Sometimes you find amazing quotes in the oddest places:
(Courtesy of Shit My Dad Says by Justin Halpern)
So last Tuesday night I went to the Matt and Kim concert at the House of Blues with one of my friends. Prior to stepping foot in the venue, I had heard of them a few times and listened to some of their music for literally the very first time on their Pandora station while I got ready for the show. I decided to go in with an open mind, because I love music and will give anything a listen at least once.
So. Many. Hipsters.Hipsters in denim. Hipsters in scarves. Hipsters wearing fedoras. Hipsters in plaid. Buddy Holly glasses. PBR. SO. MUCH. PBR. Cardigans. Chuck Taylors. Irony everywhere.
AND BEARDS. HIPSTER BEARDS ABOUNDED.I enjoy hipsters, for the most part. I like that they ride bikes and urban beekeep and garden and the uncanny ability they have to go reside in a shitty neighborhood and BAM, almost instant gentrification. I admire their dedication to microbrews and tattoos and the obscure. Without them, I would not have Portlandia. And I love Portlandia. But anyway. There were hipsters, and the sheer number of them in one small venue was mildly overwhelming. So I went to message my best friend on Facebook Messenger (he is in the Caribbean and cannot use his phone because international rates and stuff), and I HAD NO CONNECTION. I cursed the House of Blues gods for blocking my 4G and proceeded to take notes in my Notes app of the funny stuff I thought of while the show went on. After the show (which I really enjoyed), I read over my notes and realized they might make a witty blog post.
So here y’all go. Matt and Kim, AS IT HAPPENED (four days later):
I hate tall people.
(I am 5’1″ and all short people will understand the hatred that is getting stuck behind anyone who is more than three inches taller than you at a standing room only concert.)Either my whiteness is coming out and I have no rhythm, or either all the white people around me have no rhythm.
I’m going with all the white people around me because I feel like I can dance.
Someone control the bros. They’re getting out of control.
(Shortly after this, a drunken bro was escorted out of the venue for turning up too hard.)
I am the calmest person at this concert.
I don’t know how to dance to hipster music.
Like, is bouncing my leg and nodding my head appropriate?
I feel like it is.
That’s what I’m going with.
Oh hey…they’re covering “Ignition (Remix)”. I love that song.
That man across the room is wearing the shortest, tightest jorts I have ever seen on a man.They are seriously like Daisy Dukes. He’s wearing denim hot pants.
I will not jump, Matt and Kim. I’m in a room of uncoordinated young white professionals.I have upgraded my dance moves to wiggling my body and shaking my head back and forth.
This band is pretty great. I would be friends with these guys.Oh…they busted out the fucking smoke machines. You know shit is serious when they bust out the smoke machines. Is this hip hop?
Oh shit…I can dance to hip hop. And dance briefly to the blip of music I shall.
The guy in front of me smells like Beefaroni and stale PBR.No Kim…I cannot FaceTime someone because I went over my data this month and AT&T charges $10 an extra GB.
Blue eyeshadow just is not flattering on ANYONE. I don’t care who you are.
Wait wait wait wait…she’s gonna dance on their hands?
Holy shit…she’s dancing on their hands.
Okay…I am downloading their albums from iTunes when I get home.
(Here is an actual music video of Matt and Kim performing “Hey Now”.)
So I have been talking to a boy–wait, yes, I know that is rather exciting and all that, we will go into that later–that I like for almost the past two months and things have been flirty with a sprinkling of sexy…with the occasional stumble into awkwardness (I would be the one doing the stumbling, of course). But it has been good. He’s hot and funny and into me and so hot, but mixed signals abound (because they seem like they always do–yet another post to unravel that mystery) and it doesn’t help that I have this weird combination of distrust and fear and impatience when it comes to all this boy meets girl shit.
Anyway, I texted said guy (I have not come up with a nom de plume for him yet) this afternoon, a breezy and flirty text that was not replied to at all for hours. I got irritated and decided against my better judgement to compose another text about five hours later to send him regarding the first text. This is the panic that ensued, captured in live time in a Facebook Messenger conversation with one of my best friends:
Me (7:02 pm): So…there’s that moment when you’re trying to come up with a text and it’s what you are thinking but not wanting to send…AND THEN YOU ACCIDENTALLY HIT SEND.
