I Carried A Watermelon.

The best way that I can describe what sleeping/bedtime is like for me right now, at 23 weeks pregnant:
Go to the store and buy a 30 pound watermelon. Take that 30 pound watermelon and put it right over your lower abs and hips, right on top of your bladder. Tape that sucker down with duct tape.
Find two one-pound oranges. Stick them in your bra. Without padding. Do EVERYTHING you normally do with that watermelon and those oranges on you. Make sure your breasts end up really sore by the end of the day.
Go to sleep. On your side, because if you lay on your back, the watermelon will cut off your circulation. Try and sleep - uncomfortably.
Put a pillow between your legs, because that watermelon over your hips is wider than how your legs comfortably fall. Put a second pillow between your legs, because it wasn't quite helping. Now it's too high.
Try and flip over, because you've given up on your right side for the time being, and now your hip hurts. Flipping over is a two minute ordeal, as your belly, hips, and back are prone in a laying position and struggle under the weight.
Lay on your left side, and try the pillow again. Say fuck it, and take three fucking pillows, and throw them down in front of your legs, and cross your leg over it. Much better. Finally.
Close your eyes for five minutes, until you realize your entire back is aching from carrying around the watermelon all day. Reach for a fourth pillow, and cram it as tightly behind you as you can, without disturbing your legs. Close your eyes again. For a minute.
Realize that your arms are crushing those oranges against your chest as you try to find a comfortable way to let your arms fall. Reach for a fifth pillow, and hug it to your chest to comfortably separate your arms and keep your shoulders level. Close your eyes.
Oh my God. Sleep.
Wake up twenty minutes later because all of a sudden the watermelon is kicking you.
Huh? Wtf? That's not right!?!
Go back to sleep. Wake up 45 minutes later because the watermelon, right over your bladder, is making you have to pee like never before. RIGHT NOW.
Kick away all the pillows! Slide to the side of your bed by some weird ass and hips slithering motion because the watermelon has you pinned down. Sneeze. You're basically peeing now. Throw your legs over the side of the bed, while you use that momentum to help you sit up. Run to the bathroom.
Do your duty.
Change your pajama pants, somehow. Generally by holding on to the corner of the bed while you try and maneuver your legs into them and pull them up without bending over.
Lay back down on your left side. Get the pillows back in place.
Realize you are now wide awake.
Do a crossword puzzle, without moving the bulk of your somewhat comfortable body.
Think about how irritated you are with the dude that sold you the watermelon, that is at home peacefully sleeping right now, with no consideration for what your night has come to.
Concentrate on not moving.
Read an article in a magazine, still without moving.
Close your eyes and will yourself to sleep.
Your hips hurt because now you've been on your left side too long, and the weight of the watermelon has taken it's toll.
FUCK!
Start the two minute process of flipping to your right side. Move all of the pillows into place. Put a sixth pillow somewhat under the watermelon.
Sleep. Yes. Sleep.
The watermelon is kicking you again, but oh well.
Wake up two hours later, when your alarm goes off. Slither off the bed again.
Make cereal. Go to the couch to eat it. Set it on the table.
Pass out on the couch.
Wake up four hours later with the soggy, melted, untouched cereal on the table in front of you, your house a mess, and realize you have 15 minutes to get ready for work, and all that time that you allotted for today to clean and get your life together is gone.

Side note: If you don't have a magazine article nearby, you can always just send your friend some long ass weird email about watermelons and sleep at 4:15 in the morning instead... complete with autocorrect errors and the rantings of a crazy woman getting kicked from the inside.

When Dreams Come True, And The Nightmares That Go With Them.

When I started this blog, I promised myself that I would write once a week. The last one I wrote was in January. It's June now. I haven't been able to face this blog for some time, because then I have to face myself, and I'm not quite sure how to do that right now.
