MYSPACE

Okay, so I started a MySpace account. I started it originally to talk to an old friend of mine, and then all of a sudden I saw how everyone in the world has a MySpace account. So I tried to update mine a little bit. And although I like my blog right where it is, and don’t much care about the MySpace, it is fun as hell to flip through everyone’s accounts and see who their friends are. I only have 4 friends, but man, they’re nice friends I got. So I’ll keep it for now, see whatup, see if I can swing 1,000 friends like everyone else. Makes me feel kinda old though, for some reason.

But my headline fits for more than just wasting time at work sites. I’m battling with MYSPACE, and wondering where this immature 35 year old woman came from. (I am 35 right? Not 36? I’m actually not sure. 35. Yes.)

Somehow, in my learning growing up, or college, or after or somewhere, I have become incredibly possessive about MY things, or what I perceive to be MY things. And when I attach that title to something, it is almost impossible to make me able to share something that is MINE.

I grew up with three older brothers. Most of the things I got were mine. I didn’t have to battle to make sure things were mine, because my brothers didn’t want my stuffed cat named Pepper I threw a big fit for. They didn’t want my Duran Duran cassette tapes and they weren’t interested in my nerdy, drama club girlfriends.

So where did this need for things that are MINE come from? I lived alone for most of my adult life, so definitely everything was MINE then. Maybe that’s why? It’s not that I had to battle to keep things MINE, it’s because I didn’t have to. And now, living with someone who is generous with his things, I find it nearly impossible to share the things I consider to be mine.

The new laptop is a good example. Of course John hops right on to help me with it, install software, update my music, do nice things for me. And of course there’s part of him I believe, that wants to play with a new laptop. He is a computer guy after all. But man if my instinct is to not let him near it. It’s MINE, I bought it and it’s for me. It felt like fingernails on a chalkboard to see him with it. I practically had to go to the bathroom to scream out of frustration. What is this? How do I rid myself of it?

Am I hanging on to my independence? Is it selfish? Is it a protection device? Should I be ashamed of it? Or should I kinda hang on to it and appreciate the things that are mine and not “ours”. There’s nothing wrong with having a “mine” is there? Don’t you need a “mine” to have an “ours”?

I’m working on it.