well-rounded

I’ve never been well-rounded.

The daughter of a musician, my parents wanted me to learn an instrument. My sister played the piano, played the flute; I think she may have briefly picked up the violin. I did not want to learn an instrument. All I wanted to do was dance.

Knowing what learning an instrument entailed, renting or buying it, storing it, transporting it to and from practices, I told my parents I would learn to play an instrument. I would learn to play the harp.

I never had to learn to play an instrument.

I’ve never been well-rounded.

I’m passionate. I’m an all-in kind of person. If I do it, I do it 1000%.

I put myself wholly into relationships. There is no toe dipping into the pool; I dive.

It’s why I get hurt in relationships. It’s why I sometimes fall before I see what I am falling into.

It’s made me perhaps more round-heeled than well-rounded.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

resouled

I hate to play favorites among shoes, but there’s just no denying that the shoes with the largest real estate in my heart are my Jimmy Choos.

I only have one pair. They cost what some rents might cost. And they are worth every penny.

They were in part a 30th birthday present from my fabulous coworkers who pooled together for a gift certificate. They were in part a souvenir from my first date, my first everything, with a man I would give my heart to, a man who holds a part of my heart to this day.

The red peep-toed pumps are suede and watersnake. They were purchased on September 18, 2007 in Las Vegas. The sales tax alone was $52.

Worth. Every. Penny.

I have a love affair with these shoes.

I clicked my way through Reagan National Airport, turning heads as I went, to hop on a plane to New York for the night. And I kept those shoes on while that man I loved led me to a balcony overlooking Times Square for an X-rated reacquainting.

I rang in the year 2008 with those shoes on my feet, toe nails in matching polish. I had those shoes on my feet while I was in the arms of a dirty musician who to this day is a friend and bedmate, despite his commitment to another.

I have paired those pumps with a short black dress for a Hall of Fame bad date. I have rocked them with a pair of tight jeans and danced the night away.

Over the past two years, they have been through so much with me. They are bonafide Fuck Me pumps. They are things of traffic stopping beauty. I love those shoes.

I took them in this week to get them resoled. $55 later they will be good as new and their adventures, PG and R alike, will continue. A new sole and they will each be good as new.

I said out loud to my best friend today that I think I need to take some time off from men.

In the past month, the men’s lips who have kissed mine have been a series of emotionally unavailable or socially inappropriate choices. A musician with a girlfriend, a clingy conservative, the best friend of a best friend, a good man in the midst of a bad divorce , the cousin of an ex, and an idiot.

I think, I know, it’s time for a little resouling of my own.

and your heart’s still beating

Dear PB, My biggest fear is that I am wont to want an emotionally unavailable man. I know where you are right now, and I know I am the perfect person to help you through this. And I will. But I won’t be able to do it without thinking about how comfortable it was to wake up naked in your arms. Please forgive yourself. It gets better. It all gets better.

Dear TP, You know what that other woman has on you? Absolutely nothing. Well, maybe a few more wrinkles. My doll, my dear, you will come out on top. Trust me on this one.

Dear M, I give up. Get some sleep.

Dear TA, I want to shake you and tell you to keep your personal out of your professional. Don’t shit where you eat. Don’t sleep with your talent. You will spend ages quantifying the suck* on that decision. Please don’t make me tell you how I know.

Dear JT, Thanks for getting me so fucked up. I had no idea how much I needed it.

*blatantly stolen phrase

It seems like everybody else saw trouble sneaking up behind. Left you half dead in the street but that just means you’re half alive. And your heart’s still beating. -Josh Ritter

grey

And how are things with you? she asks.

I don’t say what I am thinking. Don’t say the one word that sums it all up for me because it would require so many more words to describe it to someone else.

I am grey.

Last weekend, I spent my days curled with two dogs watching season 5 of “Grey’s Anatomy.” Tears streamed down my cheeks several times. It was a good excuse to cry because sometimes you’re just looking for a good excuse to cry.

