So this happened.

So, if you are (painfully) aware that you and your life have become sad clichés are you merely pathetically cliché or does your awareness grant you the right to be humorously ironic?

I think there's a very thin line between the two and I would caution everyone to stay far away from both. Avoid that area altogether.

I've been flirting dangerously close to that line for a few years. But heed my warning. I'm there, now. And even though there are moments of humor, mostly I'm depressed, embarrassed, frustrated and scared.

Oh sure, it's kind of funny when something cliché happens, the stuff of sitcoms and movies starring Seth Rogan or Owen Wilson. But trust me, it's funnier on screen than in real life.


My mother's having some health issues and has been bouncing between hospital and rehabilitation centers and will be doing so for the next few weeks.

Okay, well, one positive aspect of being unemployed is that I can help her. So, I'm staying at my parents house. Alone. This is the first time I've been in my parents' house alone, overnight, since college. So I have that teenaged sense of woohoo! home alone! crank Dad's stereo and eat Doritos in the living room feeling, a la pretty much every '80s teen movie.

Yes. I have lived on my own for a lot of years and I can crank my stereo and eat Doritos (and wash them down with booze) whenever and wherever I want.

But something about your parents' house prompts that giddy sense of freedom, that feeling of new, on the precipice of adulthood freedom, freedom to do whatever you want within a controlled environment.

I told you it's pathetic. 

I may have discovered why grown people, intelligent people, choose to live in their parents' basements. I always thought people who are capable of living on their own but choose to live with their parents are a) immature, b) lazy, c) spoiled, d) emotionally "off," e) controlled by domineering mothers, or f) all of the above. But now I'm starting to realize it might be a lot more complex than how it appears on the surface.

For me and a lot of other fortunate people, my parents' home has always been a safe, calm, happy place. Sure, there are rules and an expected modicum of behavior, but it's generally a comfortable, safe place. Nothing bad happens at your parents' house. I know, I'm lucky. Not everyone is raised in that kind of environment. But for those of us who were, it's a nice safe haven.

But I haven't spent more than a few hours alone in my parents' home since college and that is triggering some weird behaviors. See above, cranking the stereo and eating Doritos.

It's all fun and games until someone's pride gets wounded.

So, a couple nights ago I may have had the stereo volume a little louder than, you know, necessary. And I may have been jumping around a little more than necessary.

I realize that I am well past the crank the stereo and jump off the couch air guitaring age, and I realize that I am not, in fact, Pete Townshend. But. I had a long day with my mother and her doctors. I had a bunch of chores to do including a huge stack of laundry and I unearthed some of my brother's old LPs in a closet so I threw on a little music and I guess somehow I turned up the stereo a little louder than necessary and "We Won't Get Fooled Again" sort of got the best of me and for a moment, there, it was glorious and I guess I didn't hear the doorbell and yadda yadda yadda my parents' friends who were feeling sorry for me and dropping off a casserole and a cinnamon bundt cake looked through the front window and caught me jumping off the living room couch with a mid-air air guitar windmill.

Mid-air, half-splits and windmill on my phantom guitar I noticed two senior citizens looking into the the window, hands cupped at the window for a better, glare-free look to see if anyone was home or if the stereo was blaring the Who all on its own.

Oh. And. I wasn't wearing pants. Or underwear. Just a beat up Red Wings jersey and socks.

Yes. I shot my parents' friends a beaver. A mid-air beaver with accompanying windmill guitar shred. My mother has sheer curtains under the regular drapes so it's possible they didn't get a clear view of the beav through the sheer curtains...but we're splitting (pubic) hairs, here. 

No, there wasn't a bag of Doritos strewn about the coffee table, but there was a bag of veggie chips open on the counter in the kitchen. Which my parents' friends saw when I finally found some pants and let them in the house.

Embarrassing? Humiliating? Shameful? Degrading? Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.

My mother's in a physical rehabilitation "facility" and her unemployed financially destitute loser adult daughter is half naked jumping off couches with the stereo blasting the Who.

I know it's cliché and pathetic. I was very aware of that before I turned up the stereo. But I did it anyway.

