My past is coming back to haunt me, or, at least, Facebook stalk me. Recently, several of my old high school classmates have friended me on Facebook. Not wanting to be rude, I returned the friending. It's somewhat surreal considering I never stayed in touch with any of them after high school. I don't really know why they'd want to be friends with me, Facebook or otherwise. We all went our separate ways. Well, I did anyway. As far as I can tell, most of them are still in touch. They're getting married, getting divorced, having babies. Most of them are still in the same small town we went to high school in, or they've moved ten miles down the road to the big city of Omaha.
One of them caught me on chat the other night. "Married? Children?" she asked. "Nope and nope," I answered, then promptly turned the conversation to something I knew she'd be able to keep up on her own, her five year old son. Parents do seem to like to talk about their kids. I get it. I like to talk about my pets. I figure I'll be completely incorrigible if I ever do have a kid. When she wound down on her little boy, she asked where I was and what I was doing. You would have thought grad school was synonymous with the federal penitentiary (which I sometimes wonder about, myself). She then had to let me know which of our former posse were married, getting married, or having/had kids.
So here's the questions: Am I sublimating to think she (all of them really) would judge me a failure for my lack of a husband (ex or otherwise) or kid to my name? Is it her, society a large, or just me? And please what can I do to get rid of this niggling sense of superiority for actually doing something with my life? It's the kind of feeling I don't even want to admit to having - that completely unbalanced, ego-centric, prejudiced, false, absolutely undeniable sense of superiority that simultaneously makes me feel about has worthy of the stuff my cat leaves behind in her litter box. Sometimes I marvel at the ability for contradiction that can be found in the human nature. It gives us irony, satire, idealism and realism together, but sometimes, apparently, it just kicks our ass.
I'm scowling at my computer right now like it's a suspect sitting across the dimly-lit, metal table from me in some top-rated cop drama and if I just look at it dirty enough it will spit out the answers. Like it's some miscreant kid who will admit it was all a joke, a put on, and absolve me of my sins. Not bloody likely.
Oh, let it go, Monica, just let it go. I scrub my face with my hands. Enough with the storyline. No more thinking of all the ways you're better than them or all the ways you've failed as a woman. But that doesn't make those feelings go away. That's just denial, right? But if I think about, it buy into the storyline, right?
Present moment, present moment. No self, no self. In the present moment I'm not a failure or a success. There is no self to be a failure, no self to be a success. Oh, hey, "I Need Your Love So Bad" (B.B. King & Sheryl Crow), I love this song - and I do need my love so bad. No success, no failure, no self. Just love, maybe? Nothing to love, nothing not to love.
Can love just be without subject or object?