I’m a cracked UC Berkeley woman in STEM, so I never back away from a challenge, whether it’s gardening, crocheting, or explaining to a 6-foot child that I actually do have a brain and heart and not just a body. My favorite hobby, though, is pulling a full Love It or List It and fixing things up. I especially love my beautiful, dumpy man that showers once a week, just for me! I could talk about him for hours. Never mind his pending murder charge, or the six hundred models he follows on Instagram – everyone has flaws! He has a lot of great qualities, really— like his passion for football, or his support of his community—he loves sitting alone in the back row of children’s beauty pageants. And not to mention he’s super into advocacy; he tweets all his well-articulated thoughts on world politics from the toilet seat.
All I need to do is fix some parts of him, and then he’ll be fine! Unfortunately, he’s making it a little difficult. After all, he only texts back once every lunar eclipse unless I send him a “boobie.” And his idea of a deep conversation is ranking the Fast & Furious movies. And he refers to any evidence-based technique for treating my anxiety and depression as “a government psy-op.” But the grass is greener where you water it, and I have a full gallon of Fiji Water ready to go!
But somewhere between explaining the concept of basic human empathy to a man old enough to vote in major elections and own a home, and reminding him that wearing deodorant isn’t the “choice” that people are marching about, a thought dawned on me: Who’s going to fix me?
The two friends he lets me see have brought up that since he doesn’t let me go to therapy, I need to get fixed somehow. Too bad I don’t allow any negative thoughts to cross my mind, because if they did, I’d probably disintegrate from all the totally normal feelings I’m repressing. Although our relationship has had its ups and downs, I know I will be an amazing mom-replacement-trad-housewife-lifetime-fiancé when I grow up, because I’m a naturally forgiving person who knows how to control my emotions. I mean, the fourth time he cheated, I didn’t even flinch or get mad, I just went totally numb! If I had someone to fix me, I bet they would know what to do. But I’m not worried. If I just keep working hard, one day I will earn the bare minimum of affection and human respect I so desperately crave.