I got into a relationship in January. A fast and furious one. I don't think I know how to do any other kind. I relented, and, against my better judgment, started dating a coworker that I was attracted to. I'll just refer to him as Dick. I fell really hard. We both did. Within a couple of weeks, we were in a monogamous relationship, yet we had to keep it secret, as we were not allowed to date within the company, especially as I was in the midst of a promotion.
Then I got pregnant.
After all of these years of crying myself to sleep, desperately wanting a child of my own, it happened. And it happened the very first time we messed around. We had only been in a relationship for three weeks when we found out. It threw a major wrench into everything for both of us. While I was elated to be having a baby, I knew that everything would change, for me, for him, and definitely for us. There was no way we could continue working together, in a secret relationship, while I was growing big with his baby.
Initially we dealt with things as best we could. Slowly things became a bit tense. He blamed a lot on me, as I was the one with the desire to have a baby, even though he knew exactly what he was doing when it happened. Then things went to hell. Fucking terrifying shit nightmare hell.
His ex girlfriend had been trying to get in touch with him for months, since the last time they had dealt with each other - right before he met me. Things had been so bad with her that he had cut all communication. About three weeks after we found out about my pregnancy, she finally got hold of him. It turns out that she is pregnant as well, and timing puts it when they last dealt with each other, three to four months further along than me.
They have known each other a lot longer than he and I, and they are also of the same religion. She had met his family when they were in a relationship, which he and I had only known each other a short time, are of conflicting religions, and his family is not interested in meeting me. Upon finding out about Dick's precarious situation, his parents decided to get involved. They immediately started pushing for him to marry the ex, so that they could have a grandbaby of the same faith. They have given no thought to me, or to this grandchild of theirs. They have threatened many things in order to get Dick to do what they deem is correct, including threatening to disown him, which would cause him to lose any and all inheritance that he would've received.
This was hard enough, but I guess that fate decided that I needed more trials. I found out that Dick was actually considering marrying the ex. It turns out that his ex had always been suicidal (a major factor in their original break up) and that she was still threatening suicide now, which would not only end her life, but the baby's as well. I'm sorry, and I do feel for those that are dealing with depression, but seriously?!? Who does that?!? If he marries her because of that, all she would ever have to do is throw a tantrum threatening to kill herself anytime she wants something. It's just sick and deranged. She had been trying to get him back for a long time. I truly believe that she planned to get pregnant from the get go (she booked the trip out here specifically to have sex with him, which is when it happened), as a ploy to get him back. She made a trip out to see his parents without him, while she was seven months pregnant, to get them to speak on her behalf. I don't demonize ex girlfriends as a rule, because I know there are two sides to every story, but in this situation, where this woman is using underhanded, slimy ways to screw over myself and my child, I don't feel that I am demonizing a woman. I feel that I am describing a snake.
Obviously, the fact that my boyfriend was considering marrying another woman while I was pregnant with his child didn't bode well for our relationship. Dick and I broke up. We still had to work with each other almost every day, though, and that was a living hell. I couldn't talk to anyone about it, and I would cry more at work than I could've thought imaginable. I was dealing with all of the ailments of pregnancy by myself, while the father looked on, completely unbothered, while he "dealt" with his own issues - by doing nothing. He hasn't married her, he hasn't tried to work anything out with me, he has only been doing what will suffice for his parents to not take away his inheritance. I guess not dealing with the Greek girl is enough.
He would have moments where I could see how confused he was, and that deep down he wanted to deal with me, even though things were different now. I had become a raving bitch. Hormones and righteousness overtook me. My temper is something else when someone I love and care about is being messed with, and this isn't just someone I love we are talking about - this is my child. It wasn't a temper he was dealing with. It was rage. It still is. We would try and talk at times, and I would be patient and understanding, because deep down, I do feel for the guy. Family is important to both of us, and his parents hold a lot of pull. I get it. But seriously, dude, grow some balls. I had to sit down and talk with my family about my predicament, and I was prepared for them to disown me, especially if I stayed with him, and I didn't shy away from that potential outcome. This is my child that deserves a good father. If I felt that he would be one, there's nothing I wouldn't give for my child to benefit from it. Fortunately, my family quickly came around, and have been incredibly supportive of the baby. The one thing that they have asked is that I leave Dick alone, unless he comes for me, with a ring. For this, I know that my family is incredibly wise. They aren't holding anything against him, they just don't want me stooping to keep someone that may not be worth keeping. I need a man and a father for my child, not some guy that shirks responsibility and only thinks of himself.