This week, the weather has been cold, rainy, dreary. Naked branches and limbs have shivered in the wind. Leaves are matted to the sidewalk, their graceful descent to the ground long forgotten. There has been little light.

I am grey.

I have found splashes of color in the glass of red wine shared with friends on both sides of the bar. I have seen light shine in someone else’s smile. I have heard the notes of music and the timbre of laughter more brightly against a  monochrome backdrop.

I am content being grey. It helps me appreciate color.

why we write

I like words. Reading them, writing them. I like transforming thoughts and emotions into communication. My brain likes it. My heart likes it.

I started blogging almost two years ago when my heart and my head ached. When I made such poor choices with men and sex that I was chipping away at one part of myself while burying another part.

I believed I had moved on from many of those choices, from many of those men. I learned a lot, and I kept writing. I write vignettes. A slice of my life, my brain, my soul. I write about whatever bubbles to the surface, certainly whatever boils over.

Brutal truth? I did move on from many of those choices, from many, although not all, of those men. But sometimes my head and my heart still hurt. And that is why I keep writing.

We write because we all have issues. When we face those head on, admit our imperfections and weaknesses, it makes us stronger.

We write because until there is a cure, this is our treatment.

We write not because we have so much to teach you, but because we have so much to learn.

We write because putting it into words makes it sometimes far less scary and sometimes far more funny. And it always makes us feel less alone.

I know why I write, why we write. I would ask, why do you read? But I think the answer to that can also be found in the words above.

summing it up in one sentence

The more I date, the more I am glad I am single.

apathy

Last month, I felt the visceral definition of true love.

Recently, I have felt the physical definition of apathy.

I knew it was the definition when I realized that I had felt it before. I knew it was true when other people shared with me that they had thought that same thought.

You are completely naked. Limbs entwined with another’s limbs. Moisture, whether sweat or other, slides across your bodies. For a woman, you are most likely underneath. His body pinning yours. There is unquestionable penetration. There is likely thrusting.

And the thought goes through your mind:

Why am I doing this?

And you just don’t care.

That is the physical definition of apathy.

what’s your sign? crazy conservative?

An attractive blonde sits at the corner cocktail table reading the Wall Street Journal.

I am sitting with another attractive blonde and one of my favorite men. We suggest that our gentleman friend buy the corner blonde a drink. It is always classy to send a beverage to a lady drinking alone. So he sends over a glass of Prosecco with what I can only imagine is an eloquent note.

When she walks over to thank him, I realize she looks very familiar. She veers to the ladies room, so I ask him to repeat her name. As soon as he does, I know exactly who she is.

She is not someone I know well. Someone I have met a handful or fewer times. She is the ex-girlfriend of a friend.

Correction. She is the crazy ex-girlfriend of a friend.

I have only enough time to explain that what little I know of her is that she is crazy. Crazy and conservative. When asked, What kind of crazy? I have no answer. Those stories are not mine to tell.

I excuse myself so she and my gentleman friend can get to know one another. Because the other things I know about her is that she is very attractive and smart. And I could be wrong about the crazy part.

I am not wrong as the text from my gentleman friend later reveals, Really, you left me with a crazy conservative chick? I mean, really?

I promise him my firstborn in penance. He laughs me off. I am certain that I am obligated to bar tabs for the next few years.

Within moments of sitting down, she says two revealing things. One, she admits to being conservative. Tell me something I don’t already know. Her ex-boyfriend calls me a flaming, hippie liberal.

Two, she says she’s a Libra. Explains that as such she often finds herself in conflict. You know, conflicted, a.k.a. crazy.

Later that same evening, a gentleman I am getting to know waxes poetically, wait, no, just waxes, about being a Virgo and his compatibility with my sign, Cancer. Conclusion, we are compatible.

It strikes me as an interesting way to describe oneself. To have a label as simple as an astrological sign to whip out and explain yourself rather than allowing folks to know you through conversation.

