When I was growing up, there weren't any kids on my street my own age. Retirees, sure. And the occasional young married couple renting from one of the retirees. But kids my age were a rarity. That's why my heart pounded with excitement when the phone rang one lazy July afternoon. It was our elderly neighbor across the street. Our family knew her pretty well; I of course didn't like that she gave out raisins on Halloween but was willing to overlook that fact today. She asked my folks if I could come over and play with her granddaughter Jen for a few hours. Jen was visiting from out of town and started to get a little bored being all alone at her Grandma's. Understanding this boredom completely, I ventured across Judistine Drive and knocked on the door. A tall woman answered. Hesitantly, I said, "Hi, I'm here to play with Jenn?" The woman smirked. "I am Jen." Oh crap.
I'm 10, and this girl with burgundy (dyed!) hair and a crop top was 14 or 15. An adult from where I was standing. Why would she want to hang out with a dorky little kid like me? As it turns out, boredom made her less choosy about her friends and we hung out in the shady backyard all afternoon. She was five years older than me, and in high school! She wore makeup every day and had a locker! She'd been to real dates and dances! I was fascinated by her. We read YM and Seventeen magazine. She put a Tupac tape in her Walk Man and let me listen to a few songs. She was my new hero.
In December, she visited for a few days over Christmas break. Then we shared some candy on Easter and Jen told me about her first drinking experience. I sat in awe of her story, which started with someone's Mom being out of town and someone else's older brother buying them a case of beer. Beer was gross she said, but she learned to like the bubbly, happy feeling it gave her so she was willing to try it again. She also let her boyfriend up her shirt, but she was sober enough not to let him in her pants. These stories thrilled and frightened me, and I was desperate to hear more. But, Jen's folks were getting ready to head back home, so I had to go.
By the time I saw Jen again, I was a freshman in high school and she was in college. College! As giddy as I was by this development, I was even more giddy at the thought of finally impressing Jen. I thought I knew a thing or two, and was ready to show Jen how grown up I was. I put on my favorite Bongo jeans and Gap t-shirt. Some eyeliner and body spray. I thought I looked cool, and she would be impressed by how much I'd grown. Jen greeted me with a big hug, said she liked my hair, and began telling me about college. The parties, the dorms, and the guys. Again, I was reduced to wide-eyed wonderment. Try as I might, I couldn't play it cool in the midst of her new experiences. After a few minutes, she asked how everything was going for me. Did I like high school? What activities did I do? What were my friends like? I told her school was OK, I was playing volleyball and in the drama program and that my friends were few, but I was meeting more people all the time. Jen asked if I had a boyfriend, I told her no but there was a guy I sort of liked. Then I began to gush on about my best friend, how she had met this guy at lunch, and he was a sophomore and he really liked her! They had been going out for almost a whole month. He was on the wrestling team and was so handsome! They talked on the phone almost every night, ate lunch together, wrote notes, the works. He was smitten with her and she totally knew they were gonna get married.
I finished my story breathlessly, expecting Jen to be impressed that my friend had found herself a keeper so soon into the year. Jen just said, "Yeah. I was gonna marry my boyfriend when I was 14, too." There was no sarcasm or even the slightest patronizing tone to her voice. She simply insinuated that lots of people feel that way about their first boyfriend. Since not everyone is running off and eloping with the same guy they had algebra with, it obviously fails more often than not.
At 14 though, I didn't realize this. I thought for sure Jen didn't understand the depth of my friend's relationship. She and her boyfriend would make it! This would end in a happily ever after. They'd do it.
They didn't. My friend and her boyfriend broke up awhile later and were just another intensely brief high school relationship. Yes, some couples do make it through the maze of adolescence and that's peachy. But what I'm really hung up on is Jen's comment. She spoke volumes in that one little sentence. "Yeah. I was gonna marry my boyfriend when I was 14, too." In hindsight, it was wise and almost cryptic. It has stayed with me for over a decade, and although it was an offhand comment, it has given me a lot of perspective over the years. I doubt Jen ever even knew what she gave me with those words.
Sometimes, as my friend and I would learn throughout high school, things fall apart. That's all. It isn't usually fair or predictable. Like not getting into your dream college or not getting your first choice of career. You muddle through for awhile, start to find some redeeming qualities in your new situation and just make the best of it. As time moves forward, your challenges and joys become apparent. At some point, if you're lucky, you look back and think, "I wouldn't change a thing. I couldn't imagine being anywhere else."
That's the idea Jen planted in my head: Life is so huge, don't get too hung up on the fact that things might not go according to plan, as in not everyone marries their boyfriend at 14.
Besides, that *Nsync-themed wedding she was planning would have been really tacky.
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7.30.2010
7.26.2010
Love Lessons part 3
* Don't punish this guy for what the last guy did to you. Yes, learn from your mistakes. It's OK to be a little guarded. But as I've said before, baggage is quite unattractive. Cut your losses, learn your lessons and move on. Then when you're ready to date a new man, treat him as just that: New. He's got a clean slate so let him prove himself.
See, those hands are not so good.
So much better, no? Smooth and young-looking.
* Slather on hand cream many times a day. I know this has nothing to do with love, but it's still a valuable lesson. Your hands show your age just as much (if not more than) your face does. Take Sarah Jessica Parker for example:
See, those hands are not so good. Her costar, Kristen Davis is the same age as she is. Check out her hands:
So much better, no? Smooth and young-looking. Trust me, use hand cream.
