There’s this woman who really rubs me up the wrong way. It’s ridiculous because I don’t know her and I’ve never met her in my life, we just happen to be part of the same Facebook group. Because this is so pathetic (on my part obviously, not hers) it made me wonder why it is that I allow myself to become wound up at what someone says online. And, may I add, nothing she’s ever expressed in that Facebook group has been aimed at me personally or anything I could possibly take offence at. It’s mad, isn’t it? I can only conclude that I have too much time on my hands or something, but that can’t be it because life is usually busy. Am I bitter and alone? Is that it? Nope, not that either. At least I don’t think I am? Am I? No. Surely not. I wake up each morning, this one included, feeling happy and content. Except yesterday, I wasn’t fucking content then with a cramping uterus. But this isn’t about my period cramps from hell. It’s about me being mysteriously bothered by a woman I don’t know and with whom I have zero dealings. I need to figure this out – right now! – and once I have, rightfully feel bloody stupid and laugh at myself before proceeding to let this nonsense go. Here goes.
Let’s call her Needs-a-Poo because when I read what she writes I imagine her voice to be like when you really need to do a poo or are in the process of squeezing out something akin to a bear’s arm. It’s not as nice or poetic as Dances With Wolves (and may we all take a moment here to appreciate Kevin Costner’s arse, although 20 years on it probably doesn’t look like that anymore) but I am in a bitchy mood and also petulantly childish, the woman irritates me and this is my blog so I name people what I want.
Actually, looking at it now in that picture it’s nowhere near as good as I remembered it to be and Mr Costner also has chicken legs, eurgh. His bottom (even here, 20 years ago) is a bit flat, no? I need to sneakily take a photo of hubby and stick on here to illustrate naked male perfection, the guy has the most divine bottom and his legs should be fucking illegal. I swear if I weren’t married to him I’d end up in prison for just what goes on in my head when aforementioned divine bottom and illegal legs are on display. I hate people who brag and I hate people who are smug, but again, this is my blog although now it’d appear I’m behaving precisely in Needs-a-Poo’s online manner. Can’t express it enough though, my husband is what I, if I weren’t married to him, would refer to as prison bait. I literally can’t walk past him without slapping him on the bum or pinching or groping him. Even when he’s eating and dropping half a sandwich down his front (I keep wondering what happens at work lunches and dinners – I mean, how on earth does he get by then?) I want to molest him. Perfection in a lovely well built kiwi package. Yummy–dum-dum. OK, enough, I feel Bad Me taking over and need to get back to what I was actually wanting to talk about. Needs-a-Poo.
So what does she write and comment on that makes me spend energy sighing and rolling my eyes? Well, it’s exactly what I’ve just engaged in without inhibition – bragging. So the discussion could be about anything at all but the most recent I can think of was a parenting discussion around bedtimes. Most people then added what time their kids go to bed and their ages. Needs-a-Poo did the same but went on to add that her precious dahr-ling does swimming before school and then pony riding and tennis after so she’s oh so tired and needs plenty of sleep. Another time someone had asked a question related to school uniforms and Needs-a-Poo felt the need to get in to her response how unique and gifted her child is. I genuinely don’t know why it grates on me the way it does! But anyway, Needs-a-Poo always seems eager – or even desperate – to put across how nice her house is, how well her kid is doing at school or whatever, what a good area they live in and so on. I honestly can’t read her comments without groaning and much eye-rolling.
So I think I have just caught myself when I’m at my most cynical and negative when it comes to Needs-a-Poo. I chucked in a throw-away comment about Kevin Costner’s bottom which was totally random and not even in my head until I typed the first Indian name I could think of that was nicer than ‘Needs-a-Poo’ and that film popped into my head, followed by the scene with naked Mr Costner. I got the picture and then looked at it and realised that this male bottom I used to think was so delicious is nowhere nice as my husband’s. Et fucking cetera. And where did this come from? This incessant and frankly off putting bragging about how hot my husband is that then followed? Where? I’ll tell you where: it came from a place of the purest and strongest love and how I love that big old kiwi so much I can barely breathe. I’m fucking crazy about my lovely, sweet hubby. That’s where it came from. And how, when I look at anything or anyone he could possibly be compared to I can’t even see how the bottom belonging to one of the greatest Hollywood heartthrobs of our time is anything special because hubby is to me the dreamiest creature to ever inhabit this planet. And it’s like I can’t help but shout about it.
