OFP

So I recently conformed to society, and have a new boyfriend.  On a scale from 1-10, he falls between an 11-20 depending on the day.  And last night marks our first real fight...

For New Years, we both had to work all day and felt like doing nothing except snuggling and going to bed likely before the ball dropped.  So, we decided we would meet at my dad’s house, search for my phone (again) and then go to his house for the night.  I had talked about how I needed to do a few things around the house, laundry included, but I could tell he was antsy to get home.

“Lindsey, let me help you find your phone.”  “Absolutely not.  Sit and have Chinese with my dad, my room is a mess.” I say as I walked away, and didn’t hear his  “Fine”

……no phone was found, so I quickly packed a single bag. “Alright, I’m ready to go.” 

“Where’s your laundry?  We already discussed it.  We’re doing it at my house.”

“I changed my mind, I’ll do it Monday night when I get home from work.”

“Nope, we have lots of time tonight and tomorrow night, and it will make you feel so good to have it all done.”

“But…”  “Please go get it,” “NO!” “Please?”

…..a lindseyfern-bitch-fit ensues…..

I storm up to room, so absolutely peeved that I was following orders from a man.  Stomping my feet, throwing clothes; all out dramatic scene. I heard my dad say to my step mom,  “She’s on her OFP again…”  Dad made this up to mean: “Own Fucking Program.”  And you’re damn straight I am, have been since the minute I was born, and probably will be until the end of time, so why in the hell is this so shocking?  I want to do laundry when I want to.  I want to clean, or simply not clean my room and use excuses like “I’m busy,” “I’m too tired” or “I’m never home.” 

I have a boyfriend who works three jobs, just got into Grad school, has a family whom he makes dinner for or takes out to dinner frequently, helps out around his mom’s house, goes to a sporting events and concerts constantly, of which I now get to go along, and somehow still finds the time to genuinely make my life easier EVERYDAY. He finds time to play basketball at 530 am before work, and works out at his little gym at 930 pm when he’s all done.  Sometimes, he even goes for late night runs. If anyone has reason to make excuses, it’s him.  Nope, not Jared James Booker Bradbury.  Instead of seeing him for the helpful, compassionate, unselfish man he is, I ungratefully throw my clothes in a hamper and practically heave it in his arms and make him promise to not TOUCH my dirty clothes, that I will be doing it when we get there.  I’m such a self-destructive little bitch sometimes.  Knowing he wins, he asks me sweetly to put down all my bags, which I do immediately, defeated…and carries each one out to his car.  Yea, if he doesn’t scream “I’M A KEEPER” than I give up.

We made up in 7 minutes.  I cried and apologized for being an impatient brat; he chuckled, told me I’m beautiful, kissed my hand and apologized for causing stress at all to my life.

And I have NO idea what he sees in me.

It’s a “Full House.”

While I religiously watched this sitcom growing up, I would always change it when it got to the ending to avoid the anger it would stir up in me.  Stephanie or DJ would do something terrible like steal dad’s car and crash it or something age-inappropriate like make out with a boy, drink alcohol or other things we young ones eventually do. 

What makes me angry, is when my parents would come in my room at the end of a dramatic 23 minute (minus commercials) drama, no one calmly sat on my bed (tune into heartwarming, forgivey music) and explained the consequences of my “unwise decision.”  Then promptly hugged me and told me they loved me endlessly and then hold hands and decide to clean up whatever mess together.  NO. Wrong.  Wrong.  ALL WRONG.

My parents would be in my personal space so fast that I’d hardly have time to formulate my words, and they would treat my unwise decision (this time ironing a shirt with worlds hottest iron on a nice kitchen table) as the same as discovering drugs in my laundry or all of sudden uncovering I’m secretly a gambler, or the Wilton prostitute.  Seriously, guys.  Not cool.  Ikea tables never burn and I’m pretty sure that you’re world’s hottest iron would light an IRONING BOARD on fire. 

