 Animal rescue gets a ton of publicity these days, as well it should. I enthusiastically support any agency that saves dogs, cats and other domesticated animals from abuse suffered at the hands of sick fucks like Michael Vick. I also support harsh penalties for said fucks. But that’s not what I want to talk about today.
See, the thing about so-called animal rescue is that the humans who adopt these sweet creatures are often the ones who end up getting rescued. At least, that’s the gospel according to Amy. Dogs don’t have to be official therapy animals to provide therapy. Just sayin’.
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 At 11:20 a.m. on May 22, 1995, I gave birth to a 5 pound, 10 ounce baby boy named Ethan Blake Higgs. I was 22 years old. When the nurses put the tiny bundle in my arms, the first thing out of my mouth was, “What do I do now?”
Clueless does not even begin to cover it. This week, Ethan will turn 19, the same age his father was when I met him. Which means that, if he finds a girl as naive as I was and knocks her up, I could legitimately become a grandmother at any time. Holy shit. Pass the Tylenol.  I’ve written with fondness about my childhood several times in this space. I am so grateful for the wonderful life my parents provided for me and my younger brother growing up. It certainly wasn’t perfect, but there was far more good than bad.
I had a chance to celebrate both of my parents this weekend, with my Daddy’s birthday on Saturday and Mother’s Day on Sunday. They are divorced, but still friendly, and I have a close relationship with each of them. They have given me many gifts over the years, and continue to do so all the time. (Not just financial, although there were plenty of those, too. Being a single mom would have been MUCH tougher without their help in that department, l'm here to tell you.) Yep, Mother and Daddy have given me innumerable gifts of affection, support, understanding and wisdom, all of which I will never be able to pay back. I love 'em both to pieces, and this weekend’s festivities got me to thinking about what aspects of my own personality I’ve inherited from them.  So I joined an online dating service a couple of months back at the urging of a friend who met her boyfriend there. It’s one that requires a paid subscription, which I hoped meant the quality of people on it was a little higher than say, WannaHookup.com.
Unfortunately, that has not proven to be entirely true for me. Early on, I was subjected to guys WAY out of my age range (either 25 or 65), who said only, “Let’s kick it” or “What’s up?” Until I figured out the filters, anyway. I participated in online dating many years ago, when it was still relatively new, and I was not impressed. The men I met did not look like their profile pictures, or they weren’t really single and just wanted some action on the side. Why I thought it would be different today, I don’t know. In two months on the site, I have ignored about 95 percent of the e-mails, winks and favorites I’ve received. In the first week, I felt so inundated and overwhelmed by the sheer number of messages that rolled in, I underwent a complete mental shutdown.  I was chatting with a girlfriend this weekend about the abrupt end to her most recent relationship. We are both in our 40s, better than average looking and college educated.
We take care of our bodies, nourish our minds and souls on a regular basis and try like hell to be good people. Yet we both end up dating the same guy in a slightly different package over and over. It never ends well for either of us, and we are damn sick of it. We both lamented that all the therapy and self-help work we have done does not seem to be netting any new results for either of us in the relationship department, and we wondered out loud why we neither one can seem to figure this shit out. This led me to ask the question, “How do you make yourself change the type of person you find attractive?” Reprogramming myself on the intellectual level has clearly not been enough to override my instinctive physical response to the men I meet. See, for me, there has to be some kind of chemical reaction when I first lay eyes on a man for me to be interested in pursuing him. If I do not feel that magnetic pull at first, it will never be there. Chemistry does not grow on me.  She’s gone. Outta here. Bounced. Left the building.
My girl, Rebecca, one of the closest friends I’ve ever had in my lifetime, packed up this weekend and moved eight hours away. Oh, and the bitch had the nerve to go NORTH. I mean, if she was going to leave me, the least she could’ve done is put down roots somewhere warm. Shit. I’m kidding. Mostly. Of course, I realize Rebecca did not leave ME. I am not nearly that egotistical or selfish. And I also know that her move to Madison, Wis., is going to be tremendous for her. She’s starting a kickass job and pursuing a romantic relationship with a stellar dude. The logical, gracious side of me is genuinely happy for her. But on a visceral, emotional level, I had to fight the intense urge to grab onto her ankles like a cranky toddler and MAKE. HER. STAY. |
About Amy HiggsA former newspaper columnist, Amy takes her random, slice-of-life stories to the web. After 12 years, she's still just saying. Archives
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