Another Sunday afternoon has come, and will quickly go, like they always do. I love Sundays. I would go as far as to say Sunday is my favorite day of the whole week. It's the one day of the week I forgive myself for having no motivation to do anything. And sometimes, most times, I surprise myself and do more than anticipated. I guess that's the advantage of setting the bar nice and low, the littlest things can be seen as the biggest victories.
So I finally got around to the dishes, which is my biggest failure are a single home-dweller. I can justify NOT doing dishes like you couldn't believe. For starters, I have so many dishes that I never actually have to do them. In fact, I could throw away every plate I own once it's used and still not have to worry about dishes for easily a month. I know this because I have strongly considered it while glaring back at the odoriferous pile staring up from the sink. But they are done now, which inspired me to sweep the kitchen floor and wipe down the coffee table. I even fluffed the throw pillows on the couch.
At the end of the day, I feel better when I clean. But cleaning brings to light a lot of things my distracted by tv and filth mind doesn't normally see. I am made to recognize a lot of my young adult habits. Ones that, I believe, didn't really start to exist until I was finally on my own again. I am without roommate, without boyfriend, without live-in family. I am officially alone. And with the exception of the time I am at work, I have developed some very interesting habits. Maybe they have always been there, lurking under the surface, and now that I am spending more time getting to know myself they are shining through.
1. Sometimes when I am washing a dish, or silverware, I will convince myself that that spot there isn't just a piece of stubborn debris that can't be easily removed, but better yet a stain that probably won't come off ever. This is just shear laziness.
2. I sleep on my couch 90% of the time. Why wouldn't I? That's the room with the tv and a table located closely to the pile of pillows and old worn down comforter. Not only is it comfortable, but it's closer to the kitchen. I'll worry about crawling back into bed when I have I someone who can't comfortable fit on the couch with me.
3. Pretzels dipped in melted chocolate chips is the easiest, and most delicious dessert ever. A touch of peanut butter is the perfect addition for those classier nights in.
4. Every night can be a night in! As long as there is no one around to make you feel guilty about being anti-social, being alone is the best! I've already made my distaste for pants very apparent. But why spend money at a bar when I can go on, not wearing pants, and spend time with the DVR, which for the record, knows me better than any ex-boyfriend ever has.
5. TMZ is the trashiest most amazing show on television. I wish they had a 24 hour station. I vote we replace C-SPAN with TMZ. Does anyone even watch C-SPAN?
6. Sometimes I use the pizza driver as a delivery man for pop. And cold pizza breakfast for the next 5 days.
7. The 20s are for having fun. But the real fun is defining your own idea of fun. I don't need a man, or to be rich for that matter. Things are never super easy, but there are rewards for living the modest life I do.
And on that note, I am going to finish cleaning. I am having close friends over tonight for turkey burgers, beers, and to watch the VMAs. Because that's my new idea of great night.
8.20.2011
I've Got You On My Lips
I’m calling ‘slut’ on myself. And it’s not that I feel bad about it, or regret my more recent decisions. But I have always been one to call a spade a spade, and this spade has been a little slutty.
I am putting my romantic money where my mouth is these days and spending less time searching for my one true love, and just enjoying the things in my life that are actually working. It has made my relationships with men way more fun because there isn’t that immediate pressure from me with ‘will we won’t we be together forever’ right from the get-go. So I’ve continued chatting up new guys on the same old dating site I have used for years, and have enjoyed interactions with old friends and new acquaintances. Now, clearly I am not sleeping with all of these people. Not only would that be disgusting, but who has that kind of time? But I will never deny the fact that kissing boys is amongst my most favoritest hobbies.
I had gone on a date Thursday night. And I discovered very quickly into the date that this guy was a little boring. In his defense, he was fascinating in text-form. But his personality did not translate from my phone screen to my couch. Conversation was lacking, I spent more time asking him questions I didn’t really care to know the answers to for the sake of filling the silences. Once I realized that wasn’t working anymore (his mouth was moving-and I was grocery shopping in my head) I gave him the “you can kiss me now"eyes and was relieved that his kissing ability was far better than his communication.
