Beautiful Boy

I held a baby today.  Not a baby, a newborn.  A baby that wasn't even twenty-four hours old.  A baby on its actual birth day.

[No, I do not suddenly have "baby fever."  My cell phone reminds me every day at 10 PM to happily pop a pill in support of that.]

I have to admit, I was kind of dreading seeing the baby.  Not the baby itself, I have a heart for crying out loud.  I love babies and kids, but I was dreading seeing my good guy friend from high school and his wife and their perfect little family.

My friend and his wife are both blonde and blue and gorgeous, as is their 20 month old son.  [Is it just me or do new parents have some weird thing with the months?  I heard a lady on a plane the other day say her daughter was "38 months."  I so badly wanted to say, "Lady, your kid is fucking three years old.  What am I?  347 months???"]  There is something different to me about kid number two though.  In some weird way it's fine if my friends get married and have a kid, but kid number two is somehow way more "adult."  No more starter family/starter home...if my friends were on a sitcom with me, kid number two would mean they were being written off of the show.

You can work one kid into the storyline, but two?  Doesn't happen.

This is going to sound horrible, but I am horribly competitive, always have been, so bear with me.  Having friends be a step ahead of me and married is fine because I haven't found the right person.  Having friends be two steps ahead of me and married with a baby is fine because I don't want a child right now - someday.  But having friends my age be what seems like three steps ahead of me with a whole family...I suddenly felt like I was massively behind in some way.  I realize this is not a competition, but still.  When friends start having kids (singular or plural) it naturally makes me reflect as to what exactly I am doing with my life.  What am I contributing to the world?  These people created a life.  Last week I created a great phad thai dish, recycled my wine bottle, and sent my resume in for a sweet sales/marketing position at an amazing ad agency.  It doesn't matter, that whole miracle of life thing trumps all, and now they've gone and done it twice!

That, and for the second time in my life I just got dumped.  Well, I'm pretty sure I was dumped.  [Who am I kidding?  I was dumped.]  I was dumped in the worst way you can dump an extreme extrovert who thrives on confrontation and discussion:  I was ignored.  I actually have an e-mail from him saying how wonderful I am and that he would call me tomorrow.  That was almost three weeks ago.  I love words and the slight nuances of meaning that different ones can possess.  I love analyzing which words people choose to use.  I can take harsh words, but no words???  The whole thing became so ridiculous, I am actually not sure what to say.  This never happens.  Being ignored lets my overactive imagination wander far too much and has been downright torturous.

"I'm not going to be IGNORED, Dan!"  Don't worry, I'm not making rabbit stew a la Fatal Attraction.

So I'm feeling a little behind the eight ball in general, recently dumped, and dealing with some family issues...then the cherry on top that surprised me:  I will be 29 in a few days.  I never have a problem with how old I am.  Years are simply an arbitrarily determined quantification that mean little to me.  My inner child is alive and well and I still wear the same size jeans I did in high school - I will shout my age from the mountain tops!  But suddenly I'm going to be 29, AND close friends who graduated high school with me are married with two kids, AND I just got dumped in the style of a 13 year old, AND I'm job searching and roommate searching, AND I think I have a bug problem in my kitchen somehow, AND my mom is talking about finally leaving my dad after 33 years of marriage because she dreads counseling so much, AND my beloved brother and I are at odds (long story) ...and I'm going to go sit in a hospital room with my 29 and 30 year old friends and their two adorable little boys and rehash all of this?  I'll admit it, I threw a little pity party for myself.  (The music was excellent.)

Post pity party, I dolled myself up, bought a sweet Toy Story balloon for the new big brother and some trashy magazines for my friend, now the mom of two, and headed out to the hospital.

I was greeted by a squealing almost two year-old who thinks that playing with my hair and me holding him upside down are the only things more fun in this world than playing with the balloon I brought him.  My friend and his wife are so laid back and down to earth and grateful to have a healthy newborn.  I got to hold the baby, Connor James.  [Thank God they picked a lovely name!]  I had forgotten what it was like to hold an actual newborn and be present for the start of someone's life. 

