I’m at my parents’ house in Iowa.
Yes, I’m 33 years old, and when my boyfriend dumped my sorry ass, I hightailed it to my parents’ house. Shut. Up.
So, I’m eating. And I’m sleeping a lot. And technically, I’m now dogsitting, as my folks left today for a family reunion.
Wednesday was a bit of a blur of crying, napping and eating. Yesterday, however, I experienced great triumph.
I wore my contacts. I wore mascara. And I didn’t cry at all, all day long.
Yeah, I know.
Today, I’m wearing my contacts, but I’ve already cried, so at least I don’t feel like I have to be perfect for the rest of the day. I already fell off the wagon.
My brother Poochie was supposed to come today, to save me from being alone. But now he’s not coming until tomorrow, and he has plans most of the day. This means that I have two days to deal with myself.
My parents have Crazy Sexy Cable, so I could conceivably do nothing but watch TV for the next 48 hours. But as my dad was showing me the 27 remote controls necessary to manage Crazy Sexy Cable, I burst out in tears. This is what frightens me.
No, not the remotes. No, I’m frightened by the free time. What am I going to do with myself when it’s just me? What am I going to do when I come home from work and I have five hours to fill before bedtime and no one who wants to hang out with me? No one to make dinner for? No one to ask about my day?
I guess it starts now.
So, I’m writing. And I have the TV on for sound, but also to cover up the sound of Geriatric Poodle barking incessantly because, well, he can, and he doesn’t know where he is. And I’m going to Wal-Mart later to find supplies for my Halloween costume, since Alice invited me to tag along to a party – I’m back to being the third wheel.
My dad said, “You’re much more resilient than you know.”
Which might have been code for “Don’t get snot on the remote.” But mostly … I know he’s right. It just sucks.