Wednesday, December 19, 2012
A Different Kind of Catfish, or An Open Letter to Nev
Above, you see a photo of the Real Me. That's what I really look like. Not all the time. I don't wear Lorax T-shirts everyday. But I'm not wearing lipstick or have brushed my hair, so that's pretty much what I look like on a regular basis. I took that photo to thank the BlogHer '12 sponsors, but that's a whole different blog post.
I looked through my photos to find one to add to this post of the Real Blondie, but I couldn't find any pretty ones. Isn't that how we want to see ourselves online? As pretty? I just found odd ones, like this one of me on Halloween this year. I went to the watering hole party as the Bride of Frankenstein. That's a toilet paper roll in my hair:
The last picture I could find in my computer files that was remotely attractive was from over a year ago. Single people don't have a lot of reasons to photograph ourselves. Just sayin'. I was working and stopped to take a picture of me and my cat, Webster, to send to a long-distance coworker. Work-from-home people often do not put on makeup, wear anything other than comfy pants, and we for sure NEVER take photos of ourselves. Obviously, I was out of my element this day because I look somewhat pretty in that way that I imagine myself to be:
In a perfect world, I am stunningly beautiful. But most of the time, I'm just me.
I'm writing to you because I just watched an episode of Catfish: The TV Show. Oh, how I wish I was a catfish. Watching your documentary reminded me of how much I DON'T want to ever be on Facebook or ever try (again) to date online. But I WOULD like someone to email me, text me, call me, and adore me in that way that all of the catfish do. It's so romantic. Given, sometimes it turns out to be HORRIBLE, but at least you get to play and have those moments with the butterflies. I long to be that kind of a romantic. Instead, I'm getting older, more bitter, and more alone.
I'm 35 years old. I'm single. I have no children. And each year -- each day -- it gets harder. Today I found myself bawling multiple times because I wanted someone to comfort me about Sandy Hook, and I wanted someone to give love to for Christmas. I have so much love to give, but I have no one to give it to.
I don't want to be fooled. It's silly to say I actually want a catfish. That sounds quite crazy. But I do want those butterflies -- that feeling of being 16 again like Dani did on the episode this evening. I realized recently that it's been SO LONG since I've been in love. I want someone to love. It's the opposite of what most people want. Usually, we want to be loved. Yes, I want that too, but I also want to pour adoration on someone. Where is he?
I don't want to be that crazy spinster we all heard about when we were kids. I don't want to be that crazy, single aunt for the rest of my life. Is this my lot, Nev? Is this my fate?
Oh, what do you know? You were born in 1984, according to your online profile. That makes you... wait for it... 2012-1984 = 28. You are 28. Lemmie tell ya, there is a HUGE difference between 28 and 35. I'm impressed by your maturity.
Have I mentioned that I've been drinking?
Oh no. We have a tipsy blogger. F*ck.
Obviously, I'm not blonde. I call myself Blondie online because of a childhood nickname. It's true that I have two lives -- one that is Real and one that lives here on this blog. I keep them separate because I am a freelancer, and if an employer googles me, I want them to find my professional profile, not my silly blog where I write about being lonely. One day I might "come out." I don't know. But this part of me, this blog/journal, is the most real I've ever been. I need this blog. I need this space where I can write about my ugliest, darkest feelings. My boss doesn't need to see that.
Why am I writing you? You're far too young for me, so I'm not being a cougar. Yes, you are handsome and funny, but I'm sure that just like all those catfish, some of it is a cover. You can't be happy and silly all the time. It's not how life works. I'm sure you have a whole bunch of personal sh*t that is ugly and Stupid just like the rest of us. I think that's why I'm randomly writing you this post from Iowa after too many Guinnesses. I drank them on the couch, watching you. Watching you watching Dani and Kya. It was fascinating. It was Real. I liked it.
So Dear Nev,
I am Blondie. I am a Hawt Mess inside my brain sometimes. But I am smart and interesting and FOR THE LOVE OF GAWD where is my Partner in Crime? Where is the Love of My Life? Is it my destiny to be alone? For reals? Forever? It's starting to feel that way. Tell me, Nev. Tell me it's not true.