Okay. I have nothing relevant to write about. This after I’d insisted to Amanda yesterday that I will always have something relevant to write about, because I am obsessed with myself/my divorce/my miscarriage/my future.
Today, with the possible exception of the one pregnant woman who came through my line, and a lady at the Costco food court asking another lady how old her baby was (4 months, but when I walked by to throw my trash away, I noticed what she had was not a human baby, but a chihuahua puppy, about the size of a squirrel, sitting on her lap), I actually felt like a normal human. It was strange, and kind of boring.
This morning I went to work, and I did my job well. I had a moment while I was on the register, with an endless stream of Sunday shoppers coming at me, wherein I thought, “I should get a better job.” I love my job, but I do occasionally wish for something more meaningful – and then I remembered how hard it is to make it in the writing/editing/publishing world, and the moment passed.
After work, Doug and I went to Costco to put gas in my car and get lunch (see: Crazy Girl Mistakes Chihuahua Puppy For Human Baby, above). We came home, folded some clothes, and I took a quick nap while Doug unloaded and reloaded the dishwasher. When I woke up, I remembered that Valentine’s Day is tomorrow, and that, excited as I’ve been, I hadn’t even gotten Doug a card yet. So off to Target, still half-asleep. I really need to stop doing all my shopping last-minute. Seriously, this stuff has been there since the day after Christmas – I have no excuse for waiting until the day before and having to deal with the mosh pit in front of the picked-over card display. Oh, and I also had to pick up some chocolate.
I came home and showered while Doug made dinner (chicken penne alfredo with mushrooms and peas), and while we ate, we watched The Simpsons Movie, which he had never seen. And now here I am, recounting my boring day in my boring life, because for the first time in the history of this blog, I don’t have a story to tell or a revelation to share.
Doug says it’s a sign of progress. Maybe he’s right. I’ve sort of learned to accept that my heart will always jump a little when I hear about someone being pregnant, or see a pregnant woman in public; that reaction is part of me now – it may not be normal, but it’s my normal. If this means I’ve sort of learned to accept what happened to me, with regards to my miscarriage, then so much the better. (Which is not to say that I’m okay with it having happened, just that I can accept that it did.)
As for my divorce… Eh. I’m a little less accepting of that. I still think I was stupid to get married to that guy in the first place, and I’m still ashamed of how it ended, and I’m still pissed at him for playing the victim so wholeheartedly, especially as I become more and more retroactively aware of his underhanded sleaziness, and his lack of machismo, and his lady hands. Maybe I should have written an angry unsent letter to him, and posted that here tonight, but it’s far too close to Valentine’s Day to waste my time and energy on that wanker.
(After all, just because I finally went and bought the card, doesn’t mean I’ve actually written it yet, and I have ideas for another project or two that I would have to complete before I go to work tomorrow.)
Oh, another thing I might mention: I spent most of today physically exhausted, and pretty damn proud of myself, because I rode 35 miles yesterday – without walking, crying, or sitting on any curbs and refusing to go on.
And there it is, that little voice in my head, telling me in her obnoxiously optimistic and reassuring way, “You couldn’t have done that if you were pregnant.”