In order to get some separation, and hopefully into a less stressful environment, I ended up quitting my job and started working for my cousin. He and I have talked a few times since I left, and the conversations seemed to go well, but it's hopeless. Truly. Deep down I know it, and this is why I haven't been able to write in this blog. At my core, I want him to love me. I want him to want to be with us - me, and our son. I want him to be the man that he promised to be when we first made love, and this little boy was conceived. Biologically, I can't stop this desire to be with him. I have our baby in me, and all I want is him. I want him to hold me at night, and to have his hand protectively on my big belly, feeling this baby kick.
I've slept alone every night for the last few months. I've dealt with this nightmare by myself. He should be flying out to his ex any day now, to be there for the birth of his first child, also a boy. He will experience it all just a few months before my baby is born. His parents will most likely go and celebrate the birth of their grandchild. I will be sitting here, with no communication from him, as he doesn't view my heart and feelings as being involved with any of this. He hasn't attended a single doctor's appointment. I heard the baby's heartbeat for the first time by myself, with tears in my eyes. I found out my son's gender by myself. He has not been a daddy or a father. Dick has been a donor.
The only recompense I have in any of this is the name of my child. My son will be named after my father, and will carry my last name. Dick does not get to waltz in after the baby is born, and try and claim the baby's name. We've had a few conversations about his frustrations with this, but frankly, I don't care. My son will not be living with a name for the rest of his life because of a father that is not around. He will know exactly who he is named after, and he will know why. He will know about how loving, strong, and amazing my father is. He will know what a true male role model is.
When I told my sister that I am having a boy, she said "I thought so, it makes sense. You've been looking for a man to love you unconditionally your entire life. Now you will finally have one."
I don't think I've cried so hard in my life.

If These Walls Could Talk

My bedroom has been the setting for a lot of the events in my life. I've been laid up in it with pneumonia, shingles, flus, sprained ankles, and mono. I've spent hours and hours decorating it, painting it, cleaning it, and doing it all over again. It's been my shelter, my sanctuary, and, of course, my boudoir. Over the years, it's taken on a life of it's own.
I guess, if you wanted to analyze it, you could say my innermost vulnerabilities show up in my bedroom. The "show" bedding that I have is light green satin and lace, matching the hue of my eyes. The single lamp I have in there is draped in a scarf of the same color. These are probably the sole decorations in my room that are not influenced by anything else but myself.
I had a painting over my bed that Perse had given me. It was one she had done after a trip to New York, where she had been the victim of a sexual assault. The painting was amazing, but it got to a point where I had to give it to Stacey. The painting, while beautiful, was filled with images of penis shaped heads emerging from the ground, with churches in the background, and a man fellating a woman. After awhile, it started to effect my dreams. So I changed it to a painting that reminds me of someone that used to be friends with (referenced in my Edie And Andy entry), and who had broken my heart completely, because I am sadistic. His sister had painted the piece in question of a cross section of a person's head/brain, with a map of Portland in the brain. He has a brain tumor that he has been fighting for over a decade. I purchased the piece because it hit me on several emotional levels, it being his sister, and a brain, and the map of Portland, a place that means a lot to me. And now, when we can no longer be in the same room together, I oddly enough sleep under that painting every night. I need a painting over my bed because I don't have a headboard. I gave up on having headboards. Between them taking up wall space that can be used by art, and the fact that I have a tendency to break them, it seems to be a better fit to go without. And I don't break them how you think I do. I break them by changing the linens on my bed. Over time the screws and such that hold them to the base board just fall to pieces. So, no, I don't break my head board by too much play. That's how I have broken my bed itself. I wish I was exaggerating.