* When it comes to dating, yes there is a game being played. Anyone who says differently is lying. I rebelled against that concept for years. "But I want to be genuine, I don't like playing games. I want to be honest all the time!" What I learned is, that's great. Honesty and openness are swell. But always be smart about it. So what's a girl to do? Play the game without playing. What do I mean by that? I'm glad you asked. For example: The "game" tells you to play hard to get. I say, BE hard to get. The "game" says you shouldn't let on when you're upset. I say, pick your battles but don't' be passive-aggressive. In this way, you're staying true to yourself while keeping your cool.
And that is game, set and match.
Friday
I'm a sure thing in every way that matters
the first to fall, left demanding answers.
Could I confront him?
How could I just stand in front of him,
with all that love still there between us.
Replaced by something bitter, the metallic sting of change.
What happened to the sweetness,
the ignorance of our age?
Could I make it through this with dignity intact, lesson learned
and thicker skin on my back?
Was I doomed to do it all again
Give it all back to him
and let him in.
the first to fall, left demanding answers.
Could I confront him?
How could I just stand in front of him,
with all that love still there between us.
Replaced by something bitter, the metallic sting of change.
What happened to the sweetness,
the ignorance of our age?
Could I make it through this with dignity intact, lesson learned
and thicker skin on my back?
Was I doomed to do it all again
Give it all back to him
and let him in.
Thank you, Stevie.
I took my love, I took it down
climbed a mountain and I turned around
and I saw my reflection in the snow covered hills
'til the landslide brought it down
The day I found out he cheated on me was the worst day of my life so far. But not only had he cheated, she had gotten pregnant. Not only had she gotten pregnant, she had aborted it. I'm not a staunch pro-lifer or anything, but my eighteen year old mind couldn't wrap itself around the fact that my boyfriend of three years, the boy I'd given everything I'd have to give, could father a child that was now dead. I couldn't handle it. My world was crashing down around me faster than I could keep up. The world where he loved me and we were happy was dissipating like melting snow.
oh, mirror in the sky
what is love?
can the child within my heart rise above?
can I sail thru the changin' ocean tides?
can I handle the seasons of my life?
I don't know...
Get ready, because this will be harsh. That's what I thought anyway. I steeled myself to show no mercy. I didn't care if he pleaded, cried, or begged for my forgiveness. I would have to be as insensitive as he had been. Sometimes the hardest thing to do is to separate how you feel from what you know. I felt betrayed, hurt and confused. I knew I couldn't let those feelings out around him, because it would portray a weakness. I just had to break up with him and let that be the end of it. I looked him in the eye and told him she called me and I knew everything. I told him we were done. What did he have to say for himself? Surprisingly little. Nothing about his expression or demeanor changed. He acted like I had just told him there was air all around us. He actually smirked and said, "You're a smart girl. I thought you would've figured it out by now." What. The. Fuck. No remorse, no stammering for an excuse. Nothing. I should've figured it out and dumped him before now? Seriously? He was no longer the beautiful boy who could do anything and charm everyone around him. I no longer felt privileged to be by his side. I just felt let down. Was this love? My first real love became my first real heartbreak so quickly I was dizzy. As I turned and walked out of his life, I wondered if I'd be able to keep walking, no looking back.
well, I've been afraid of changin'
'cause I've built my life around you
but time makes you bolder
even children get older
and I'm getting older too
At first I was hesitant to move on. He was everything to me for three long, important years. I had defined myself in his presence. Who would I be without him? This was a scary question. But what was even worse was who I would be if I stayed with him: Weak. Humiliated. Resentful. I couldn't live like that. So I slowly began rebuilding myself apart from him. I tried to hold onto the good memories and take the heartbreak as a lesson learned. It was hard, sure. But it was also exhilarating.
oh, take my love, take it down
climb a mountain and turn around
and if you see my reflection in the snow covered hills
well the landslide will bring it down.
Looking back, the scarier thing is that I let myself be so taken by someone. I fell hard and I fell fast as most of us do with our first love. But in doing so, I gave up any opportunity to create my own identity. Being years away from the situation, I'm actually grateful it happened. I know that I learned a lot. The most important thing I learned from this was that growth is sometimes painful. I needed to grow in myself, as a person. This growth had to come to me in the form of cheating, which sucked of course but I'm a lot stronger for it now.
The second most important thing I learned from that experience was that the right song at the right time can change your life.
climbed a mountain and I turned around
and I saw my reflection in the snow covered hills
'til the landslide brought it down
The day I found out he cheated on me was the worst day of my life so far. But not only had he cheated, she had gotten pregnant. Not only had she gotten pregnant, she had aborted it. I'm not a staunch pro-lifer or anything, but my eighteen year old mind couldn't wrap itself around the fact that my boyfriend of three years, the boy I'd given everything I'd have to give, could father a child that was now dead. I couldn't handle it. My world was crashing down around me faster than I could keep up. The world where he loved me and we were happy was dissipating like melting snow.
oh, mirror in the sky
what is love?
can the child within my heart rise above?
can I sail thru the changin' ocean tides?
can I handle the seasons of my life?
I don't know...
