This is what irritates me about type casting. The roles are limiting. You're either the girl brought home to mother i.e. Jennifer Garner, the perennially sad single girl i.e. Jennifer Aniston, the party babe i.e. Tara Reid, the hard core bitch-slut i.e. too many to mention, etc. - there are multitudes more convenient boxes we get slot into by either ourselves or others. As I'm sure most of our college pictures attest, as well as the hushed up stories we keep from way back when or horror, that loud friend we hope will never visit our current life, we can be all those things to different people at varying stages in our lives. There isn't even an arc of logic we can rely on.
I'm not sure if it was B's ebbing away that did it. Or just the ushering forth of this wave of events upon November's shore. It felt as if I'd arrived at this indefinable juncture where I was for once, really aware of what other women mean when they say they're tired and would rather be alone. Tired being more a slow wearing away into flimsy, not wrecked post a magnificently devastating event/s. I'd done wrecked, in pieces, guts all over the place. This was tired, free of specific association to any single thing.
Tired is like osteoporosis, fragility from years of calcium leaching away from your bones. You suddenly wonder why you feel so brittle, so breakable, so unable to gamely sustain inevitable blows. It's unromantic to think it all happened because you forgot your dairy but there it is. Yes, despite my fervent belief in hope as a necessity, I had sighted the Wall of Tired and it could not be argued with. In the past, I'd have taken a running start and put in a leaping best effort. This time I just rested my forehead against it and appreciated how nice it felt to just do nothing.
Once I'd asked the career minded Cougary Cappo, a name coined out of the sheer irony of her not having any interest whatsoever in pursuing a relationship, exactly why she was done. "I'm just too tired." she shrugged. I raised my brows at this. "It hurts too much, I've reached that point. I just can't be hurt anymore," she elucidated.
Aah, I thought. The Rest Stop of Hurt. Surely in time, as things change, so would she? But she hadn't. In fact, she's so busy she's barely in a single country long enough to have a dalliance, never mind a relationship. And even then it'd likely have to be with one of the inflight staff on the same exact schedule. I didn't get that. Not at the time.
So there I was, about to go into Sleep Mode when I blinked and looked at the question again. To my mind, and I'd reckon to others, the Wall of Tired can only be overcome by a stunningly different result. Yes, yes, we need a happy ending. We need a Hero. We need a wedding! Ok, maybe not even a wedding, but a de facto spousal situation?
Darkness forbid our thought bubbles should rub against each other. I panicked. Has it happened to me? This heartbreak of turning the Rest Stop of Hurt into a residence? That I regarded it as such pretty much meant it hadn't. I wondered about that in the stillness of the night.
Had I done the same thing to the men who've graced me? Packaged them neatly into bundles of who will or won't do, of convenient company and/or meaningful exchange. We all do it to a degree. Some worse than others. I decided I'm probably less dismissive and err more on the side of being too considerate. Was I then confounded by this unsolvable dilemma of the Wall of Tired looming over me, sans a hero and a helpmate to overcome it? I realized I'd been looking at this as if I were outside my life, and therein lay the problem. With relief, I sighed back into the micro of who I am.
The Wall is the wall. I am who I am. I wanted the freedom of no longer apologizing for it and I was going to take it. It's NORMAL to be tired. It's normal to occasionally feel like giving up. It's also normal to NOT stop if you think that's the best thing for you. If you've read this blog, you've probably figured out I'm pretty energetic, I don't expect everyone to be. Even as I think of what the Cougary Cappo had surmised about herself, I can respect the recognition of limits, of that reckoning that only matters in the quiet of your own soul.
Can't go over the wall? Through and around are options. Have a look again later. There is my pace, then there's someone else's.
Mostly I'm grateful to remember who I am, without discounting who I'm becoming. I'm always surprised at all the knowledge and experience we have just waiting to be enacted into wisdom. Personally, I don't figure this out until the moment I'm in it. Now, I just think allow it, enjoy it. Savor the turning.
I had a sense of this happening as I went to Mexico, and I couldn't ruin the symphony just because I wanted to unthread the strains of music. Somewhere there, between the pyramids and the jungle, my mother and my sister, the lovers I no longer had and the one I'd hoped to return to, I grew into being alright with not being in perpetual helm of each evolving story in my life. And content to just be in my part of it.