I suspect this rant is prompted by reading the book Sex and the City, the collection of essays by Candace Bushnell that prompted the show. It’s like reading a horror novel, and it’s stirring up feminist rage including some rage directed at other women for promoting and encouraging limiting stereotypes and stupid decisions.
Warning: swearing and controversial comments below the cut.
I’m dealing with some lingering depression, as the last two years haven’t been a happy or fun-filled ride. The next person who feels the need to point out I got married, and “that should be a happy event!” will be kicked in the shins. Don’t tell me how I’m supposed to feel. It was an event. It was not the happiest day of my life, and I would be lame and unworthy of breath if it were. I should hope that the culmination of my life is marked by an achievement, and finding a man willing to commit is not an achievement, nor should it be viewed as such. It is an event, dumb luck, happy – but not defining. Marriage is hard enough without putting that much pressure on the relationship.
The number of people that want to make it that way for me are really pissing me off. I realized, looking at a calendar that I was really only “on the market” post divorce for about 18 months before I met Mike. Essentially, I got “snapped up.” The secret? I work very hard to be something other than fucked up. I treat men as individuals instead of generalizing about the behavior of men as a gender, and if something seems too fucked up for me to deal with, I sidestep it. I don’t necessarily succeed in either case, but I try, and that makes all the difference.
I’m not really sure how to get across to both women and men that most of our relationship problems we ultimately do to ourselves, especially the relationship patterns. One instance of creepy-weird is not our fault – a series, on the other hand, means we’re missing something in ourselves that needs an audit. I think most religious-based sexual mores should be tossed completely, leaving only laws of consent and capacity for consent. It seems to me all the traditional stuff is just designed to make sure someone still has property and that someone feels like shit all the time for what amounts to biological wiring. There are enough “fuck you’s” from the Divine; why make up new ones and blame them on God(s)?
In any case, my rant aside, I meant to do an examination of the herbs I’m using. I’m having a breakout today – perhaps I got some corn syrup when I ate dinner with Brenda at Rot Osha on Saturday, or perhaps the chocolate mousse we made at 1 am to burn off her worry about her husband out in the ice storm prompted a deeper histamine reaction than anticipated. Whatever it is, I plan on taking my chlorine dip (swim) and getting a proper hair trim tomorrow for the first time since August this week. In the meantime, I really am dealing with some deep-set depression: just as I was almost doing fine after all the stressors of 2009, a series of events beyond my control dragged me right back in, so now in addition to the Bach flower therapies I’m taking St. Johnswort. It does help, especially with the low-level anxiety. I took it for awhile in late 2003-early 2004, and one course was pretty much enough to set me back on a path to rights.
For whatever reason, Mike feels the need to mess with stuff in the office that affects me, like the lighting. He’s happy working in a cave with a single light behind him. I am not. He solves this by unplugging my lights instead of simply flipping off the switch to all my lights. This ticks me off, actually more than I realized right away. There’s no strong logic in it, and he essentially made a decision for me instead of consulting me and now I’m pissed. It’s not worth screaming, but it’s one of those where if I don’t acknowledge it I’ll revert to family patterns that are violent but completely unhelpful.
I’d like to remain civilized, or at least pretend I am!