Get ready, because this will be harsh. That's what I thought anyway. I steeled myself to show no mercy. I didn't care if he pleaded, cried, or begged for my forgiveness. I would have to be as insensitive as he had been. Sometimes the hardest thing to do is to separate how you feel from what you know. I felt betrayed, hurt and confused. I knew I couldn't let those feelings out around him, because it would portray a weakness. I just had to break up with him and let that be the end of it. I looked him in the eye and told him she called me and I knew everything. I told him we were done. What did he have to say for himself? Surprisingly little. Nothing about his expression or demeanor changed. He acted like I had just told him there was air all around us. He actually smirked and said, "You're a smart girl. I thought you would've figured it out by now." What. The. Fuck. No remorse, no stammering for an excuse. Nothing. I should've figured it out and dumped him before now? Seriously? He was no longer the beautiful boy who could do anything and charm everyone around him. I no longer felt privileged to be by his side. I just felt let down. Was this love? My first real love became my first real heartbreak so quickly I was dizzy. As I turned and walked out of his life, I wondered if I'd be able to keep walking, no looking back.
well, I've been afraid of changin'
'cause I've built my life around you
but time makes you bolder
even children get older
and I'm getting older too
At first I was hesitant to move on. He was everything to me for three long, important years. I had defined myself in his presence. Who would I be without him? This was a scary question. But what was even worse was who I would be if I stayed with him: Weak. Humiliated. Resentful. I couldn't live like that. So I slowly began rebuilding myself apart from him. I tried to hold onto the good memories and take the heartbreak as a lesson learned. It was hard, sure. But it was also exhilarating.
oh, take my love, take it down
climb a mountain and turn around
and if you see my reflection in the snow covered hills
well the landslide will bring it down.
Looking back, the scarier thing is that I let myself be so taken by someone. I fell hard and I fell fast as most of us do with our first love. But in doing so, I gave up any opportunity to create my own identity. Being years away from the situation, I'm actually grateful it happened. I know that I learned a lot. The most important thing I learned from this was that growth is sometimes painful. I needed to grow in myself, as a person. This growth had to come to me in the form of cheating, which sucked of course but I'm a lot stronger for it now.
The second most important thing I learned from that experience was that the right song at the right time can change your life.
7.22.2010
Offsides
My ex boyfriend J was a huge Denver Broncos fan. Like, bled blue and orange. During our first season together, a new side of him was shown to me. Sitting on the couch on cozy Sunday afternoons, I realized the Broncos weren't just a sports team he happened to like, they were a part of J's life. They seemed to permeate his every thought from draft day through the Superbowl. All conversation seemed to drift back to something team-related. Like when I mentioned I treated myself to a Coach purse for my birthday, he responded with, "Do they have a Mike Shanahan edition? Because, you know, he's the only coach that matters." J really cracked himself up with that one. At the time I thought it was adorable that he was trying to combine my love for Coach with his beloved head coach. Now I realize it was just a terrible pun.
After one particularly devastating loss, J sullenly got up off the couch and walked out the front door. In the middle of November, without a coat. When he returned about an hour later, he said he was so upset he didn't want to be around anyone for awhile. So, he walked down my street and punched a few mailboxes and a brick wall. Over a football game. I was shocked, this was the most I'd ever seen J emote in the six months I'd known him. Why couldn't he be this riled up about anything else? I just didn't understand it.
That night was also the first time J turned me down for sex. After bringing him some ice for his knuckles, I came onto him with my best "C'mere baby, I'll make you forget about the game". I thought I was doing what any good football widow would do, but sadly I was shut out by J worse than Denver was by San Diego. He'd rather wallow in his thoughts of offensive pass interferences and who was on the injured list. Bad call, J. I'm certain I could have made it all better.
Later, I lay awake embarrassed, pissed off and sexually frustrated. I thought about J's one-sided relationship with Denver. Despite what the NFL commercials say, they do not care about him as an individual. The team doesn't care how much their losses hurt him, or how much a win means to him. Every trade weighs on him as if it were a member of his own family being sent away. And the way I see it, Denver couldn't care less. J was just another ESPN viewer, another jersey-buyer. His relationship with the Broncos was totally one-sided. He loved them passionately and what did they give him in return besides heartburn, bruised knuckles and a pouty girlfriend? Nothing. It was a completely one-way love affair.
Romantically speaking, a relationship like the one J had for the Broncos would never work. Or would it? My friend Stacy proudly proclaims that the relationship she has with her significant other is totally one sided, and she loves it. I know her S.O., and I'd have to agree. Not that he's a bad guy or anything, he's a logical, straightforward kind of guy. He's intelligent and can be very kind but he just doesn't try very hard when it comes to the touchy-feely emotional stuff. I dare say he is a little socially awkward.
Stacy, however, is the most gracious person I've ever met. She is bubbly, thoughtful and makes a wonderful first impression on everyone. You just can't help but like her. She has a way of anticipating the needs of everyone around her, especially her man. Her nurturing spirit makes it easy for her to love a challenging S.O. She can decode him, understand him and love him for all of the ways he is different from her. While she mingles and works the room at parties, he is content to chat with one or two friends. In this way, they each get to be themselves.
She's always known he will never be the man to make large romantic gestures, or even remember to say "bless you" when she sneezes. She will always be the bearer of thoughtful gifts and P.D.A. Her birthday cards from him rarely have more than a few words written inside. And for her, that's just fine. She likes doing the work to keep the relationship progressing, and he (apparently) likes being taken along for the ride.
