Monday, July 29, 2013

Fucking Gumdrops

I’m guilty of it now too. That thing where you go: You’re  smart, attractive, 30ish and single – what’s wrong with you? It's a stupid 30 thing. And then you become increasingly suspect (and take him home anyway). 

Okay. So I said – perhaps not on here, but from the past few months of all the divorcĂ© crap - in my head and aloud to friends: I’m not going to be with anyone else until it’s a relationship. Whoops.

         Mmm.    [via]
But what happens when you’re like OMG I LOVE GUMDROPS! and then the Universe puts a nice big bowl of gumdrops directly in front of your face? Well, actually, he was directly behind my back. I didn’t even see him; GFC did. And as she pointed him out, it was obvious that when I turned around to stare at him that I had turned around to stare at him. …Twice. He was pretty. And the second awkward eye contact prompted me to say something - half (ultimately poor) wingmanning, half uhh I got caught so say something. So what else does one say in the middle of hour ten of drinking (after a day of tubing down a river) but exactly what one thinks: “You’re pretty,” I announced across the crowd.  And from there we went.

He introduced himself and I rejected his name and decided that calling him “Pretty” was better. I checked his ID to confirm said name, but really just wanted his age. After realizing he was adorable and 31, red flags and blaring whistles went off: 'If you’re single for real, then what’s wrong with you', is all I could think.

Does this mean that’s how the world views me too? This could be a problem.

I asked him if he had a wife and he declared that he was single, but had a dog. The dog seemed suspect: It was a little dog and 'don't couples get dogs and women get little dogs', I thought - clearly becoming more guilty of that stupid 30 thing. GFC got upset with him about something his friend said to Ginger (that wasn't his fault) and yet he continued to – what it seemed was – follow me around…with his piss warm beer. Which I thought was sweet of him; his determination, if you will. However, carting around a beer so warm that he'd had to have had it for hours (or be the Firestarter) seemed suspect, but perhaps I should have noted my first paragraph. (Or this.) Either way, I shelved my suspicions when he said he'd been drinking a lot earlier, grabbed another beer, and soon after, back to my place we went. 

Once there, I confessed that that we only met because my girlfriend pointed him out for having “pretty eyes” and I got caught in a stare. I think I offended him, but I clearly agreed with her because I gobbled up the pretty little gumdrops after a quick game of Trivial Pursuit. This might seem like a weird excuse or an innocent in to give guys as an odd little pick up like, “Want to come back to my place and play Trivial Pursuit,” but honestly, I really do want to play the game. It’s my favorite. Although he thought we were playing because I thought he was stupid and that was my Litmus test; which is actually sort of silly, if not endearing.

I don't recall thinking he was stupid, but he was pretty. And a Libra too. And from what I recall, he was into music. My music. Plus he thought my 170 pairs of shoes "isn't a lot". I found him to be charming and he wasn't offended by my odd sense of pick-on-you affectionate humor. In fact, he noted that girls who 'like' him are always really nice to him, but not me - so I'm just going to go ahead and assume he thought I was refreshing. He was tall with brown hair/blue eyes and a college degree: My trifecta in my age range. Holy shit, that never happens! How great, you’re thinking, right? She’s finally getting a good guy she deserves, right?! Nope. He lives five states away.

Fucking gumdrops, man.

In the morning – and by morning, I mean 9:50a after two hours of sleep – I awoke to him on the outside of the bed, hastily multitasking putting on boxers and fiddling with his phone. I groggily, through my blurry contacts and last night's make-up, looked at him and asked what time it was and what he was doing. He got back in bed. Again, in retrospect, this seems suspect, but perhaps he was trying to be a good friend and keep his plans  or simply putting on pants and checking his phone. Or, perhaps, he was, in fact, trying to escape undetected. If that was the case, then he failed, as we spent another 90 minutes together before he said he had to go, since he'd promised his friends they'd go to a museum before his flight.

