I dashed out, full of hope, with hot pink post-its and a stack of folders.
by Jane D.
The dream last night was colorful yet hazy. I dreamt that there was a pile of pretty stones, some prettier than others, and that I was in a classroom of sorts where we were asked to pick the one that we wanted.
I hemmed and hawed about whether to choose the prettiest one or the most practical. Could it be a reflection of the indecisiveness about men—and life in general? Or perhaps a sign that I should stay away from seductive, attractive men without a heart.
On a brilliant Sunday, I found myself dashing between two dates with two men. I had set a date with the swimmer guy and, before that, had set a date with the jerk-jock. The swimmer guy and I had a rich conversation post-workout. Time and conversation flowed, and I felt oddly attracted to his oddities. But, I lost track of time and realized, "Uh oh," it was close to 3 p.m., when I was supposed to meet and greet man #2. I called and made up an excuse and said I was sick.
If fact I really do feel sick. Sick of not knowing what I want, of not knowing when to continue trying and when to call it quits… like with this ultra-passive, no-backbone of a pseudo boyfriend I have (yes, there are actually three men and I am juggling them like oranges).
The problem with the phone chat with man #2 was I said I still wanted to see him, and he said he would come over. I replied I needed to take a shower, pick up laundry, can we do it at X time and he said, “Hey, I'm coming over to see you” in a kind of bossy way. He's macho, pushy, and reminds me of a traditional Korean man, despite his choir school boy look. Looks, as I've discovered now, say nothing about a person's core.
I found myself jumping on a ferry and mad dashing in a taxi back to the apartment where I tore off my clothes, leapt into the pajamas, and feigned ill. I feel like I am living a double life, a very disorganized double existence. I am starting to forget who these men are, and who I am. I feel myself slipping and slipping, and feeling like I had too much on the plate and the plate was cracking.
I talked with the shrink the other day and did the whole verbal diarrhea thing. I said I was going crazy and no longer knew what to think about things. I have too many ideas at once, too many calendars, too many agendas, and always the fear that someone will see through my disability, and fire me or dump me.
She gave me a new idea and said I should try manila folders and post-its. I should write all the tasks for the day on post-its, stick it on one side, and then move it to the other when it's accomplished. It sounded fresh and new—and the thrill of newness permeated me. I get so excited with new ideas; it's like a mental orgasm. I dashed out and bought hot pink post-its and a stack of folders.
The shrink smiled and said every time I left her office, I seemed full of hope. In the end all I have is hope.