Of Mouse and Men

The last time I saw Dr. Melnick, the psychiatrist, I asked him to up my dosage of Pristiq. The only additional side-effect may be "delayed orgasm," he said.

"That's not an issue," I said offhandedly.

"Wait, why isn't that an issue?" my 34-year-old friend-like psychopharm asked. One of the many reasons I love him is that he's truly my peer and on top of that, your average, hetero male, with insight into the rest of the male species.

"Uh, there's nobody there."

"So? You need to start double clicking your mouse then."

My psychiatrist offering up a sexual scrip in the vernacular of Juno. Only me.

"Meh," I stated eloquently.

But my romantic tentacles are slithering around again, grasping for that which is just out of reach. And I am beginning to have those girly feelings again. That anticipatory, predatory mindset that is propelling me back to a baseline, singleton equilabrium. Translation: I'm beginning to feel womanly again and therefore in need of some manliness. Not just sex or a one-off, but something a little meatier. Finally the clothes are fitting almost normally again and despite my myriad self-induced physical insecurities, I find myself interested again. For worse and worse. Then as soon as I reach that point of relative normality in the sex and romance departments, I remember what lies beneath. At the moment—three layers of nursing pads; a Target sports bra stuffed with compression garments; a hefty, horizontal scar above my pubic bone. And just as I start to feel good again, flirted with, checked out, complimented, I remember. That not only do I have all the same bullshit baggage that everyone else has, but an additional set of Goyard that's been beat up on the conveyor belt from Miami to New York.

As if I'm not intimidating enough. So it's me, plus the added scare of what is actually underneath my not-so-chic undergarments. At first I think, 'no, they're cool with it,' 'they've seen this happening to me and they're still here,' and then reason brings me back. And I start with all the typical female insecurities except they're not typical anymore because I'm damaged goods and way beyond 'typical'. And then I just get depressed again, want to curl up into a fetal position and not eat again till I'm wasting away in my skinny jeans.

So I'm going to curl up in the fetal position and watch Wife Swap (and probably feel a little better as a result of watching people even more fucked-up than me).