No, not that movie with Mark Wahlberg playing the incredibly hot psycho opposite Reese Witherspoon and Gil Grissom. Shit, remember that roller coaster scene? OH MY GOD it set my little adolescent hormones all a flutter when I first watched it. Yeah, this is not about that.
One day, I’m going to die.
Maybe it’ll be a car accident, or a stray bullet, or a aneurysm, or maybe I’ll just get old and fade away. That’s fine, I guess. I’ve never been one to fear much of anything, not even death. It’s never even made me intensely uncomfortable in the way that the ocean at night does, or roaches and bridges do. There is something as enticing as it is frightening about the void, the unknown. It’s hard to think about one day…not existing. About how there will be lives lived after I’m no longer here, about the descendants I may have that I will never meet. Contemplating your own mortality can be a pretty tough thing to do, but I’ve done it. After you get past the whole, you know, dying thing, it’s not so bad. It’s actually a pretty fascinating bit of introspection.
Anyway, one day I’ll be dead and there is no way to know what happens after that. My common sense tells me that nothing happens. That I am just no more, that I am as unaware of life – of what living means – as I was before conception. My ashes will scatter somewhere, or maybe sit on a shelf in the living room of one of my daughters that can’t let me go. Maybe someone will roll me into a blunt and smoke me like The Outlawz did 2Pac. Whatever happens, I’ll not know, because I won’t be. Yes, that’s what my logical thoughts lead me to believe.
Yet, I am afraid of going to hell. Yes, I am an Atheist: I do not believe in hell. However, I am also Agnostic: I do not know if there is a hell. What if there is?
Christianity planted a silent seed in my mind when I was a child: that if you don’t do what you’re told you will displease the most important and only omnipotent authority figure in your life and He will burn you to death as punishment for your transgressions. After, of course, you stand in front of Him and He reads from His book to you exactly what those sins are, and even though you beg for mercy and another chance, He will cast you back down to Earth and rain fire down on you, and you will try to hide but there will be no where to go, no escape. You will burn with the rest of the wicked, with sociopaths and unrepentant psychos – with Lucifer himself – because all sins are equal, and so is the punishment.
As preposterous as that all might be to me – it. is. terrifying. – and that why I’m so against introducing religion to my daughters at a young age. Here I am: almost 26 years old and because of my upbringing, the only thing in the world that I fear is something I don’t even believe in.
I wasn’t raised by my mother. She turned legal guardianship of me over to my grandparents when I was two years old, and they had been raising me long before that. For all of my childhood and most of my adolescence she lived thousands of miles from me and I called her by her first name. She never called to speak to me, she rarely visited, and gifts were few and far in between. She wrote me a letter once, when I was eleven, after my grandmother had told her I’d been getting in trouble at school. I read it up until the line that said “You will not be 12 years old forever…” then I immediately crumpled it up and threw it away, thinking she doesn’t even know how old I am.
Today, she has this habit of telling me how I was when I was a little girl.
We talk about potty training and she reminisces about how I was potty trained quickly and never had an accident. I wet the bed until I was about ten years old. She goes on and on about how my brother was behaviorally difficult from the time he entered preschool but I never was that way. I was kicked out of preschool for being such a terror. She talks to me about discussions she had with me, lessons she taught me, and none of it happened. The only memories I have of her from when I was a child are of her fighting my brother’s father and the time she came to North Carolina to visit with a bunch of our family and acted like she wanted nothing to do with me.
I don’t argue with her, I usually just nod or stare incredulously at her. I wonder if she has really convinced herself that these things actually happened. I wonder if all parents do this, if they claim memories that don’t really exist. On more than one occasion I’ve wanted to say “um, I think you are confused. I can count how many times I saw you when I was growing up on one hand.” but I don’t. I ignore it, or I talk to my grandparents and they shake their heads and mutter things like “delusional” and “crazy” and “off her rocker“. I think the three of us find it more amusing than anything else.
I asked her once, when I was a teenager, about her giving me up but keeping my younger brother and sister. She spouted off some nonsense like “you wanted to live with them, I asked you and you told me and they poisoned your mind against me“. She’ll never admit anything that would make her look like anything but a victim, and I had a wonderful childhood – much better than the one she could or would have given me – so what purpose would dredging up the past serve? I leave it be. That dog’s not just sleeping – it’s dead.
