The Way to Live

At forty seven, self-examination ends up being a long, inescapable bath in a quagmire of self-pity and loathing. I sit at the coffee shop and the bar watching but not interacting with the fit, young, well-to-do and happy. Instead of offering respect, I am just holding back contempt and loathing, not for anything they have done, but rather for everything I have not. I see a mirthful couple, exchanging touches and smiles, laughing over conversation, wine and appetizers. I want to share in their joy, but the one I loved despises my very being, so I just have to look away and sip my Stella. A chair away at he bar, two friends are having pints and enjoying the hockey game. They seem to have no worries, and not in some veneer, plastic cover way. I take a bite of a yam fry, on a tab I cannot afford. My age old friend has not answered my phone and text invite. I just type in my blog this diatribe. Around the corner, two young ladies sip Malbec and converse about how well life is working out. “Mercy” is playing on the radio and I am praying for some. I know I am such an outsider. They would be scared if not repulsed by me. Worse, I know I would be doing them disservice as I am messed up. I am not divorced because I cannot afford the charges or lawyers. I am so far in debt, I work two jobs, while chasing a third, to pay bills and try to support my children. I am fat, ugly and old. I am not afraid, just ashamed. The worst part is not that I know my life is not the way to live. The worst part is knowing how to live and not having done so. I did not fall down. I was not knocked down. I did not start low or short handed. I just laid down. Out of arrogance. Out of cowardice. Out of indulgence. I laid down and let everybody down. I do not deserve sympathy. I accept the mess I have made. I just wish for my family and friends to not suffer at my hand or from my negligence. This blog is not a cry for help. It is just a repositioning.