give up the funk

Why is it that after a three-day weekend, I feel like I need a whole week off just to recuperate and get back into the daily grind?

Seriously. And not just because my best friend was here either, though I have a sneaking suspicion that it contributed to my general “off-ness” that besieged me yesterday. No kidding, it took everything I had to keep my eyes open throughout the entire day. This of course, is not taking into consideration the fact that we were SO BUSY all weekend which added to my exhaustion considerably. Whatever, I’m whining. I need someone to tell me to SHUT THE HELL UP ALREADY AND GET TO THE POINT.

The point is that there is no point. There never is a “point” (or, plan for that matter) when we get within 5 feet of each other…and that’s the way I like it. There was nothing big or grandiose about the visit, meaning we stuck within a 45 minute drive to anywhere we went. We made it to the beach (twice!), San Luis (twice!), wine tasting, family time and just general sitting next to each other and staring like idiots. I’m half-kidding about that by the way. Not too shabby for having less than 72 hours to get it all done, I’d say. It was pretty much just an extended hangout session which ended in tears. Not bad tears, just sad tears because I am an over-emotional mess and completely incapable of handling any situation like a normal human being.

Let me break it down: I wake up that last day, dreading the inevitable. I’m irritable, grumpy, and edgy because I know what’s coming. I try my hardest to act normal, but I know that I’m kind of being a bitch. I resign to the fact that it’s just about as good as it’s gonna get that day. Get to the airport and feel the emotions rumbling in my gut, threatening to come spewing out of my mouth at any moment. Get to security, give hugs and say cute things while it feels like my eyes are being stabbed from the inside by little needles as I’m fighting back tears. I then do the walk of shame out the airport doors (think morning-after drunk college student but with more coordination, clothes and you know, dignity) all the while stifling sobs until I get in my car, and the tears start coming. And coming, and coming and coming. AND IT JUST WILL NOT STOP. Not until my eyes are so swollen and red that if I were to be pulled over by a cop, I’d bet my life that they’d pull a warrant out of their ass and hand it to me to wipe my tears while they search my vehicle looking for illegal things. Then I drive home, still sobbing because my iPod decides to play every single sad song that I have and proceed to shut myself up in my room and cry some more. And wallow. And be depressed.

Bottom line is that, I AM A MESS. This is news to no one.

This pattern (or I guess, behavior) is so predictable, other people have picked up on it. But it’s phrased as “I’m glad you decided to come over because I know how you get when you have to say goodbye.” Or “I’m happy you didn’t go home and shut yourself in your room…” OKAY, I GET IT. I’M SAD, I WALLOW, ALLOW ME TO DO SO THANK YOU VERY MUCH.

The funny thing is that, up until about the whole driving back home thing, I thought that’s what I was going to do. Buuuuuut, I didn’t. I sat in the parking lot and cried, don’t get me wrong. I cried most of the way going back home, like usual. However once that passed, I was okay. I was bummed out of course because as soon as she was here, she was gone. I have this theory though, this is a realization that I’m coming to as I get older, and more people come to visit me.

I think I’m becoming an adult.

This statement is a bold one. A brash one even, and I may be completely off-base with this but the more people that come here so see me, the more I am being forced to realize how much I’ve changed. How much things have changed. And how I have to find a way to make these new changes meld in with the old relationships that I have. It’s tiresome (and a bit frustrating) trying to walk that line of old self/new self but, it’s something that has to be done. I’m not going to stay the same forever, and it’s silly to think that the people in my life are too, so we adjust. We adapt and we adjust to each others’ newfound whatevers and just go on. Truth be told, as scary as it is to think about changes, these ones I can handle. I LIKE knowing that we’re changing and growing and are still able to maintain the same (but different?) kind of relationship that we’ve always had.

Maybe that’s not really considered being an “adult” but whatever. It’s something. Better than calling each other a “stupid bitch” or “dumb whore”, sleeping with the others’ boyfriend and ending up chick-fighting in the middle of the road after a few too many shots.

…I’d win anyways. And she’d probably admit it too.



I'm just really, really glad that we like each other.