Inner Bitch Alert

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This year I’ve been broken open – by life – by circumstances – by the economy.  I went through the phase where my heart was an open pulsing wound that felt and empathized with everyone’s painful process.  Shelter animals positively reduced me to rubble.  A stumbling osteo-arthritic elderly person evoked loud sobs.  I’ve missed my mother, who died recently.  Still.  Always.

I’m the woman who paid the  fares for drunken persons who staggered onto the bus exuding alcoholic fumes and confusion. I’m the woman who always held the doors for strangers and who stopped to speak to the elderly in my apartment building. Who gives money all the time to the man outside the bodega dressed better than I?  That’s right, you’re getting the hang of it.  I’m the friend who helped friends find work and paid the check when my friends faltered.  I’m not mean spirited a la Real Housewives of New York Aviva and Ramona feud.

Of course, I’m an anonymous blogger and you have your opinions. I can only blog my truth.  There are exceptions, for instance,  I wasn’t all fuzzy toward my ex-husband when he deserted me and stole my money. I did not however, call the police after he’d thrown me around the apartment one evening like a dog toy.  I didn’t hire a forensic accountant to find out how eleven years of  his income had mysteriously disappeared accompanied by the $150,000 bonus that he received prior to our separation. Stupid, I guess, but not mean spirited.  I sued the employer who fired me upon being owed $25,000 in commissions.  I’m empathetic, not a complete chew toy.  But the universe has had other ideas.  And she has helped to unleash a honking, smack talking, impatient, better-not-give-me-that-look bitch, bitch. My inner bitch is clawing furiously with manicured nails, and she is demanding attention now.  I’ve never been a mean girl but watch out!

My tender tendencies somehow morphed into a general impatience and yes, rage.  Now I honk and flash drivers who are too slow to react or if they have the temerity to rubber neck – a disgusting habit.  I resist the urge to run down the jay walking, texting pedestrian oblivious to my green light.  I’ve no patience for the online date who calls 7 times a day when I’ve told him that I’m interested in friendship only.  Then I berate myself.  Why am I angered when someone is offering friendship and solicitation?  Is that such a terrible thing?  Maybe it’s because I know that there is a distinctive ulterior motive.  I’ve listened politely as he expanded on how our relationship will blossom.  Nice words.  Wrong guy.  I think of the online misfits who said they’d call, then disappeared.  The man who emailed me three times after our first date to tell me what a wonderful date we’d had and how we would do it again soon.  Now I was attracted to him.  Did he call, email, text, or send a carrier pigeon with missile in beak to my apartment, five blocks away?  No.

I called an old friend who I bailed out, took out, celebrated and generally propped up more times than the USA has supported puppet regimes.  I told her I was down.  I listened to a 45 minute tirade on how she’s all about “manifesting”, and how she just manifested a neck lift. Clearly, my “manifester”  was off and I was, in her opinion, subsequently failing at life.  I listened to her ranting, after all, she knew how to get her neck lifted.  Forget that she has a younger, high earning new husband paying the bills.  Anyone can sock away $8000 when they’re living rent-free.  Was she really telling me that I should learn from her about life manifestation when I needed support and friendship?  Tell me that you’ve cured MS or was blind and can now see.  Don’t be talking elective surgery smack to me when my heart is on the thrashing floor – blood run out.

So I bite my tongue when I hold the elevator door for you, your toddler and cute old dog.  I know that you’re juggling a lot. But so am I.  I’m still overly impatient on cues and don’t abide the 8 foot tall person who sits in front of me in an empty movie theatre. I have to physically restrain myself from catapulting my body at them in a full frontal attack.  Please don’t talk on your cell during the movie.  Don’t cut in front of me on the street then crawl as you start a protracted conversation with your gynecologist, BFF, or other.  Don’t complain about your mom, you’ve still got one.  I beg of you not to walk in front of my car when the light is green. Avoid from clearing my plate while  I still have a piece of linguine stuck in my tooth and when I’ve been waiting for a water refill for the entire meal. Don’t tell me that movie prices have risen, once again.   Don’t complain about your job, your raise, or about how the economy forced you to forego one of your six vacations this year.  Don’t steal my mail, unless it’s a bill.  And please don’t talk about how one million dollars won’t cut it for your retirement fund. My retirement plan is a quick heart attack.

So shoot me.  My bitch has finally been outed.  Some may say that it’s about time.

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