Six Months Left To Live

Oh...I'm not there yet. But I will be.

And do you have any idea how fucking scary that is?

In a little over six months...pow. Another box... checked. Reading glasses. The age when all chicks who grew up on Carrie Bradshaw should have gotten Mr. Big by now.  Or Steve. Or Harry, or hot younger model-type dude who you dump your billionaire boyfriend for. (Seriously. Where they do THAT at?)

Yes... it's 40.   My young adult life is clearly done.The land of "fine line reducer" and "15% chance of conceiving naturally". I'm about that wine and Spanx life. The thought of anything beginning at 10pm makes me laugh. Even if it's Friday. And 20 somethings are beginning to irritate me. Not because I'm jealous of their youth, but because they're just fucking irritating.

40. The number implies half of my life is already done and whatever I'm doing should be what I'm happy doing for the rest of my life because I'll be too damn tired and ornery to do anything else. I should settle into boring...and like it.

 Now,  this is the part when I try to rationalize not being the raving success that I thought I'd be at this age. This is the part I justify the proverbial "midlife crisis motor cycle." This is like scratching a rash to heal a headache, so feel free to decline my invite to the pity party. I shall be pouring lots of glasses of self pity. Poor me. Pour me.

To be fair (to my ego), I was only able to REALLY get down with like, half of my age as a working independent adult capable of making awesome life changing decisions, right?  I'm saying, you can't really LIVE until you're at least 20, and then you need to pack as much awesome as you can into those final 20 years.

  I mean, from age 0-21, I'm pretty much still capable of doing shit that might get my parents thrown in jail for not keeping a better eye on me. From 21-30, I was pretty much broke and trying to figure it all out and from 30-39...Jesus. I have no idea what the fuck happened.

Oh, wait.  Yes I do. </Excuses>

I won't go into it, but it had a lot of giving myself AWAY and not focusing on what the eff I needed to do as a responsible adult because, being honest, I never thought I'd have to grow up and become one.
No. That's a lie.

 I didn't want to.

The way I see it, my life up until now has been Jay-Z philosophy applied backwards. Dude had 99 problems but a b*tch wasn't one? I had 99 problems and they were ALL about a b*...well... a relationship. (I'll be nice.) The one problem I wanted to have...should have had, would have been fucking DELIRIOUS to have, would be to concentrate on my writing and career. However, I was under the impression that since I lived in New York and was awesome at communication and drinking....success would just fall into my lap. Just like that. Finger snap. Lookie at how lucky I am!

By the time I woke up and smelled the Bustelo (because I still live in the Bronx, I don't care what the people in Riverdale consider it) I was 38 and like this, sad, black girl version of "Eat, Pray, Love".

Let me tell you. I sat on my couch, night after night watching that damn movie. Eating Bertoli mushroom ravioli with a glass of wine and crying.

...I'll take a year off. I'm sure this will happen to me.

Don't give me that look. It's not lazy. I read the book too. 

Fine. Actually, I listened to the book. I got it from an audible free trial.  (It was unabridged, OK?) And Elizabeth Gilbert said (she narrated it) hit me directly in my gut and I know I'm not the only one. How? 

Well, you don't get on Oprah and get to give epic Ted Talks if a few million women didn't nod along with your beat. So by default, I was now connected to millions of women who had felt the same way in some form or fashion (and Bali's tourism got a hell of a boost). 

Do you know how good that feels? To know you're not alone in the mid-life crisis? To know you wake up one day, look at your life and say, "What the fuck? This is not me. This is somebody else. And I've been too afraid to be me." And you're not ALONE in faking it?  I hope you do. If not, get on that bus IMMEDIATELY. 

Well, actually, there was one place I could actually be myself.  Where "being me" had been nothing but praised and celebrated. Being "me" gave everyone else permission to be them... and then something happened. I got honest. Real honest...while online, which was soon shot down as "putting business out in the street" and I stopped. As did the flow. 

But back to the movie. I wanted to go on my own "Eat, Pray, Love", but let's be clear. I was not naive enough to believe that Elizabeth's journey and mine would be exactly alike. I wanted an "Eat, Pray, Love" to get back to the truth. And I had to do it ASAP...before I died inside. It was that serious. And I knew it was, because I developed "pericarditis" and doctors couldn't explain why. But I knew why. Fully. 