There are several other paintings and drawings in my room, some done by myself, but many done by my friends. On one wall, I also have several religious icons. Being Greek Orthodox, icons - images of saints and Jesus - are an important part of the faith. Being an artist, it is an aspect of the religion that I understand in my soul, but it did make for weird bedmates, the saints and Perse's penises. Probably another reason I swapped the pieces.
My bedroom used to be painted white. It's not anymore. It's red. Blood red. After a fall out with an ex-boyfriend, I took it out on my bedroom and painted it menstrual red. For some reason, I needed my own version of the Red Tent. A bedroom as passionate and outspoken as I am. To top it of, my bedroom isn't overly large. It's a very cozy small red bedroom, just big enough for my queen sized bed, wardrobe, and nightstand. My house is also very old, and my room is partially under the staircase, leaving a low, sloped ceiling in my room, just about a foot away from my bed. I only mention this because this placement has been the cause of many injuries for gentlemen callers. When they get up in the morning to put their clothing back on, and they stand up to their full height after pulling their pants up, they smack the shit out of their head on the sloped ceiling. The first time it happened, I felt horrible for the guy. After watching different guys bonking the crap out of their heads, it became difficult not to laugh. I have been itching to install a secret video camera there just to catch the moment they beat the shit out of their domes.
That brings me back to all those icons. It never occurs to me at the time, but I'm sure it's got to be weird to the guys to have all these saints looking at them while we do what they would frown upon. Somehow, most guys that I have dated didn't let it effect their performance, and the ones that had performance issues didn't seem to be bothered by them either.
In many ways, my room has become my bachelorette pad. Between the red walls, and the veiled lamp light, it has a lusty feel to it. I have my hiding spot for my prophylactics and fun stuff. I have my candles and incense, which I only light when men come over. I don't care about that frilly stuff when I'm on my own. I have a selection of music that I keep near the player, in case of a more spontaneous encounter. I even have a selection of guy friendly movies, depending on the temperament of the guy, that I fall back on. Movies including 300, Black Dynamite, Fifth Element, Scarface, American Gangster, and Sherlock Holmes among others. A selection put together for their ability to make dudes comfortable, but not draw all of their attention, so they can pay attention to me, as well. If these walls could talk, they would tell of similar conversations with different men over the years ("why do you have a spiked wooden mace hanging from the wall?" - can't tell you how many times I've had that conversation...), about men nearing concussion, and about the good, the bad, and the ugly in sex. I can't be too embarrassed though. I've lived in this house for almost 15 years, and am in my mid thirties. All that experience had to happen somewhere, at least it's where I reign, in my blood red heart of a room.

Don't Cry For Me, Argentina

The last few weeks have been rigorous. Between an insane work schedule, holidays, family expectations, and heartache, my immune system crashed, and I woke up this morning with shingles. I have had small outbreaks of shingles before, during times of stress and while recovering from other things, like pneumonia. This will be the second new year's eve that I will spend quarantined in my home because of the ailment. So now that I have no choice but to stay home and get rest, I finally have time to write the blog entry that's been flitting around in my head.
Since my last blog entry, I did speak with Tony. It turned out that it was just as he said: he had a lot to deal with. His ex girlfriend of eight years had been showing up and wreaking havoc. We continued to get to know each other, and I continued to fall for him, and then something happened. I completely lost it.
