I have a vice. Okay, I have a few.
1. Shoes. I really like shoes. I'm somewhere around 200 pairs, which, up until last year, I really didn't think was a lot. But honestly, estimate yours, then go to your closet and count them. I'll bet you had more than you thought. Also, growing up, my mom always had a ton of shoes and I never understood why or why women always talked about loving a pair of shoes. 'They're just shoes', thought 10 year old me. But as I am my mother's daughter,I grew up thinking copious amounts of shoes was normal and apparently puberty comes with a set of boobs and a need for more shoes. So there's that.
2. Alcohol. Because alcohol. Although I don't drink when I'm bored or when I'm sad. Or when I'm alone. (Pro tip: If you are texting with someone else who is also drinking then you're not alone.) I’m anxious by a combination of both nature and nurture and alcohol relieves anxiety and pot isn’t legal here yet and the few times I tried it I wasn’t all that impressed anyway. Also, 'real' drugs scare the shit out of me. Plus alcohol tells me to dance - and promises I do it well. So anyway, alcohol is my “drug” of choice and simply by definition counts as a vice. So there’s that one.
3. Reality television. More specifically, bad reality television; like Bravo TV Real Housewives of Anything Shahs of Sunset bad reality television. (See also: Maury Povich.) I’ve been watching it for years; I will watch it for years to come. I love it; I zone out; it’s my time to space and clear my head and think about nothing but other people’s problems and prospers.
So what’s my point, right?
Well, lately I find myself relating to the problems of the characters on these shows: the villain, the princess, the trouble-maker, the martyr and the interpersonal dynamics and a who said what and who’s fighting with who. Whose side do I want to take and what’s going on behind the scenes; what we the viewer are privy to as the real story. Because, you know, there are always three sides to a story: yours, mine, and the truth.
For years I’ve said – as I’m sure we all have – my life should be filmed. Anything’s interesting when it’s edited into all the parts where you fall flat on your face or heal a broken heart. These are the universally relate-able things. But lately I can relate to all of the gossip; the mud-slinging; the talking behind backs. Us with the reality vice watch and think: These people are morons, why do they even bother with any of this?
And then we realize: Well duh, they’re being paid.
So then I think: Why do I even bother? I'm not being paid. There is no fulfillment in my drama-filled interpersonal dynamics now and I refuse to be cast as the martyr for free just because some guy with a hero complex I mistook as a friend villain-ized me because what he'd heard. I'm not okay with it still; I'm still hurting and there's no fixing it. So I’m walking away. I’m moving away - and with no "going-away" party. (I heard the rumors of a 'should we?' You shouldn't.) That would be like celebrating a war over the grave of casualties. Too many hearts were broken in this battle forged by the sword of one misguided hero's words. Sometimes you just need to keep marching forward, leaving those that have fallen; taking with you only what you've learned (and the few you trust beside you in the next battle).
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