Know that moment in the book/movie when she's crying and just praying like..."just tell me what to do..." and Spirit tells her simply "Go back to bed Liz."  That actually happened.  

The "still small voice" does JUST that. It doesn't say, "OK. Get out your pen. First of all... you're going to do "this". I don't know why I believed asking for help from Spirit is like asking for a wish from the genie in Aladdin. 

 It simply tells you to go back to bed. Let go. Surrender. 

So I did. And I found out about a class at my Spiritual center called "The 4 T's" Now, the "4Ts" stands for the "Tithing" of "Time", "Talent" and "Treasure".  And I meant to do it...fully. I'd just come off the heels of Iyanla Vanzant's 

One Day My Soul Just Opened Up: 40 Days and 40 Nights Toward Spiritual Strength and Personal Growth and I was READY honey! What's next Life??  Bring it on! After 8 weeks of intense soul searching? WHAT? Oh that soul was thoroughly SEARCHED.

 I laughed. I cried. I was cracked wide open emotionally and ready to live the truth. 

And then Life has a funny way of asking you, "Are you sure?". And I answered. "Yes." with all certainty and clarity. 

Let me tell you, the DAY I finished my last class, I mean THAT NIGHT... I'd found out the man I was dating, (who, in reality, I was terrified I would actually fuck up and marry...how deep is THAT?), was heavily involved in an emotional affair with someone else. 

Of course he was. How could he not be?

And so that ended. 

It was the best thing that could have ever happened to me. 

That was the PRAY version of our book. 

Next comes the EAT. 

Which is exactly what I did when I got an invitation to go to Paris. Long story short, it was my "bucket list" trip. I got a deal, everything fell in line and I went. 

And while there, I realized something. I hadn't been authentic in years. 

YEARS. 

And I had no idea how long I'd been bullshitting myself, but it had been for quite some time. 

And so, while in Paris, I sipped on wine every day. I looked at beauty everywhere. I spoke French. I fell in love...with myself. And I ate every single Parisian pastry that was put before me because I'd realized something else. 

I'd been starving myself on purpose because I knew HE was attracted to slimmer girls. So I ate. 

I came back to New York size "sexy". Hips. New hair. New outlook. 

And before I could even breathe, here comes this man into my life who is determined to make me his wife. 

LOVE? 

Well, he did sound a lot like the "Love" part...and this is what's supposed to happen, right? I mean, I ate. I prayed. And now he was supposed to crack through all of the "getting to know myselfness" of it all and get me to "attraversiamo". 

And so, I let myself heal. And be loved. And be taken care of. And you know what happened? 

The almost absolute and complete loss of self. A-fucking-gain. 

The early morning yoga followed by weight training? No longer, since he's always at my place. 

The writing (either via social media or otherwise), the editing for fun (or practice), the silly creative things I do when I'm alone....stopped. 

And the job I thought I loved became routine, frustrating. Boring. 

And size sexy has morphed into size "Seriously? WTF?'

What the fuck happened to the woman who left Paris? What the fuck happened to "I found my spirit and my truth?" You threw all that away for the sake of a relationship...AGAIN? 

And so, to therapy I go. (And not my black friend "the agent", because I don't have one yet because I haven't written anything agent worthy yet.) So Mr. Therapist pretty much recognized the Merry Go Round for what it was and it was totally up to me if I wanted to stay on or get off.  And like some fucked up version of "The Alchemist", I found myself back home again. Where the answer was all the time. 

So I decided to stop the ride. 

As it slows, I can see that I've been on it so long, my head is still spinning and I really don't know how to walk yet. I accept that I've got 6 months to get to where I want to be, and I'm doing it. 

With gazelle like focus. 

I have a new bucket list. It's MY bucket list. But it's a reverse bucket list. 

Not what I want to do before I die...but what I will get rid off so that I can LIVE. 

1. Anything other than the truth. 

2. Thinking my work isn't good enough. 

3. Negative body image. 

4. Fear of commitment. Marriage/kid. Etc. 

5. Thinking in terms of lack. 

6. Asking permission to be me. 

7. Giving a fuck about what people think. Period. 

I have six months to get to this place where all these things are gone for good. And that's exactly what shall happen. 

