Tuesday, September 18, 2012

Melancholy Hangovers

Before getting all heavy below, I'm gonna share my best guy friend's fantastic unintentional compliment, which are really the only kind of compliments I am any good at taking:

I was whining about someone I know getting into an Ivy League grad school and about how all the injustices of the world were wrapped up in that. For completely nonsensical reasons, nothing like a little college inferiority complex to bring out my jealous side. Which is absurd and I should get over it. But we discussed the genesis of my feelings and why we should be happy for this person and I stopped stamping my feet and pouting long enough for guy friend to say, completely off the cuff, "Well. If you wanted to, you could easily get into an Ivy League school on the strength of your writing." Awwwwwwwww. Even if he's just being nice (because I know he doesn't read my writing), thanks best guy friend for an amazing compliment!

And then we drank and watched football and drank some more and I explained both Manning family quarterback legacy, arguing strenuously (and correctly) that there are only 3 Manning sons (Cooper, Peyton, and Eli) and the saga of Major Applewhite's career at the University of Texas to my friends, two things they could probably not care less about. Watching said guy friend try and banter football with the obviously more into it LSU fan standing next to us was a source of great amusement. I refrained from pointing out just how out of his depth on the subject guy friend was as a casual football observer. I try not to always crush people's egos, especially when he'd just given mine a boost. We were having a good time watching LSU play against an inferior opponent and that my friends support my insanity when they have no reason to means I'm happy he even wants to participate in conversations with strangers on the topic.

Then we switched bars and he got upset when I got upset that his insecurities are greater than mine with his "woe is me no girl likes me" thing which is bs and he should be way more confident but...whatever...alcohol and also serious pot calling the kettle black issues there. So he went home and it was me and Cheryl and we drank way too much and were stupid and I really have to stop flirting with/having an inappropriate crush on the bartender because it's his job to flirt and I should not take it as any personal indication of level of interest in me. I somehow ended up at the beach house and passed out fully clothed which is a rarity, I usually manage to at least take my bra off. And I still had to get back to my house to deal with my dogs, mercifully picking up a Dr Pepper en route, though I wasn't miserably hungover, just sort of tired and depleted. Which I remain today because I am old, a fact I am never going to get comfortable with, apparently.

And then it was lay in bed and watch all the Netflix Romcoms and question every life choice ever and have deep, depressing Sunday night conversations with my friends.

I am powerless to the romcom. I can't even explain it, though I know I've tried. But while watching this (awful, though while hungover and barely awake it was fine) and this (meh) and this (way better than expected, actually really sweet) and this (really good small indie) and this (mostly naked Chris Evans for which I will never apologize), I got extra special hungover melancholy, which I had Linds to gchat with about, though we were more similar wallowing pools of blah than helpful to each other.

I talked her through a friend issue and she is trying to talk me into contacting an ex, who I have some idealized version of in my head where things work out, by promising that I have nothing to lose. I maintain that he a) thinks I'm nuts and b) though I have nothing to lose, what I think will happen, as fictionally created in my head, is nowhere in the vicinity of reality and I need to move on. Like move way on because to call him an ex is generous but that part way up above where I don't take compliments well? I didn't realize until well after the fact that there were actual, genuine compliments in there and want a chance to have that back. Which...ugh... *exasperated sigh* (It's more than just about the compliments, obviously. But part of it is that and being mad at myself for not realizing I had someone that might have been worthwhile when I did. Which is always the rub.)

And that's where we hit the horrible part of watching all these romcoms. I know, consciously and completely understand, that what's being sold is a story that in no way exists in real life. But then the stupid, silly girl part of my brain, that on some level I have to respect the sort of questions it is asking, goes, "BUT WHYYYYY isn't it real? Why don't we get to live next to Chris Evans and have banter and slowly, ridiculously fall in love with the charming jerk while we both grow up a little bit? You getting over this more and more obvious fear of commitment and trust and him becoming an adult. WHY?!"

The reality is that, through non-reality movie watching, part of my brain is saying, "Maybe you want some of that? And maybe what you're doing isn't getting you there? And maybe you should stop flirting with the bartender and idealizing exes who were really, let's be honest, jerks when it ended who wouldn't return your jewelry?"

Then I remember that I shouldn't have time to worry about why nondescript well built blue-eyed guy that only exists in fictional form is not really in my life because I need to work on basic things like the constant battle with my weight and finding a job and maybe a purpose in life and as much as it's nice to think some guy helps you get there after a meet cute, the reality is that I need to get there on my own first. Or at the very least make strides in that direction before hoping I drop something in an elevator and meet someone fabulous and perfect for me.

And I'm not even relationship girl! But when hungover and tired the part of my brain that would like to have someone to go to brunch with and to force to watch romcoms with gets more of a voice than usual. Which led to the whole part about "OMG no one is eeeever gonna love me anyway, gonna die alone!" Linds and I simultaneously melted down here. How do I, hockey obsessed, romcom watching, college football nut, random information sharer (you should see the 8 paragraph email on Greek gods), kitchen control freak, sarcastic, non-compliment accepting, smartass find someone who would deign to put up with that? Hell, I don't want to put up with me most of the time.

Which is of course absurd. Or maybe absurd? I just read about a guy that met his wife while downloading the music from The Neverending Story on Napster a billion years ago when Napster was a thing. Surely there is hope for me and my quirks. Assuming I at some point get to a place where I'm even actively seeking something resembling a relationship and not just being moody about it on a Sunday evening. (BTW: I can NOT, to this day, watch The Neverending Story. I don't know if there is a more terrifying movie out there. I have, even as an adult, yet to get past the horse dies, scary glowing wolf eyes from the cave part. I'm actually probably gonna give myself nightmares right now just pondering it.) (This post should officially kill any and all self illusions I have about being a badass. I'm terrified of a children's movie. And commitment.)

Anyway, I figured the best way to stop being ridiculous after brain washing myself by watching too many romcoms (I'm a living version of the first episode of The Mindy Project) was to write it all out, admit to both the ridiculousness of it and maybe the inkling of truth in it in order to accept that part of my brain I'm not quite comfortable with and then move on.

So there. It's typed. I'm accepting. Now I'm gonna go watch a movie where shit blows up so I can feel differently. Or just listen to Natasha Bedingfield, patron saint of romcom soundtracks, on repeat and dance around my room with my dog and imagine my life as a movie montage with impeccable score. And impeccable skin. It's a toss up really. Could go either way.

The real take away is: Hangovers suck when you're older, kids. Do all the drinking in the world you can when you're young. (Disclaimer: Don't do that. Drink responsibly. Whatever the hell that means...)

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