There’s a part of me that wants to go all-out feminist rant between some of the coverage of the swimmers this year.
Along the lines of what I would pay to see the media say:
“And think of all the credit that should go to Michael Phelp’s Fiancee – giving birth and supporting him through his Olympic training! She has totally made his medal count increase possible! With a 3-month-old!”
Coverage of Hosszou’s husband from Hungary getting almost complete credit for his wife’s individual achievements in the pool. They show video of him during each of her achievements.
All Phelp’s fiancee gets are…actually – she gets nothing. It’s all about how adorable his son is or whatever his son’s facial expressions or reactions are. That’s complete BULLSHIT. Not to poo on Michael Phelps – an amazing swimmer, but it fucking takes a village to make an Olympian. And the fact that he has a three-month-old son is not nearly so prescient of an issue as fellow Olympian Dana Volmer gets an entire 10-minute media piece on how far she’s come 15 months after giving birth. WTH! Yes. Being an Olympian 15 months after birth is a hell of an accomplishment. But there are no jokes or asides about how tired Michael Phelps must be or how much more of an accomplishment it is for him to earn medals three months after his partner gave birth.
The village gets credit for the female athletes (so long as they’re generally male or there’s some major life obstacle they’ve overcome), while the male gets the “more honorable” individual achievement credit and the village gets thrown aside completely, or demeaned for the male athletes.
That, along with the wide, sexist media coverage of the Tongan flag-bearer during the Olympic opening ceremonies, and I’m just completely disillusioned about this entire series of events.
I know the media spins these things, and the way they’re doing it (I guess, just NBC – with hideous rights agreements), so clearly demonstrating their obnoxiously obvious, sexist bias (at least in America) is really pissing me off this year. And making sexist objects out of men (the Tongan athlete) is just as demeaning as the uneven coverage of the female athletes. There has to be a balance somewhere.
As it stands, though, the American coverage of these Olympic games is pissing me off.
Years from now, when I retire, I want to dye my hair fuchsia because I can and will no longer have to live up to imagery ideals.
That is all.
When it gets right down to the actual day, Christmas rubs me entirely the wrong way.
It’s that point on Christmas Eve where my cynicism and pessimism and selfishness fully sets in and I set myself up to get nothing, to expect nothing and to get extremely pissy about the commercialism of this holiday season. I’m exhausted and the setting out of presents for everyone else actually tends to piss me off. I set myself up to get supremely shafted, gift-wise. I don’t know why. And when anyone tries to structure things like gift placement under the tree? I snap. Who cares whether Santa gifts are out front? The kids don’t really care who it’s from. They just want the shit inside.
I fucking need sleep.
How do you calm down or re-set or function when you’re so stressed and sick that you feel like throwing up? I have so many things to get done in the next week and I feel like I’m about to lose my mind.
But I can’t lose my mind. I need to keep it. It will get better.
One of the upsides to finding a new job is that I will never have to deal with one particular asshole or his shoddy, lazy work ever again. I understand there will be other assholes and other people who have shitty work ethics and lazy work products, but hopefully never again in such a misogynistic combination of smug awfulness that is the person I am talking about.
The worst part of job hunting is the waiting. Waiting on announcements to close. Waiting on updates. I try not to think or worry about my resume, how it stacks up against others, the small typo I found today that is appearing in most of my submitted resumes, whether or not my documentation is squared away. You can completely get lost and go mad down that rabbit hole.
I think the biggest thing of which I need to remind myself is that even if I drop out of the rat race entirely, life will go on, we will still be financially solvent, and everything will be fine, and everything will likely change within the next year, anyway, so I just need to go with the flow, let things play out how they will and make the best decisions I can with the information and time I have.
At least I don’t have nearly a half-dozen business trips to work around moving to a new state within three months this year. That was about seven times more stressful than this. I should remember that.
On the good nights, I get 1-2 hours of “me” time before I need to hit the sack. I tend to have at least one glass of wine during these times. Towards the end of the first glass, I always arrive at the debate of having two. But I should stop. And get rest. Rest is better for me than alcohol. Alcohol seems like the easiest way to let go of my daily stresses. And I have so many stresses to forget about. But for tonight, I think the need for sleep will win.
I find myself constantly fighting the feelings of being alone, lonely, forgotten and ignored when my husband is gone for extended periods. I battle doubt. I second guess. I reason myself out of thinking that nobody really cares about me or how I’m doing even when no one calls except my mom and brother. No one reaches out to me. I find myself actively left out of events and notices. Unless I initiate, my social life goes to shit.
The recent blow I received from my office and upper management certainly does not help. I need to remember that no one in that office cares about me at all or has any sense of decency or humanity. That, or they’re too ashamed of being heartless to contact me for anything (although I think that’s less true than the first possibility).
I’m too damn strong for my own good. No one realizes that every once in a while, I need to be weak. But I can’t be weak. Not until next summer. There are no breaks for me. I will be shown no mercy. Not from friends. Not from family. And least of all from my employer.
This may be why I tend to get more religious during these stretches. My only friend that has the best chance of reaching out to me is an invisible God and my beliefs that good things that happen aren’t just happy coincidences.
I go to bury myself into motherhood again – it helps me to not think or care about my own well-being past trying my best to be a decent mom.