And no, I am not harboring Risky Business fantasies. I was doing laundry and my jeans were in the dryer and my pjs were mid-spin cycle. Hence my lack of pants.

Fortunately I've known these friends of my parents for a long time and they thought it was funny, but, we can all presume there will be awkward pauses and awkward deflected looks the next time I see them.

If I were a teenager this behavior would be expected. But. I'm not a teenager. Not even close.

If booze were somehow involved it could be explained. But alcohol was not a factor.

If I had friends over and we were having a party it would still be a little weird, but explainable, dismissible. But I was alone. Painfully alone.  

If I had young children to entertain it could be explained. But. I don't have children. And my nearest niece was 75 miles away at the time.

If I had a job, any job, it would still be embarrassing, but the unemployed/financially destitute angle adds a disturbing element to the whole thing.

And the casserole and bundt cake...I mean, it just makes me feel even worse. Here these nice people were feeling so sorry for me that they made me food and packaged it all up in a cute basket festooned with a ribbon and handwritten cooking instructions for the casserole....and there I was jumping off couches without pants.

I think it's the bundt cake that makes it all the more degrading. There's something pure and innocent and nice about bundt cakes. A grown woman who cranks her parents' stereo and jumps off their living room couch without wearing pants does not deserve a bundt cake. A woman like that tarnishes - besmirches - a bundt cake.

And it was taking place in the living room! If it had been the family room...a bedroom... perhaps in the shower...but no. The living room. The most formal room in the house. How could I sully the living room's reputation like that?

I'm pretty sure the only way this could have been worse is if I had some stoner guy there splayed out on the floor with a bong. (Where's my head banger stoner neighbor when I really need him?) But then, that would give me an "excuse." In the retelling of the story, the boyfriend would be blamed. My parents' friends would say something like, "Trillian's going through a rough time...unemployed...and that fellow she's dating...she's vulnerable...he's no good for her...her self esteem is hurting what with the unemployment..."

But no. There's no stoner boyfriend. Just me and my brother's old scratched copy of Who's Next and my dad's stereo. And no pants.

And a cinnamon bundt cake.

Oh, and did I mention that this is an old stereo and there is a stack of quarters taped to the needle arm to prevent the needle from skipping across a 33 1/3 rpm vinyl LP?

Yeah. It gets more pathetic with each element.

Which is somehow fitting. I feel like this is what I deserve, this is exactly where I deserve to be and how pathetic my life deserves to be. I lost my financé, I lost my job, I'm losing my home, I've lost every tiny shred of pride I had left. I have failed in every aspect of my life. And failures live at home with their parents listening to old scratched records left behind by older siblings. The pantlessness is just a nice touch I apparently felt a need to add.

And that is my epiphany about people who live in their parents' basements. They're in the basement to spare their parents the embarrassment of their behavior. If I'd been hermitting away in my parents' basement my parents' friends would have heard the music but would have been spared the pantsless air guitar demonstration. And so, with that I guess I'll be joining the ranks of the "weird people" who live in their parents' basements. I suppose we all knew it was going to come to this sooner or later.

WARNING: Hell might be freezing over.

My sister is going to see the Pixies with me.

Now this outta be interesting.

The synapses are sparking and short circuiting too quickly for me to accurately process this freakish turn of events and what led us to this point.


I'm scared.

*Hold me.*

Holy crap!

Hot damn!!!

Two of my "Why do I still have this?/I thought I sold this/No one will pay much for it but I'll take the 50¢ the used store will give me for it" CDs sold for, *gulp,* a lot more money that I imagined they would. I mean, a lot more money. I knew some of them might garner more than 50¢, and they did. (The Birdy soundtrack netted a nice little profit, as did Messiah, but both were well within my expectations.) But some of the others, I mean, they're not worth much, not selling for much...I knew the approximate values, and I knew what they are garnering on flEaBay and Amazon, but apparently here in the greater Chicago metropolitan area these CDs are rare finds.

Yay.

But.

Oh crap.

*I owe Bono a pubic apology.*

Ahem.

(nervously tugging at shirt collar, hanging head, humbly biting lip)

*Sorry Bono.*

Trillliannnnn...apologize properly or don't apologize at all.

I mean, Sorry Bono.

