I have no idea why, but the period between the beginning of September and the end of December always feels so hopeful to me. I think to some degree I secretly have a lot of the same beliefs and feelings I did as a little girl. This time of year I always feel like something spectacular will happen to make me feel like less of a hopeless dork. Because really, deep down I am still the sad little nerd I was in high school, pretending to be more confident than I really feel. Okay, so the nerd isn't buried that deep...
Let's run down how these few months offer so many opportunities to nerdy twerps like myself. The new school year still seems like a fresh start-maybe no one will remember that time last year that your pants fell down in the middle of the cafeteria and you had somehow forgotten to wear underwear that day. And because no one remembers that, maybe this year you'll be the coolest kid in school. Except they will remember, and you won't be any cooler. Damn it. Okay, try again with October. Halloween is fun. It's a chance to showcase your awesome creativity and ingenuity with your super sweet costume idea. Except once again, you leave it to the last minute and end up drunk, wearing a spray painted cardboard box. Crap. November doesn't really have that much to offer pathetic kids, but for me it's a month associated with some pretty good memories. So I typically spend the entire 30 days in a vain effort to recreate those feelings. But by the end of the month, I'm just burned out from nostalgia and not really feeling any better about myself or my life. Shit.
And on we go to December, the biggest disappointment of all. I think I'm still waiting for a Christmas miracle. I refuse to relinquish my silly hope that somehow everyone gets one at some point in their lives. Don't get me wrong, I love the holiday season on its own merit, and the joy I derive from it is not lessened any by not having a lightning strike moment. I love the decorations, the food, the annoying music...all of it. But some part of me always hopes that I'll wake up on Christmas morning suddenly impervious to the problems in my past and my present, with a joyful family, a self cleaning house and a magical bank account that always has a positive balance. And of course, it hasn't happened yet. So I make New Year's resolutions, hoping that somehow the magic of the Gregorian calendar will give me the strength of character and unending resources necessary to actually keep them. Surprise, surprise-I resolved to get my finances in order the last four years running, and I still throw my bank statements in a drawer without opening them because they make me so damn sad. So that brings us to the end of my holiday season-crushing disillusionment and a growing hatred of both Santa and God, because once again neither of those white-bearded bastards came through for me.
I realize that all of this makes me sound like some weak willed, simpering moron with no self-esteem or real drive to take care of herself. And in some ways maybe I am. But when I really look hard at myself I know that I'm not. I'm a hell of a lot stronger than I look, and most of the time I know I'm capable of being one of those vibrant, effortlessly confident women who always seem to have it all together. I can take care of myself, and I have for the better part of nine years now. Not only that, I'm a SUPAMOM and I have, like, an automatic +6 to all my charisma rolls. BOO-YAH. But most of the time I really still feel like the awkward kid I always was, getting kicked around by the whole world and not knowing how to fix it. There's always that little voice in my head telling me that I'm socially inept and that my looks are mediocre at best. The only thing I have going for me, says Mean Inside Voice, is my brain, and I'm even wasting that. Really, the nasty bitch in my head chastises me, what have I done with that storehouse of genius I could have had? I'm 23 years old and still Planning to Maybe Someday Go to University, maybe even Considering Making Something of Myself. But a fat lot of good that does anyone now, right?
I don't know, maybe I'm just tired of it being so fucking hard all the time. I hate constantly feeling like I'm on a treadmill, and I hate doing it alone. I know I'll get past this feeling-I always do. And I know I'll somehow make my life work. But that somehow doesn't make me feel any better right now. So if anyone talks to Santa or God this year, could you ask them to throw me a fucking bone?