I’m grateful that unlike my mother, when my children are older, I won’t have to make up any stories about them. I’ll have real ones.
*It should be “let sleeping dogs lay” shouldn’t it?
I’m the most indecisive person I know. I used to consider it a blaring sign of immaturity but as time goes on and as I grow older I realize that it’s probably just who I am as a person and has little to do with maturity. I hate it and I’m continuously frustrating myself (and others). It affects relationships, jobs, parenting and just life in general. I talked a little bit about it here (see #2). María = walking contradiction.
I think my best friend is really the only person that totally gets it. She supports me in all of my wishy washiness, and is never least bit surprised when I contradict myself. She tells me – well, everyone tells me – that I overthink everything. I will talk her ear off about all of the possible things that could go wrong or right with various decisions. I will talk myself into and out of something every fifteen minutes. When she suggests a new alternative, I’ll delve into all those potential outcomes as well. I infuriate her, I’m sure, but she just laughs: there’s not much else the poor woman can do. I’m an overthinker.
To an unimaginable degree. That’s where the indecision comes from: I analyze every single detail of every single thing. I can’t help it, but I have no idea where it comes from. It’s always been a part of who I am. My grandmother used to pick my clothes out for me every day because I could never decide and she shopped for me up until my teenage years because I was impossible. In school I’d stand in the back of the lunch line every day because I couldn’t decide which of the two crappy choices were best.
Today, I refuse to decide on restaurants. I’ll help narrow it down but usually I can’t handle it. Too much pressure! I take forever with menus, ask whoever is eating with me what they’re getting and what I should get and usually always quietly regret the meal I chose. Clothes are easier now, since I just usually wear t-shirts and jeans.
I see so many movies because unlike some that can choose what to be excited about seeing, I have to see everything! Every movie coming out looks like something I want to see, so I do. I have an expansive music collection and my favorite artist changes every other week. I’m currently reading three different books. All at once, because I couldn’t decide which one to read first.
Joey, geeze, as often as I’ve said and written that he’s absolutely perfect, and how much I love him, and how great our relationship is, it’s been extremely difficult for me to just be in this. I’ve always been clear that it’s totally me and my inner workings being wonky, and has very little do with him. That particular aspect of my indecision is not really so hard for me to figure out: I was in a really bad relationship for a long time, but there was a point that I was happy in it. I won’t do it again and because I’m so adamant about that whenever I’m not feeling wonderful, enter the self doubting and…yeah.
In December 2004 J. tried to get me to have another baby. I refused. I had every reason in the world why we shouldn’t do it, and convinced him that I was right. We conceived Rosario about a month later. I decided to have a tubal ligation after she was born simply because I knew that if I didn’t do it, I wouldn’t hold fast to my decision of stopping at two children. Now I have baby fever something crazy and I’m considering having it reversed.
That little short story blog meme thing I wrote a while ago was called “Indecisive”. My hair has been blonde, red, short, long, curly, straight, and right now I have an undercut. My septum piercing is the longest visible piercing I’ve ever had – and I’ve had over a dozen, not counting my ears. I’m stretching my ears for the second time. I’m redecorating the girls’ room but it’s taking forever because I can’t decide on the dresser I want, or wall color for sure. I used to be vegetarian and I contemplate going back to it at least once per week. My content of my Tumblr is drastically different from what it was in the beginning, or even a year ago. The content of this blog as well, now that I think about it – or at least the way I present it. I used to love me some Joaquin Phoenix and Jonathan Rhys-Meyers. They’ve been replaced by Ryan Gosling and Jake Gyllenhaal. And Benny Feilhaber is gunning for Jake’s place right now. That bad habit of mine – procrastination? It’s because I don’t like making decisions.
Of course I am steadfast in some things, like my beliefs and morals and what not. And my favorite Beatle (Paul). I’d like to say it balances out but it doesn’t. I am impossible, but let’s just say that’s part of my charm.
My life is never uninteresting, no matter how boring it is. I see to that.
That’s me (my hair is so shiny!)! Talking about my worst habit, which is procrastinating. I’ve got a crap load more, of course, but just settle for that. Currently, I’m avoiding picking out my fall semester classes, cleaning my bathroom and doing laundry because the dryer is on the fritz and I have to go the laundromat to dry. I meant to do all of these things on Monday. Yes, it’s Friday. I’ll get to it.
