The only thing that really sucks to me about being in your thirties is that you feel like you no longer have time to waste on bad men. Because lets face it, they are always the hottest and funnest men in the room. But try as you may, you just can't trick yourself into pretending you're not wasting seriously, valuable time. You've done this enough times now to know you will not in fact be "the one" to change him, and your eggs, the ones that you still have, would absolutely kill you. So would your friends. You know you've used up all the years you get leaning on those well-intended friends who saw it coming, bit their tongue, and didn't say "I told you so" time after time. At this point you know they won't hold back. They might even stop speaking to you, and really you couldn't blame them. Who will you cry to now? I suppose this is why as you get older you have to pay someone to listen to that kind of self-imposed torture; its called therapy.
Still, its really tough, because while you know your eggs would kill you, other body parts would really thank you. Generously. And, that gorgeous, womanizing, musician or the handsome, successful playboy all beckon you with great force. "No way" I say to these men. Not out loud, of course, so its never clear and somehow I've given them my phone number against my egg's will. I then wrestle with myself over the situation which causes me to act in really bizarre and contradictory ways. And, since these men seem to love crazy women they don't go away just because I'm acting mental.
I often wonder what it would be like to be more like one of my sensible friends. Well, for one thing these sensible women are all married now so I guess I would be too at this point. I have one friend in particular, she is so no-nonsense it drives me crazy! I can't analyze things obsessively with her, she gives me deadlines to get over things, and we're left with nothing but the present and the facts to discuss. Its vulgar, really. I mean what one earth would life be like if we just ran around making practical decisions? Russian literature wouldn't even exist. Its considered great for a reason, people. I understand its unbearable to watch, I mean I can't sit through an entire Chekhov play, but still, we have to consider it all pretty genius. And, tortured is such a good look on me!
Also, I wonder, without any drama in my life could I actually be happy? I suppose I'm willing to try it, just because I'm willing to try anything once. But, I've already come to grips with the fact that either you fall in love with a normal life and man, or you don't.
And, if I don't I promise to be happy in all my drama, live in the desert, have many animals, and paint in between torrid love-affairs. I will never cut my hair once it all turns grey, and I will wear long, sheer dresses and amazing jewelry. Lets forget I don't paint for a second, because anything is possible. This really isn't such a bad life, is it? Hmm...maybe I will go out with that charming mess, then. I mean, I do love Sedona, and I have always wanted to learn how to paint. I guess what I'm really trying to say is that the best part of being in your thirties is finally, really and truly getting to know yourself.