Love, Jimmie

In my lifetime I’ve seen my mother cry only a handful of times.  When you talk about a tough broad, you think of my mother.  At least I do.  In times like this, with the car and the boy and the new job where I’m still learning my way, I want to be like my mom.  I want to take the bull by the horns and wrestle it down and stand on it and shout about how I did it.  I’ve done a lot of fighting lately and I’ve got to say, I don’t like it, but I think I’d rather be the bull fighter than the delicate, simpering flower.

Right after the break up where I got my heart smashed four years ago, before I really began the healing process, I went home for a visit with my mom.  Actually, what happened was she called me in the middle of one of my crying jags and as I gurgled to her about my horrid, horrid life, Madre realized I was Not Okay.  She instructed me to come home immediately which I gratefully did and while I was there, we went shopping.  During this shopping excursion we ran across a woman whose husband made deer stands.  That woman wanted to talk to my mom about those deer stands and I wanted nothing to do with deer stands because the douchecanoe ex-boyfriend was an avid hunter and used those deer stands more than once.  I kept yanking on Madre’s arm, trying to quietly explain to her that talking about deer stands made me Not Okay, that there was a panic rising inside me I could not control and that I needed to leave immediately.  That woman kept droning on, and Madre kept saying, “Yes, okay, see you later,” and finally I’d had enough.  To the surprise of everyone, including me, I screeched at the woman, “You need to shut your fat f@%*-ing mouth!” and sure enough she did, with an audible snap.  Matter of fact, everyone in the Dollar General did, and my mother, her eyes as big as dinner plates, ushered me out of there so fast you’d have missed it if you blinked.  That’s how bad that break up was.

This break up is not that bad.  Sure, I was down for the count and there will be times where I still suffer from feelings of “All hope is lost and I’m a worthless cow”, but overall, this is not bad.  It helps tremendously that everyone has been very supportive of me.  My brother called.  My friends bought me chocolates and lip gloss.  Dammit Todd had lunch with me.  One friend or another checks on me every day and several have offered to do bodily harm to Slim’s person.  (I’m secretly tickled that people feel so strongly for me but I understand that those lovely gestures must be declined.)  What I’m saying is, you are very sweet to worry about me, but I’m not going to be screeching obscenities to anyone at the Dollar General this go round.  I’m alright.   I’m tougher than I was four years ago.

You know what else is alright? My car.  It only took every penny I had and a three and a half months for it to be alright but my car runs right all the time now, and I got a new BFF out of it.  Kwame, of the Hyundai dealership, has walked me through every step of this repair process even though I really didn’t want him to, and in doing so has given me knowledge I never wanted.  He called me every day that he had my car to tell me what they looked at and what didn’t work.  After his first three minute monologue I said, “Kwame, I have no idea what you just said.  I’ve been in my happy place for the last two minutes and 45 seconds.  What I did hear is that you have no idea what is wrong with my car, correct?”

“Correct,” he said, and then launched off into another monologue about my car’s engine.

This went on for over a week.  Every day.  I finally resigned myself to the fact that Kwame was going to tell me everything he could about my car, and at the first ring from the dealership, I’d drape my elbow over the back of my chair, kick my feet out under my desk and lay there like a wet noodle until he got done with the lesson.  I know more about actuators and starters and batteries and bolts and catalytic convertors than you do, I bet.  Overall, though, this has not been that bad.  Pee-tah let me use his car whilst he went on a luxury vacation and after that, one of my lovely new co-workers whom I shall call Serena lent me her spare car.  Also, because Kwame and I are so close, he knocked a whole chunk off my bill when I asked questions about it.  See, not bad?

I’ve got one more fight in me right now, and I’m hoping it goes the same way as the others.  I’ve started a new eating program.  For those of you in the know, it’s called Whole 30 and for those of you not in the know, I’ve cut out all processed foods, all dairy, all legumes, all grains and all sugar for 30 days.  I figured that while everything still tastes like sawdust and while I’m still carrying injured feelings, I can do some good for myself with regards to what I eat.  Plus, the jeans I bought after the last break up don’t fit quite right and since this is the only thing I can fully control, I’d like to get back in those jeans.

I’m on day five of this cleanse (that’s what I’m calling it – a cleanse, not a diet), and so far I’ve done well.  If you can count the fact that I was victorious with myself after a 16-hour fight over whether or not White Castle would be consumed, that is.  This is how bad my thinking is, you guys.  Seriously?  White Castle?  That’s the arm pit of all food and that is where I focus my craving?  I’m in bad shape.  I have never wanted White Castle in my whole life and I internally war for 16 hours over it?  Bad, I tell you.

There’s a timeline for this 30 days, and in it is the explanation of how I should feel during each phase.  Currently I’m in the “I Want to Kill All Things” phase.  Since I skated through the “Sugar Hangover” phase with relative ease, I’m hopeful that I don’t actively fantasize about mowing down anyone with my fully functioning vehicle.  I haven’t wanted to yet and after the 16-Hour White Castle War, I feel like I can accomplish anything.  (For the record, next up is the “I Want A Nap” phase and I’m here to tell you that that phase is one I’d be willing to embrace.)

I look at all this glorious mess in my life and I see myself becoming my mother.  I see myself toughening up and taking all this on and winning, even if by the tiniest of margins.  I’m not saying it’s easy. I’m not saying I enjoy it.  I’m only saying that if I’m going to have to fight this hard for anything, a car, a boy, a badass pair of jeans, I damn well better win.  My momma did.  She won her fights.  I know I can too.