I swear, there are certain men that are put on this earth specifically to drive women crazy, and turn us into sniveling, wimpy psychopaths, willing to do anything for a few slight moments of conversation. Tony's style of communicating had started making me nuts from a few weeks ago, as it was always on his terms, and at his convenience. We had planned a date, which he confirmed from the night before, and which I had spent every extra minute I had had for days cleaning and preparing for it. I got three hours of sleep the night before the date because I would be seeing him directly after work and needed whatever time I had left to clean and prep myself. While at work that day, I received a text message from him, cancelling the date. He had a men's group meeting that he had forgotten about. While I understood this, and accepted it, it still REALLY sucked being on my end.
It turns out that I never got over that, though I tried. We talked a few times after, but then ended up having one blowout conversation that ended it all. Too be fair to myself, he said a few things that I could not put up with, nor should I. It came down to him stating that things were always going to come up - a sentiment that I had dealt with many times before from my fighter and my cop. A sentiment that I have come to understand as "you will never be important enough to me to come first, or even second, to whatever the wind blows at me." I have been there, done that, and don't need to deal with it again. Because I am important to me. He then also pointed out that "well, YOU'RE not a parent, but as a parent, I have come to understand..." And that's when I hung up on him.
Being a woman in my 30's, desperate to have children, having to consider different options in order to be with him because he has four kids and refuses to have more, it was the last thing in the world I needed to put up with from him. If every argument we have ends with him rubbing that in my face, well, I have better men I could be doing. Not that this prevented me from trying to call and text him several times to fix the emotional hang up that happened when I had been on 4 hours of sleep each night for weeks, had been working twelve hour days, and hadn't had a day off in God knows when, all of which he knew. Yet, somehow, I was trying to make up for being "wrong" for hanging up when he said something that offended and upset me to the core. And yet, I still forgave the fact that he broke up with me over text, and was too pussy to have a conversation with me in person or over the phone about it.
And now? Broken hearted, alone again, and still searching, what have I found? Myself. Or at least glimpses of it. There are still men that are interested in me, and I hang out with them when I want to, but I needed more than basing my enjoyment off of someone else. I needed to listen to show tunes. I needed to sing Madonna at the top of my lungs. I needed to remember what is worth fighting for - and what I would willingly give things up for in that fight. I needed to remember Absolutely Fabulous, and enjoy my best friends. I needed to write, draw, and paint. I needed to have sex, just outright sex with someone(s), and just enjoy it, if that's what took my fancy. I needed to stop feeling bad if I wasn't interested in someone that is interested in me. I needed to eat chocolate, drink wine, and go out with the guys.
And you know what all this has come to? I feel better about everything on the whole, because no matter what happens, I am me. I am not broken. My heart still beats. I'm stronger for it.

Another One Bites The Dust.

Since my last entry, I took a slight break from dating, until I felt comfortable enough to deal with meeting strangers again. Obviously, it didn't take too long. Hope springs eternal, as does idiocy. At the time I took the break, I had been in conversations with a couple of men, and over a few weeks time, I felt comfortable getting to know each of them better.
The first, Melvin, an engineer, is a sweet man with a gentle heart. He is my same age, never been married, and would like to have a family. It sounds like everything I should want. Upon getting to know him, I found that he is incredibly sweet, but there were a few things that bothered me profoundly. It turns out that at this point in my life, I would prefer to be with someone a bit older than me, a realization I hadn't come to before now. He also unknowingly says things that come off as condescending, like asking me if I made it to work on my first day with my new job. With over 27 years of successful work experience, including 13 years in management, this simple question completely discredited my entire history. He also started making statements toward the inevitability of us having to move for him to continue working, and we were not even in an actual relationship yet, let alone considering moving in together. Within two weeks of dating, he invited me out to Florida, where he was going to spend time with his mom. He also started making plans for us for a year from now, as well as started texting me several times a day. It was just too much.
The saddest thing is, the one thing that probably got to me the most is that he has a childlike voice. When he cracks jokes, he spins that voice to be even more baby-like, thinking that it somehow makes it funnier. While the last thing I want to hear is a childlike voice from a man while we are intimate, the jokes, especially, disturbed me to the core.
