Daily Archives: August 11, 2014

Fake Smiles

I heard Taylor Swift sing this song a few (6) years ago and was instantly drawn to the lyrics.  At first I thought about my son and some of the troubles he was going through, but a friend just reminded me today about the perception of a smile.  More to the point, a fake smile.

I posted a picture of myself and my husband over the weekend, and needless to say got a lot of “likes” on Facebook and Instagram.  The perceived notion that we were happy was evident.  I mean, we look happy in the picture, so we must be, right?

These days we can edit the shit out of our pictures, covering up our flaws and making an ordinary pictures look extraordinary.  I honestly tried to edit that last sentence, removing shit, but guess what?  There’s no other word I can put in there that means as much.  Sorry.

I’ve been guilty of editing my pictures to appear to be entirely different than they started out.  I’m one of those people who doesn’t believe they are very photogenic, so it takes me quite some time to play around with my pics, insuring that they have the right shadow, fade and coloring to do the impossible – make me look good.

My friend commented on the picture that I posted stating that she thought myself and my husband looked happy.  That was not the case.  We weren’t happy or unhappy.  We just were.  We are.  We exist. 

So how then is it possible to edit your life to appear happy?  Can you fake smile your way through life, making people actually believe that you’re something you’re not?  Apparently it IS possible. Who knew that I have a filter button on my life, and pressing that lil sucker in sends a message that is actually believable?  I’m guessing that my husband has that same filter button, and it’s still working after all these years. 

I remember an acquaintance of mine was at the same wedding as I, getting a drink at the bar when we struck up a conversation.  I had been having an argument with my husband earlier, and I guess it spilled into my evening/conversation with her.  She acted surprised as I spoke about splitting up, not being happy.  Her reply, “Really?  I thought you were like Barbie and Ken, perfect for each other”. 

Barbie and Ken?  Okay, she’s kind referring to our appearance a bit.  Myself with a slight 80’s hairstyle, never really letting it go completely, and my husband with his rugged good looks and pleasant demeanor.  But she was also speaking about our appearance of being perfectly in love, whenever she had seen us out. 

My mother used to tell me, “don’t show your ass in public”, and all that really means is that you don’t air your dirty laundry for other people to see.  Sorry mom, if you’re reading this, it’s mostly for perfect strangers to read, as I don’t make a habit of telling friends with about this blog. 

So I don’t show my broken heart in public.  I don’t let anyone see my pain.  Friends get to hear me complain, sure. 

It seems I’m tied together with a smile, but I’m coming undone. 


Walking on Broken Glass

I live my life through music, and when my day is a royal mess, inevitably I hear a song that pertains to that mess.  Honestly, I think I’m living one incredibly long movie, and every now and then my personal music supervisor (God) throws in a nice little tune that seems to go along with my life.

Such was the case yesterday.  I have this ability to forgive and hope for the best.  Especially when it comes to my husband.  I think this is my first post about my husband, but he’s a big reason I am the way I am.  He knows just how to push my buttons, mostly the bad buttons.  He knows how to pull at my heart-strings and put me in my place.  He knows my strengths and weaknesses and uses that to his advantage on a daily basis.  A long time ago, I made the mistake of filling him in on my weaknesses.  I felt vulnerable and thought it would be a good thing if he really knew me, heart and soul.  Years later, I’m finding this to be a huge impropriety.  A mistake that I live with on a daily basis.  I don’t blame him, mostly because I try to see the good in almost everyone, including him.  For the most part that’s a good trait, but when it comes to my husband, it’s a death sentence.  I tend to over exaggerate a little, but yesterday it was a death sentence.

My son is away on vacation and that leaves myself and my significantly fucked up “other” alone together.  Being the forgiving person that I am, I decide we should spend the day with each other.  First mistake.  To start off, my husband isn’t a conversationalist.  He prefers quiet to any kind of conversation.  Ever.  Being a mostly talkative woman, that’s a problem for me.  I actually like to chat with people.  I think I have a lot to bring to the conversation, and it’s fun engaging with another person.  I don’t think I’m alone in that idea.

I rush to get ready because we’re going to a Pittsburgh Pirates baseball game.  I’m excited as usual as it’s always a fun time.  But not this time.  We have very little conversation in the car on the way to the game, which is about a 45 minute drive.  He doesn’t like to converse and drive.  We find a parking spot and off we go.  I’m still excited because I don’t ever start out with doom and gloom.  I should, but I don’t.  We eat at the famous Primantis and I want my husband to have a beer.  He opts for an I.C. Light and I reluctantly give in.  I want the good stuff, aka Stella Artois or something similar, so I stop and grab myself a Blue Moon for the walk to our seats.  Good seats come with a good price….$140.00  Primanti’s sandwich, fries and Light beer, $28.00.  Yee hawwww, this is gonna be fun.


After eating and missing the only 2 runs scored the entire game, we make our way to our seats.  Sitting in the middle of the row is rather annoying, but we survive.  The game is decent and I’m lucky enough not to be sitting next to anyone smelly.  There’s a cute little girl sitting on her daddy’s lap behind me asking all kinds of silly questions with her tiny, petite voice.  In front of me is a young couple, chatting and laughing together as if they really love each other’s company.

As I look around the section, I see people coming and going, laughing, taking and eating.  It’s a fun atmosphere.

And then there’s me and Dave.  Blah.

We don’t talk.  I think he might have said more to the man sitting next to him than to me the whole entire game.  And believe me, that wasn’t much either.

I ask him if he’d like to go on a “pee run” and grab another beer.  Being in the middle of the row poses a problem for Dave and he’d rather wait 2.5 more innings to get up.  What’s the significance of that number?  I don’t know.  We finally leave our seats and venture up to the concession area, relieve ourselves and Dave announces he’d like an ice cream. Really?  Not a beer?  Nope.  I’m welcome to get one, but he’s not drinking one.  I cave and get an ice cream, but I’m not happy.  I would really prefer a cold citrus-flavored Blue Moon, but who wants to drink alone?

This is the story of my life.  I give in and do whatever my husband would like.  I’ve done it for years and years.  I’m not happy and he gets whatever he wants.  When I comment to him that I’m not happy, he never has the same reply back.  Who would?  If you get everything you want, generally you’re a happy person with a happy life.  I’m guessing of course, I wouldn’t know.

And so on the way home from the game, once again quiet as all hell, I decide to channel surf for a good song.  Yes, I know what you’re gonna say….”why do you still listen to the radio”?  I just do, okay?  I find a song I can sing to, cause I have to constantly be singing and seeing as there’s no conversation to be had, I might as well fill up that empty space with song.  What’s the song?  Annie Lennox, Walking on Broken Glass.  There’s a couple of lines that resonate with me like nobody’s business:  “I’m living in an empty room, with all the windows smashed”.  Think of the depth of those couple of words, because it describes my life to a “T”.  I feel like my life is empty, but not just empty, I’ve got some smashed windows as well.  Picture me walking around an empty room barefoot, wind coming in through the jagged panes of glass while my feet are scarred from the broken glass.

I listen to this song about 5 times yesterday and decide that I need to write about it.  Write about my dilemma, my empty life and what it feels like to walk on broken glass.