There were no butterflies, my heart wasn’t set a flutter at the touch of his lips on mine. But it was hot. And my eyes were closed, so for those 30 minutes of heavy petting, he may as well have been Jude Law. Same thing went for the party I was at last night. I had spent time working the room and deciding which company was worth keeping once the tapped PBR took its full affect on me. In sizing up my options, I realized I was thinking less about whose jokes would be funniest, or could potentially play human ponytail if the crap beer and I didn’t get along, and more about who would be the most fun to make out with in a dark corner once everyone was nice and blitzed. I narrowed down my options, and tested my few theories. My few. That means there was more than one guy in more than one dark corner.
This is why I am calling 'slut' on myself. There is no reason I should have had more than one guys mouth on mine over the past two days. On the other hand, it should be recognized that I’ve still got it. And it’s harmless, in the grand scheme of things. I guess I want to be the first to call myself out on this behavior. It is more likely than not that I will continue to be mouth-slutty for a while. Which I am perfectly content with, mouth-slutty is cleaner and safer than vajayjay-slutty. And it does feel good to know, that after all the broken hearts and romantic indecision, the boys still want to kiss me.
8.10.2011
...'Cause Love's Given Up On Me
Brace yourselves, this is going to come as a shock to all of you, but in today's blog I am going to bitch and moan about romantic relationships. I know this is a stretch from my normal blog topics, but try and adjust accordingly. What I will continue to do, though, is use the best grammar possible because at the end of the day capitalizing the letter "I" is important. So is knowing this difference between a period and an ellipsis...just saying.
As I am sure I have made perfectly clear time and time again, I am not very happy with how my most recent relationship ended. As more time passes I am making every effort to let go of the hurt and disappointment that came from that particular breakup. But the further I step away from my frustration with the Charlie debacle (that reference is for you, Zach) the more frustrated I become with all my past relationships as a whole. I don't want to be so bitter and cynical at the age of 24, but a combination of bad boyfriends and too many broken hearts to count, I am wondering if my blind optimism in finding a "soul mate" has left me very misguided about relationships.
The hardest part of letting go of my Charlie feelings is that I was truly convinced for a very long time, still kind of am, that he was one of the good ones. One of the guys who knew better than to breakup with someone on Easter through a text message. Up until just yesterday I still found myself defending him as a good person to everyone that would feed me the generic "you can do better - he doesn't deserve you" comfort words. No. Not my Charlie - he's one of the good ones. I don't know if I believed this because he had truly convinced me that he was, or if I had settled him into my head as "the one" enough to put him up on a pedestal so high above everyone else. Either way in slowly accepting that he is not what I once believed him to be, I am questioning my own ability to know the good from the bad. Or in the very least the ability to become aware of it sooner that 8 months later when my heart is in too many pieces to count and I feel like I've been tricked into loving a person I should've never fallen for in the first place.
I don't want to give up on love. I have a poster of Ewan McGregor kissing Nicole Kidman from 'Moulin Rouge' hung above my bed. And every night before I tuck myself in, I wonder how much longer I will have to wait to have my love song compilation dance on top of the moon swinging from star to star. I want nothing more from life than my own Patrick Dempsey who makes my heart melt over and over again, and is unwavering in his love for me. But with my track record of 10+ years of dating, I'm starting to believe I am standing in the way of that happening for myself in expecting it to happen at all.
It would be nice, for once, to fall for someone but remain holding the cards. To be the one that says "hey, you aren't so awesome, I am going to pack up my bags and peace out before this turns into something that will make me lose sleep and cry every night for 3 months." But I so desperately want to fall in love, that I am constantly making excuses for every douche bag that comes along and gives me even the smallest amount of attention. Maybe my snap judgements will be wrong. Maybe he won't use me and then turn around and tumble about how having sex with me was like "raping himself". Probably not though.
I can't figure out whether or not I need to raise my expectations for men to ensure I don't constantly end up broken-hearted over guys not deserving of my time. Or if I need to lower my expectations for love, so I don't fall helplessly over and over again just for that one chance at finding something real and true that will be everything I dream it to be and last forever. All I do know, is that I am exhausted from all of it. I am tired of fighting for and with love. So the poster may have to come off the wall, and I might have to remove the Celine Dion discography from my ipod for a while. Because no matter what the reason, I am most certainly doing it wrong.
