The Bitch of Living

I go into work every day entering the perfect storm. I sometimes imagine that I have a handful of keys and I'm sticking each one frantically into the ignition, but I can't find the right one and the wrong one gets stuck, and I can't even pull it out. I feel like screaming.

I can't even get the day started. I am perennially late for everything. This morning I tried so hard to make it to the 5:30 a.m. swim workout. I arrived for the cool down at 6:30. I was too embarrassed to even show my face in the lane. It's almost laughable.

In my mind, I see both the ex-boyfriend and the 35-year-old type A swimmer friend wagging their fingers at me, "Why are you always late? You're always late." I am still convinced that I lost the possibility of the 35-year-old as a lover because he realized that I could not even achieve his "be there or be square" mantra.

On the love front, I have a new boyfriend, a young man as plain as vanilla who I met on an Internet dating site in March. He's totally laid back, or at least seems that way, chilled, laughs and smiles a lot. There is a child-like quality about him. His handwriting is big, block-like, easy to read. He's nice to me, mostly agreeing to follow me wherever I want to go. But he's too easy, too simple, too boring, too stupid.

I guess I'm used to being ordered around, threatened. I am used to, and even long for, ultimatums. I need the boss, the father, the friend, the lover to light a fire under me; otherwise, nothing gets done. It's frankly depressing.