No, I don't live in the Third World, and therefore I am unworthy of your magnificence of benevolence, but...

Trillliannnnn...apologize properly or don't apologize at all. 

I mean, thank you, Mr. Bono, sir, for netting me some much needed cash.

Trillliannnnn...is there something else you'd like to say to nice Mr. Bono?

Oh c'mon, do I have to?

Trillliannnnn...the nice man has netted you some surprise cash...

*I'll try really hard to remember this nice little windfall when your circus comes to town this summer...*

Trilllian! 

*sorry*


I'll do my best to refrain from snark when your tour arrives in Chicago in July. I hope your back is feeling better. May your Jumbotron always be big enough to hold your ego.

Trillian!

Oh come on, that thing is huge. It has to travel in its own semi-truck. The amount of electricity it uses could power the entire Third World. For a year.

Go pay your phone bill with the money nice Mr. Bono netted you at the used record store.

And again...

I already sold a bunch of CDs.

But I kept, you know, the favorites, the best friends. And I also kept the ones that for no reason, logical or otherwise, I just didn't want to release.

Oh come on, you have them, too. I know you do.

And I'm not talking about the emotionally charged remnants of relationships past. Those CDs, that music, those songs...those are in an entirely different and distinct Stuff of Life category. And I'm not touchin' that with a ten-foot cattle prod. (I've let go of most of mine. I'll tough-love you through the elimination process if you want help.)

I'm talking about the unemotionally charged music that manages to escape downsizing and purging, sometimes remaining through several moves and shelving changes.

You never play them, you never even really liked them, you may have even had buyer's remorse an hour after the original purchase.

Or maybe they were gifts. Or promo giveaways (which explains a huge percentage of my former CD collection.)

Or maybe they were an old roommate's and you meant to give them back but then the roommate moved across country and you haven't heard from them in two years and...but...it just feels "wrong" to get rid of them because they don't really belong to you.

I'm boxing up the last of the few possessions I have and putting them in storage. Space is limited. So. I am forced to get rid of anything that is even in the proximity of detritus. If it's even only detritus-ish it's gotta go.

So.

Those inexplicable CDs that have survived a bunch of years, several moves, and a lot of reorganizations have to go. Sorry, Virus 100, I know you're a rockin' collection of Dead Kennedys covers. I always meant to listen to you. I always thought you'd make a great soundtrack and I have mused about what that movie would be...but I haven't played you since, um, crap, 1994? '95? I honestly don't remember the last time I even popped open your case. Why?

Not "Why haven't I gotten rid of it?" but "Why haven't I played this, not even one song, in like 16 years?"

And. More to the immediate point: Why am I struggling to toss it in the box going to the used record store?

I'm clearly not going to play it and if I ever want to finally nail down a movie that it can soundtrack there's always iTunes.

And yet...I struggled to release it, toss it in a box and take that box to the used record store where, if I'm lucky they'll give me 50¢ for it.

And then there's the ultra-special promo CD of Björk's "Army of Me" from Tank Girl. I like Björk. I like the song. Grrrrl power and all that. And I really love the graphics on the back cover. But I already saved plenty of other Björk music, including the full Tank Girl soundtrack. And it's taking up real estate in my storage locker - precious space.

And yet...like Virus 100, I struggled to release it, relinquish it to The Box.

And what of The Box? Were any CDs easy to toss into the used record store box?

Yep.

Don't ask me why I have Messiah's Rotten Perish. (I didn't buy it.) And really don't ask me how it survived even one move, let alone the seven it's survived since 1993. (Cripes. I've moved seven times since 1993. Is that weird? Is my "number" high? Am I a residence slut?) I meant to sell it years ago. I thought I sold it in a huge batch sell-off right after I was laid off. I could swear I already sold it. But there it was and there it went, poof, straight into the sell to the used record store box. Ditto the soundtrack to Birdy AKA Wherein Peter Gabriel Composes Music For Suicides.