As I am sure I have made perfectly clear time and time again, I am not very happy with how my most recent relationship ended. As more time passes I am making every effort to let go of the hurt and disappointment that came from that particular breakup. But the further I step away from my frustration with the Charlie debacle (that reference is for you, Zach) the more frustrated I become with all my past relationships as a whole. I don't want to be so bitter and cynical at the age of 24, but a combination of bad boyfriends and too many broken hearts to count, I am wondering if my blind optimism in finding a "soul mate" has left me very misguided about relationships.
The hardest part of letting go of my Charlie feelings is that I was truly convinced for a very long time, still kind of am, that he was one of the good ones. One of the guys who knew better than to breakup with someone on Easter through a text message. Up until just yesterday I still found myself defending him as a good person to everyone that would feed me the generic "you can do better - he doesn't deserve you" comfort words. No. Not my Charlie - he's one of the good ones. I don't know if I believed this because he had truly convinced me that he was, or if I had settled him into my head as "the one" enough to put him up on a pedestal so high above everyone else. Either way in slowly accepting that he is not what I once believed him to be, I am questioning my own ability to know the good from the bad. Or in the very least the ability to become aware of it sooner that 8 months later when my heart is in too many pieces to count and I feel like I've been tricked into loving a person I should've never fallen for in the first place.
I don't want to give up on love. I have a poster of Ewan McGregor kissing Nicole Kidman from 'Moulin Rouge' hung above my bed. And every night before I tuck myself in, I wonder how much longer I will have to wait to have my love song compilation dance on top of the moon swinging from star to star. I want nothing more from life than my own Patrick Dempsey who makes my heart melt over and over again, and is unwavering in his love for me. But with my track record of 10+ years of dating, I'm starting to believe I am standing in the way of that happening for myself in expecting it to happen at all.
It would be nice, for once, to fall for someone but remain holding the cards. To be the one that says "hey, you aren't so awesome, I am going to pack up my bags and peace out before this turns into something that will make me lose sleep and cry every night for 3 months." But I so desperately want to fall in love, that I am constantly making excuses for every douche bag that comes along and gives me even the smallest amount of attention. Maybe my snap judgements will be wrong. Maybe he won't use me and then turn around and tumble about how having sex with me was like "raping himself". Probably not though.
I can't figure out whether or not I need to raise my expectations for men to ensure I don't constantly end up broken-hearted over guys not deserving of my time. Or if I need to lower my expectations for love, so I don't fall helplessly over and over again just for that one chance at finding something real and true that will be everything I dream it to be and last forever. All I do know, is that I am exhausted from all of it. I am tired of fighting for and with love. So the poster may have to come off the wall, and I might have to remove the Celine Dion discography from my ipod for a while. Because no matter what the reason, I am most certainly doing it wrong.
7.31.2011
Misery Romance Theater 3000
Friday night; date night. I was resolved to lying on my couch all night long, taking a couple Tylenol PM around midnight and sleeping hard until work Saturday morning. It's not that I don't want to go out, Lord knows if I had an endless supply of money I would be out every night, everywhere. But I can't afford to leave my house, and fortunately I am really beginning to appreciate my own company. So, a Friday night in, which used to seem like the most depressing thing ever, is now actually borderline enjoyable. I made myself an early dinner, turned on Courtney and Kim take New York (or whichever Kardashian marathon was currently playing on E!) and shut off my brain. Until my sister called.
Now, I love my friends to death. But I don't think there is a single one of them that could have gotten me off the couch this Friday night. But when your little sister calls and is in need of some sister time, there is no refusing. I got in the shower (which was against the spirit of my lazy Friday, but retrospectively the best decision I made all night) and we headed to Oswego's finest Kendall 10 Movie Theater to catch Ryan Gosling looking all sexy in "Crazy Stupid Love". I was having a great time, I was actually happy I dragged myself into daylight for a few hours and to go see a movie I was anxiously awaiting the release of.
My sister and I were giggling about previews and movie theater candy when her jaw dropped, and her face turned white. I was so confused by her reaction that it took me a minute to even turn my head in the general direction of whatever was causing her that much shock and surprise. I scanned everything from my sisters face, across the face of a redheaded girl that looked vaguely familiar, and then directly onto the face of the ex. THE EX. The BIG one. The 'stole my heart at 19 and then dragged me through the most dramatic, unstable, intense, passionate relationship of my entire life for 2 years' one. It was ANDY. Motherfucking Andy.
