This week my mantra has been “I am failing at life”. In hindsight that’s a bit dramatic, from where I’m sitting (on the couch with a wine), there’s not enough collateral damage to classify this as life failure, just a failure to launch.
I come from a long line of women who have their shit together and so far I am failing to meet the milestones of someone my age; no kids, no house, no job, no doctorate in dairy cow genetics. The real kicker is that these women have their shit together without sculling booze or abusing prescription medication: c’est impossible!
I’m sure that there are #mumlifers out there thinking: ‘this bitch doesn’t even have kids, what does she know about failing at life, try mum guilt on for size’. Nope, no offspring, but don’t think that non-mum guilt doesn’t exist. Non-mum’s look at their mum friends and wonder how it is that they are coping better, with other lives to manage as well as their own, and us non-mum’s can’t even make our own beds and brush our own hair.
Non-mums have non-mum guilt about putting our career/cardio fitness/car repayments before kids. Non-mums worry that the choices we make now may mean that we’re non-mums forever, and non-mums get increasingly nervous as more and more of our friends suffer with short to medium term infertility.
Technically I am a mum, to a silver tabby called Zeb. My parents have full time custody as the Family Court decided that I was unable to provide him with the stable, loving, Fancy Feast filled home that he needed to reach his full potential as a killer of native and introduced birds and rodents. I’m a dead beat mum though, who doesn’t pay child support.
I am also a step-mum, and in my humble (and contentious) opinion, step-mums are not given anywhere near enough credit for loving the children that their partner put inside someone else. Or in my case, two someone elses.
I don’t remember what happened on Monday, but no one ever raves about Monday do they? Tuesday was “team building” – don’t even get me started on that bullshit. In all fairness it finished on a high, because nothing that involves mojitos and pizza is ever a bad idea…until home time that is…when you can’t find your mah fuggin’ car keys. No biggy, it’s only the car keys, and the house keys, and the keys to your parents house, and the office, aaaaaaand the garage door opener.
Thank goodness for the friend who picked my useless ass up, and drove me all the way across the city to Boyf’s gym, where I navigated through the #swole gym heads and #fitspo gym bunnies to ask Boyf for his house key. He reminded me that there’s a spare key hidden at home (a mere minutes from whence I realised I’d lost my keys). I returned home, found my spare key and brought my vehicle home before some crack head broke into it and stole the handbags that are taking the scenic route to the op shop.
I called the bus company: not here. I called the venue: not here. I sent my mum to the venue, because she gets shit done: still not here. I went to the police station (in case someone had handed them in), and to report the impending break in at our place of residence, because if it was me I’d be driving around town pressing that garage door opener for shits and giggs.
Then I went to the bus depot. Outrageous I know. I stared death in the face as I went the wrong way down the bus only exit. I jumped the puddles in the car park and cheekily stole the space that was RESERVED for 468. I marched into the office and politely requested access to the big black bus. Those high vis, steel cap wearing bus drivers were not impressed with the audacity of the spectacle wearing blonde in a pencil skirt and imitation Louboutins.
I tell you what though, I found them keys. Right where I told John they would be (in between the two seats directly behind the back door). And that is how you get shit done. My high didn’t last long though, the rest of Wednesday was hell.
You know those past abusive relationships where your young, dumb boyfriend used the idea that you were fat, ugly, frigid and psycho as an excuse to stick his dick in anything that so much as glanced his way at a party/the pub/a wedding/his work Christmas function? (EDIT: not referring to Boyf) There comes a day when you decide that you need to leave that piece of shit douche bag.(EDIT: still not referring to Boyf) That day came a long time ago in my current toxic professional relationship…
In two weeks time I will walk out, and that idea fills me with joy, relief and hope, but the reality is, that I get paid to turn up there five days a week and ain’t no one gonna pay my ass to stay home, watch Orange Is The New Black and crochet baby blankets.
I was in bed by 8pm, the highlight of the day was my binge in the carpark at the supermarket. I had crisps for dinner, Starbursts for dessert, and didn’t even feel bad – it’s the perfect food for a pity party. Yesterday was a new record. I was in bed by 5pm. With a bottle of wine (thanks to a delivery of a cheeky dozen), and my friends Piper, Red, Pensatucky, Nicky and Crazy Eyes. It gets better though. I had pizza. A whole one. In bed. My parents raised me better than this, I’ve failed them.
Unusually though, I’m OK with failing to launch this week. Some weeks are shit but some weeks are winners. This week was shit, but next week could be a winner. Next week could also be shit, but that’s OK, I got time and I got wine, and I can order Domino’s online. This week I’m failing to launch and that’s OK.