So whether or not a one-sided relationship is successful depends on the needs of the individuals. J was satisfied following his team to the point of obsession. It didn't matter that at the end of every season he had nothing tangible to show for it. And Stacy is content with her man, although it is more a project than a partnership.
I admit that I still don't really understand one-sided relationships. I need give-and-take, to share the burdens and joys of a relationship with him. If I wanted to do all the work myself, I'd just stay single. I do realize that not everyone feels this way though, and I'm happy to cheer them on from the sidelines.
After one particularly devastating loss, J sullenly got up off the couch and walked out the front door. In the middle of November, without a coat. When he returned about an hour later, he said he was so upset he didn't want to be around anyone for awhile. So, he walked down my street and punched a few mailboxes and a brick wall. Over a football game. I was shocked, this was the most I'd ever seen J emote in the six months I'd known him. Why couldn't he be this riled up about anything else? I just didn't understand it.
That night was also the first time J turned me down for sex. After bringing him some ice for his knuckles, I came onto him with my best "C'mere baby, I'll make you forget about the game". I thought I was doing what any good football widow would do, but sadly I was shut out by J worse than Denver was by San Diego. He'd rather wallow in his thoughts of offensive pass interferences and who was on the injured list. Bad call, J. I'm certain I could have made it all better.
Later, I lay awake embarrassed, pissed off and sexually frustrated. I thought about J's one-sided relationship with Denver. Despite what the NFL commercials say, they do not care about him as an individual. The team doesn't care how much their losses hurt him, or how much a win means to him. Every trade weighs on him as if it were a member of his own family being sent away. And the way I see it, Denver couldn't care less. J was just another ESPN viewer, another jersey-buyer. His relationship with the Broncos was totally one-sided. He loved them passionately and what did they give him in return besides heartburn, bruised knuckles and a pouty girlfriend? Nothing. It was a completely one-way love affair.
Romantically speaking, a relationship like the one J had for the Broncos would never work. Or would it? My friend Stacy proudly proclaims that the relationship she has with her significant other is totally one sided, and she loves it. I know her S.O., and I'd have to agree. Not that he's a bad guy or anything, he's a logical, straightforward kind of guy. He's intelligent and can be very kind but he just doesn't try very hard when it comes to the touchy-feely emotional stuff. I dare say he is a little socially awkward.
Stacy, however, is the most gracious person I've ever met. She is bubbly, thoughtful and makes a wonderful first impression on everyone. You just can't help but like her. She has a way of anticipating the needs of everyone around her, especially her man. Her nurturing spirit makes it easy for her to love a challenging S.O. She can decode him, understand him and love him for all of the ways he is different from her. While she mingles and works the room at parties, he is content to chat with one or two friends. In this way, they each get to be themselves.
She's always known he will never be the man to make large romantic gestures, or even remember to say "bless you" when she sneezes. She will always be the bearer of thoughtful gifts and P.D.A. Her birthday cards from him rarely have more than a few words written inside. And for her, that's just fine. She likes doing the work to keep the relationship progressing, and he (apparently) likes being taken along for the ride.
So whether or not a one-sided relationship is successful depends on the needs of the individuals. J was satisfied following his team to the point of obsession. It didn't matter that at the end of every season he had nothing tangible to show for it. And Stacy is content with her man, although it is more a project than a partnership.
I admit that I still don't really understand one-sided relationships. I need give-and-take, to share the burdens and joys of a relationship with him. If I wanted to do all the work myself, I'd just stay single. I do realize that not everyone feels this way though, and I'm happy to cheer them on from the sidelines.
7.21.2010
Correct me if I'm wrong AND The new rule
While bar hopping for a friend's birthday last weekend, I was in the presence of the most elegant, ladylike top I've ever laid eyes on. It was sensual and yet understated. A white cotton tank top that bore the most stirring message since Martin Luther King yapped on about his dream. In black lettering, surrounded by glittering jewels (Swarovski crystals, I'm sure) were these words: "No job, No pussy."
Eloquent in it's brevity, no? Pure poetry for the eyes. I wanted to go out and buy one for myself. I could wear it when I attend my most fancy parties. Perfect for church services, court appearances and cocktail parties. This garment truly carried a sentiment for the ages.
The above piece of biting sarcasm is not just mean for meanness sake (don't get me wrong, I still love being mean for meanness sake). But I do have two points to make here. Yes,two unsolicited opinions for the price of one. Aren't you lucky?
The first point may be obvious: I think the shirt is disgusting. Of course I respect this chick's right to wear whatever the hell she wants. The same way I expect anyone reading my blog to respect my right to rant and rave. Free speech is a wonderful thing. And yes I was at a bar, everyone there was over the age of 21. I'm sure anyone who saw her shirt has said, heard, or read worse including myself. It's not a word I use often, but I have uttered it and I understand that it exists in the English vernacular. Moving onto why it actually bothered me: Does your vagina have a price tag hanging from it, sweetheart?
You're saying that if a person is unemployed, they are automatically denied sex? Conversely, one could argue this means that anyone with a job gets a turn, right? It felt like by standing by that statement, she was reducing her body to a commodity. Trashy trashy nasty white trash. And also sad. I understand she probably slammed down her Natty Ice and made some slurred statement about "not messin' 'round wit broke ass dudes no more." More power to ya, girl. That's a great attitude to have. Now go smoke a Pall Mall and give yourself a perm.