At the time his friend came to pick him up, my roommates, plus one’s girlfriend, all emerged from their respective rooms to congregate in the living room. Perfect. Well, this was embarrassing. Not only did I look like I had been smacked with a wet trout, slapped around, and then color-arted on by toddlers, I also had Pretty in tow. And if that wasn’t enough, my hair – I would later discover – was one large knot of dreadlock in the back that took over 20 minutes to brush out.

You know, it's really quite unfair how men can wake up looking the same as the night before and women that haven't washed their faces look like the embodiment of a Stephen King novel. Men, I would personally like to take a moment to thank you for your oversight when it comes to this. Although, we women will later wonder what on Earth you were thinking when you found us appealing in such a state. But I digress.

With his friend waiting, we plotted our escape, which was compounded by the fact that his shoes were residing in the basement (it was quieter to Triv down there). After we heard the front door open and shut, we emerged. I thought we’d made it down both flights of stairs unnoticed, until I turned the corner into the kitchen - six steps from the basement - and ran into the new roommate; the one I now share a wall with. The hot mess I was giggled awkwardly, eeked out a "good morning" in reply, and continued on to the basement. Pretty was … actually I don’t know what the hell Pretty was doing and I had to go back upstairs to get him so that we could go out the basement door. As I walked him out the back door to avoid everyone in the front yard, he asked for my number. I gave it to him – as I had been wondering (and admittedly prodding a bit) all morning if he would ask for it and getting mildly frustrated that he hadn't yet - even if it was just a formality.


I opened the back gate, kissed him and sent him on his way. I watched him for a second as I walked back towards the house and he walked down the sidewalk, knowing full-well, slightly suspect, and full of grumbles that: 1. I'd likely never see him again...even though I'd like to, 2. DC men are not for me; like spotting expensive handbags, I seem to have a penchant for finding the out-of-towners and, 3. I’m tired of meeting out-of-towners. I want someone I can see again.

Seriously, can’t I have a gumdrop I can date? Come on, Universe: That adorable little candy dish is mean all the way on the top shelf. Why dangle a fruit that's too far away? This is getting pretty frustrating.

(See what I did there?)

Monday, July 15, 2013

The Great Dichotomy

Hope can be a nasty little bug; or the bittersweet epoxy that holds a soul together; a candle in a basement with no windows. Hope, like love can build us up; make us fly with false pretenses of what ‘could be’; like love, hope can constantly fill us with fantasy and yet, destroy us in an instant.

Hope and love are intertwined; the reason of every broken heart and beaming smile.

Hope is an endeared saint and enduring villain, whose passion and purpose we question on each adventure of lost love or unraveled optimism. To whom like a bully we can’t live without; that partner that hurt us deeply, but we go back to as our source of passion, purpose and feeling. Love, like hope, requires the time in between to forget how much it hurt – like a bad hangover that declares: I will never drink again.

I will never hope again. Yet we drink from the fountain of hope; in love, in life. We are masochists for feeling.

It’s hope that burns, that plays us. It’s hope that knocks us down and holds us up. It is the scoundrel prolonging despair and the hero that cradles our hearts. An untrustworthy opponent of self-preservation; hope remains the invisible glue that holds us together when we’ve fallen apart -- because of its own broken promises.

The great dichotomy, hope is. 

Wednesday, July 10, 2013

Lady in Waiting

Alternate Title: 'Stop lyin', ho!'

I was asked today by a guy that last year sent me a photo of his crotch at work: “What's it like to be complimented all the time and starred at? Good and bad? Mostly good?" Apparently he had spent the evening before looking at my Facebook and decided I am “quite the specimen”.

He had/has a girlfriend, by the way. Confessions of the unavailable...well that's about as useful as a divorcĂ©. Story of my life. (Not that I'd date a crotch-shotter.) 

I couldn’t decide if he was patronizing me or not. And after asking him if he was and having him decline, I added: “As for being ogled, it's useless. I’m still single.”

