Crossroads

I'm sorry to keep harping on the same thing, but its kind of what keeps floating to the surface of my consciousness.

I feel bad that I treat this blog like a personal (ahem) diary, which means I'm only moved to write when I'm feeling sorry for myself.

I promise: more cheerful posts on Twilight, The Muppets, my love for comedy, the hilarious cat, my great friends etc. etc. ad nauseam to come in the future.

But now, I don't know what to do.

I'm at a crossroads.

I've been doing this whole "I'm just fine" thing for a while now, and I'm worried I can't do it anymore.

I'm not.

I'm not *fine*.

and I'm upset about it.

And I wish it wasn't. I'm sorry I have this desire, this urge. I DO want a husband and a family and all of that. I wish I didn't, but its how it is. And I feel like I'm supposed to hide that or apologize for it to any guy today who I may stand a chance with; so as not to scare anyone away. When did this happen? Women are the gatekeepers to the perpetuation of LIFE for chrissake. Why do we have to mask this miracle in spanks and budlights, false smiles and forced laughs?

I wish I didn't give a shit. I assure you, it would be easier.

But I do care.

and I have a choice- I can go one of two ways.

Give in to my despair. Let myself get angry about my situation. Feel sorry for myself. Have more nights in of crying and white wine in the bubble bath. Rant and rave and fight against my circumstances. Cut out the self-deprecating "crazy cat lady" jokes because they're suddenly too close to home. Rage.

Or

The one I'm even more afraid of. Accept. Consider the very real possibility that I will never find anyone. I have this niggling fear that this is the best path. Perhaps I'm built the way I am because I can survive on my own. I'm an only child, and I get a lot of satisfaction out of my friends and my cat and my comedy. My life is still a C+ without any romantic interest in it. Maybe I'm programmed this way because it is a survival skill I'll need.

My friends always tell me "you WILL find someone," and I can't help but doubt them. No one can say that with certainty. See, I believe that every last person deserves a someone, but it just doesn't always happen. I'm so scared of being that statistical anomaly of the 65 year old single lady.

Not even an Aunt because I don't have any siblings.

And this thought gives me the cold sweats. This isn't some sort of pressure concern that I won't have someone's hand to hold at midnight on New Year's Eve. Not a petty complaint about lack of physical fulfillment. This is a bone-crushing, heart-breaking, gut-wrenching terror that when I'm old, I won't have anyone to call if I'm sick. I'm scared that I'll have to travel the world, and never have someone else to stand in pictures with me. I'll have to buy all of my own Christmas ornaments. No one will ever let me promise to take care of them.

And I don't know which is more scary: having or not having the strength to withstand; get by.

And perhaps this complacent wondering while I wait to decide which way to go is the worst part of all.