I would’ve gone anyway. If this was the first year of our relationship, instead of the fifth, I would've even enthusiastically tried to think of a creative gift idea for her. After all, I would've still been trying to buy her affection, instead of merely tolerating her.

So instead, I give him the silent treatment, which by the way, is easier when you've just had botox. Later, I may even throw a fit or pick an argument, I don't know, depending on my mood and outfit. It's hard to act huffy when you're not wearing a feather boa or a pashmina.

Why do I do this? Why can't I let a relationship be? Why do I have to second-guess myself? Why do I have to question the status quo?

And whyohwhy do I let Doubt and Insecurity lie on my bed, especially when Doubt constantly sheds and Insecurity has fleas...


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Cary Tennis, that wise Salon.com sage advises a man from his dark thoughts which mirror my own.

Other related posts:

Detour - We carry our heavy emotional baggage through an SF airport.
It Don't Smell Like Roses - I believed in the Happily Ever After. Boy, was I wrong.

Stuttering - You can't argue with a hot Marine who stutters.
Girl, Interrupted - A national argument about a girlfriend in a coma.

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