megfowler.com

For those of you who are either new to this blog or completely oblivious (two states I both respect and affirm) — I’m not in a couple.

I don’t have a baby, either. Except everyone else’s.

I’m cool with these facts. For now.

But it’s funny to see how people navigate my singleness, in the most well-meaning ways. When I hold babies, they smile wistfully and reassure me that I will have my own. When they discuss their relationships, they make sure that I feel empowered to seek out my soulmate, whomever he may be.

Because we all have one.

Right?

Don’t we?

Should we worry about it?

Probably not.

In an odd twist of events, the older I get, the less I’m consumed with the questions or the possibilities. I’m not hung up on the pursuit. And I’m certainly not consumed with ideals.

I might love the notion of romance and the soundtrack of romance and all the trappings, but I know that there is no such thing as a flawless relationship.

There are choices and hard work and inspiration and passion and hope. And that’s it. There is no “one.” Maybe effort, maybe chemistry, maybe desire. Maybe all of those things. But a lid for your pot? A piece to complete your puzzle? The sun shining through your cloud? Nah.

There are songs and dances and memories made together and evenings out and stars and kisses, sure.

At the end of the day, though, you decide to make it work. Because nobody’s perfect and nobody’s right all the time. As long as humans are humans and we remain unpredictable in our needs and whims, we will fall in love and still go to sleep now and then slightly pissed off.

I look forward to it. If it happens. If anyone chooses to put up with Meg Fowler: Pain In The Ass.

I’m of a mind to suggest that having someone you care enough to be angry at is one of the surest ways to tell that you’re not alone in this big old world. As crazy as that might sound.

Whenever my friends come to me — me! — for relationship advice, I eventually have to raise the white flag and claim massive levels of ignorance. I don’t know! How does anyone know?

How is anyone ever sure of anything?

But then I end up giving ignorant advice (or as Nancy calls it, assvice) anyhow, because that’s just how I am. And here’s my advice (assvice):

• You don’t always have to be right. Or get to be.
• Going to bed angry is not the end of the world.
• Accepting anger as a way of life might be, though.
• Sometimes, you’re actually the jackass.
• He really does love your body. No foolin’. And vice versa.
• The colour of the living room is not grounds for divorce.
• You might have married into a family, but you didn’t marry them.
• Never fight before you go to a party. If you feel it coming on, agree to drop it. And drop it.
• Past relationships are not a blueprint. They’re just what you did before.
• Dance at stupid times. At the very least, you’ll get a laugh.
• Being an hour late is actually really disrespectful the 100th time you do it. Or the 10th.
• Have you told them that? Because if you haven’t, you shouldn’t tell everyone else.
• Drama is something that is good on TV and horrible in the car.
• You need not merge CD collections.
• Don’t freak out if you don’t cherish the same memories.
• If you can’t think of something nice to say, say something funny.
• Your mom is not always the best tech support hotline for your marital woes. She’s biased.
• You need not watch the same TV shows.
• Cook together, though.
• Learn to listen NOW. Shutting up is an excellent first step.
• Snoring can cause more problems than you think. Go see the damn doctor.
• You don’t have to tell your friends everything.
• Real or artificial might be a big deal for boobs, but it ain’t for Christmas trees. Let it go. You can live without the Douglas Fir if it makes him sneeze.
• The cat will not be scarred for life if you kick it off the bed now and then.

I love love.

But I know it doesn’t come without sacrifice.

It better not come without laughter.

And that’s all I know.

Bears or Colts?

Woody Allen or Martin Scorcese?

Soft mattress or firm mattress?

Patient in lineups or sigher/tapper/general annoyer of people around you?

Hot tea or iced tea?

Talker/listener?

Learn by taking a class or learn by trial and error?

Baked or fried?

House or apartment?

Thriller or horror film?

Romance or comedy?

Pac Man or Asteroids?

Sheep or goat?

Travel mug or paper cup?

French doors or Japanese screen?

Goldfish or tiny turtle?

Carpet or hardwood floors?

Stairs or elevator?

Radio or CD in the car (or iPod, if you have the connecty thing. Or 8-tracks, for that matter)

Diane Sawyer or Katie Couric?

IT’S SUNNY OUT.

Or it will be, when the sun is fully present in the sky.

I’m not sure how long it will last, but my feet are shod in flip flops in celebration of the dryness. However momentary.

I’m all for reveling in short term joys, really.

