These last few months have been a struggle. An internal arm wrestle that nobody is winning. I’m just waiting for a bone to snap.
The desire for attention is eating me alive.
It sounds equally as pathetic in my head as it does aloud. I am under no illusions about my coolness factor in this moment. I’d say Steve Urkle, with his three inch thick glasses and his high waisted Mummy jeans, is out doing me by about 100.
Let me break it down for you.
I start everyday with a list of thanks. I read somewhere that it was the secret to all life’s successes and because I am easily lead, I participate religiously. In my list of thanks, I always remember to be gracious about the struggle. To be thankful for the challenges and pain, to know that growth often disguises herself as destruction.
But I can’t find it in myself to be thankful for the desperation.
I have found myself to be a regular in the club scene. Not hot enough to cut the line, but also not tragic enough to be turned away. Average at best. Though once I get in and the music hits my veins and the beat pulses through my blood, I’m a totally different woman.
I’m describing a slutty out of body experience here ladies.
Throwing my hips wildly, swinging my hair, whipping strangers in the face and winking at any human dumb enough to look my way. I’m an absolute mess of seizing, shaking, stumbling, shrieking foolery.
Thinking I look wifey but really looking cheap hooker.
Okay. I’m playing up the cringe factor here so that the resolution makes more sense. Bear with me.
I miss the excitement of being desired, of being chased and of being sought. I miss the feeling of anticipation, that tingling under your skin, the way your nerves stand on end and you feel your heart pounding through your chest. I miss it. Like an addict misses heroin. I miss the sensation of lust.
So, being very aware of my lack of self control, I put some safety measures in place.
Monday to Friday I stay busy. Really busy. I’m visiting friends, and going for walks, cooking dinners, making plans, taking classes and going to therapy. I burn myself out so I don’t think about it. So that I don’t indulge in anything that will damage myself esteem, but still, I can’t help thinking about it.
Then Friday night hits and I need a drink. I need to put a band aid on my weeping sore. I go out, I dance, I smile, I laugh and for those moments I feel whole.
But we all know that feeling doesn’t last, because the hangover is the biggest reality smack you’ll ever have.
You are alone!
Nobody cares whether or not you came home last night. Nobody cares that you’re tired and sick and have vomit on your dress. That goddess you were last night is an image and all you have left is the pieces of your dignity laying on the floor next to the bra you sadly flung off in a drunk lonely stumble to get yourself to bed.
Most days I know who I am.
I know what I’m worth and I know deep down that I’m a catch. I know that I am fun, spontaneous, and driven. I also know that I’m easy on the eyes and soft to the touch. I know all these things because they’re true.
I know I don’t need the attention of dehydrated man vultures, who’s sole purpose of going out is to prey upon the insecurities of women. I know this.
But like all things, it’s easier said than accepted.
I’m not saying I’ll never meet a good guy while I’m sitting on the side walk, swallowing a kebab whole, heels off, drunkenly waiting for a taxi. I’m just saying that I don’t need to wave my desperation around like a flag.
I think love and respect go hand in hand. You treat yourself like a whore and the world will respond. You hold yourself like a Queen and you’ll attract the like.
Have fun ladies, dance with your girls, put your heels on, do shots, shake your ass and sing at the top of your lungs. But do it for you and not for the audience of dicks surrounding you.
As my girls always say “no free show.”