I watched my friend try to change his older son's diaper and his wife had to help.  Not because he couldn't do it, but changing the diaper of a kid at twenty months is equivalent to trying to get a cat into a bathtub.  His feet are no longer small enough to hold in one hand, reinforcements help.

My friend and his wife asked for updates on my life.  I told them the latest with North Dakota and that I did not think this is what my life would be like as I turned 29.  They told me how they never intended to have two kids already.  I knew their first was an unplanned "honeymoon baby," but they had apparently wanted to wait and when she switched birth control...  [Note to self.]  My friend shared with me how when his wife first told him she was pregnant again he was not excited.  Of course now he is, but his honesty was just what I needed.  This is not what they thought their lives would look like at 29 and 30 either.

During all of this, in my arms I had a seven and a half pound little person holding and squeezing my finger the entire time.  It was pretty amazing.  It was Connor's first day on Earth and he already made someone's day.

A Dream Is A Wish Your Heart Makes

C married a wonderful man and I was maid of honor the bride's bitch/wedding planner/music coordinator/only voice of reason in their wedding.  [Ugliest bridesmaids dresses ever.  No, really.  I could go on, without exaggeration, about the ridiculousness leading up to this wedding, the actual event, and how hideous these things were for days - another time.]  Naturally, those involved in and attending her wedding, whether I had met them before or not, wanted me to be as happy as she is (very sweet) and felt it necessary to dole out unsolicited advice (very interesting.)  It cracks me up when people do this because it supposes that relationships and therefore humans are one-size-fits-all.  Pssst, I'm going to let you in on the secret of the magical formula, and if you follow these steps exactly - poof!  Married!  [Note not marital bliss, but married, kind of an important distinction.]  

Fairy tales end with "happily ever after," but what about all of the crazy/wonderful/hard/mundane/awesome stuff that happens after that?  I feel like some women seem to think simply being married equals happiness, or that what matters most is having the wedding of her dreams.  [Don't even get me started on that one.  Ahem, Kim Kardashian.]  What if I think the real story starts after "happily ever after?"

"He insists on wearing tights every day, and I wouldn't call burping the alphabet charming."

Some women want the fairy tale.  I think I'm too much of a realist to believe in fairy tales, and I've certainly never had the term "princess" used to describe me.  No, I'm not that horrifically cynical.  To me, a fairy tale implies that a) the wedding/act of being married is the pinnacle of the relationship (what about the next 50 years after that?) and b) that once you've found the right person, that's all it takes.  I want something real.  I believe in order for relationships to work it does take finding the right person.  It also takes a lot of love and a lot of dedication on both people's parts to make them work.  This is not "The Bachelor," people.  Dates are not all in Thailand and Fiji and other exotic locales.  Odds are more time is going to be spent at Target than at fancy restaurants.

Wait, so you're saying none of our dates will involve helicopters, famous singers, or fireworks?  Shit.

On my first road trip post-firing, I visited four sets of cousins ranging in ages from 25-35, who have been married anywhere between three and almost fifteen years.  [I was in two of their weddings, so it's interesting to see them go from dating to wedding day to 10 and 15 year anniversaries and multiple children.]  Day in and day out you have to make sure there's (soy) milk in the fridge, the bills are paid, figure out what's for dinner, what you're going to do that weekend, and whose family you're spending the holidays with this year.  You wake up next to the same face every day, see them in their glasses first thing in the morning before coffee with messy hair and puffy eyes, when they're sick and curled up on the floor of the bathroom...and if you're lucky like my cousins all seem to be, you love them and even though it's not always glitter and unicorns, you're genuinely happy to come home to that person. 

Damn you and your catchy tunes, Taylor Swift!

David Foster Wallace's commencement speech to Kenyon College is the best example I have found of someone being honest about what real life looks like, and why it's important to not simply be a mindless drone - another brick in the wall.  Milestone events in our lives, whether they are graduations, weddings, birthdays, they are not the end of something, rather the beginning.  Real life occurs in the minutiae of the day-to-day, or as he says, "being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them, over and over, in myriad petty little unsexy ways, every day."