Okay. So fine, I decided I was ready to be in a relationship again – what – like two one month ago? But still, it’s that waiting period and that impatience and perhaps, more importantly, that sneaky little thing in the back of your head wondering if you will ever have the chance to fall in love again. "It takes the right guy," I said in reply to his questioning of if I'm willing.

He went on to say: "You seem pretty confident though".

"Is that a bad thing," I asked.

"Well with confidence you probably want perfect. And are a perfectionist. It's hard to accept flaws,” his analytic skills clearly leaving something to be desired. Because I delight in flaws and it is because I am far from perfection; in the same way I don't like to date men thinner than me. Besides, it's our flaws that make us interesting. What’s to talk about in perfection? But it made me wonder: What if this is how the world views me? A girl who puts on make-up and holds her head high and won’t settle for something less than she feels she deserves translates to: A person who finds it hard to accept flaws. 

I’m not that person at all. What if I’m 29 and all I’m left with are the guys that are looking at me thinking what he does; or even worse: That because I’m 29 and single that there’s something so broken that no one wants to be with me. These are the moments and the thoughts we're not suppose to admit we have. But there it is. And the funny thing is, it took all the time alone to put myself together and be happy and whole; admit my faults and flaws and realize perfection is a myth – not that I ever had any aspirations of achieving it.

The funny thing is: If the world sees me as he does, it's completely backwards. 

I've reached the point now where I'm okay admitting when life isn't perfect. No ones lives are perfect and facebook is just a front for everyone's best moments. Let's not get our own failures mixed up with browsing through everyone's successes. How can we elicit empathy and advice if we hide our truth. It's freeing to be open and essential to realize what people make public and what they keep private are typically polar opposites. I could skip my posts from happily single to falling in love again - and not admit this waiting period - but that would be dishonest and I think that kind of thing gives as much false hope as a facebook feed with a bunch of babies and no one talking about  miscarriages or infertility. It's bullshit.

So here I am. Honest Nelly. Time to discuss here, my period of wait, impatience and impending frustration. As I have already begun to discuss it with GFN: 
ME: sometimes i just want to say to ppl "remember how you broke up?"
"remember WHY you broke up?"
"okay now think about that."
just seems really one sidedly unhealthy.
its situations like that that make me appreciate that i'm single
i understand that relationships take work. but love shouldn't.

GRN: agree   
ME: even the tiny kid at work has a gf.
wtf. how much longer can i be single bf i begin to wonder what's wrong with me? 
GFN: nothings wrong with you. 
ME: well that's not the point. haha
GFN: this is just one of things you can't force or it will go badly. 
ME: oh. i'm not forcing anything.
which is why i'm thinking it will be long enough where i start to check my nose hairs at the bar. because it MUST be that. 
ME: i'm kind of excited for my blog to turn this corner: single lady in waiting. not single lady playing single. because nothing is more irritating than the people with the perfectly charmed (love) lives. 
GFN: true 
ME:"i turned around and poof! he was there and i knew it was forever"
GFN: no kidding  
ME: even if it appears that easy, it never is. stop lyin ho. cynicism amuses me sometimes.
GFN: me too. I just see a blog called, "Stop Lyin', Ho!"

I know it’s not that easy. And despite the cynicism, I shall try to hope. I round the corner into single lady in waiting. And I hope there’s a guy out there walking with his hands dipped shallow in his pockets waiting for the moment to meet me. That chance encounter at the deli; or in line at Starbucks; or on a plane to God knows where.  All the same years I took for me become whole, he took to find himself so he could skip over the lines of the sidewalk to be by my side; to find me when he was perfectly imperfect and I was prepared. (Although are we ever, really?)

Suddenly, I'm Ted Mosby.

For now, I say, skip a little faster, sir. But if so happens that I never fall in love with a person again, I have a Plan B. I've decided I'll fall in love with the planes to God knows where.