Firstly, I would like to thank a random comment from a dear old friend for the title of this entry. In an email last night she told me, “You won’t know if you should be consoling me, or rolling on the ground in laughter.” Hence the title. I won’t name her here, but I want to give her credit so I will mention it in a code so impenetrable, that not even the CIA’s best could figure it out. ankthay ouyay, ereShay.
Well the last couple months like the couple before have been eventful. I was reintroduced to the world of dating. Wow, was that soooo very not cool.
At first it was a welcome distraction from what I saw as the sewage of my life. There was not a moment that I could stop feeling bad things and experiencing bad thoughts except when I was out and “aboot” as our Canadian neighbors like to say. You do know that Canada is going to take over the world some day right?
So over the course of the last six months of my life I have doubled the total amount of time I spent in bars over the last decade in an attempt to be social. Yes, I know. You are thinking, “That can’t be good for you.” Eh, it was either meeting friends and dates in bars or sitting at home trying to dream up new mental scenarios about what my wife and her boyfriend have been doing for the past year or so while I was at home taking care of the kid. I’ll tell you what, if we can’t waterboard terrorists for information we should seriously consider telling them their wives have been having sex with one of the most disgusting people on the planet…Bill O’Reilly for instance, and then let them go. Just tell them if they want to know the name and address of the offending outside partner, they’ll have to come back and tell us where the nukes are or where Osama is located or whatever we want. I think it would work.
Anyhow, I decided to see what a slightly overweight, middle aged, lower middle class, but witty guy like myself would be worth on the open market. The good news is it was more than I thought. The bad part is I wasn’t as ready for the market as I thought I was.
After sifting through a couple of the crazies, I did find two fantastic women. When I discovered myself getting cold feet as the relationship grew with the first one I unhesitatingly cut things off in as honest and forthright a manner as I possibly could. I told her I moved to Jamaica. In walks, this second amazing woman. Just as equally beautiful, smart, and competent as the first. Again, I had to cut it off. I did give her my Jamaican address though.
So without going into details, when the first relationship ended I thought, “Man, she’s great, but I’m not feeling as intensely about it as she is.” So I figured the spark wasn’t there and I would just move on before things got serious. After much the same thing happened with the second one, I realized…all together now…It wasn’t them. It was me.
I want to slice my veins open with a rusty carrot peeler just for saying that, but it was true. I’ve known no person who was more of a one woman at a time guy than me. None. I thought I was ready to dance and romance in the rubble of my marriage, but I wasn’t and I ended up hurting some perfectly nice, innocent people who simply didn’t need my shit.
Now I am in that waiting zone. Don’t know if I should move forward. Don’t know if I should step back. Don’t know if I should start shopping for huts in Jamaica. Just gotta let time slide by and hopefully the answers will come to me. I just hope the answers get to me before the circus midgets do. Freakin’ circus midgets…mumble, rumble, rassen, frassen.
P.S. Antidepressants: A counselor friend of mine suggested I get on a mild antidepressant for the short term to get me through the next year or so of agony. She didn’t seem to think that the gallon of vodka a week was working for me all that well. I tried xanax for the anxiety attacks I was getting. That worked, but the problem was I liked it too well. I had to get off that stuff before I started sprinkling it on my toast in the morning.
The lexapro had no discernible affects. I was still having far too many dark thoughts. Try to imagine Rosie O’Donnell and Al Franken in the lead roles of the most disgusting porn film you have ever seen and you’ll know just how disturbing the images in my head were at that time.
On came the Welbutrin. That seemed good at first. I was getting through my days better without the urge to lick a nine volt battery just to get my mind off things. However, after a while, the mood swings just about ended me. I would either be so deliriously happy, I would break into tears or I would be so inconsolably sad that I would break into tears. Nice. Now I am clean and dealing with shit as it comes the good old fashioned way, with a gallon of vodka a week.
Hey, it was good enough for my forefathers.