Now, the last time I had physically seen my ex was almost 3 years ago. I was living in the Plainfield house. We had gotten back together for the 100th time, and I started cheating on him with a server from Biaggi's. The relationship ended, technically, when he realized what was going on and finally walked away. But I claim to this day that the last time we started dated was a mistake, and I knew we were toxic together and shouldn't have continued trying to fix that which was beyond repair, or I would never have cheated in the first place. Maybe that's just a cheater's mentality, but I believed if we were good, and if I were happy it would have never gotten to that point.
3 years ago, we said goodbye finally and by a mysterious act of God have not once run into each other. I've never seen him walking out of a Target (Jerod), or dealing blackjack at a casino (Dan), or ran into him at a family party (Erik). We have successfully not been in the same room as one another in 3 whole years. We have talked a few times here and there. A couple late night conversations after one too many glasses of wine, which always ended up with us talking about how great our sex life was and making plans that neither of us would ever keep, to get together and see if that spark was there one last time. In fact, the last phone call from him was while I was dating Charlie back in February. He called me from a gas station at 5am because he was drunk and stranded.
Now seeing him with the girlfriend was heart wrenching, no matter how nonchalant I try to be. It was Andy. My Andy. He sat down directly one row ahead of us, directly in front of us, and the next 2 hours was like watching an emotionally draining episode of Mystery Science Theater 3000. But instead of quippy commentary between man and robot, it was silhouettes of hand holding and making-out. I nervously giggled through most of the film, and bolted for the door before the first credit reached the top of the screen. Not exactly what I imagined my first run in with Andy to be. I do take solace in knowing between me and my sister's very distinctive laughs, he must have been equally as distracted by my presence as I was his.
I wish I could say that this run-in was easily brushed off my shoulders, but it definitely put a damper on the rest of my weekend. Not because I want to be Andy's girlfriend again, far from it. In fact that cattiest thing that came out of my mouth, audibly, through the whole movie was that I hope she was enjoying my sloppy seconds. I wouldn't ever date Andy again. He's as lazy and unmotivated in life as he was when we broke up so many years ago. But in the midst of dealing with the Charlie breakup (one that my therapist and I revealed was a lot bigger than I could have anticipated it to be) it was just another reminder of someone else I could make a romantic relationship hold with. Which is discouraging and depressing for anyone, especially for someone who resumed their position on their couch Saturday night after work and has remained there until now when I got up long enough to blog.
With this being said, I'm feeling better now. I am trying not to make a mountain out of this molehill, it was bound to happen. And if anything it's a dry run of the awkwardness that will ensue the next time I run into an ex with their next girlfriend. I just hope the next time that that happens I am either on the arm of Patrick Dempsey or 15 pounds lighter. Neither of which will be easily accomplished from my couch. But then again, neither will another exboyfriend run in. One more tally in the argument for staying on the couch column.
Now, I love my friends to death. But I don't think there is a single one of them that could have gotten me off the couch this Friday night. But when your little sister calls and is in need of some sister time, there is no refusing. I got in the shower (which was against the spirit of my lazy Friday, but retrospectively the best decision I made all night) and we headed to Oswego's finest Kendall 10 Movie Theater to catch Ryan Gosling looking all sexy in "Crazy Stupid Love". I was having a great time, I was actually happy I dragged myself into daylight for a few hours and to go see a movie I was anxiously awaiting the release of.
My sister and I were giggling about previews and movie theater candy when her jaw dropped, and her face turned white. I was so confused by her reaction that it took me a minute to even turn my head in the general direction of whatever was causing her that much shock and surprise. I scanned everything from my sisters face, across the face of a redheaded girl that looked vaguely familiar, and then directly onto the face of the ex. THE EX. The BIG one. The 'stole my heart at 19 and then dragged me through the most dramatic, unstable, intense, passionate relationship of my entire life for 2 years' one. It was ANDY. Motherfucking Andy.
Now, the last time I had physically seen my ex was almost 3 years ago. I was living in the Plainfield house. We had gotten back together for the 100th time, and I started cheating on him with a server from Biaggi's. The relationship ended, technically, when he realized what was going on and finally walked away. But I claim to this day that the last time we started dated was a mistake, and I knew we were toxic together and shouldn't have continued trying to fix that which was beyond repair, or I would never have cheated in the first place. Maybe that's just a cheater's mentality, but I believed if we were good, and if I were happy it would have never gotten to that point.