Either way, this is not how we handle these situations where I “act out.”  No, we yell.  In this case, Laura and I left hate mail on top of the burned remains of the table for each other to read on their way out of the house the next day, 5 or 6 am.  The sun hadn’t even risen and I’ve already considered how to really act out just to be a shit head.

But this time, the music of love and forgiveness came on when I walked in the house that night.  “Laura, I’m really sorry for ruining your table.  I won’t begin to make excuses.  And Im sorry for leaving mean words like a 5 year old.”  And then I told her that the reason I was defensive was not the table at all, but feelings of not fitting in since I can remember.  And here I was, desperately trying to blend into this house like I belonged. The woman was upset about her table.  I fit in just fine, if not perfectly.  The drama was not in burning the table, the drama was in my head.  I’m such a drama queen.  I’m sure you’re so surprised.

We had a beautiful talk and the time went by and soon enough, dad drove in the driveway.  We hugged, “lets not fight anymore.  Lets love each other like no one in this family loves.”  When it comes to love, it’s ALWAYS just like that.  I may not have 3 dads like the Tanner family, but they were certainly on to something.  AND…my step-mother had already fixed the table.  She’s fuckin’ Macgyvor. 

10/18/11

“Hows Boston babe?”

What a pregnant question.  Or maybe the answer is pregnant; either way, this is multifacetingly complicated.  Yea I made that word up…So. What.

I work a good 9-10 hours a day, travel another three, and just recently stopped making excuses for not working out.  Yea, that was a real great idea. I’m left with just enough sleep to get me through the next day with the same to do list that is exhausting, will not show immediate results, and will take a well behaved and delightful Lindsey, and not a disgruntled, impatient Lindsey in order to accomplish with grace and high regard.  If you’re thinking, “Lindsey, you’re very very clearly setting yourself up for extreme failure” then you’re right.

Last night I layed in my bed, and just smiled.  I painted my walls a psychotic lime green.  Like, soda can Mellow yellow colored.  I’m sure if one approached my bedroom door they would be shocked to find a highly functioning and completely insightful 25 year old, and not a scraggly haired little girl with sticky hands and toys everywhere.  Oh well…sometimes I’m 7, and sometimes I’m colorblind to circumstance.  So I guess the analogy is perfect.  “They call me mellow yellow…”

I layed in bed, and could here the mice scuttling through the walls…sounds more like a stampede of mice…in fact, one night I was certain it was my cat in the wall.  Now tonight, it was just funny.  No judgment on this house or my family; just acknowledgement that this certainly wasn’t my room, that these mice in the walls lived here long before me.  I technically share this room.  With a family of mice…and lets just hope they don’t try to eat my wimpy little kitten-looking cat, who is afraid of everything and good for nothing.  But, she’s SO pretty.

I shut the light off, and try to smile my joint pain away.  Two days ago, after a very long day of dressing up like a Barbie doll and being “Dinner Party Skipper” to promote Boston Sports Clubs in my community, my boss and I went back to Boston Sports Club to close up and reconvene with the other managers.  Walking from my office on the way to the main lobby, down a HUGE flight of stairs, I take 3 steps, my knee gives out making me miss a step, and I then proceeded to fly headfirst down the staircase.   In a dress, and in 4 inch black patent leather Steve Maddens.  I swept my legs under me as quick as possible so as not to show my gym and employees my “lacey luluthong” (compliments of lululemon athletica, the most overpriced and underappreciated undergarment in this world), just in time for my managers to hand me my belongings, which went everywhere.  At LEAST 8 people witnessed this.  I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry from the unreserved embarrassment.  So I did neither, and pretended like my bruised and bleeding knees didn’t hurt.  You can dress the girl up but you clearly can’t take her out….or she will trip up eventually.

New, intense job.  Ridiculous commute.  No personal life.  Lime green room and a mice infested habitat; and finally, biffing it down a staircase for the ENTIRE Leadership team plus a few innocent passerby’s to witness, causing me to consult an orthopedist about a third knee surgery, so not to put my dignity up for grabs in future events…AND, my life is absolutely chosen, joyful and PERFECT.