I am a Cancer. I am emotional, clingy, loving, imaginative, loyal, sensitive. But it is far more telling that one might describe me, accurately or not, as an artsy-fartsy, flaming liberal hippie.

Just as it would have been more helpful to my gentleman friend if the attractive blonde had described herself, not as a Libra, but as a crazy conservative.

It would have saved him time and me a year’s worth of bar tabs.

cocky

I put on my SuperFriend cape this weekend. Spent my time being all about other people. Had a ball doing it.

Took a friend out for her birthday Friday. Matched her shot for shot. Let it be her evening.

I cheered on folks at the 5k, and when I say cheered I mean screamed at the top of my lungs, The finish line is right there. It’s RIGHT THERE. I can see it from here and it’s alllll downhill! I woke with no voice on Sunday but had gift of peppermint foot rubs for the neighbor who finished her first 5k.

I shopped for a care package for Prague. Tampons, soap, Sweet N Low. And books, gadgets, fun stuff. I even found the Archie comics that the husband joked that he wanted.

I grocery shopped for the newlyweds. Wanted to make sure they arrived home from their honeymoon and could have morning coffee without leaving the house. Bought milk, bread, eggs, beer. Put flowers in every room.

SUPERFRIEND has come to save the day!

I had a big smile on my face and a warm fuzzy feeling in my heart. But let’s face it- I got cocky about my friendship skills.

And you know what happens when you get cocky about something?

You get leveled.

I don’t know why I emailed her today. The honest answer was that I was thinking of her and wanted her to know I was thinking of her. Her baby comes next month. And even though I blew her off when she blew me off by sending me an email announcing her pregnancy, I wanted to reach out.

So I sent her an email.

And she replied.

Her dad died at the beginning of this month. Lost a long battle to leukemia.

Where was I?

Stuck in a phone booth somewhere, eyes blocked by the enormous cape I was flaunting so proudly.

I am leveled.

i reserve the right to change my mind

I am that girl you can say anything to.

(Please pause to notice that I just finished my sentence with a preposition. Lilu, I avoided the word whom just for you!)

I am genuine, open, and honest and typically mean what I say and say what I mean. People tell me all sorts of crazy shit all the time. I love it. They also tell me really revealing, tender stories. I love that, too.

The derivative of this is that people feel free to ask me whatever intensely personal question pops into their minds on a regular basis. One of the most popular- do you think you’ll ever get married again?

I used to say yes.

While I don’t need to get married again, while I’m not on the hunt or looking for it to happen on a timeline or in the near future, I used to think that I would find a partner, fall in love again and tie it with the traditional ribbons of matrimony.

Amidst the tear jerker, amazing time had by all this past weekend, I have found emotions difficult to put into words. I wrote about it, but I have not found adequate words for my feelings.

It came to me last night. It wasn’t a flash epiphany, not a sudden lightbulb turned on. It came to me in conversation, the words just spilled out of my mouth coherently. With the words came a rush of peace. I finally figured out what had been bubbling right under the surface.

I don’t think I will ever get married again.

True love is the rarest of finds.

Like the Biblical parable of the rich man, it is easier to get a camel through the eye of a needle than to find true love. We are inundated with images and songs and sentiments of love. We are sold on the notion that love is there for us all, and yet we turn a blind eye to the rational statistic of our divorce rate.

The tear in my eye, lump in my throat, enormous smile on my face? That is what happens when I witness true love. Having watched it this weekend, I can honestly say I have never known that depth, breadth or kind of love. Not even when I stood in my own white wedding dress.

True love is the rarest of finds. And I am not naive enough to think that if I search for it, I will find it. Not silly enough to dedicate time and energy to a quest that would rival the search for the Holy Grail.

So my answer has changed- I don’t think I will ever get married again.

The realization came so peacefully and the realization is good. I feel at peace and good about it. But I still reserve the right to change my mind.