Oh yeah, and I'm going write about it. A lot. 

So now that I think about it. 40 is going to be awesome. Because I'm leaving all of this shit on this busted ass carousel and I'm moving on. 

It's going to be a hell of a trip. 

Who's coming with me? 

-N

ALWAYS Embarrassing... Period.

Without dangling myself dangerously close to the TMI area, I'm going to attempt to get this pseudo-feministic pet peeve out without sounding like a hater because I have to go through this every month. 

So with that said... 

Not long ago...in a galaxy far, far away...

It was toiletry time. Time to head into Duane Reade with my list, grab the little red basket and go nucking futs getting stuff to, once again, thwart Mother Nature's damnest attempt to turn me into a man. You know, razors, exfoliating gloves, age defying lotion, Neet, cocoa butter...stuff like that. But I also pick up other things while I'm there. Cosmo magazine (Don't laugh. The "tips" are great.). A large bag of Doritos. (They don't have small...OK?) Secret Clinical Strength deodorant. (Why bullshit with the "floral daisy" or whatever? Just go for the big guns if it's an option, right?) And something chocolate. Anything chocolate.

Oh yeah. There's one more thing on the list to pick up as well, which is why I go during an obscure hour. Like... 3pm on a Thursday. Did I walk to the Duane Reade closest to me? Oh no. THAT one is for common shit like toothpaste. For this monthly purchase, I actually walked five blocks out of the way, with my big ass leather purse so that I could 1) inconspicuously buy the product without running into a co-worker who'll have a "Kaiser Sose" moment realizing why I've been such a bitch the past week and 2) I can hold my head high without worrying about a small, green, square-shaped package showing through the nylon sheer "Duane Reade" bag. 

Now mind you, everything was going according to plan. The store was pretty empty. They had the large jar of cocoa butter for a change (with 20% extra free!), the razors were in stock, got the other crap...now off to the most un-fucking-comfortable and dreaded section of the store...the "feminine hygiene" aisle. 

It's always located waaaay in the back. Or in the basement. It's product placement Siberia and usually near the laundry detergent. However, neither industry is upset about this. Oh you WILL visit Siberia. Oh yes. You will. 

A relief, however, is that the FH aisle is almost always empty... because there's nothing more awkward than standing next to another woman who is just as cranky and bloated as you are. 

Now, no matter what you know about my so called "strong" personality, all that shit goes out the window and I practically turn into a thirteen year old rookie when I'm in the FH aisle. Dude, I WISH I were one of those women who leisurely strolls over to the aisle, starts picking up boxes, compares absorbency levels and gushes about "wings" being the best thing since sliced bread. (Though, keeping it real, they are.) But I'm not her. Not even close. 

There's a time honored method to my monthly trip. I've got no time to lolly gag; I'm on the clock. Get in and get out. 

Scan the aisle. Identify favorite brand by color. Double check to make sure it's not a knock off that's been lumped in (it's happened before), toss it in the basket and bounce. Don't run. Makes you look guilty. Just casually stroll away like nothing happened. Well done Bravo Team Leader! Mission accomplished. Then, I pick the shortest checkout line and fall in.

And that's when I see him. 

The Unicorn. It never. Ever. Fails. 

He's well groomed. He's well dressed. He's "oh snap" attractive. He probably smells good, but I don't sniff the air around him, cuz that's just weird. As I think about that last line, I giggle to myself. Then I notice I'm giggling to myself and cautiously peek to see if I've been labeled crazy. Nope. He's smiling. He's giving eye contact. He's on a parallel line to my left. I'm shyly not really looking at the cover of "US Weekly". I look back. He's still looking. I look down. Into my basket. The basket that screams the following: 

"HELLO THERE YOU AGING, DRY, ASHY, HAIRY, CRANKY, CATTY, SMELLY WOMAN ON HER PERIOD! YOU KNOW WHAT WOULD MAKE THIS BASKET COMPLETE? DOUCHE! SOMETHING WITH EXTRA VINEGAR PERHAPS? AHHHHHH! REFRESHING!" 