If you really respected yourself enough to hold out for a nice, decent, employed gentleman, you wouldn't need to wear that tank top. You are totally selling yourself short.
Or, am I wrong? Am I too quick to judge her? Is this the new girl power? Is "No job, No pussy" today's "I am Woman, hear me roar?" Does being able to wear a top like that with pride mean we as women have achieved something? I respectfully disagree.
To the woman in the trash-tastic shirt: you completely undermined your own statement. By projecting that image to the world (OK, the bar. You know what I mean.) you're saying that your body is up for sale, and all one needs to enter the auction is a W-2. Anyone else see the tragedy in this thinking, or am I just being a prude?
This also raised another question: What is the new "rule" when it comes to potential dates and their employment status? Is "No job No pussy" a realistic goal? Before the economy took a dive, you had to try to not have a job. It seemed everyone had something going for themselves, and it was downright easy to make money.
I know for me personally, one of my non-negotiables has always been that a potential date had to have a job. Period, end of story. I've worked steadily since I was fifteen and gone to school. In my mind there was NO excuse for a man to be unemployed. Sure, I've dated some that were marginally employed or that didn't make as much money as I did. But to just be not working? No way. I felt it necessary to be with someone who was doing something, at least working toward a goal of some kind.
Now, people from all walks of life find themselves unable to work. It's not just the guy who prefers to sit on his mom's couch and smoke weed while killing XBox zombies. It's the guy who worked for the state and got laid off, or the owner of the small business that went into foreclosure. There's also not as much money being passed around in the form of loans and grants for college, so even a man with ambition may not have the means. His MBA or Ph.D. might have to wait, and that can be really frustrating. Times are tough out there, so should I soften my outlook? Does he deserve more leniency? Maybe, maybe not. But I still wouldn't be caught dead in that tank top.
Eloquent in it's brevity, no? Pure poetry for the eyes. I wanted to go out and buy one for myself. I could wear it when I attend my most fancy parties. Perfect for church services, court appearances and cocktail parties. This garment truly carried a sentiment for the ages.
The above piece of biting sarcasm is not just mean for meanness sake (don't get me wrong, I still love being mean for meanness sake). But I do have two points to make here. Yes,two unsolicited opinions for the price of one. Aren't you lucky?
The first point may be obvious: I think the shirt is disgusting. Of course I respect this chick's right to wear whatever the hell she wants. The same way I expect anyone reading my blog to respect my right to rant and rave. Free speech is a wonderful thing. And yes I was at a bar, everyone there was over the age of 21. I'm sure anyone who saw her shirt has said, heard, or read worse including myself. It's not a word I use often, but I have uttered it and I understand that it exists in the English vernacular. Moving onto why it actually bothered me: Does your vagina have a price tag hanging from it, sweetheart?
You're saying that if a person is unemployed, they are automatically denied sex? Conversely, one could argue this means that anyone with a job gets a turn, right? It felt like by standing by that statement, she was reducing her body to a commodity. Trashy trashy nasty white trash. And also sad. I understand she probably slammed down her Natty Ice and made some slurred statement about "not messin' 'round wit broke ass dudes no more." More power to ya, girl. That's a great attitude to have. Now go smoke a Pall Mall and give yourself a perm.
If you really respected yourself enough to hold out for a nice, decent, employed gentleman, you wouldn't need to wear that tank top. You are totally selling yourself short.
Or, am I wrong? Am I too quick to judge her? Is this the new girl power? Is "No job, No pussy" today's "I am Woman, hear me roar?" Does being able to wear a top like that with pride mean we as women have achieved something? I respectfully disagree.
To the woman in the trash-tastic shirt: you completely undermined your own statement. By projecting that image to the world (OK, the bar. You know what I mean.) you're saying that your body is up for sale, and all one needs to enter the auction is a W-2. Anyone else see the tragedy in this thinking, or am I just being a prude?
This also raised another question: What is the new "rule" when it comes to potential dates and their employment status? Is "No job No pussy" a realistic goal? Before the economy took a dive, you had to try to not have a job. It seemed everyone had something going for themselves, and it was downright easy to make money.
I know for me personally, one of my non-negotiables has always been that a potential date had to have a job. Period, end of story. I've worked steadily since I was fifteen and gone to school. In my mind there was NO excuse for a man to be unemployed. Sure, I've dated some that were marginally employed or that didn't make as much money as I did. But to just be not working? No way. I felt it necessary to be with someone who was doing something, at least working toward a goal of some kind.
Now, people from all walks of life find themselves unable to work. It's not just the guy who prefers to sit on his mom's couch and smoke weed while killing XBox zombies. It's the guy who worked for the state and got laid off, or the owner of the small business that went into foreclosure. There's also not as much money being passed around in the form of loans and grants for college, so even a man with ambition may not have the means. His MBA or Ph.D. might have to wait, and that can be really frustrating. Times are tough out there, so should I soften my outlook? Does he deserve more leniency? Maybe, maybe not. But I still wouldn't be caught dead in that tank top.
