“You don’t understand the real world, Becky. It’s just things that happen around you while you sit by.”
—Captain Asshole, at age 21, my ex-boyfriend*
I have two tattoos.
The one we’ll talk about today is this one:
It’s a seahorse and it’s on my left foot and yes, it hurt like a mother-fucker, actually. It was a 25th birthday present to myself from, well, myself and it’s easily disguiseable under a pair of shoes which is why both of my tattoos are on my feet. They’re all disappearing and shit.
I got this one right before I got married to remind myself of something.
See, I met The Daver while I was going through my Seahorse Period. I was bobbing along, accepting that I was probably going to go out on my own, Ben and I against the world, and I was coming to terms with this.
23 year old guys aren’t exactly known for welcoming single mothers and their 2 year old sons into their lives with open arms, and besides, I figured, I never was the marrying sort anyway. So I focused my energies on going to school and to work and carving out a life for myself and my son.
Bobbing along.The two of us. Together. Benner and I. My Seahorse Period.
Then BAM! POW! SPLAT!
Suddenly two became three and we weren’t alone anymore and I learned to rely on having another person to help carry the burden. And while having someone else to rely on is exquisite, I wanted to make sure that I had a physical reminder on my person that no matter what, I could make it on my own again.
Part of crawling out of my shell again after being so dependent on Daver after my miserable pregnancies has been a process of relearning who I was before and part of that has been a realization that I’ve become too complacent.
I haven’t tried to learn the things that I consider The Daver’s Realm (and not just Prime Minister of Clogging Toilets) because I’ve made the faulty assumption that he’ll always be around. Problem is, I haven’t factored into the equation that of the 168 hours in a week, he spends probably over 100 of those working on any given week.
That means that the smoke detector I bought in March sat on our table to be installed for 6 months before I finally got him to do it. Why didn’t I do it myself?
I HAVE NO IDEA HOW TO WORK A DRILL.
Which, considering I didn’t properly learn to ride a bike until I was 12 and still walk into walls at 29 is probably a good thing. The less power tools, the better. Because I probably WOULD drill my eye out.
But at 29, there are a whole cadre of things I probably should know how to do that I don’t. Like change the bag to my Kirby vacuum. Or turn off the water to the hose for the winter. Or get into the attic (altho Aunt Becky + ladders is probably bad due to previously mentioned walking problems).
Maybe this is my year to take the world by the balls and make it my bitch. I see no time like the present to learn to drill shit into walls and wire the fuck out of, uh, light fixtures and *gestures around* take care of shit that needs to get done.
So wish me luck, The Internet, and any tips about how to Live Life and Get Stuff Done are appreciated. Apparently I was too busy playing Bejewewled on my phone when they covered this stuff in school. PROBABLY should have paid attention then.
*the ironies I could list are so extensive that let’s just say that this statement is so full of contradictions and bullshit that I’m surprised it didn’t self-destruct when he said it. WHATEVER THAT MEANS.