The other man I started to date, Tony, is the complete opposite, of course. He is also a professional, but in a burgeoning market. He and his friend run one of the biggest cannabis distributors in Washington. Now that recreational use is legal in the state, it is a wise business venture. It also makes him somewhat of a glorified drug dealer, I guess, but with better clothes, and legitimate business plans. He has been married before, has four kids, and has been fixed. While he is not against getting married again, he never intends to have any more kids, though he is fine if I have kids on my own. And even that is doable, especially with gay male friends wanting a child as well. My own personal version of Modern Family.
Tony is a few years older than me, sincere, funny, and has a good heart and sense of responsibility. He is also generally unavailable, which I love. I wouldn't get off work to find seven messages questioning how my day was, and whether things were okay. I would receive a phone call and/or text message every few days as his schedule between work and his kids permit, and I felt blessed for each and every one. They definitely weren't in a baby voice. When we were intimate, he growled. It was the sexiest thing I had ever heard. His kisses made me melt. And he held me. Not after, but during. With strong arms, and a protective gentleness that was unlike anything I had ever experienced. Ever.
I fell like a rock from the acropolis. There was no saving me.
And like a rock from the acropolis, I have now been left just sitting, a shadow of what I could be, waiting for some tourist, some dude, to pick me up and carry me away to keep as a souvenir.
When I fell so hard for Tony, I stopped responding to Melvin. He finally wrote me, asking if he did something wrong. I felt horrible about that, as he really hadn't done anything wrong outside of put too much stock in something that I couldn't see through. I wrote him back and let him know that I was dealing with a lot (which I am), and that it wasn't fair to him, and that I was sorry. He was very sweet about the whole thing, asking if he could help.
Yesterday I received a message from Tony stating that he had been bad with communicating with me lately, and that he is dealing with a lot, and that he is sorry. Broken hearted, I told him to take the time he needed and contact me when/if he wanted to.
And then I didn't sleep. Not for hours. I really liked him, and receiving almost exactly the same blow off that I had given to Melvin just killed me. Now, granted, I could be completely mistaken, and dudes are dudes, and when they say shit, you can't read into it because they aren't as complicated as women. If they say they are dealing with something, it could mean just that. But that is not what my gut is telling me in this situation. My instincts tell me that he just isn't that into me. Even when I liked him so much that I tried to figure out the whole baby thing, that I still won't end up with the first man I have really felt a connection with in a long time. I'm the Melvin here, and it has shocked me to the core, and broken my heart. But not without humiliation. Because I stupidly sent him another text this morning outright asking, out of fairness, if he was at all interested still, as I'd rather know if I should move on from now. Because I am a dumb girl. And a stupid rock. A dumb stupid girl rock.

Back To The Drawing Board.

I started this blog with the intention of being honest and forthright. I wanted to take a personal look at the life of a thirtysomething single girl, and use humor and wit to make a frustrating situation more palpable. I was hoping to make other single women know that they are not alone in what they face and deal with, and for me to learn something along the way.
I have been torn about whether or not to write about a recent incident in my life, because it was a horrible experience that is difficult to downplay with laughs. I have decided to write about it as best I can, as I know that I am not alone, and neither are those that read this. I apologize that this entry is a bit darker than what I usually write, but it is true.
I had met a man from a singles site, and he and I got along really well. He works with youth like I do, and is right around the same age. He is currently in school so that he can eventually become a teacher, while he is leading an after school program towards leadership. Our love of youth was one of the things that caught our interest in each other. After chatting online for awhile, we eventually started talking on the phone for hours. He had a dry wit that made me laugh, and he found my laughter contagious. The chemistry was noticeable. Finally we decided to meet in person. Earlier this week he invited me to a steakhouse located halfway between our two cities. We had a blast during dinner, which he paid for. He said some outlandish things about sex so straight faced that he got me laughing so hard I almost peed my pants. After dinner he walked me to my car, and hugged me. He wasn't feeling well while I'm hoping to get hired at a new job next week, and I didn't want to catch anything so no kissing.