I ran into a guy I knew from college, and for the past four and a half months I have been so happy with him.  Not in a "isn't it great we both love Chinese food?" kind of way, but a "it's fine if you move to North Dakota, we'll make it work" kind of way.  Something real.  Something where when I flew to North Dakota (he sells oil drill bits) to see him, he took me out to work with him and we spent ten hours a day in his truck together talking, laughing, singing songs.  Grocery shopping.  Cooking together.  Laundry.  Decorating for Christmas.  Five days of virtually inseparable bliss.

Somewhere in there I got caught up in my own fairy tale.  He talked about wanting to go to Thailand with me before we turn 30.  He asked if I thought our kids would be tall like him or short like me.  He told me he thought I might be "the one."

I fell for it/him.

My fault.
  
I wish I could say I knew what exactly happened, but I don't know.  It's over now.

Maybe part of me wanted to be a fairy tale princess more than I realized after all.

Not this time.

Stand Beside Me

There have been a handful of things people have said to me over the years that have stuck out in my mind – random compliments, statements, and poignant reflections on life that my brain actually deemed worthy of remembering.

When I was very young (and my parents must have had some sort of fight and my dad brought my mom flowers) I can see myself sitting in the kitchen with my mom as she said, “Flowers don’t fix things.”  My boyfriend my junior year of college told me I had the “sexiest shoulders” he’d ever seen while we were slow dancing in his living room.  And the other night, I had a man say “Rachel likes to wear the pants.”

“Rachel likes to wear the pants...”

When my best girlfriend from high school, C, talks about her marriage, she uses a word that I find fascinating: submit.  This word was used during my younger cousin's wedding ceremony, and I swear each time it was said, my fiercely independent grandmother literally twitched in her seat in front of me.  [Both of their weddings are tales for another day.]  Anyway, C talks about "how wonderful it is to submit to" her husband.  She finds it so reassuring that he always knows what to do she can completely stop using her own brain and can follow him unconditionally.  [Thank God he's a really great guy.]  That works for their relationship and I respect that.

1. It most certainly would not work for me.
2. Not even touching on the divorce rate in this country, God forbid what happens if something happens to him? She doesn't even know how to work the stereo system in their house or mow the lawn, let alone handle any of the finances.

Submitting or not, learned helplessness is never a good idea in my book.

Does anyone else find this as terrifying as I do?  Never mind if he lives forever, my best friend used to be a hell of a lot smarter than that.  Now she thinks I'm the idiot.  Her words: "You'll never find someone as long as you keep on being so independent."  Maybe she's right, but I sure as anything don't want to feel like I have self-lobotomize and become a codependent Stepford wife who compartmentalizes what she refers to as her "former life."  You know, that time pre-hubby when she used the word "I" where she now only uses "we."

Who needs Kama Sutra when we can do the missionary position once a week?

I'm on the verge of a massive tangent.  This is when I repeat over and over to myself another great quote that sticks out in my mind, some of the best advice my grandpa ever gave me: "Not everyone thinks like you do."  If that makes her happy, then I need to be happy for her even if it means that I think that she's boring and selling out and either she or her husband is going to wake up one day and go crazy that her submitting has resulted in her no longer having any sense of self.

This all brings me to a question I've been tossing around for years:  Is someone always the alpha?  Can there be two alphas in a relationship, or by the sheer nature of alpha can there only be one?

Alpha: noun (modifier) denoting the dominant person or animal in a group: the alpha male

"The dominant person."  Does that inherently imply that there must be a submissive?  If so, I think I'm screwed.  There's that word again - submit.  If someone falls in love with me for being me, shouldn't they dislike it if I don't act like myself?  But do girls who don't submit not get married?  Or are they the lone alpha in the relationship?  I don't want to be "the man" in a relationship any more than I want to be involved with a woman...or a dude who acts like one.  [I've said it before and I will say it again. I already have one pussy and it's fabulous. I have no need for another in my life.]  To me, a true "alpha" cheers on the other alpha because they are not threatened, but rather both enhanced by the other.  Sometimes one person might have more expertise or interest in an area and therefore "take the reigns" but this holds true for both sides, there is not a colossal imbalance.

I'm guessing mono-syllabic "safe words" are best.