3 years ago, we said goodbye finally and by a mysterious act of God have not once run into each other. I've never seen him walking out of a Target (Jerod), or dealing blackjack at a casino (Dan), or ran into him at a family party (Erik). We have successfully not been in the same room as one another in 3 whole years. We have talked a few times here and there. A couple late night conversations after one too many glasses of wine, which always ended up with us talking about how great our sex life was and making plans that neither of us would ever keep, to get together and see if that spark was there one last time. In fact, the last phone call from him was while I was dating Charlie back in February. He called me from a gas station at 5am because he was drunk and stranded.
Now seeing him with the girlfriend was heart wrenching, no matter how nonchalant I try to be. It was Andy. My Andy. He sat down directly one row ahead of us, directly in front of us, and the next 2 hours was like watching an emotionally draining episode of Mystery Science Theater 3000. But instead of quippy commentary between man and robot, it was silhouettes of hand holding and making-out. I nervously giggled through most of the film, and bolted for the door before the first credit reached the top of the screen. Not exactly what I imagined my first run in with Andy to be. I do take solace in knowing between me and my sister's very distinctive laughs, he must have been equally as distracted by my presence as I was his.
I wish I could say that this run-in was easily brushed off my shoulders, but it definitely put a damper on the rest of my weekend. Not because I want to be Andy's girlfriend again, far from it. In fact that cattiest thing that came out of my mouth, audibly, through the whole movie was that I hope she was enjoying my sloppy seconds. I wouldn't ever date Andy again. He's as lazy and unmotivated in life as he was when we broke up so many years ago. But in the midst of dealing with the Charlie breakup (one that my therapist and I revealed was a lot bigger than I could have anticipated it to be) it was just another reminder of someone else I could make a romantic relationship hold with. Which is discouraging and depressing for anyone, especially for someone who resumed their position on their couch Saturday night after work and has remained there until now when I got up long enough to blog.
With this being said, I'm feeling better now. I am trying not to make a mountain out of this molehill, it was bound to happen. And if anything it's a dry run of the awkwardness that will ensue the next time I run into an ex with their next girlfriend. I just hope the next time that that happens I am either on the arm of Patrick Dempsey or 15 pounds lighter. Neither of which will be easily accomplished from my couch. But then again, neither will another exboyfriend run in. One more tally in the argument for staying on the couch column.
7.26.2011
...But I Should Come With a Manual
It's a beautiful night for a blog. And I can't help but reflect on previous blogs after a very enlightening session with the new therapist. More specifically my highly regarded (by me) blog about how "Boys Like That Should Come With a Warning" and my desire to have a basic definition of a person laid out in front of you before you make the crucial decision of whether or not to let them into your life. I'm starting to wonder if that would even come close to being enough information about a person when we go through so much of our own lives knowing so little about ourselves.
The scariest thing about therapy, I'm learning, is starting to realize I don't actually know myself as well as I've always thought I had. I have spent most of my life self-diagnosing because I believe I am educated enough about people to label myself one way or another. I come from the school of thought that I am a product of certain things that I have done, had done to, or experienced in 24 years, so this is why I am the way I am. And though my theory is spot on, I think I have been connecting the wrong dots to one another for some time now. Things are not as black and white, or cut and dry as I felt them to be about the reasons I am the way I am.
So as I am slowly making the correct connections, and starting to take in the bigger picture, I'm noticing that this would've been incredibly good information to have, I don't know, say, 5 years ago. It wouldn't be fair to say I would do anything too much differently, because there is still a learning curve. But what if you knew the things I was completely blind to, and just now beginning to see? Would you have put on the brakes and reevaluated getting to know me? Or better yet, would it have changed our interactions? Would you have said things differently, or more, or less? Would you understand why somethings come really easy to me, and others are far more difficult? These questions can be applied to every single last person that is in, or has been at one point, my life in any degree. And I feel I know you all well enough to know who would be exactly the same, who would have never said more than a word to me, and which would have treated me like an entirely different person. But hell, I'm probably far off. I have lived with me for 24 years and it turns out I don't know too much about me.