Over the next few days, I didn't hear much from him. Almost all communication had dropped off, whereas we had been talking for hours before we met. It has been awhile since I had dated anyone even semi-seriously, and I really liked him. I was really bummed. Then yesterday I relented, and texted him in between his class and work schedule. He mentioned that he had been extremely busy, but that he wants me. He said it outright in a text, no hiding behind anything. He was planning on going away for the weekend, and yesterday was (hopefully) going to be my last weekday without work for awhile, so I threw caution to the wind and drove the hour to see him after he invited me to. I had been needing physical contact for awhile, especially cuddling, and we had such great chemistry that I knew it was going to be great.
When I finally got there, I knocked on the door, and heard an ominous "it's open, come in". That sent my nerves on their guard immediately. It seemed rude that I drove an hour and he couldn't even come to the door. I didn't feel any better when I opened the door and he was sitting on his couch in his underwear. Even if we both had the intention to play a little bit - he had already told me he was celibate, so fiddling was going to be the extent of it, it still seemed like he would have at least gone through the motion of putting on pants for me. We cuddled up for a bit and talked, and then he started pushing my head downward. He mentioned how much he enjoyed getting kissed down there. Mind you, we had never kissed on the mouth as of yet. I told him that I prefer to get kissed prior to anything, so he at least condescended to kissing me.
It just got worse from there. Though we didn't actually have intercourse, what he did left me bruised, battered, and humiliated. I was actually in tears, pushing him off me at one point. When I told him what I had issues with, he explained that he is aggressive. There is a huge difference between aggression and manhandling a woman and degrading her. I rinsed off in his shower before leaving, because I couldn't imagine driving for an hour with the feel of that man's touch on me. On my way home, I drove through a fast food joint and ordered a large meal and a shake, in order to have something to focus on rather than what had just happened. When I got home, I took another shower - sitting on the edge of the tub, my head in my hands, with the water pouring all over me. I just felt violated, used, and debased. On top of it all, I was crushed. I had really liked him, and hoped something would happen there. I'm still having a hard time putting together the facts that the guy that was so great is in actuality so horrible.
The good thing about all of this is Persephone, my best friend that I have been estranged from for several months. I absolutely love Perse, but I have had an extremely tough summer. I couldn't handle more problems than what was completely necessary. It meant that I had to distance myself from a few friends over the last few months, including Perse. After what happened yesterday, though, I desperately needed someone that I could talk about it with frankly, including the lurid details. The only friend that I have that would not only listen to the whole thing and give good advice, but also wouldn't be uncomfortable doing so, and would even commiserate is Perse. We talked last night for awhile, and it felt really good. And today, while I have still been in an awful funk (I actually turned down a date with a gorgeous man tonight solely because I couldn't fathom talking to any man today) Perse has been making me laugh and making me feel human. God bless her. No matter how bad the situation is, it helps to have a friend help lead you through when you can't do it yourself.

Writing My Own Rules

In the last few months that I've been unemployed, I've had a lot more time to get to know some new men. In doing so, I've met some really good guys, and some not so good guys. As a person that seeks comfort with what I know from experience, I have also had the urge to get in touch with a few old flames, primarily for distraction, but also because it has been an incredibly tough few months. A new acquaintance cannot offer the same intimacy and understanding that a person from my past can offer. But I have fought the urge to contact my old flames, and have generally succeeded in staying away from devices like my phone, computer, and smoke signal that would allow me to do so. The reason for this is my first, and most important, dating rule that I have imposed on myself.