Let's be clear, I am not a dominatrix.  I was at a holiday party as a date for a friend a couple years ago and I was with the wives when one started openly talking about how she carries her husband's balls around in her purse.  I just about fell over.  She said it with the same kind of nonchalance as if she was saying that the sky was blue.  Male or female, I am not comfortable with this kind of disparity in power.  A recent facebook post highlighted how my friend's girlfriend had three leashes - "two for the dogs and one for him, and his is the shortest."

I'm pretty sure when Bob Barker said to "have your pets spayed or neutered," he was only referring to the four-legged kind.

So where does that leave me?  I don't want to carry someone's balls around in my purse any more than I want to stop thinking for myself and lose my sense of self.  I recognize that those are clearly the extremes, but where is the middle ground?  The relationship of give and take, of equals, the power couple?  Two strong individuals who come together to love and support each other?

Tim McGraw and Faith Hill.  Beyonce and Jay-Z.  David Beckham and Victoria Beckham [Posh Spice was always my favorite Spice Girl.] 

I'm not exactly sure how to attain this elusive partnership, but I do know this...the other night when that guy said I like to "wear the pants" and I responded that sometimes I like to wear the pants and sometimes I don't, he said, "Wait, sometimes you don't like to wear pants? Awesome!"

It has its moments.

Watching The Wheels

I think way too much sometimes.  I may appear all bubbles and smiles, but the gears are always turning.  That may be why I love yoga, running, and red wine - they all help to quiet my mind.  For the past few years I feel like I've been playing by other peoples' rules, struggling to keep the sand inside their sandbox.  If I do x, then I will get y.  Lost my job?  Well hurry up and find a new one!  After being praised for thinking outside of the box for so long, I've never understood why I should do the complete opposite in order to be a "good worker."   Being a part of corporate America made me feel like a frustrated, small child.

Look, I can play that game, but I tire quickly of it.  "The problem with winning the rat race is you're still a rat."  I think I tired a year or so into it, but the competitor in me said, "But look at her, she's climbing the ladder!  You can do it too!  You've been good at anything you've ever set your mind to, just do it!  [Arnold Schwarzenegger voice]  DOO EET NAHWAH!  Make more money!  Work harder!  Mush!  Mush!"  Two years later, here I am. 

Decompressing from that mindset is not always easy.  Thankfully, I'd started the checking out process a long time ago...but was always paralyzed by the fear of what to do next, not wanting to do the same thing again.  This summer has been one big, slow exhalation.  Letting go of my former life so as to make room for the new one. 

I finally had that epiphany I'd been waiting for.  [Yes, I am ending that sentence with a preposition.]  I still might be wrong, but at least it feels good right now.  It's like a crush.  After two and a half months of nearly constant travel, it came to me in the most bizarre of ways and I am really happy.  I realized that instead of trying to figure out what the perfect career would be (philanthropic and fulfilling? stimulating and challenging? ridiculously lucrative?) I realized I should work backwards - what kind of LIFE do I want?  So many times we are able to quantify what it is that we don't want, but in all actuality that really isn't the same as what we do want.  It helps narrow things down a bit, but it's not the whole picture.

I realize I've been focusing a lot on what it is that I don't want [being a lobotomized Stepford wife, raging bitch, Old Maid cat lady.]  What do I want?

I want the world!  I want the whole world!  I want to lock it all up in my pocket!  It's my bar of chocolate! Give it to me NOW!

My Type A-ness dwindled somewhere amidst driving around the eastern half of the country visiting family, house-sitting for my parents in the suburbs, auditioning for American Idol, running around the streets of Manhattan, frolicking at a bachelorette party in Florida, attempting sleep on a 13 hour Greyhound bus ride beginning at 3:05 AM, visiting my beloved cousin M's husband, then exploring Charlotte where I changed clothes and did my hair in a Panera bathroom [I'm like Superwoman,] then arriving in a dark, empty parking lot in Washington D.C. at 6 AM, running around taking inappropriate pictures with monuments, and finally jumping in a car with my college roommate's friend and her dog to go home.  [That might be my favorite run-on sentence of all time.]  Lots of red-eye bus rides, lots of ridiculous stories.  And somewhere during it all I started listening to my mind and body as to what truly made me happy - what I do want. 