7.13.2010
The pot calling the kettle fat
News from the Overstated Cliche pile: Women have body issues. I'll pause while you recover from that revelation. I know, its shocking. Take all the time you need to regroup.
Sometimes we call ourselves (and each other) fat. Some of us go through life hating the fact that our thighs rub together. Fad diets and injury-inducing workouts can combat whatever "flaw" we perceive, yet sometimes all it takes is one snide comment to knock us down on our well-padded asses.
Some women overcome this, some refuse to face it. Some of you have no idea what I'm talking about and some of you have admitted defeat and resigned to a disgusting, slobbish existence.
Whatever, that's not the point. My job is not to write about a topic that hasn't been fresh since before the invention of the Thighmaster.
I'm merely setting up for, yes you guessed it, an observation. In order to set up my perspective here, let's agree that we all have issues of body-consciousness in some capacity. Today I happen to be talking about weight. Insert "love yourself and put down the Twinkie because it won't love you back" type feel-good statement here. OK now that that's done, here we go...
I've struggled with my looks and my weight for years. Luckily, I'm slowly but surely coming to a place in life where I'm comfortable with my figure. This was a huge silver lining to an otherwise glum quarterlife period. I was always considered "curvy" or at times, "thick" and was fine with it. However the older I got the less active I became and yes, it caught up to me. I was able to shed some pesky pounds and become the curvy girl once again, albeit a slightly larger version of her.
I learned to dress for my size and accentuate my curves and finally felt mature, confident and free. For the first time in a long time, I was free of obsessing about my shape, the number of calories consumed or whether or not guys would like me. As long as I could go up a flight of stairs without being winded and still do all of the things I wanted to do, I saw no reason to combat my natural shape. I was finally at peace with how I looked.
Or I was, until I met Brandon. On the surface he was a pretty good guy: funny, talkative, good job. We had plenty of mutual friends so I was fairly certain he was not a serial killer which is always good to know. But there was a problem. About 140 of them.
The guy was only 5'6" and weighed 140 pounds. At one time, 140 was my goal weight. I would've killed to weight 140. Let's just say I never reached that goal and learned to be comfortable about 25 pounds north of 140. Brandon was good looking, just kind of...diminutive. He was not scrawny, his frame held plenty of lean muscle (emphasis on the lean part) from his outdoor job and sessions at the gym. He was what I would call compact. There just wasn't much there.
And as shallow as this may sound, his thin build bothered me. A lot. And I didn't know what to do about it. If he were a serial killer I would know what to do-cut through the restraints and run like hell. Easy. But this? How should I know.
After sitting on the fence somewhere between "wow he's fun!" and "wow I might crush him if we have sex", I realized that me judging Brandon for being "too skinny" is just as bad as him not wanting to date me because I'm a little chubby. If that were the case, I'd eviscerate him publicly and privately. How dare he try to step on my new self-aware and confident attitude! Knowing this, me not accepting him for his God-given shape is the most hypocritical thing I could do.
It's one thing to accept yourself "just the way you are". It is another thing entirely to accept the fact that someone else will do the same. When he would make a flirty comment or compliment me, I just rolled my eyes and shrugged it off. He must have a big girl fantasy, or something like that. Whoa. Did this judgement that I passed on Brandon mean that I wasn't as comfortable with myself as I thought? It's like I was constantly telling myself, "No No No he's fit you can't have him you're too big he's too good for you..." That peek into my subconscious scared me a bit. I had more to learn about body confidence than I thought.
Sadly, Brandon and I didn't click for other reasons. We're still friendly but not dating. That's OK with me though, because he taught me something and I don't think he even realizes it: I like the way I look, and the right guy will too. Size does not determine if I'm "good enough" for him. I feel like I should thank Brandon for this realization. Would a cheeseburger and large milkshake be inappropriate?
Sometimes we call ourselves (and each other) fat. Some of us go through life hating the fact that our thighs rub together. Fad diets and injury-inducing workouts can combat whatever "flaw" we perceive, yet sometimes all it takes is one snide comment to knock us down on our well-padded asses.
Some women overcome this, some refuse to face it. Some of you have no idea what I'm talking about and some of you have admitted defeat and resigned to a disgusting, slobbish existence.
Whatever, that's not the point. My job is not to write about a topic that hasn't been fresh since before the invention of the Thighmaster.
I'm merely setting up for, yes you guessed it, an observation. In order to set up my perspective here, let's agree that we all have issues of body-consciousness in some capacity. Today I happen to be talking about weight. Insert "love yourself and put down the Twinkie because it won't love you back" type feel-good statement here. OK now that that's done, here we go...
I've struggled with my looks and my weight for years. Luckily, I'm slowly but surely coming to a place in life where I'm comfortable with my figure. This was a huge silver lining to an otherwise glum quarterlife period. I was always considered "curvy" or at times, "thick" and was fine with it. However the older I got the less active I became and yes, it caught up to me. I was able to shed some pesky pounds and become the curvy girl once again, albeit a slightly larger version of her.
I learned to dress for my size and accentuate my curves and finally felt mature, confident and free. For the first time in a long time, I was free of obsessing about my shape, the number of calories consumed or whether or not guys would like me. As long as I could go up a flight of stairs without being winded and still do all of the things I wanted to do, I saw no reason to combat my natural shape. I was finally at peace with how I looked.
