So, I don't understand people. I don't think I ever will. When people are nice to me, it makes me cry. I guess I am so used to getting shat upon, it's mind-blowing when people are nice because they are nice....
Case in point: Today, I had a wild hair up me bum, and I decided to call Dante's classmate's mom and ask her what she was doing before we got the kids from school. We met for coffee, and the fact she showed up made me cry. Sad, isn't it? We had a normal conversation, and we cooed at each others' wee ones, and then we took all of them to a park after school. Would this make you burst into tears? It did it for me. I've gotten to a point in my life where people following through and being decent turns me into a puddle of goo. Then, to top it off, the super awesome lady that teaches my Zumba class that I love is letting me hit up her class a couple more times this year even though my punch card was in a wallet that got lost and possibly stolen. I nearly passed out.
More and more, it feels like the nicer and more honest I am, the more I become the gum on the bottom of The Universe's shoe. I know I have a tendency to over-share (thanks, Mom, for pointing that out!), but I can't help it. I don't get to talk to adults much anymore, so when I get the opportunity, I run my mouth out of sheer, unadulterated joy that I get to use vocabulary words from middle school with someone who has a 90% chance of knowing what that means. I have to reign myself in, and it's hard. I hate making new friends, but the ones I thought I had have evaporated. I know life happens, but I'm left in the dust, missing what I didn't really have in the first place. I'm in a weird headspace, where I still feel young, but I am not. I still feel like a cool Mama Bat, training the baby bats in the way of the night, but I'm now a booger catcher. The only reason I've worn velvet this year is because I was Morticia (and a crappy one at that) for Hallowe'en. A corset? It's been years. As in, Dante was a pipe dream the last time boning graced my plump midsection. My wardrobe has been reduced to yoga pants, over sized t-shirts, and unruly hair. I nearly forgot how to put on my makeup. But at the same time, do I care? Most of the people in that scene snub blood sausages like me. Yes, I still listen to a lot of the music, but so what? I also still love my mariachi music, and I can sing Twinkle Twinkle with the best of them. Now I know who all the Wiggles are, and I use Elmo as a teaching tool. What happened to using Rozz Williams as a teaching tool? Showing a cute little baby bat how to properly create a shadow effect and smokey eye?
I feel weird. Very weird. I'm getting to be cynical, and that hurts. But it's hard not to when people find ways to mock and exclude me while pretending to at least give a shit about what I have to say. I'm tired of being judged because I'm not married to a cash cow, like a doctor or lawyer, or because I'm not Organic enough, or whatever. It's sick and twisted. Maybe I should just come to terms with the fact that I made the odd call of marrying for love, not money, and I'm loud, and awkward, and goofy, and fiercely loyal and kind and honest to a fault... Don't like it? Then why the hell are you reading this?