Complete lack of sleep and having absolutely no clue what day it is apparently helps with this.

I came home primed and receptive to however the universe was unfolding before me.  I found myself sitting at a bar with an amazing man who had just spent the past three years teaching English in Ecuador, South Korea, and Spain.  He said that he wants to get a job where he can make decent money, find someone he can travel the world with, spend that money traveling the world with them, and have a family.

Finally, something made sense to me.  Right now, here's what I want:  I want to make my own money, travel, marry someone I love, travel with him, have kids, raise them when they're little, and travel with them.  In order to enable this lifestyle of never having to ask for a vacation day off ever again, I must eschew the modern confines of 9-5 that make me feel like a caged animal.  My present solution?  Insurance sales.  (No, not the kind where you hit up family and friends.  I am totally not comfortable with that.)  I know it's not sexy, but I sold payroll and bought my house at 25.  That's my kind of sexy.  Residuals for ten years?  That's my kind of sexy.  Autonomy, flexibility, independence?  Fuck me, that's hot.

Of course, the minute I realize that if I'm exchanging my time for dollars that I want it to be on my terms, I have two recruiters call me for sales positions.  I could not be less interested.

So here I am with my crush.  Even if this one isn't "the one," I at least feel like it's setting a new standard.

Easier said than done, but I'm working on it.

Strong Enough

The other day as I was getting ready for the New Kids on the Block concert, [totally worth the 20 year wait] I was crimping my hair in all my 80's glory when the power went out in half of my house from a storm.  I went down to my dark, powerless basement and flipped the switches in the breaker box to no avail.  I was going to be late for the concert and figured nothing could be done at the time, so I left.  Make that, tried to leave.  Dummy me, I wasn't thinking that my garage door needed power to open.  It was a picture worthy of Candid Camera - me in four inch heels and a hot pink dress dismantling a garage door opener. I returned home five hours later (after a glorious regression to my eight year old self) to an empty house with no power and a flooded basement. 

No exaggeration, I've come home to worse.  I pulled out my fridge and ran an extension cord to it from an outlet that worked, looked up the numbers for the electric company and my general contractor, and went to bed.  Woke up, called them both and had everything fixed by 9 AM.  Thank God it was the transformer and not something wrong with my house.

Getting my garage door back on track was a little more difficult.  I googled how to do it and it said it was a two person job.  The instructions didn't seem all that complex so I went out and tackled it.  More minutes later than I would like to admit, with the aid of a folding chair, I had a working garage door again.

I am awesome.  Take that, storm!  Make me sleep with no A/C for a night?  Child's play.  No power to my sump pump so my basement floods?  That's nothing.  Garage door needs dismantled and put back on track?  Fuck you, I did it in stilettos.

Cue "Rocky" theme song.

Fast forward to this past Friday night.  I had dinner with my best girlfriend from high school, C, and her wonderful husband.  We cooked a phenomenal meal, laughed, drank wine...and I listened to why they feel I am single and what I need to do to change this.  [We went through three bottles.]

This topic seems to be coming up a lot recently.  This fourth of July, after several margaritas, my brother and one of his best friends and I were sitting around the fire pit and the two of them started discussing why I was alone and what kind of a man I needed.  At the time, I thought my witnessing this conversation was some sort of tequila-induced hallucination.  [After all, we later snuck onto the golf course and hit gasoline covered, flaming golf balls.  Go America!] But just last week, my two sweethearts of roommates (my mortgage isn't going to pay itself) told me that they were talking about how they couldn't figure out why I didn't have a boyfriend.

Each time these conversations have occurred I have felt like perhaps I am having an out of body experience, or I have somehow acquired a superpower of invisibility.  Nope.  Apparently it has become fair game for my friends and family to publicly conjecture why I am single.  OK, maybe conjecture isn't the right word.  My brother and his friend, one of my closest friends of 12 years, and two women who live with me probably have at least a decent grasp on who I am...

Among other things, the recurring theme from all three:   I fix my own garage door.