Yes I'm a huge music fan/geek/maven/lunatic. I know this. And honestly, given my proclivity to listen to just about anything and my flea market habit it's testament to my will-power and self-restraint (and low income) that my music collection isn't bordering on something you'd see on Hoarders. I've always been fairly disciplined about not letting my music collection get too, you know, unwieldy. iTunes helped tremendously. I long ago purged the CDs that contained only one or two songs I liked. I had a huge Rip and Release party years ago. I ripped the songs I wanted and then set up a table with the CDs I no longer wanted. I then invited friends over for a party and told them they could take any of the CDs they wanted. I unloaded a ton of crap, I mean CDs that night. The CDs that no one wanted were then taken to my used record store of choice wherein I was given $20 for 30 CDs.

But now, the end is near, and so I face the final packing.

I fearfully suspect part of the reason some of these CDs remained in my possession is that they reassure me that at some point in my life I was hip enough to know the bands existed and open-minded enough to listen to their music and give them a place in my collection.

Yes. They're false-sense-of-security blankets.

I was never cool. Never. Not once. Not one second of my life. I have been "hip" to new stuff, "hip" in the "aware" definition of hip. But never cool. I love music, and truly, I will listen to just about anything. But craving music, going to concerts and hanging out at record stores does not make you cool. It makes you someone who loves music and goes to concerts and hangs out at record stores. Yes, I can rattle off names of super big bands I saw for a $5 cover on Buck-a-Beer night at seedy bars before they were super big. Woo hoo. That doesn't make me cool. It makes me cheap with a dash of lucky.

But those CDs (let's not get into vinyl right now) gave my self-esteem a little salve. People who came over to my place(s) would peruse my shelves and pull out a selection or two and either ask, "What the heck is this?" or "Wow, you listen to (whomever)?" Until iTunes I was the go-to music info source among my friends. A music matchmaker. A band whisperer. A song sommelier. (Which, by the way, is what I would have named iTunes (or at least Ping).) I know my friends and family well enough to know what sort of music they might like. They'd ask, "I heard this song/band the other day, do you know anything about them? Are they any good? Would I like more of their stuff?" Often I could hand over a CD or at least point them in the musical direction they would like. Again I say, I have never been cool. I just listen to a lot of music and know my friends well enough to gauge their musical preferences. It's too bad I can't get paid for this skill because I like to think I could make a fairly decent living at it. And that's my point. My music collection is my false-sense-of-security blanket. No one is going to pay me to choose music for them. I know this. But in my imagination I am capable of making a viable living by choosing music for people who can't figure it out for themselves.

Part of me wants to give the Messiah Rotten Perish CD to my head-banging stoner neighbor. Not as a peace offering or farewell present. More as a, "You're a stoner jerk with bad taste in music, you'll love this CD," joke's on him kind of thing. I'm pretty sure it would shock the pot out of him to find out I even know who Messiah are let alone have Rotten Perish in my possession. The reason I won't give it to him? Because until I'm evicted I'd have to listen him play it at wall-shaking volume. And my other neighbors already hate me enough because of my inability to pay my mortgage and dragging down their condo values, I don't need to add Rotten Perish to the reasons they'll show up at my door with pitchforks and torches.

I'm striving for the enlightened "this is good catharsis" mindset. Getting rid of those CDs will mean getting rid of my false-sense-of-security blanket and that's good. It's time. And truly, I am not going to pay to store these CDs. When it comes down to thinking of storing my life in a small locker making these decisions is easy. Homelessness gives you clarity that you cannot imagine until you have to make choices about what you want to pay to keep in storage. Sometimes it is like Sophie's choice. "My gran's silver or my mother's china? I can't keep both." But when it comes to music the choices get easier. "If I keep the Birdy soundtrack I have to get rid of another CD. Who will it be? Am I willing to sacrifice Thin Lizzy for Peter Gabriel?" Ah, no.

Sorry, Peter Gabriel, I know you're Very Special and Important and I love the movie Birdy, but I'm not cool enough to enjoy sitting around listening to the depressing drone esoteric lushness of the soundtrack without reaching for a couple bottles of pills and a fifth of Jim Beam. Space in my storage locker is prime real estate and you're not making the cut. I think this is best for both of us. Maybe in time, someday, we can be friends. I know there's someone out there for you, someone who appreciates you more than I do will snatch you right up the very second you hit the market. You won't be in that used record store bin very long. I'm sure you'll have an esteemed and coveted place in another music collection, someone might even play you once in a while. You'll feel more needed and wanted than you did with me. And I, well, I need to let go, I need to stop clutching my false-sense-of-security blanket.