Uh. OK. Move basket into other hand. Shift contents to cover up the pastel green plastic package. 
(And that's another thing. Who in the fuck decided that FH products need to be the same color as Easter eggs? Think that makes us feel better about the whole situation? I'm losing a pint right now, but thank goodness the packaging is cheery? Uh, no. I'll tell you what it really does. Makes it fucking damn near impossible to carry that shit to the restroom without your "quick chat" co-workers giving you that..."Oh. Well..let me let you go" once they get a peek at that green plastic. But I digress. Where was I? Oh yeah...) 

"NEXT!"

And are we neck and neck to the finish. Is he distracted by paying for his own products you ask? Nnnnnope. U'Nique the clerk happens to be price-checking some lady's trail mix and he's got nothing else to do but wait...and check out what the girl next to him is unloading onto the counter. 

"Do you have a Duane Reade card?" 

"No." Bitch. I don't. Just ring it up. 

Now, this isn't my job, but I've seen clerks do it enough to know that you're supposed to scan and bag. Scan and bag. WHY are you just laying everything out on the...GASP! 

Cosmo cover: "THE HOT ISSUE! COSMO'S BIG, JUICY SEX POLL! 30,570 DUDES TELL WHAT THEY'RE DYING FOR YOU TO DO IN BED!" 

I place it face down on the counter. The scan-code is on the front, and like my mother trying to teach me a lesson about how learning to be a skank leads to the dark side, the clerk holds the magazine up in the air for all to see, looks at me, then scans. 

I glance...he's smiling. 

But U'Nique is still waiting for a manager. Bad. 

I'm running out of items and soon, I'm going to have no choice. Big Green has got to come out sooner or later...

Here's the razors... (moving things around...) here's the chocolate....and uh... here's the...

"NEXT!" 

Thank you U'Nique! He steps up and starts to empty his own basket. Now! Red team go! Red team go!

I reach into my basket, palm the goods and while he's not looking, hand 'em over for scanning. Wow. I did it! Ain't nobody dope as me.... I’m just so fresh and...

"The pads are on sale if you have your club card." 

(Record scratch.) Huh? 

"THE PADS. ALWAYS MAXI PADS are on sale if you have your club card. It's a dollar cheaper." 

Bitch...didn't I just TELL you ... 

"It's OK." 

"Do you want to apply for one?" 

"No. I'm good. Just..." 

And there he is. Looking at my pads. Right at my pads. Then at me. Then my pads. Then...not again. Not. Again.


Now, here's where my pseudo-feminist peeve comes into play. 

Did I once look into his basket to see if he had nut-fungus cream or whatever the hell it is men come into the drug store for? Nope. Under those shoes, he could have had some serious corns, or been picking up some Rogaine for his looming "George Jefferson". But that wasn't my concern. I'm concerned about my little green package and a man actually knowing I'm a normal, functioning human woman. I actually cared about protecting the male hang-up with the menstrual cycle. And yeah, they've got em. Not all of them I'm sure, but in my very unscientific survey, about zero percent of the guys I know can even stomach looking at the word "tampon", let alone follow it's purpose to the logical conclusion without gagging. And to that, I have one thing to say. 

Skid marks. You guys get them. We don't. Ours? Unavoidable. Yours...? I think that makes us pretty much even. 

And look. I get it. It's not pleasant. But it's a fact of life. And hey...maybe I didn't dig deep enough into Tolle's teachings, because I still trip out about shit like this. But hey. You didn't have an accident at your Jr. High School Graduation right before you made your Valedictorian speech...in a yellow gown. (I'm working it out. I'm getting better every week.) 

So sure. Maybe dude was taken and harmlessly flirting. Maybe he was gay. Maybe it really wasn't that serious and maybe I'm trippin'. All I know is there was no "maybe" that came into play until he saw the big green overnighters with wings. And maybe I was objectified. And maybe I sorta liked it. And maybe the "Oh shit. She's on her period!" thing made me human. And maybe that insulted me. And really. Really. Maybe...that's fucked up. And that's not his fault.

And I'm not going to try to get men to understand what we go through, because...you've got enough on your mind. Shaving and weekly haircuts have got to be a heck of a bother. (Snicker.) The best I can do is work on my personal shame of the cycle...and overcome it. Because I've seen what's next and Lord knows that shit ain't pretty. 

...Or at the very least, least write a letter to the Always people suggesting new colors. Cuz really? Pastel? Really though? Really?