Can't Fake the Funk

I’ve been in a bit of a funk as of late. I don’t know, I guess my brain’s going through a sort of episode where it’s overloaded with to-do lists, crises, epiphanies and general lassitude. Why the lassitude? Well for starters, I’m sick of being a student. Yes, I’ve said that a gazillion times over the past 4 years; I meant it then, and I sure mean it now.

I haven’t been to the gym in a long time. In January, right after the Christmas break, I signed up for a 14-day trial at this gym I used to go to during the fall semester, thinking I would sign up for a year-long membership. Well, MasterCard wasn’t having it. The week I wanted to register, I got a curt message on my voicemail from a MC lady and her urgent tone made me imagine the worse possible scenarios. Was I the victim of credit card fraud and some dude in Buenos Aires tried to buy a yacht with my card? Good luck with that hombre, it’s maxed out! Hmm, could I blame fictitious hombre for maxing out my credit card? No, he wouldn’t be grocery shopping at No Frills in Scarborough… Crap!

Ok, other possible scenario: my name is now blacklisted and the credit bureau’s got me on lockdown. My credit’s ruined, I won’t be able to buy a house, a car, start my own company… I’m ruined! All because I had to move away to go to school so I could get a head start on my publishing career and do something with my life… I mean, come on, I had to buy furniture for my apartment: I can’t live like a squatter! Everything’s so expensive here, and financial aid is so freakin’ stingy… Life is hard, man, gimme a break! Blame Toronto!

So I called MasterCard: it turns out that yes, I’ve exceeded my limit and yes, they have received my latest payment (See? I am a responsible adult!), but that I should try to increase my monthly payments.

And then I unfurled upon the nice customer service guy the breadth of my financial woes. For every detail I gave him, he replied a solemn, “Oh! I see…”

So, no, my credit is not ruined. It’s badly bruised, belligerent, screaming for it’s Adrian, but it’s not destroyed. At least I hope not.

Thus no gym for me, well at least for the moment, until I move back to Montreal, where I long to renew my membership at Énergie Cardio and indulge in my Zumba classes once more.

What else is bringing me down lately? Ah yes, feeling depleted of creativity; indeed, that’s a big one. Following the amount of pressure I felt as my classmates and I rushed to put the final touches on our dear magazine On the Danforth, I had nothing left to give. Artistically, I mean. I was drained out, and probably on the verge of a lupus flare. That’s a huge NO BUENO. As well as being artistically challenged, I’ve got more projects to hand in, projects that ALL require a form of artistic expression. Hey, I won’t complain: being creative for a living is my dream, but being creative on demand? For six different classes? When you’re fed up with school? You understand why I might have been on the verge of a lupus flare.

Don’t get me wrong: I feel fine. Since I don’t get up ridiculously early to go workout anymore, I get to sleep in. I’m catching up on my zzz’s, by all means necessary. How can I manage this, with such a hectic schedule? I just told you: I sleep in, meaning, sometimes I’m just so tired, you know, because of all that lupus fatigue, I simply can’t get out of bed and be productive. I must rest! Doctor’s orders, you know.

No, I’m not lazy, and no, I’m not using my medical condition as an excuse for skipping classes. As a workaholic, I’m well aware that if I don’t schedule time to relax and rest, my body will do it for me and completely shut down, thus sending my ass to the emergency room.

Another bullet point on my funk list: my impending birthday. Call me crazy, but turning 26 is freaking me out. I’m getting older. I don’t necessarily feel old, because I’m not. What 26 really means is that now I’ve got no more excuses: I’ll be a real adult, not half-ass-early-20s-adult crap. Bleh. Oh, I guess I’ll have to refrain from using onomatopoeia to properly express my anguish starting April 22^nd. Double bleh. I’m slowly reaching 30, that’s what scares me. Life goes by too fast; I still feel like a kid, yet I lead the life of an adult: worrying about rent, gettin’ mad at the increasing price of milk, having panic attacks when I get a call from MasterCard. I got childhood friends who are poppin’ babies, getting married, buying houses in the surburbs…

“Wait, you’re gonna be someone’s wife?! Man, that’s messed up. Not too long ago we were sitting in English class together, reading CosmoGirl, talking about boys, and now you’re gonna have a husband?”

My sister reassured me, telling me that twenty-five is a wimpy adult age anyway: you’re always trying to prove that you’re a grown ass woman even though you’re not. The other side of twenty-five is the real deal: you’ve got more wisdom, you’ve toughened up, and you’re more refined with age, just like fine wine. I then asked her if bourbon ages well, ‘cause if I have to compare myself to liquor as I get older, I wanna be something strong, like bourbon! Mind you, I’ve never tasted bourbon and neither as my sister, but I can only assume that aged bourbon is better.

I think what scares me is that my mind is struggling to catch up with time itself. I’m also scared of ending up a bitter old broad with 14 cats by age 30. Why? How? By watching all my friends gettin’ boo’d up, exchanging vows at the altar, having baby showers, hosting barbecues in the summer in their backyards in the family-safe boonies. Do I sound envious? I’m not. Everything else in my life is lining up: in two weeks I’ll be done with school FOREVER (and I mean it this time); I’m moving back home and will get to hang out with my girls and spend time with my family; next month I’ll be in a professional work environment where my ideas will be valued (exciting!) and I’ll definitely get a job after my internship (steady source of income!). Things are looking up, that’s for sure, but there’s more to life than (finally) having a career and a social life. I’m not questioning God’s plan for me, but um, I know there’s got to be a man planned in there somewhere. I mean, come on, I’m a catch! Seriously, who wouldn’t want to date me?

Not too long ago, I was talking to a good friend of mine and I told her that guys don’t really holla at me anymore (no, the taxi driver in the No Frills parking lot yesterday shouting “Hey, light skin!” does not count). I explained to her that, for the past four years or so, the guys who do approach me engage in stimulating conversations: real, deep conversations that are not about my looks or why I don’t have a man. “That’s great!”, she said. Yeah, but the problem is, I’m not attracted to any of them. “So?” So? We’re just friends. “Why?” ‘Cause I can have great conversations with my friends. “But if you get along what’s the problem? Why can’t you just go on a date with one of them?” ‘Cause I’m not attracted to any of them: didn’t you listen to what I just said?? Look, I got plenty of friends, and I enjoy spending time with them. If I go out on a date with someone I’m not attracted to, that’s not a date, it’s called chillin’ with a homie. I’m not looking for a homie.

I’m not interested in companionship or just settling for the first dude with a so-so personality, good hygiene and who can read. Dude, if I wanted companionship that bad, I’d get a monkey.

The worst situations are the courtships that lead to nowhere. Don’t be so shocked: there are still men, black men who court women, and not in a cheesy way either. But let’s be real here: at some point the text messages and the phone calls have to actually turn into regular face-to-face encounters. It’s easy to send a smiley face via your Crackberry, but could I actually see your face, homie? You know, witness some body language and facial expressions and such? Is that too much to ask?

Gah.

There: I’ve unloaded the causes of my funk. Hopefully this post will reassure those of you who’ve been wondering if all is well in Alpha Female Land since I haven’t posted anything on my blog for quite some time. I may be feeling blah at the moment, but not for long. Fear not; the best is yet to come.