Well, now. Now I have a conundrum. One of the items in the "Stay" column of my "Should I Stay or Should I Go" Chicago list is going national, so I can leave Chicago and still get my weekly dose of Svengoolie.

Yes, Svengoolie was on my list of reasons to stay in Chicago. Hey. A girl needs her scary B-movie fix.

Whether I stay in Chicago or go, I, and those of you outside the greater metropolitan Chicago area, can dine on the smart-but-campy fun that is Svengoolie.

For you Detroiters going all "pffft, traitor. And she calls herself a Michigander. This Svengoolie chap is no Sir Graves," you're right, I concur, Svengoolie is no Sir Graves. But, no one will ever match the genius of Sir Graves. And Sven isn't trying. He's his own ghoul, has his own demons. He's the closest thing new generations have to Sir Graves, so I embrace and applaud him. And now you can, too.

Don't ask me to explain Berwyn. Just trust me and Sven, it's mock-worthy.

In case your local affiliate isn't carrying Sven, yet, here's the door to the crypt. I triple dog dare you to not guffaw. 

I've been plagued by a nagging question as long as I can remember. In fact one of my earliest memories involves this question.

And I've yet to resolve it.

And I've asked a lot of people for advice and insight.

And still, as yet, it's an unresolved mystery to me.

Where do I belong?

And its follow up question: How do you know where you belong?

I have no more clue now than I did when I was three. And I continue to assuage my confusion with, "Just make the best of wherever you are."

Make the best of what you have and where you have it. Find contentment within and the rest will either take care of itself or not matter.

Good solution, right?

Yeah, I think so, too. And for the most part it's worked out okay for me.

But now...well...now since no one will hire me and I'm going to be homeless I am forced to consider not only what my next move is, but where it is. I could stay in Chicago, or the suburbs thereof. MAF and his partner have offered their couch and another friend has offered a spare bedroom in her suburban home. But those are only temporary options, not long term solutions. Where do I want to go? Gee, I dunno. Okay, well, let's look at this from another angle. Where do I belong? I have absolutely no idea.

I know some basics about where I don't belong. Climate is an important factor. I know I don't belong anywhere with an average temperature above 80° or humidity above 70%. (And yes, that is Chicago for several weeks/months of the year so what the heck am I doing in Chicago?)

And now economics is an important factor. I know I don't belong anywhere with an average income above $40K and rent/mortgage costs over $700/month. (And yes, you'd be hard pressed to find an insect-free apartment located more than 3 blocks from crack dealers for less than $700 in Chicago so what the heck am I doing in Chicago?)

For a lot of people family is a factor. And yes, given her health and widowhood I'd prefer not to be more than a six hour drive/one hour plane trip from my mother, but...given my, um, "predicament" that's lower on the list of practical considerations.

And that's not really my point, here.

I'm not talking about the best place to live, I'm talking about figuring out where you belong. My feeling is that the two are rarely the same. I contend that very few people live where they belong. Or belong where they live.

So I've never felt "bad" about my bewilderment over not knowing where I belong. I don't think I'm in a small minority of people who are clueless about where they belong. In fact, I'm confident a lot of people have no clue where they belong, physically or metaphorically.

My contention, though, is that we'd all be a heck of a lot more content if we a) figured out where we belong and b) lived there.  Contentment = serenity; Serenity = positivity; Positivity = fewer health problems, less crime, fewer wars...so yeah, figuring out where you belong and living there is actually a pretty big deal.

Religious people claim they don't have this conundrum because they have Jesus/God/Buddha/Elvis in their heart and He is their origination, destination and compass for all points in-between. 

Yay. How very convenient. Don't throw your Bible at me and I won't throw my Sartre at you.

A lot of people equate belonging with home, and in turn, home with a specific person/people. Home is where your heart/mom/spouse/kids/dog/Ferrari/light saber is. Except in the case of material possessions I think that's a good outlook. (and for the record if religion provides contentment without judgment, rock on)

But.

