I have this friend – well, ex-friend really – from the “motherland” who recently went to LA to do Bikram yoga teacher training. Even before she got there, I knew how it would all turn out, and I wasn’t wrong. I knew that she would end up meeting some rich guy whom she’d end up moving in with, and who’d support her financially. This has always been her shtik.
This in itself is only vaguely nauseating, but I decided to end our friendship when I looked at her new guy’s profile on Facebook, and saw that he considered himself Republican. My friend’s choice of sexual partners, and their dubious political affiliations are really no business of mine, but it *is* my business when said friend declares herself a Marxist, goes on Socialist marches, and professes deep concern for others. For a long time, it has been clear to me that her only concern is for herself. I think she is a raging hypocrite, and a totally superficial fake. She makes me want to puke.
Nonetheless, there is part of me that is very jealous of her. In fact, I was quite green with envy when I saw the pictures she posted on her Facebook profile, swanning all over LA, and then Mexico, looking fabulous in great clothes.
The contrast between her life and mine is just too great, and it’s painful for me to see that. Although it’s disgusting and pathetic for me to have this thought, I also envy her ability to latch herself on to a rich man as a means to achieving her goals. I have never done that – could never have stomached it – but what makes me any better than her just because I haven’t?
There’s not a day that goes by where I don’t feel some kind of resentment towards my husband for us being so poor. I don’t want to be a kept woman but, in some primeval way, it disgusts me that he would never be able to support a family if I got pregnant. I am thirty-three fucking years old, for Christ’s sake!
I wouldn’t mind if there was an end in sight to this poverty, but there’s not. Our lives are boring and joyless because there is never enough money, and there’s certainly not enough money for going out. Oh, we do still go out because we get so frustrated being stuck at home, and my husband will usually pay. But I then have to hear a rant about how I take advantage of him, and expect him to be pay for all our nights-out. There is a lot of truth to that, and I know I don’t put my hand in my pocket as much as I should. But it would be nice to be married to somebody who could treat me every once in a while without guilt-tripping me afterwards.
Midwestern Man accuses me of not living within my means, and, again, he is probably right. However, what he fails to see is that there are no fucking means, so I have no choice but to live outside them. I suppose I should be glad of his frugal nature, but it seems more like a burden than anything. I feel that he devotes an inordinate amount of time on saving money and living within our “means” when it would behove him to think more about getting ourselves out of this financial mess we’re in.
He works 25-30 hours a week in a café so that he has more time to work on his art. His mother just gave him $1000 for an online art class. Huh! I’m sick of hearing him bitch how the number of pets I have are the reason for our poverty. Try working more than 25 hours a week, and then we’d maybe be less poor!
And, oh yeah, despite the fact that he finishes work by 1:30 p.m. and I don’t get home until 8:30 p.m. (after being gone since 8:30 a.m!), it was such a struggle to get him to cook dinner for me at night. It is a huge “inconvenience” for him to have to make dinner because he wants to work on his art.
What Midwestern Man really needs is a partner in her mid-twenties, somebody who lives like a pauper herself because she’s still a student; somebody whose ovaries have the time to wait for him to grow the fuck up.
What the fuck am I doing in this relationship? We don’t make each other happy. I want out.