erinmw23
I guess it's been a while since I've met a proper one of these; I suppose I loved one, once, but squandered the opportunity looking for greener grass. It's been a bad habit of mine for a while, in retrospect. Old habits die hard. I certainly wouldn't be a gentleman if I were a boy.
I do my best not to be like my financial friends--the ones who pursue a six-figure paycheck and won't stop until they've climbed up the corporate ladder and died surrounded by their piles of money. I get that money can buy you experiences and make your life easier and more fulfilled (maybe), but I want to enjoy every day of my life, not my 3 weeks' paid vacation and weekends. Being a journalist means my 3 weeks paid vacation are stay-cations and camping trips, but the trade-off is that I love what I'm doing and have a reason to wake up every day, and that reason is not fueled by a countdown to my next vacation/paycheck/weekend.
The entire city feels like an abrasive conversation with a disgruntled stranger. (In fact, I've already had a few of those.) The rough mornings of the rat race initially wear me out; my body isn't ready to be pushed around and disregarded. No one in this city cares about anyone but themselves
There's a lot I don't know about my own life, a fact that is both relieving and infuriating. As a full-time employee--and one who works harder than at least half of my coworkers--I fee entitled to knowing at least some of the things going on in the community to which I dedicate 37.5 hours of my week.
One of my fondest memories of family vacation -- to Delaware, every year, without fail -- is one that annoyed me when it actually happened. But looking back, it's cute. Every time we got in the elevator to go to the beach or back up to the room, my two littlest sisters fought over who could press the button to go up. I wish I could find something so simple that could make me as happy as pressing the elevator button made them.
I came out swinging with my pent up accusations and he, as always, returned with his own critiques. Under his crossfire I retaliate immediately, spewing hate and planning burning comebacks quickly. But after the dust has settled and the fires are put out, his words "We broke up because of your bullshit, Erin" are ringing in my ears.
It doesn't feel like I'm standing on my own two feet, although that's what everyone keeps telling me -- my parents, my employers, the loaners calling to collect money I just don't have for them. I probably spent it on books, booze or a cheap, quick dinner. I often say that it feels like I'm just trying to keep my head above water. That's a very different image from "standing on my own two feet."
I often felt I had to take a step back, in those weeks before the break up, to figure out how I was going to lie my way out of this or that particular situation. Honestly, telling the truth wouldn't have been so bad. I just got so damn defensive, and started to weave these situations where there was no way he could possibly be right. Lying was my defense, when I should have just been honest.
Mom asks about my faith sometimes. When did I start cringing whenever she brings up the word “Jesus?” When did it make me so uncomfortable? I was raised in a Catholic family and went to a Catholic University, for Christ’s sake. Why is that I have to suppress the urge to roll my eyes whenever Mom wants to talk about my “journey of faith,” but I’m okay going to church — with my family or alone — every Sunday? What kind of disciple am I?