If you're an adult, and you have no spouse/kids/dog(or Ferrari or light saber) do you really "belong" with your parents? If you met an adult who lives with their parents, and in response to the question, "Why do you live with your parents?" they said, "This is where I belong," what would you think? Really. Be honest. You'd think a lot of negative stereotypes and social stigmas.

Which is too bad but I don't see that attitude changing anytime soon.

Which is too bad because there are a lot of lonely single people on this planet and it's sorrowful and depressing to think that the one place where many of them feel like they belong is the one place society mocks and ridicules.

I know I don't belong in The Suburbs. Even though I'm from The Suburbs, I'm a native, I don't belong there. I didn't even belong there when I was a kid with a right granted by my parents' property tax payments to live in The Suburbs. Now, when I visit friends and family there as a never married, childless adult not only do I not fit in, I am judged, questioned and either pitied or dismissed. I definitely do not belong there.

And it's worse for men. Never married, childless men can add "creepy" and "feared" to the list of reasons they don't belong in The Suburbs. A never married, childless man buying a home in the suburbs automatically makes him suspect: He's labeled a sex offender, murderer and/or evil scientist conducting sinister experiments on young children before the moving truck pulls out of the driveway.

So. We can cross The Suburbs off the list of possible places I might belong.

That leaves: Heavily populated urban centers and isolated rural areas.

I like cities, I prefer cities, I'm comfortable in the anonymity cities provide. But cities are expensive places to live. And I'm unemployed. And out of savings. So. Yeah. That's a non-starter. But that's okay. Because even though I like cities, I've never found one where I felt I belonged. I felt like I didn't belong in several cities which I won't mention. But, there are cities I like and wanted to belong but didn't. I like New York. London. Antwerp. San Francisco. Vancouver. Minneapolis. And I think I've spent enough time in all of those cities (doing things other than vacationing) to know whether or not I belong there. I feel affectionate toward them, but I don't feel that affection is reciprocated. I've never had bad experiences in those cities, but I don't feel like I belong in any of them.

So that leaves a whole heck of a lot of isolated rural areas.

And my parent's house.

Okay, let's just say I move home with my mother. I mean, why not? Why not just admit defeat in every aspect of my life and move home with my mother? Start wearing cheap knock-off versions of Pajama Jeans* and mismatched slippers to the grocery to buy RC Cola and Velveeta. A spinster who failed at life moves home with her widowed mother. That's how it's supposed to happen, right? That's what happens to spinsters who fail at their careers and at life in general. They move in with their widowed mothers, eventually the mother dies, one cat turns into 150, the spinster starts yelling crazy nonsensical things at neighborhood children, maybe starts shooting a shotgun at anyone who comes within 100 feet, the house falls into disrepair, yadda yadda yadda the gas company guy goes to shut off the gas for non-payment and smells something fetid and finds cats dining on what's left of the spinster, who the coroner figures was dead at least seven months. (And yet people say I don't think about my future. Bah! Obviously it's all I think about.)

The sooner I admit to myself that this is my life, accept it and stop fighting for something more, better or at least different, the sooner I will find contentment.

But. I think, I hope, I have at least a few years of early spinsterhood left. The jaded, bitter, callous, shrew years. Oh boy!

And my mother happens to live in suburban Detroit. Detroit, though full of many virtues and nowhere near as bad as comedians seem to think, is not a great place for an unemployed person looking for a fresh start. And more to the immediate point, I've spent a lot of time in Detroit, and Michigan, and even though I love it and have zero complaints and nothing but praise and heart swelling pride about being from there, I never felt like I belonged there. I wish I belonged there, but even with my burgeoning span of unemployment I still don't feel like I belong there. (Because there's a heck of a lot more to Detroit, and Michigan, than unemployment.)

So.

See square one, "I have no clue where I belong."

I'm not looking for contentment. It would be nice, but contentment is a luxury, a pipe dream for me.

I'd be happy with acceptance. It would be really nice to be accepted, as is, no judgment or questions. That, too, I think is a pipe dream. Unless there's a place, a colony or island or gated community solely for single, educated-professional-but-unemployed people who have nowhere else to go. That's where I belong. If you know of such a place please tell me how to get there.

