My approach to dating has been somewhat like hitchhiking; standing with my thumb out on the lonely boy highway known as match.com waiting for someone else to slow down and give me a lift to relationship town. I had fallen off of the bicycle in my life and instead of just getting back on and moving on I was waiting for someone else to give me a ride, cooling my heels at the corner of lazy and heartbroken. Instead of standing around waiting I should be moving, as fast as I can and let someone, some lucky bachelor number three, four or maybe bachelor number sixteen try to catch me.
The problem with staying in constant motion, however, is that you don't always have time to stop and make sure you're in the right direction. I was running around like a lunatic yesterday, chiropractic appointment early, get home, brush the cat, give him that stinky food he likes, play with him, vacuum the bathroom around his litter box, shower, well--maybe skip that step--then run to lakeview to meet with my therapist, eat something, anything, maybe just get coffee, free samples at starbucks that'll do, run home again to lock the cat in the bathroom, go to the bank to pick up that reciept that I need to photocopy and send to that guy that's asking me for that thing that i can't even remember because I have it written down somewhere. Is it in an e-mail maybe? Can I text him? Did I refresh the cat's water? I ended up arriving to the chiropractor late and the therapist early.
Yes, the trick is just to keep moving, let the clothes pile up on the designated clothes pile up chair. Dump all the dishes in a sink with soapy water. Let the cat complain, papa's gotta go to work to pay for your expensive food kitty. Every pet owner has, at some point, bribed their animal with food to make them shut up. When I come home from work and let Gucci out of the bathroom he likes to meow and complain for about twenty minutes, unless I give him soft food which gives me enough time to fall asleep and let my creature of the night make as much noise as he wants.
Then, wake up, do it again, grocery shopping, pick up more espresso from Bloomingdales, check e-mail, receive bizarre and stupidly timed e-mail from my ex-therapist. If my life is centered around constant motion, this e-mail is the equivalent of an unmarked speed bump that sends me flying.
I had just, finally, figured out how to deal with messages from ex boyfriends, and now I get messages from ex therapists. It might not seem weird except that the tone of the e-mail was so casual, like he was a friend just checking in to see how I was doing. It's also weird because the last e-mail I sent him said don't ever contact me again asking for money or you'l hear from my lawyer about your unethical medical billing practices.
In cabaret Liza sang "money makes the world go around," and I've seen it change people for the worse. I guess for someone as materially minded as I am I shouldn't write disparagingly about money. After all, Prada doesn't grow on trees. So, when someone who I had a falling out with over money and billing e-mails me out of the blue one year later I have to assume there is a fiscal motivation.
Or maybe it was harmless. And maybe the one who can't get his mind out of the fiscal gutter is me. Maybe I'm too used to people reaching a hand out. And learning to say no was a hard lesson I've been learning. If someone asks something unreasonable of me instead of stressing myself out to make it work I just have to say no sometimes.
I think I used to be afraid that if I said no to anything I would miss an opportunity. I would miss my big shot. Most artists understand this feeling: not knowing how to achieve our dreams so doing everything imaginable hoping that eventually our big break will come. It used to feel like if I ever said no I was chipping away at my chances of getting a book published or happening upon a Bravo casting agent looking for a snarky big nosed gay 20-somethings for a reality show about 20-somethings with loose pocketbooks and morals.
Now, after years of disappointment and disillusionment I understand that rarely does anyone just stumble into their ambitions. Yes, if you were born into a wealthy family in new York with endless connections and unlimited funds it's easy to make your dreams come true. But the rest of us, those who can't afford to pay to play have to work our way up. We have jobs before careers. Our dreams don't arrive ready-made, they're the kind of dreams that are affordable and come flat packed in a million pieces that we spend a lifetime trying to assemble. If I'm going to get a book and get my own store and get my own syndicated column and tv show I'm going to have to put pieces in place for years and years. And even then it might not look the way it did in the catalogue and I'll probably have screws and oblong pieces left over.
One day I might look back and see my life is just a clump of multi colored Legos that look thrown together by a toddler.
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