I am excited about this new chapter in my life. I came home today feeling like I was hanging out with a new friend. I think all these realizations will truly, over all, and after a lot of time, make me a healthier happier person. But these realizations also come with a heavy responsibility. It was one thing to make stupid decisions and choose wrong over and over again, but once you know - once it's pointed out to you and you see it, you can never go back. It's not something a bottle of wine will fade the image of. It's there forever, and you can't keep being a shithead. You are responsible to learn and recognize the dumbest, saddest, coolest, bad-assest, worst and most undesirable things about someone you've been too afraid to actually meet for a very long time.
...But maybe that's just me.
The scariest thing about therapy, I'm learning, is starting to realize I don't actually know myself as well as I've always thought I had. I have spent most of my life self-diagnosing because I believe I am educated enough about people to label myself one way or another. I come from the school of thought that I am a product of certain things that I have done, had done to, or experienced in 24 years, so this is why I am the way I am. And though my theory is spot on, I think I have been connecting the wrong dots to one another for some time now. Things are not as black and white, or cut and dry as I felt them to be about the reasons I am the way I am.
So as I am slowly making the correct connections, and starting to take in the bigger picture, I'm noticing that this would've been incredibly good information to have, I don't know, say, 5 years ago. It wouldn't be fair to say I would do anything too much differently, because there is still a learning curve. But what if you knew the things I was completely blind to, and just now beginning to see? Would you have put on the brakes and reevaluated getting to know me? Or better yet, would it have changed our interactions? Would you have said things differently, or more, or less? Would you understand why somethings come really easy to me, and others are far more difficult? These questions can be applied to every single last person that is in, or has been at one point, my life in any degree. And I feel I know you all well enough to know who would be exactly the same, who would have never said more than a word to me, and which would have treated me like an entirely different person. But hell, I'm probably far off. I have lived with me for 24 years and it turns out I don't know too much about me.
I am excited about this new chapter in my life. I came home today feeling like I was hanging out with a new friend. I think all these realizations will truly, over all, and after a lot of time, make me a healthier happier person. But these realizations also come with a heavy responsibility. It was one thing to make stupid decisions and choose wrong over and over again, but once you know - once it's pointed out to you and you see it, you can never go back. It's not something a bottle of wine will fade the image of. It's there forever, and you can't keep being a shithead. You are responsible to learn and recognize the dumbest, saddest, coolest, bad-assest, worst and most undesirable things about someone you've been too afraid to actually meet for a very long time.
...But maybe that's just me.
7.23.2011
Love Blog For No One
In order to gain some perspective on my most previous romantic relationship, I sat myself down this past week to do some real thinking. I turned John Mayer's 'Love Song for No One" on repeat, chain smoked a pack of cigarettes and gently sipped on a glass of cab while I sifted through old love letters, mix cds, and pictures from the many men I have "loved" before. This was overall a positive experience. Because it forced me to evaluate my heartbreak more closely, to realize that although my heart is hurt and broken, I will recover from this too, just like the 100 times I have before.
But then the bigger question was raised, why does my heart keep getting broken over and over again by what, over time, seems to be some pretty insignificant relationships. I found my answer pressed between the pages of a book I once wrote called "Pie". Now, I will leave the recipient of this book's name out of here, because he knows who he is. But at the time in my life that I wrote "Pie" I was head-over-heals madly in love with this guy. It was a chest crushing love that only a 15 year old girl could truly feel. And for page after page that I flipped through, and wanted to crawl out of my skin about, I noticed that I've always really wanted one thing: to be in love. I love love. I love the idea of having one person who you can't stop thinking about not being able to stop thinking about you.
This book with filled with these grandiose plans of a budding relationship that I knew in my heart was never going to materialize. But I had such a clear idea, even at 15 years old, of what I was looking for. And it has never been as simple as wining and dining, or a beautiful wedding dress on a warm summer day. I wanted to hold hands and walk through the city. I wanted to travel the world, and stop at small diners in every town along the way to eat apple pie ala mode like Jack Kerouac. I wanted to sing songs loudly in the car together, and spend nights wrapped in each other's arms watching old movies. I wanted Ewan McGregor, Heath Ledger, and Clark Gable to become one person that would then become my boyfriend.
So my 24 year old mind, which should have evolved past this maybe just a little, still feels the same. Of course now wishing that person ends up being a little bit more like Patrick Dempsey and a little bit less like Heath Ledger (for obvious reasons). I know that I am looking for something so real and so passionate. And every man I date gets held up to this expectation of what I've always thought to be perfect love. Maybe this why my relationship with Charlie was doomed from the start, because as close as we were to obtaining that love I had hoped and dreamed of, he never really saw the point in a relationship doing or being those things. And you can't be in that kind of relationship alone. No matter how much you may want it.