Or I was, until I met Brandon. On the surface he was a pretty good guy: funny, talkative, good job. We had plenty of mutual friends so I was fairly certain he was not a serial killer which is always good to know. But there was a problem. About 140 of them.
The guy was only 5'6" and weighed 140 pounds. At one time, 140 was my goal weight. I would've killed to weight 140. Let's just say I never reached that goal and learned to be comfortable about 25 pounds north of 140. Brandon was good looking, just kind of...diminutive. He was not scrawny, his frame held plenty of lean muscle (emphasis on the lean part) from his outdoor job and sessions at the gym. He was what I would call compact. There just wasn't much there.
And as shallow as this may sound, his thin build bothered me. A lot. And I didn't know what to do about it. If he were a serial killer I would know what to do-cut through the restraints and run like hell. Easy. But this? How should I know.
After sitting on the fence somewhere between "wow he's fun!" and "wow I might crush him if we have sex", I realized that me judging Brandon for being "too skinny" is just as bad as him not wanting to date me because I'm a little chubby. If that were the case, I'd eviscerate him publicly and privately. How dare he try to step on my new self-aware and confident attitude! Knowing this, me not accepting him for his God-given shape is the most hypocritical thing I could do.
It's one thing to accept yourself "just the way you are". It is another thing entirely to accept the fact that someone else will do the same. When he would make a flirty comment or compliment me, I just rolled my eyes and shrugged it off. He must have a big girl fantasy, or something like that. Whoa. Did this judgement that I passed on Brandon mean that I wasn't as comfortable with myself as I thought? It's like I was constantly telling myself, "No No No he's fit you can't have him you're too big he's too good for you..." That peek into my subconscious scared me a bit. I had more to learn about body confidence than I thought.
Sadly, Brandon and I didn't click for other reasons. We're still friendly but not dating. That's OK with me though, because he taught me something and I don't think he even realizes it: I like the way I look, and the right guy will too. Size does not determine if I'm "good enough" for him. I feel like I should thank Brandon for this realization. Would a cheeseburger and large milkshake be inappropriate?
Love Lessons part 2
*Be wary of doing or saying things that make you seem like you don't matter as much as he does. You do. I am not advocating a parade of your accomplishments on date one-it isn't a job interview! But don't sell yourself short or be overly critical. It's not humility, it's insulting to the awesome person that you are. He will pick up on this and treat you accordingly. Regardless of how nice he is, if you are constantly degrading yourself, eventually he'll jump on the bandwagon.
*When one relationship ends, its actually OK to be single for awhile. Please don't jump from guy to guy to guy, there is nothing cute about emotional baggage. Especially coupled with promiscuity and/or herpes.
*Don't underestimate the power an interesting woman posesses. Use your single time as as a time to develop varied interests, educate yourself, reconnect with friends, or anything else you can do to enrich YOUR life.
*While we're on the subject of using single time to develop hobbies, also develop some dealbreakers and stick to them. Ask yourslef, "what will effectivley kill my next relationship?" That's something every woman and man must decide for themselves. I know that as a nice girl, you probably don't want to draw a hard line just in case he's so wonderful, and you're so graciously willing to overlook the fact that he [insert bad boyfriend behavior here]. I'm not such a nice girl so I say screw that. My demands are not unreasonable and they will be met. Among my dealbreakers? Unchecked addiction of any kind, disrespect for my beliefs and disrespect toward service workers. I've learned a long time ago that a man who is nice to you but rude to the waiter is NOT a nice person. Just trust me on this.
*Its OK not to say every thought that passes through your brain. A verbal filter can be your best weapon. If you must express yourself, get a journal. Pen and paper, lock and key. He might not admit it but a little mystery is attractive.
*When one relationship ends, its actually OK to be single for awhile. Please don't jump from guy to guy to guy, there is nothing cute about emotional baggage. Especially coupled with promiscuity and/or herpes.
*Don't underestimate the power an interesting woman posesses. Use your single time as as a time to develop varied interests, educate yourself, reconnect with friends, or anything else you can do to enrich YOUR life.
*While we're on the subject of using single time to develop hobbies, also develop some dealbreakers and stick to them. Ask yourslef, "what will effectivley kill my next relationship?" That's something every woman and man must decide for themselves. I know that as a nice girl, you probably don't want to draw a hard line just in case he's so wonderful, and you're so graciously willing to overlook the fact that he [insert bad boyfriend behavior here]. I'm not such a nice girl so I say screw that. My demands are not unreasonable and they will be met. Among my dealbreakers? Unchecked addiction of any kind, disrespect for my beliefs and disrespect toward service workers. I've learned a long time ago that a man who is nice to you but rude to the waiter is NOT a nice person. Just trust me on this.
*Its OK not to say every thought that passes through your brain. A verbal filter can be your best weapon. If you must express yourself, get a journal. Pen and paper, lock and key. He might not admit it but a little mystery is attractive.
7.10.2010
Carolina Blue
"A woman never forgets the man she could have had; a man, the woman he couldn't." -Anonymous
I hate that up until now, our story had no end. What I mean is that if our story were written down on paper the last sentence would have no period at the end. No period, or even a question mark at the end of our sentence; we are ungraciously reduced to an ellipses. Just three simple dots signifying no end in sight.
