Feeling Fuzzy

Despite my best attempts,

last week's annoying sore throat

catapulted itself into a full-blown

situation this weekend.

Try as I might

I felt like total shit.

I still

(as I sit here)

feel pretty crappy.

And considering

how easily distracted and flighty I am

on any given day,

head congestion and medication

make for interesting writing conditions.

We'll be lucky if this is coherent in any way.

But here we go...

I spent Saturday night

posted up on the couch

with wonton soup and a movie.

Action shot!

Young Adult

I had had high hopes for it

but ended up being glad

I only paid $1.30 at Redbox.

I was also glad

I didn't drag Paul to the theater to see it

as I hate having to defend my movie choices

when they're less than stellar.

It was neither terrible nor fantastic,

and the highest accolades

belong to Charlize Theron

who does an impeccable job

of creating a main character who

lacks any sort of likeable trait.

There is not a single redeeming quality about Mavis.

Which, you know,

makes it all the more difficult for me to admit

that I related to her.

Not to a lot of her,

but to a little bit.

More specifically,

"I'm crazy and no one loves me."

and

"It's really, really hard for me to be happy."

Let me qualify this by saying

that save for

3 to 5 hormonally induced days a month

I hardly feel

that way anymore.

But I did feel that way,

every day,

for a very long time.

Like ages 5 - 27 (28?).

And I have the ex-boyfriends

and ex-friends to prove it.

Earlier this year

I was having a heart to heart with my Dad.

I was talking to him

about the re-emergence of an old love,

and needing some advice

about my reservations

and the other half's hesitations.

It was a good talk,

full of dad gems,

and punctuated by

his saying

with all the love in his heart,

"Christina...loving you is exhausting.

Ever since you were little."

He didn't mean it as a jab,

and I didn't take it as one.

Mostly because I've come to terms

with that truth about myself

and I've worked plenty hard to change it.

After all,

I was the girl in therapy in junior high,

and high school,

and off-and-on through

eleven years of college.

A million issues that could be whittled down

to just not feeling comfortable in my own skin.

Frustrated with my mind and heart

and their inability to just quiet for a second.

Constantly reacting to everything.

Injustices

(real or imagined)

that I just had to set straight.

A bottomless pit of need

that would exhaust

the best of intentions.

Always looking toward the out

to fix the broken in.

I remember when Paul and I

were a couple a decade ago.

How we had our one year anniversary

and he filled my car

with 12 different dozens of flowers.

And I didn't like the kinds of flowers he chose.

My skin crawls at the memory.

It wasn't that I meant

to be that way.

It wasn't that I didn't want

to feel differently.

It was just really, really hard for me to be happy.

I don't know when things started to shift.

I'd like to say

it was when Lucas was born

but I'm not sure.

Changes like that are often imperceptible.

Maybe it was the trials of the last year.

Maybe it has been a do-over

for a relationship

that (for me)

had a lot of lingering regrets.

Maybe it has been the realization

that I was a shitty

daughter,

sister,

girlfriend,

friend,

etc.

etc.,

and I don't want to be that way anymore.

Maybe it has been that my efforts

have not gone unnoticed

and my life is full

of family, friend, and boyfriend

amazingness.

I don't know when it happened

but suddenly I became able

to spend more time in the here and now

and less time wishing for more, more, MORE

of whatever I thought could make me happy.

Suddenly I became less crazy

and more easily prone to happiness.

Suddenly my terrible cold and I

are swimming with the boys

at 8pm on a Monday night

and we're laughing and splashing,

(and I'm coughing),

and I'm actually,

genuinely,

happy.