OK. I'm on the path to becoming a personal coach. And, I'm trying to get all deep with my spirituality. And, I'm on a mission around this whole co-parenting thing. So, I get that I am not a victim. I preach that we are not victims...none of us...
But, sometimes, dammit, just like every other human I know, I just want to wallow in it for a little while. Is that so terrible? I don't think so. So, I've decided, at least until I reach a higher-self-Zen-master-Eckhardt Tolle-esque level of being, I'm going to go on a victim binge in just one post per month. I'll bring it back to my spiritual insights and the reasons I'm really not a victim in some subsequent post, but on this one day...I binge! Here goes...
I sweat like my father. (Thanks, Daddy!) Now, it's not all the time...only under circumstances ripe for embarrassment. That's the first way I'm a victim...of my genes. I blame my father, and if his genealogical research shows that this has been passed down for generations, I will shamelessly blame them, too. And, when I decide to wear heavy jeans to my son's soccer game on a hot Georgia August day...in September...my sweat glands get happy. So, cute, though I am, the fact is, some people think that looking like you've been playing the soccer game when you've actually only been sitting comfortably on the sidelines backseat coaching is damn nasty. But, that's not today's vent.
Today's vent, of course, is about my son's father. Now, I promised him that I would not use this blog to bash him. But, I also told him that I was going to speak my truth, and that I would speak the truth about him from my perspective. He just needed to make sure that he was doing everything he could to influence that perspective to the positive. Well, not today!
Here comes the victimization part...When he sees what I am clear is not a pretty sight--me sweathing like I just did a twelve-hour salsa marathon--he wants to start oh-my-goshing about it, acting shocked, disgusted and entertained as though this was something new. Now, that's fine. That's kind of how we roll. We have this strange brother-sisterish you-get-on-my-nerves-sometimes-but-we're-still-family kind of theme in our co-parenting relationship. But, when it's 115 degrees outside, and I have played Webkinz at 8am, bathed our child at 9am, packed his clothes for the weekend at 9:30am, called you to remind you that the game starts at 1:30 at 10am, gone to the library and checked out six books on astronauts at 11am, dined at Stevie B's pizza at noon, called you to remind you again that the game is at 1:30pm at 1pm, had him at the field at 1:15pm, called you to see where you are at 1:30pm...
...and you still miss the game! (Granted, you're there for all the others, but today, I'm venting.)
Uh-uh! You are not allowed to talk about how I shouldn't be sweating like a big girl and then ask to use my fax machine and talk about how I withhold the the good clothes when I send him to your place. I don't deserve that kind of treatment. That is just unfair. Seriously, though, I'm not really angry, and it was pretty funny. But, still, do you see how I'm the victim here? Can you empathize?
Oh, and can you also do me this favor: Don't share the whole profuse sweating thing with any man you were thinking about hooking me up with. I prefer to maintain the illusion of perfection until I have wowed them with my wit and seduced them with my intellect. Thanks!