If, as I suspect, that singles safe haven doesn't exist, then how do I choose where to go?

Or, as I also suspect, if no one feels like they really belong anywhere, then is a nomadic life the best solution? People who don't know where they belong (physically or metaphorically) are by definition discontent. Wouldn't they, we, find some contentment (or at least solace) if we were traveling around trying new places, looking for a place we belong rather than stagnating somewhere where we don't belong? The irony of being a nomad to avoid discontentment is not lost on me. And yes, yes, I know, I know. The fastest and surest route to discontentment is to question where you belong. I know that. I read. I listen. I hear. I live. I look in the mirror.

And yes, yes, I know. I'm stepping around the obvious metaphoric aspect of belonging. Doesn't it go without saying that if you're not at peace, comfortable in your own skin, you'll never feel like you belong anywhere? I thought that was assumed knowledge.

And yes, yes, I struggle with self-image, but, even so, I am comfortable in my skin. All 5'11" of it. I don't like that men don't find me, my outer appearance, attractive, and therefore I wish my skin was wrapped around a more appealing physical face and body, but, I am comfortable in my own skin. I know who I am. And I know men are not attracted to me. I accept this. I'm not "happy" about it but I have come to accept it enough to be content with that knowledge. If I weren't comfortable in my skin I would have bought plastic surgery instead of a condo. A decision I am starting regret because, ha, the joke's on me, the plastic surgery would have lasted longer than my condo and if I were more attractive I'd stand a better chance at job offers which would give me a better and steadier income so I could buy a condo. But, heh heh, I was comfortable in my skin, I accepted myself and was well on my way to finding contentment in loads of ways other than romantic affection and a stable relationship. Look where that got me. Unemployed and homeless.

But hey, I'm comfortable in my skin. I know who I am, I know how I look, and I know men are not attracted to me. Trust me, there's a heck of a lot of contentment in accepting that.

Unfortunately we live in a Disney-fied society where women, educated, intelligent women, choose to ignore the census data that proves it is statistically impossible for there to be someone for everyone. (and that true love's kiss can solve any problem) Also unfortunate is that our media-spun society showcases only the most attractive women, so men have a very skewed view of what women "should" look like. (yes, guys, I am saying you buy into female physical stereotypes, it's not a bad thing, I spent six seasons watching LOST (including repeats) solely because the men were stereotypical handsome).

I'm not blaming other people for my inability to attract a mate. I take full responsibility for my DNA.

But I am pointing out that other people are part of the equation when trying to sort out where one belongs. And for me, an area densely populated with women who truly believe there's someone for everyone and men who are only attracted to centerfold or super-close-up scene ready women is not a place where I belong. (If someone will give me a research grant I will doggedly study and report my findings on the correlation between college educated women who believe in real life fairy tales (and regularly use that term) and men who only date women who are possession of stereotypical physical attraction and the increasing role plastic surgery plays in "real life fairy tales.")

Obviously I do not belong in a fairy tale, real life or otherwise. I'm content with that. I have census data and demographic stats to keep me warm.

So. Yes, emotional, mental contentment plays a huge role in the feeling of belonging. But I'm fairly certain that's not holding me back from figuring out where I belong. It is my fervent hope there is at least one place on this planet where it is not commonly believed that there is someone for everyone and anyone who doesn't have someone is either sad and pitiable or flawed and scorn-worthy. That's where I belong. But I have no idea where that is (other than in my imagination).

I have lots of questions and I'm betting you have lots of answers.

Do you know where you belong? Do you live there? Are you planning to live there? How do you know it's where you belong? When and how did you figure out you belong there? Was your discovery an accident or based on a calculation derived from a formula involving several factors?

How well do you know yourself? Do you have a solid grasp on how other people see you? What's your comfort level in your skin? Is that comfort level a factor in your contentment with your locale?




*I've already looked into Pajama Jeans. They don't come cheap. And. If you find yourself reaching for the credit card when the Pajama Jean commercial airs you are exactly the person who should not be reaching for the credit card when the Pajama Jean commercial airs. I don't know who belongs in Pajama Jeans, but I am certain women who find them appealing are the women who do not belong in them.