At this point in my life I am not ready to let the fairytale be a lost dream. I still think it's out there for me. I think it will happen when I find that person that is just in much in love with love as I am. And spare me all the cliched 'love will find you when you least expect it' or 'no one can love you until you love yourself'. Yeah, I know. I get it. And I am going to continue working on my life in the interim. But it was a nice reminder to myself this week that no matter what my actions may reflect me as, I am truly a big romantic at heart. And my intentions are good every time I let myself fall for the wrong guy. So I try to be more calculated about it, protect my heart a little bit better, but as long as I am breathing I am going to be wishing and hoping that the next time I fall it's for the one that counts.
7.18.2011
I Won't Be Mad If You Bring Flowers To The Party In My Pants
I've been technically single since Easter. And though Charlie and I played the back and forth game for the past 3 months, I have been exploring other avenues romantically. Seeing as though Charlie and I have ceased all communication in the past month, I have fully allowed myself to start seeing other people. Fresh off the heels of this breakup, I know that I am not ready for anything too serious. But at the same time I can't kid myself into thinking I am capable of being casual about, well, anything.
I had a fabulous conversation with an old friend last night about our shared inability to not over analyze every aspect of our lives, specifically romantically. I know this about myself, yet with feeling so broken from my previous relationship I desperately want to enjoy the company of other men without getting attached. I want this because I need to be reminded now more than ever that Charlie is not the end all and be all of men on this here God's green earth. There are many levels of a relationship you can share with a man - but anything that includes a physical aspect for me will always go hand in hand with an emotional response. No matter how nonchalant I may attempt to be.
My therapist (this is a very new development, because as much good comes from me sharing feelings here, something tells me I need a little more guidance on putting myself back together) and I touched briefly in our first session about how I have constantly searched for validation for myself in between the sheets of some guy's bed. This isn't something I am proud of, but I am very aware that I do it. It is a product of many different experiences I have had with men over the years. You know, the ones that really fucked me up in the head for everyone to follow. I am going to slowly learn how to break this cycle. And even while cognitively aware of what I have been doing, it hasn't stopped me from creating a little bit of a mess in my own head with the new boy toy.
I have been very casual about it on the surface, not just to him, but everyone around me. He's hot. Why complicate that? Well, because I'm Katie MFing Keller. And that's what I do. When I remove myself from the relationship, and evaluate what is actually there between the two of us, it's not fireworks. It's not that same connection that I shared with Charlie, Andy, Jerod or Erik. It is fun, we enjoy hanging out, but if I never saw him again it probably wouldn't crush me all that much. The problem is, now that we have entered a physical relationship my needs have increased tenfold. Because that second the physical relations end, I am wondering why he hasn't called/texted. Which I shouldn't be, because I don't really care that much. It's just another form of rejection for my already clouded head to wrap itself around. But, low and behold, once I get my mouth on another guys mouth, that feeling of rejection is instantly stifled for a short period of time.
Now, what in the world can I expect this kid to do? Because, first of all, he is kid. Second of all, he didn't sign up for all this crazy. Especially when I have been the one, since the beginning, "calling a spade a spade" and making sure the relationship stayed casual. We joke around all the time about how I am 'using' him. And I guess in a way that joke can still apply, but I don't think he knows the extent of how deep my "using" men actually is. I know that I should probably end this relationship. Because even if there is anything good romantically that could ever exist, I've probably already done enough damage in 2 weeks than could be reversed to ever have us function as a couple. My concern isn't for this specific relationship, but for all the ones to follow. The ones I can sit here and say I shouldn't be having, but at the end of enough lonely nights in my house alone, become a lot easier to justify.
I am going to try really hard to focus on myself for the next few months. And I think having someone to hold me accountable to that will be a good thing. I will keep on keeping on. And creating messes along the way. Until one day I wake up and have it all figured out. And hopefully that will come before a baby or venereal diseases. Just kidding, Mom.
In closing, Steph - though I had no real idea attached to the blog title when it was chosen at dinner, I would say that worked out nicely, wouldn't you?
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