We lived our lives apart for different reasons, and I can't say that that was a good choice. Yes, after you I have loved. I've been loved. I've lost and hurt. I always thought I was going through what I needed to in order to find my way back to you. Yes, you. You were always there, as this unfinished chapter of my life. Was I ever there in the back of your mind?
Did you see us as we used to be? Playing in the park in the middle of the night or looking at the stars from your driveway after the party? What about rainy afternoons on the couch, or long bus rides or Denny's? Do you remember...at all? Maybe you don't. But I need you to know that all the letters and photographs are still in the back of my closet. Tied with a navy blue satin ribbon I used to wear in my hair. They've all faded by now I'm sure.
However, that's not what I am writing to say. What I really want to say is mean. It's bitter and immature and won't solve anything. It's really not polite but here goes: I hate her new last name.
I hate that she has the same last name that I scribbled in endless English notebooks when I was fourteen. And sixteen. And eighteen. And in college when I was about twenty. And for the last time I guess, just this year on a scrap of paper late one night after a terrible date with a man who wasn't you. He will never be you.
I don't hate her. She's someone I knew briefly yet don't know at all. She drifted into my life years ago and at the time I never thought I'd come to hate her, she was inconsequential at most. Now I hate with a passion what she represents.
No, if I'm being truthful about what I hate, it's the unfinished-ness of our situation. And also my foolishness. There I was, stupidly clinging to the hope of the ellipses, hope that sometime in some way we would find ourselves face to face again. And this time we would get it right.
We would not be fourteen and afraid of each other.
We would not be sixteen and too busy with the soap opera of high school to realize this was something special.
We would not be eighteen and too worried about making ourselves look like grownups.
We would not be twenty and living in different countries, or twenty five and you're saying "I Do" to someone else. It would just be us for once.
In some other time or place, we'd be free of the things that kept us apart. We'd finish what was started the first day I met you.
But now I hear you are a husband and a father. I think my heart stopped a little just writing that. As if writing somehow made it more real. And just like that-there is the punctuation mark I needed to see. It stings, of course. A burning pain that resonates within me, that woke me up and made me realize this non-ending I was clinging to so fitfully was really just postponing goodbye.
A non-ending may be the worst kind of ending that there is, but it's also the one that made me strongest. I am accepting of the fact that I had let you drift into my life for the last time and I was ready to open myself up for the opportunity of someone else. As long as I had my heart on hold for you, there was on way to allow anyone else in. And that wasn't fair to you, to hold you to that expectation. But I was also selling myself short, and that wasn't fair to me either. And now we're both moved on, in our own way. And for the first time that's OK.
I hate that up until now, our story had no end. What I mean is that if our story were written down on paper the last sentence would have no period at the end. No period, or even a question mark at the end of our sentence; we are ungraciously reduced to an ellipses. Just three simple dots signifying no end in sight.
We lived our lives apart for different reasons, and I can't say that that was a good choice. Yes, after you I have loved. I've been loved. I've lost and hurt. I always thought I was going through what I needed to in order to find my way back to you. Yes, you. You were always there, as this unfinished chapter of my life. Was I ever there in the back of your mind?
Did you see us as we used to be? Playing in the park in the middle of the night or looking at the stars from your driveway after the party? What about rainy afternoons on the couch, or long bus rides or Denny's? Do you remember...at all? Maybe you don't. But I need you to know that all the letters and photographs are still in the back of my closet. Tied with a navy blue satin ribbon I used to wear in my hair. They've all faded by now I'm sure.
However, that's not what I am writing to say. What I really want to say is mean. It's bitter and immature and won't solve anything. It's really not polite but here goes: I hate her new last name.
I hate that she has the same last name that I scribbled in endless English notebooks when I was fourteen. And sixteen. And eighteen. And in college when I was about twenty. And for the last time I guess, just this year on a scrap of paper late one night after a terrible date with a man who wasn't you. He will never be you.
I don't hate her. She's someone I knew briefly yet don't know at all. She drifted into my life years ago and at the time I never thought I'd come to hate her, she was inconsequential at most. Now I hate with a passion what she represents.
No, if I'm being truthful about what I hate, it's the unfinished-ness of our situation. And also my foolishness. There I was, stupidly clinging to the hope of the ellipses, hope that sometime in some way we would find ourselves face to face again. And this time we would get it right.
We would not be fourteen and afraid of each other.
We would not be sixteen and too busy with the soap opera of high school to realize this was something special.
We would not be eighteen and too worried about making ourselves look like grownups.
We would not be twenty and living in different countries, or twenty five and you're saying "I Do" to someone else. It would just be us for once.
In some other time or place, we'd be free of the things that kept us apart. We'd finish what was started the first day I met you.
But now I hear you are a husband and a father. I think my heart stopped a little just writing that. As if writing somehow made it more real. And just like that-there is the punctuation mark I needed to see. It stings, of course. A burning pain that resonates within me, that woke me up and made me realize this non-ending I was clinging to so fitfully was really just postponing goodbye.
A non-ending may be the worst kind of ending that there is, but it's also the one that made me strongest. I am accepting of the fact that I had let you drift into my life for the last time and I was ready to open myself up for the opportunity of someone else. As long as I had my heart on hold for you, there was on way to allow anyone else in. And that wasn't fair to you, to hold you to that expectation. But I was also selling myself short, and that wasn't fair to me either. And now we're both moved on, in our own way. And for the first time that's OK.
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