Why do I shout about it? Is there part of me who wants you, who reads this blog, to be impressed that I’m married to such a dreamy wonder? Probably not, actually, because you could be precisely the sort of smart, amazing, witty, attractive woman who could steal him away from not as smart, not very amazing, not as witty and not as attractive me! Is there a part of me who wants to show the world hey, this incredible guy chose ME!!!!! Possibly, but I can’t say it’s a huge motivation. Sure, I’m proud of him and I always feel such fondness for him when we’re around my friends and family, joyful at what a great person he is and it fills me with happiness to see how those I love also appreciate him and he them, but that’s not my reason for bragging. In fact, I sometimes feel guilty! Like when a sister-in-law asked what we’d done for Valentine’s and I said we’d had a lovely time and she went “of course you did, with that man!”. I almost felt like I wasn’t worthy. I felt sheepish telling her how hubby had got me flowers and presents and taken me out. I felt the need to tell her what great gifts I’d got for HIM. So do I brag because I want people to know he chose me because it’s ME who totally rocks? Do I brag because it’s lil’ ol’ me I want you to see?
Gosh, that might be approaching the real reason a little – I have, after all, always been utterly desperate for people to like me and care WAY too much what other people think of me. One tiny comment, even if it’s from someone I don’t even like, can crush me and be imprinted in my conscious forever. I’ve always known that about myself because it’s always been there, this inexplicable insecurity that so many of us seem to feel and this sensitivity that means I can go from invincible to dust with just one unkind word. So maybe, just maybe, I’m trying to not just see what’s great about me through hubby, but to get you to like me too. Because, you know, if someone as great as him loves me, then that must mean I’m very, very loveable.
When I brag about hubby, it comes from 1) a place of love, and 2) wanting to be loved.
So what about Needs-a-Poo? If we assume nothing is wrong with her, that in all likelihood means she’s just like any other parent, namely, she loves her daughter so much it’s driving her nuts and wants to shout it from the rooftops. It turns out her daughter is also the result of IVF and years spent trying and repeatedly grieving failure after failure. So perhaps even more so than your average, bog standard parent like me who didn’t go through the same heartbreak to get there, she is even more appreciative of the gift that is parenthood. Who knows? I don’t know where her need to demonstrate what they have in terms of material possessions (their house, their area, their cars and so on) comes from but perhaps she grew up with very little. Or she has worked her arse off to have a life she is now very, very proud of? Or she’s fucking irritating and an incorrigible smart arse braggy boots. Entirely possible too. Or she just wants to be seen and loved like the rest of us. Maybe that’s all there is to it, even if it’s irritating and the voice over that accompanies her comments sounds like someone who is pushing out a mega poo.
This is one of the reasons why I’m loving sobriety – not only do I get to feel all my emotions properly without modification, I also have the luxury of dissecting them and thereby understanding myself better. It’s really interesting – I’m soooooo much more fucked up than I realised and now I can get to know myself for real, fucked-upness and all. Fucked-upness is the new black. When a bad feeling comes, whatever it might be – sadness, anger or, in the case of Needs-a-Poo, irritation – I can slam on the breaks and take a proper look around and see where it came from. So when Needs-a-Poo bleats on about her precious kid, her house or whatever else, is it a case of me worrying that people will run out of love and none will be left for me? I don’t know, I honestly don’t. I do suspect, however, that even though she is infuriatingly, frustratingly annoying, it’s very likely it all just comes from love. So I’m going to close my eyes for a moment, say a little prayer and wish for good things for Needs-a-Poo. There! Don’t get me wrong, she annoys the crap out of me and I want to staple things to her head every time I read her smug and conceited comments and wish a bad case of hemorrhoids on her, but I am, after all, trying to stay connected to a better way of living and be a better me so less of the hemorrhoids and more of the assumption she is basically an OK person. I’m trying, OK?
Sobriety feels good today. No beast in sight at the moment and despite the beautiful summer weather the urge to drink hasn’t really come over me much over the past week. Hard not to imagine drinking when the rest of the world congregates at riverside pubs and beer gardens, but right now it’s plain sailing. In other words, a good time to not only feel gratitude but also be vigilant. Such is the nature of the beast. Ho-hum.
Today I’m not going to drink.