I have two initial reactions to this.

1. I should not be listening to other people.  They are inside the box thinking, Stepford wife loving, sticks in the mud.  I am spontaneous and adventurous and free-spirited and sometimes slightly stupid.  They're afraid I'm going to do something and end up dead.  I'm afraid I'm not going to do something and end up dead.  When I mess things up the most is when I allow other peoples' fears to creep in to my world and influence my actions and decisions.
2. Are you fucking kidding me?  I'm alone because I don't seem to "need" a man?  Just because I'm perfectly capable of standing on my own two feet doesn't mean that I don't want to share my life with someone.  It doesn't mean that I am a badass all the time either.

There was an ad I cut out years ago about running that said, "I run to take out the garbage in my mind."  Apparently I need to up my mileage.

I've been reading a ton lately, thinking a lot [so what else is new?] and writing like a crazy person.  Reading?  Economics and correlations between perfectionism and procrastination.  Thinking?  Sex, love, relationships, career, new city?, risk-taking, travel, and what I truly want out of all of those.  Writing?  Fairy tales and how they don't relate to real relationships, and how I don't want to live in a romantic comedy.  Can there be two "alphas" in a relationship?  Also, wedding season - endless material.  All of these things combined have resulted in an absolute explosion of wordiness.

Brevity is not my forte.  While I try to pare down and focus my thoughts, here is all I can seem to come up with right now:

I'm fucked and not in the way that I want to be.

Welcome to the Jungle

This Independence Day, my thoughts naturally turned to what I was doing last year at this time.  It was the beginning of the end for XBF and me and I realized that it's been almost a solid year since we broke up.  A year of hilarious adventures in dating.  I think most people, including myself, look back and reflect on New Year's Eve/Day.  For me, as heartbreaking as it was at the time, my new year began once I was single again.

Prior to creepy Condo Guy and Buzz, there were four guys that I dipped my toes in the water with...so may God strike me dead, I am kissing and telling.  Given some of these situations though, I don't feel so bad.

FINISH HER!!!

I will never forget kissing someone for the first time after XBF and I broke up - I felt like I was cheating.  What was so funny is that it wasn't like we were in a Ross and Rachel from Friends situation and "we were on a break."  This was much more akin to Mortal Kombat and someone's skeleton had been ripped out of their body.  We were definitely over.

Enter cute Irish Catholic guy, closet film junkie, pretty eyes - I'll refer to him as Pac Man.  Innocent flirting led to a night out together with friends.  Totally non-threatening.  He knew all the right things to say to swoop in on the carrion post-breakup.  He "understood" if I "needed to take things slow" and he "just wanted to spend time with me and get to know me better" since he thought I'd been "under-appreciated."  I don't think it was his first time at the rodeo.

After some aww-isn't-he-so-thoughtful texts and calls, he was going to California for a wedding for a week and wanted to see me before he left.  Problem was, the only time that worked for both of us was right then, and it was getting late and I was on the couch in sweatpants and a cami clearing out my DVR.  But it felt so nice to have a cute guy want to be so sweet and see me before he left, so I gave in and said something to the effect of:  "I'm just hanging out in my sweats watching tv if you want to come snuggle up with me."

Side note:  I have come to realize that other women were either taught things or handed some sort of manual that I wasn't.  Other women apparently do a really great job of playing the ever-so-seductive game of cat and mouse.  They dangle the carrot and pull it back.  Then dangle and allow for a nibble.  I, on the other hand, am far too literal [awesome, honest, non-manipulative, and logical like a guy when it comes to this stuff which is probably reason number eleventy billion why I'm single] and say pretty much what's on my mind.  That means if I say:  "snuggle" I mean snuggle.  If I say something along the lines of:  "I want you now" - no mixed messages there.

He came over looking better than cute, and he smelled absolutely delicious.  [In retrospect, I think he's the kind of guy who keeps cologne in his car, which aside from being a good way to ruin cologne, is also probably an indicator of his "dating" style.]

How YOU doin'?

