I am sorry (again). You aren’t my shrink, and I pay her well. She gets to see me at my most vulnerable. She sees the funny Gigi break down and cry, have no last word, mourning, and admit “I made a mistake.” I am nothing if I am not honest. I see myself too clearly. I wish I had a bit of a blur in my vision, but this perfectionist will see imaginary pieces of lint that must be the reason why she failed at (insert relationship, endeavor, etc…)
Most of my friends are happily married with kids–and I love their children as if they were my very own. I am an aunt to my siblings’ children, as well as my friends’ children. No one will disagree with me that the married friends have barely any time on their hands to hear about which faux pas you did on what date, or how badly it hurts to be dropped yet again by someone so perfect for you, you were sure he was THE ONE.
So we listen about allergies, foul-mouthed kindergartners, and other trials and tribulations in the life of our friends who were partiers, and turned into…adults. And we are adults too, aren’t we? We aren’t children. Are we stuck somewhere between childhood and adulthood, misunderstood?
Please help me here.
Gigi, thinking so much, her brain hurts, aside from her heart