It Just Is

Three, oh, it's a magic number. Yeah it is. It's a magic number.

I love you. Three words. End. Three letters. See what I did there? I love you was the beginning of my marriage. Before marriage even existed, expressions of love were exchanged. Vows were declared. The beginning held so much promise, those 3 words meant so much. And now, the opposite is true. The circle outside the marriage is what holds promise. Those 3 letters mean everything.

Today crept up on me. It would have been my 10-year wedding anniversary. In a way, it's hard to believe we made it so close. Then of course my mind travels to all of the sleeplessness, the crushing pressure, the anger and resentment and fighting. And then - you guessed it. It's hard to believe we made it so far.

You know those films, or those story lines on TV - the ones that depict a one-night stand which results in a happily ever after? Hey. Fuck that. The reason you're seeing a happily ever after ending is because you're only seeing the end of the beginning. The actual relationship, and all it entails, is yet to come.

I noticed the other day that what I perceived to be a habit developed recently was actually something I've been doing my whole life. Simply put, nobody ever ends up living up to the hype, or even more simply put, nobody is ever quite good enough. Because I carry around an unfortunate air of superiority, one that I mostly keep to myself and learned long ago how to mask, my admiration of others is limited. If I admit to admiring something, it's a sure bet I'm telling the truth. It's a definite benefit for those who know me, and alos the only way I can justify my ego - I make amends by always trying to give recognition of my company's attributes. It gives everyone the warm and fuzzies, and nobody's ego is damaged. I can't control my thoughts, but I can apologize for them in subtle ways.

So I have this problem with men. I find myself attracted to many of them. I find myself intellectually stimulated by some of them. But I find myself completely enamored with none of them. Actually, that's not true. From afar there are lots of possibles. Except everyone knows the concept. The closer you edge, the more you see, the farther a person falls. But sometimes I feel as if I'm experiencing a more severe version of this - I am scathingly critical, which is problematic, and mean, if I'm telling the truth. At least it makes me feel that way, though I try not to let my mean show. To put it as ineloquently as possible, it's pretty fucking exhausting holding my bitch inside all the time. But I can never muster respect for anyone who lives their life open and scathingly critical like that, and I want to be deserving of respect.

So while I search for something that most likely doesn't exist, freshly diagnosed with Sex and the City Syndrome (the inability to realize one's own flaws demand a less critical view of men), I hope that I'll earn respect. I'm a Charlotte, so I'll remain sweet and kind and self-deprecating. And on the inside, I'll be cackling and side-eyeing and bitch-glaring. The idea, though, has nothing to do with me and my inner workings, and everything to do with what my respect will earn. It's my hope that eventually, my capacity to respect, coupled with my need for it, will result in something I should have been looking for a long time ago.

My wedding anniversary today is pretty symbolic. Thinking of it in terms of time passed, a decade is a large chunk of life. But maybe I should just keep my snark to myself and look at it like this - in my late twenties, I'm still young. *fingers crossed* I still have a lot of life left to live. But at a decently young age, I've learned a lesson there is NO way I'll ever forget. I will never, ever again waste a decade of my life on something that my instincts are red-alerting. And that's all I'd like to say on that subject for now.

Ten years. *screams*

Okay. So on the official end of a decade-long failed experiment, I choose to put it to rest. Goodbye, resentment of time wasted. Farewell, feelings of self-loathing and failure. I will no longer refer to you in any capacity. I will find new things to write about, and better things to talk about. My mourning period is over.

Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of a new decade.