The episode of It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia on my tv [I sometimes feel guilty watching that show, the characters really have no souls] was quality background noise to flirty curl up on the couch together time.  I always enjoy getting out and trying new things, but I absolutely love curl up on the couch together time.  Then he kissed me.  After thinking I was going to be kissing one person for the rest of my life, kissing someone new was weird to say the least.  It was like always doing my cartwheels left-handed and suddenly doing them right hand first.

The lululemon manifesto (I read it online while I was looking up their yoga classes) says something about how we all grew up in different homes where different words had different meanings and we need to remember and appreciate that.  I had no idea what "snuggle" meant in Pac Man's world.  Yes, it was getting late that night, but does time of day completely undermine any words I use and simply equate to "let's fuck"?!?!  Perhaps if this is a repeat offense I can agree with that contention, but not if that line hasn't even come close to being crossed.  I digress.

I found out what "snuggle" meant to him as he put my hand on his crotch.  Dude, I'm a big girl.  I know what I'm doing.  If I want my hand to be somewhere, trust me, it'll be there.  I moved my hand away.  One life left, Pac Man.

His kisses continued down my neck, down my collarbone, down my stomach...and kept going...  Now I moved him away.  For crying out loud, the guy had better odds of winning the lottery.  What I loved most, though, was his response.

Pac Man:  "But I just want to make you feel good."
Me:  "I feel awesome."

Tactically speaking, not a bad angle, but given the circumstances and timing, fail.

As he continued his previous advances, "But I want to give you something to remember me by."

Thanks for playing!

I walked him to the door.  I'm no prude, but you've got to be fucking kidding me.  I certainly will remember him, just probably not for the reasons he was hoping.

For the next three, I have to swallow my pride big time and admit something that only four people know.  [Deep breath.]  I went on match.com for the three day free trial.  I felt like it had been long enough and I needed to get back out there.  My three day dalliance was overall quite frightening, but I left the world of online dating with three potential suitors:  Science Guy, Young Paul Bunyan, and The Russian.

Science guy was 34, worked in a lab, and was finishing his PhD.  As if being super smart wasn't sexy enough, he was very easy on the eyes, classically good looking.  Everything went downhill from there.  We met up at a nice sports bar where he drank one beer and dominated the appetizer we ordered.  At least offer me a chance at the last tuna and avocado roll!  Talking with him was painful.  Monotone.  We were at a sports bar and he's a guy, so I shifted the conversation to sports.  I am a ginormous sports fan and he was saying how he couldn't understand how people got so into it.  Granted, we live in a college town where our football team is practically a religion, but he had no desire to ever even go to a game and preferred to spend his Saturdays in the lab.  No professional soccer games?  No AAA baseball games?  Nothing.  Add to this the fact that he was pretty much dressed like my 50-something father with his braided belt and tucked in polo.  I think our server was either completely negligent or misconstrued my carrying the conversation for us having a good time, and what should have lasted maybe two hours was an excruciating three and a half hour long teeth-pulling session.  I actually had a headache when it was over.

Next was the Young Paul Bunyan.  Minnesota native, Northwestern grad, super outdoorsy, super cute.  I branched out and went on a date with someone younger.  He was 25.  Yikes!  He was adorable [I use that specific word intentionally] and we had a lovely time at dinner and grabbed a couple beers afterward.  I don't know whether it was his age, the fact that he is incredibly sweet and mild-mannered, or what, but to me he was adorable in the way that puppies are adorable.  There is no kind of adorable that makes me want to grab someone and passionately kiss them.

Then there was the Russian.  Criminal defense attorney, 29, Jewish.  A guy who I could talk to all day long, and we did for over a month.  He was someone who appreciated my outspokenness and shared my love of trying new things.  Two problems:  even though he said he wasn't, he was still very much into the club scene, and I wasn't really super physically attracted to him.  The latter was compensated for by the fact that I am very much a personality person when it comes to dating, not everyone is Jake Gyllenhaal, and he had a great personality.  But the club thing...  So we went on a couple of fun dates and I told him that while I used to be more into that lifestyle [when I was 20-23 and in college] it really had no appeal to me anymore.  He swore that he only went occasionally because they were clients and old friends and urged me to come with him one night and see for myself that it wasn't so bad.  So I went with an open mind.  [Tried to keep that open mind as I saw several members of my college's football team there who may or may not have been sporting tattoos and driving vehicles that later contributed to their entering the draft early.]  I couldn't do it.  I drank my free Goose to the point where I woke up in the Russian's bed.  Fully clothed.  Not just fully clothed, I mean, coat, scarf, heels, tights, dress, jewelry, the whole shebang.  How do I put this delicately?  If I've been dating someone for over a month, get drunk with them and wake up in their bed, I shouldn't still be wearing my coat.