1. I cannot find my future if I keep living in my past.
This rule is important for two reasons:
a.) I need to let them live their lives. One of the men that I keep wanting to run to is my ex with all the kids and baby mommas. Last I heard from him, he definitely wasn't happy with the child, I mean girlfriend, he was with, but they have a baby together, and so he needed to stay with her, healthy or not. He and I spent a bit of time together off and on several months ago, seeking comfort and someone that gets our sense of humor, eventhough he had his girlfriend at home. This made a mockery of both our lives. It was nothing like the love we had, not even a dim reflection of it. That's gone, and frankly, it's never coming back. It was primarily physical, and even that wasn't that good. It was like getting a teeth cleaning. I have a more sensual time at the spa with my massage therapist. Obviously, this was really doing nothing for either of us. And the more I contacted him, the more I was destroying his life and that of his child.
b.) I need to let go. If these distractions were at all good for me, I would still be with them. One of the men I keep wanting to contact is the fighter. The fighter who was always gone, who brought out the worst in me, who condescended to me often, who most likely cheated on me, and who talked about slapping me around like it was nothing. Don't get me wrong, we had fun, and we really cared for each other, but obviously it was not a healthy relationship, and definitely not someone that I should be around. There is a reason he is not in my life. I need to recognize and respect that. Otherwise I'm more of a dumbshit than he ever told me I was.
Which brings me to the second rule:
2. Not every man worth meeting is worth keeping.
This rule sounds like common sense, but most women, at least those that I know, will keep someone around that they're not that into if there isn't someone that they are into. It's nice to have a companion when you would like to get out of the house, I get that. I'm not talking about decent guys that don't have that zing that makes your heart jump up your throat and choke you just because they looked at you. The guys that are smart, fun, reliable dudes who treat you with respect should be kept around. Spend time with them and get to know them. Things may develop with them, and if not, at least you do have someone fun to do things with. That's what dating is. The ones I am talking about are the ones that don't respect you, and are stupid for it.
I went on a date not long ago with a man that has a very reliable, somewhat glamorous and high earning position with a major company in the area. He has a swanky flat downtown, and owns several pieces of property. He is somewhat funny, and not unattractive. The date wasn't horrible, but he made mention a few times that I am a bit bigger than the girls that he usually dates. He also made sure that I knew that he had a "hair" fetish. During the date and over the course of a few phone calls and text conversations, he questioned me on my diet, my workouts, and requested that I lose weight "for him". He also requested that I get none of my body hair waxed or removed. I'm a Greek woman. If I don't take care of my body hair, it will grow out and suffocate me. He had no qualms demanding that I alter myself and my comfort for his desires, and I was barely interested in him in the first place. I eventually told him to shove it. He either needed to get over his issues, or refrain from contacting me. During the course of the last month, I once or twice thought about contacting him to see how he is doing, but I stopped myself. I was done with guys like him ages ago. I'm not looking back. I found out that he tried to contact me a couple of weeks ago, and upon seeing that, I still had the same gut response: he can shove it.
And the last rule for today's lesson:
3. Be completely, absolutely, unforgivingly myself, and love it.
I will never apologize for being me. My weight fluctuates - I have learned to love it. I like the work it takes to lose weight, and the way I can visibly see myself heal from what ever emotional incident caused the weight gain in the first place. I love that I work hard, that I speak my mind, that I fight for equality, and that I can still cuddle with those I care about. I love to cook, even when I mess up. I love to paint, and I love what the fruits of that labor brings, even if they are emotional paintings that aren't always pretty. I love that I am career minded and unwilling to be less so that I can make some man feel like he is more. I love to work with kids and animals, and to care for those that I come in contact with. I'm an amazing, kick ass, righteous babe, and anyone that is intimidated or uninterested in me can blow it out their ass. I'm also cute, too.
Having these three very basic rules in hand hasn't made dating easier, not at all, but they have made me look forward rather than back, and they have also helped me to recognize that when someone points out faults they believe I have, it's usually because they are unwilling to acknowledge and love the ones they see in themselves. If they can't love their own imperfections, they will never love mine, and my imperfections deserve to be loved.