2012 is proving to be an uneven year for me. I refuse to say it’s a “bad” year because frankly life happens to people and just because bad things happen it doesn’t mean it’s a bad year, it means something bad happened. To make an April proclamation 2012 is a “Bad Year” is hyperbolic thinking. (is “hyperbolic” a word? Because if it isn’t it should be!) I started thinking about this when I clicked on a link yesterday which offered up a long list of whimsical Monday coping mechanisms. It’s
My favorite: “If Lindsey Lohen can get through 2007 you can get through today.”
I think this will be my mantra.
Things are weird just now: I’ve got a kid who needs his wisdom teeth out. Our dental insurance is good but it’s not paying for all of it. Plus the Supreme Court might change the healthcare reform which means he loses my insurance. Did I mention I can’t depend on his father to actually man up and help me financially so it’s my responsibility. Good-bye disposable income and a little bit of savings! And then there’s the whole Day Job Thing. We are undergoing a much needed computer change over at the hospital beginning July and the nurses who share my position throughout the hospital have been mandated: “no vacation time will be granted. . .” per a stern bossy-stick email. Isn’t it lucky I didn’t book a trip to Greece? (my boss thought I was kidding when I said this. I wasn’t, we were going to Greece. It was a consolation prize for losing my father) So aside from a trip somewhere in late October, my shiny new Passport version 3.0 will be resting quietly at the bank.
So let’s recap this: Edgy June Cleaver is butt hurt because she doesn’t have enough disposable income to take a trip that equals the monthly salary of the average Joe because she has to have her kid’s teeth pulled without going into debt. She’s also pouting because her well-paying job she likes 85% of the time won’t let her take a vacation over a six week period. Like I said. First world problems. And when I read them back I am ashamed of myself. And if I read these First World Lamentations on someone else’s blog I would be tempted to type in purple crayon: “Oh Boo-fucking-Hoo Bitch!!”
Because really. I. Mean. Really.
I should be grateful I have the means to get the kid’s teeth out without begging for help from an ex-husband who would make me feel like shit because I had the guts to ask for it. I should be grateful I have disposable income and am not living from week to week. I should be grateful I have a well-paying job that affords me generous amounts of time off.
Thanks for letting me barf all over my blog this morning. It’s helped a little. But I am still harboring a fantasy about standing in front of a window which has a speaker in it (like at the movie theater) and behind the gray window is a tired and haggard looking woman who would rather be someplace else (picture the worst most unpleasant municipal employee you can imagine) but she is stuck working at the Universe’s Complaint Department. When it’s finally my turn I approach the window, my fists are clinched and I know my voice is going to shake as I try to not cry from anger and frustration. Because it’s not the limited time off, the money, the responsibilities. It’s this:
“How could you do this to me. How could you do this to my family. We were happy. He was happy. He was the happiest he had been in almost a decade. This is how you repay him for all the hard work, the sacrifices he made for his family? It’s insulting–like when you’re unhappy with the service in a restaurant and you tip a penny–giving him two short years of unparalleled happiness. And don’t sit there, shrugging your shoulders telling me some bladdity-blah platitude about: ‘At least he had two years.’ What the Hell did he ever do to you? This is how you repay someone who despite the crappiest childhood possible made something of himself without stepping all over the heads of his peers or at the expense of his family? Well to Hell with that. And to Hell with you too!”
The only thing wrong is I was handed a plateful of steaming hot, smelly senseless loss and grief. And all the trips to Greece won’t change this. I would still have my big plate full of grief sitting next to me.