Speaking of reveling, if you’re a consistent MegFowler.com reader — the kind that checks in now and then during the day because you’re aware of my tendency to post often and post hard — you’ll notice that I’ve posted a few things over the past 24 hours that I deleted very shortly thereafter.

Now, for those of you on Bloglines or Google Reader or what have you, this makes no difference. As soon as I post it, you have it and I can’t take it back. But you might have realized if you clicked through to comment that “Wha? Where did it go?”

Let me explain.

I’m completely bananas.

That’s the explanation. Did you like it?

Okay, okay… the reality is, I’m going through a fairly “hormonally challenged” phase of my existence. I’m constantly at war with my internal emo-meter, attempting to hold tight to the marble columns of sanity while the Rome of my emotions crumbles around me.

Wait. That explanation was even worse.

I’m going back to the bananas thing.

As I said in a short-lived post (I am saying the word “short” a lot here… complex?) last night, sometimes I feel as though there’s a wee alien living in my body, trying to control what I say and do and feel.

The reason I say it’s like an alien is because the rest of my body doesn’t actually feel the same way the alien does. The rest of my body might be cheery and upbeat… my normally energetic, content self.

Then the alien says, “No, actually, all your muscles hurt and everything makes you cry. Also? NO ONE UNDERSTANDS YOU.”

And even when I say to the alien, “That’s not how I feel!”, he (oh yes, he is a “he”) says, “Yes, you do. See?”

Then he’s right. Dammit.

While it’s nice to be able to point to tangible and biological reasons for this disconnect, it still sucks when I can’t articulate that I’m fine, I’m really fine, I’m just weeping and my back is so sore I would like to keep sitting down. Also? Can’t sleep.

Because I AM fine. I get up every morning ahead of my alarm clock and hum in the shower and sip my coffee and put on excesses of fun lip balm and dance with my iPod and eat good cereal at my desk and write things I’m proud of.

I crack jokes all day. I laugh with my friends. I call my mom on the phone and giggle and roll my eyes at her motherliness. I deal appropriately with what comes my direction. I work hard.

But all that time, there is the alien, and he is the bags under my eyes and the roughness in my skin and the pains in my joints and the random flushing in my cheeks and racing of my heart. He is the reason for bone scans, for odd vitamins, for medical appointments, for the roller coaster of putting hormones into a body that didn’t really have anything hormonal going on… and for this odd ache in my gut.

He shows up when I least expect him, and rattles me. Not so you’d see it. Just so I’d feel it.

And when I get home, sometimes I crack miserably. Because he’s been pushing me all day, and it’s absolute madness.

Then I write things I want to delete and say things I wish I could take back and confuse people with my odd, crumply soul.

All that time it’s not really me.

But it is.

I know that all of this seems completely odd to people that have not gone through perimenopause, and certainly odd to some people that have. I know few people who have gone through it this early, because only about 1% of the female population does it before age 40. The average age is 51.

And about .003% go through it for the reasons I’m going through it, this early into my 30’s, with an autoimmune disorder.

“‘Autoimmune disease’ refers to a category of more than 80 chronic illnesses, each very different in nature, that can affect everything from the endocrine glands — like the thyroid — to organs like the kidneys, to the digestive system. Underlying all autoimmune conditions is the concept of autoimmunity.

Autoimmunity refers to the process by which the immune system gets confused, and rather than protecting organs and cells, turns around and actually attacks those same organs and cells, producing inflammatory reactions and other serious symptoms and diseases.”

Very few people I know struggle with infertility, though I know there’s a whole little subset of bloggers who write about it all the time.

I can’t really go there. It’s not like I would be trying to get pregnant right now, so my issues are different. I’ll go into my relationships and my eventual marriage knowing what the reality of our experience will be, and that’s what I’m dealing with now. Telling someone. Finding someone who doesn’t mind.

And actually, not leaping at someone because he doesn’t mind, thus ignoring all the OTHER stuff that doesn’t work. Because I still bring a lot of good things to the table. I’m not compromising because I can’t have a baby that looks like an odd combination of us. That’s not my only value.

It’s still hard.

So.

This journey is why I want to edit, this is why I sometimes seem sad and happy all at once. This is why I sometimes feel like I’m in a haze.

And I am tough enough to withstand all of it, alien or no.

It just means that some deleting might happen now and again.

So bear with me. I’m taking control of the things I can take control of, and I won’t apologize for it.

Especially not on a day when the skies are blue.

No one should feel sorry today.