I have spent the past year dating people who have turned out to be all kinds of wrong for me, but I'm glad I've put myself out there again.  I feel like I've learned a lot about myself, what I want out of a relationship, and reiterated the fact that dammit, blue-eyed, intelligent men are like kryptonite to me.  XBF called me to tell me he misses me and that he hasn't really seen anyone since we broke up and marriage/kids just might not be in the cards for him.  It made me sad for him, but it was a great reminder of why we should never be together.  No matter how crazy this past year has been, I still haven't given up hope that my future partner in crime is out there.  Hell, if Lil Wayne can release a ballad as a single, anything is possible.

Pretty good year.

Wildflowers

I have absolutely no clue what I'm doing right now.  I'm not speaking in hyperbole here.  For the first time in my life, in virtually every aspect, I am not sure what the next step is for me.  The good news is, after getting let go from my job two weeks ago, I have the opportunity and time to figure that out.  After feeling so trapped, paralyzed, and terrified of making the wrong decision, I finally feel liberated to get a little messy, make some mistakes, travel, try something new.  Seriously, as long as my mortgage is paid and Giorgio is ok, what's the worst that can really happen?

Unfortunately this does not bode well for my natural proclivity for over-analyzing.

So I jumped in my car, spent some time with God and my puppy, and visited family I hadn't seen since I took my piece of shit job (hereon out to be referred to as the POSJ.)  1,918 miles, 14 awesome relatives, 10 states, 7 days, 6 dogs (And 1 blue-eyed hottie who caught the garter at my cousin's wedding where I caught the bouquet.)

I set off on this trip anticipating that I would take some serious time to evaluate what it is that I'm really looking for in something that I'm spending 40-60-plus hours a week doing rather than being so focused on leaving my current job.  What I realized is that I'm probably no closer to that answer than I was when I set out on my trip, and now I have a whole new set of questions.

For starters, why exactly am I staying in this city?  Yes, it was a wonderful place to grow up and my family is here...but I don't feel like much else is, and I really think I'm just fine with a phone relationship with my parents.  I constantly feel like I'm searching for people who like to do the things that I do.  Or hell, just do anything outside of going to the same bars I went to in college, or get married and move to the suburbs.  It seems to be pick one of the two.  I want Option C.

I want to experience new places and activities.  I will see any live concert, go to any sporting event (ok, maybe not women's basketball,) attend any festival, trivia night, try any new restaurant or bar...but I had multiple people back out on me for Warrior Dash and can't seem to find people to go cabrewing/camping/board game night/paintballing/curling/putt-putting/play kickball.  How would I find these people, my brethren?  I'm beginning to think that being in a city with more like-minded people would help.  My first thought is someplace warmer with professional sports teams.  I could be wrong, but every brainstorm needs a start.

Although I have no problem doing this stuff by myself, all of these things would be fun to share with someone.  Would I perhaps be less frustrated in my love life if I could find more guys who like to experience life and try new things as opposed to just catching up on their DVR?  Dare I say that a year out from something uber-serious and a couple of duds and d-bags later, I'm open to the idea of something real again?  Open to, not looking for - two entirely different concepts. 

I do not want to aimlessly search for the next way to box myself in to something neat and tidy and corporate so that everyone can let out a sigh of relief.  "Oh thank God she's not unemployed!"  I feel the same way about a career/job right now as I do a relationship:  I'd rather be without one than in one where I'm not happy.  Right now, I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing, but for someone who was "Most Likely to Succeed" in high school, and has always had a plan and high aspirations - embracing that is quite possibly the best I've felt in a long time.