Eventually.
Last weekend Joey & I took the girls to see Toy Story 3: 3D at the IMAX theater. He and I loved it just as much if not more than the girls did. I swear, some scenes just ripped my heart from behind my breasts. I had no idea I was attached to those toys. The movie was amazing – really amazing. If you didn’t think so I really don’t think you and I can be friends. Did you see it? What’d you think? At the theater every woman I saw either was clutching or pushing a baby, or massively pregnant. My ovaries were aching by the end of the day. I want another baby!
My daughters are hugging right now. This may not seem like a big deal, but as much as they love each other and as well as they usually get along, this is incredibly rare. Rosario is very selective with who gets her physical affection and when. I’m the only person in existence that gets it without reserve – every one else is lucky to get a hug once in a while. Mama’s girl, yes.
The iOS4 update messed up my iPhone. It’s running incredibly slow, the apps keep crashing and because the update itself screwed up, it deleted all of my contacts and information. Bleargh. It doesn’t matter really, being as I’m getting the iPhone4 as soon as the white one is released, but it’s still irritating. Speaking of white iPhones and things that are irritating – it is such crap that the white model won’t be released for another 3-4 weeks. I’m impatient! But, also stubborn and will not settle for the black one.
Today’s the one year anniversary of Michael Jackon’s untimely death. I can’t believe it’s been that long. In remembrance, here’s my favorite song from him:
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Justin Bieber. Jaden Smith. Two names you probably know, two names that some of you have either rolled your eyes at or spat vile about after hearing/reading. Hello, my name is María Young and I want to learn more about your thought process.
Now, I don’t really like children. You may know that, if you’ve been reading this blog for a while, or if you know me personally. They are annoying. And loud. And sticky. And tacky. There are many reasons to not like children. I like my own, and I like a few others* but really: no. Some kids are awesome and some aren’t, just like some children are ugly and some aren’t – no matter what is politically or socially correct, that’s just true. Hey, don’t shoot the messenger. Hats off to teachers and child care providers because GOD KNOWS. That being said, you won’t hear me calling a kid ‘fetus’ or ‘asshole’ or anything of the like. I mean I might say that kid is acting like an asshole, but even that totally under my breath to my best friend or something, in private. They’re just kids.
Justin Bieber is just a child. As is Jaden Smith. I would understand if they’d actually done something wrong or offensive in some way besides being popular, like, say, Miley Cyrus – I’ve argued before that her parents are at fault for her slutting it up for adolescent audiences and I can see why she would turn someone’s stomach. She’s innappropriate on a bunch of different levels. Justin and Jaden are not. They are children who are living out their dreams and it’s sad to me that adults are doing their damnedest to tear them down.
How would you feel if Justin was your child? Your little boy, your son that had spent his entire life singing and playing instruments, who’d always dreamed of making music for a living, who caught a lucky break? How would you feel if your young son was then was hit by the some of the harshest backlash in recent times by people damn near twice his age? What about Jaden – if he didn’t do anything but share your name and your charisma but people felt like he was a product of nepotism and privilege, and used that to discredit his actual talent and attack him by slinging insults about everything from his hair to his ears. Would you think these things were okay, or would you be wondering what the hell could make an adult feel the need or desire to hurt a child just because they don’t care for his music or his acting or his attitude or whatever?
I just don’t understand. I want to know what makes adults talk shit about children. I want to know why being a “celebrity” seems to give the public a get out of jail free card for bashing little kids. Tell me, please.
I think Justin Bieber is an adorable, age appropriate teen idol for young girls. Even if he has been groomed and manufactured by the industry, even if he has a “swagger coach”. Don’t like his music – fine. Don’t listen to it. Jaden Smith seems like a kid with a mind of his own. Take his appearance on Letterman: I didn’t see insolent, I saw independent minded. Don’t like his acting or the fact that they remade The Karate Kid or the fact that he’s not all “yes sir/ yes ma’am”? Don’t see his films. I think that’s a pretty simple solution.
(For the record, I don’t care for Justin Bieber so I pretend he doesn’t exist – it’s really not that hard, no matter what the trending topics on Twitter are.)