Michelle (7:04 pm): Oh no!!!!
Me (7:05 pm): Oh no indeed!!!
(7:06 pm): And you want to text back immediately bc you are embarrassed and mortified but you decide that entertaining an embarrassed apology or explanation would make you look crazy.
(7:06 pm): And if said recipient of text had responded hours earlier, I wouldn’t have accidentally sent a rough draft text.
(7:08 pm): So now I sit here feeling like an idiot and not replying bc I’m going to act like “yup, I sent that”.
Michelle (7:08 pm): Oh man. That is sucky.
(I’m guessing my panic is amusing because I’m sure it’s not really a big deal but it so is.)
Me (7:09 pm): And the silence.
(7:09 pm): It makes things worse bc I want to fall into a vicious cycle of word vomit to try to explain my way out of the text but that will only back me further into the corner like a lioness.
(I am pretty bummed that I could not find a witty GIF of a lioness backed into a corner.)
Michelle (7:10 pm): Yeahhhh don’t do that then you’re just gonna look like you’re talking to yourself.
Me (7:11 pm): Right. I don’t want to look crazy.
(7:11 pm): And I’m like “this is why I’m alone, I’m crazy”.
So he still hasn’t replied and he probably thinks I’m insane. Hopefully he finds my crazy endearing. Ugh. I’m seriously going to die an old spinster woman who can’t knit or embroider and who is allergic to cats.
At least I’ll always have you, Netflix. You get me.
As I mentioned in an earlier post, I made a list of things that I wanted to accomplish as a single lady. A badass single lady.
But anyway, the first thing I decided to tackle (mainly because it seemed quite possibly the easiest thing to get accomplished) was #4 on the list.
4. Be moderately successful or even slightly successful at this online dating stuff.
Anyway, I have always felt that online dating (such as Match and eHarmony and Plenty of Fish) is for life losers. I personally do not think that I am a life loser, but hell, those people in those commercials look so happy and what the hell, I should get to be happy. Right? Right.
So I decided to try this online dating shit back in November because I obviously suck something terrible at the normal route of dating. I made a profile on Match and on eHarmony, and I learned something about myself right off the bat.
I am incredibly shallow. Yes, my last boyfriend was overweight, but he carried it well and had a good looking face. That offset the chubbiness. But you can’t have a jacked up face or be plain or be fat or awkward looking or any/all of that in various possible combinations/at the same time. I can’t be having any of that. I mean, I think I’m pretty.
I totally deserve a hot guy who is almost as awesome as me. And that man has to exist somewhere in the annals of online dating.
Or so I thought.
Well…optimistically talked myself into thinking. Because I am a bit of a realist and I think that online dating is just strange. But whatever. My friends told me that it’s not weird anymore and that people do it because they have hectic schedules and life is all digital and interconnected in the fucking global village and all that technobabble. I decided to keep an open mind and try to talk to some guys who seemed cute. So I tried the free shit first, but you can’t read messages or look at people’s pictures when it’s free, and as I brought up in the previous paragraphs, I am pretty fucking shallow. So I paid the stupid but cheapest possible fee that I could. Match offers a month to month option for like $36 (or something–I don’t feel like looking it up) and that’s kind of less desperate feeling than eHarmony, who only lets you get a full year for different payment options. That made me feel lame in all sorts of ways. Paying to look at people who probably either felt as awkward and lame as I did or were actually excited and optimistic about online dating because they had exhausted every other possible option. Ugh.
But I kept an open mind. Even through all the weird messages from the socially awkward creeper sorts who looked like they were socially awkward creepers in high school and the weird guys who “liked” my pictures and the icebreaker things that consist of random questions and stuff. I was kind of desperate to find someone wonderful to get my mind off my ex, who I still missed terribly. So I kept an open mind and told myself that I would find someone. Someone worthwhile. Someone hot and funny and not a weird creeper.
I kept up with this for two months. (I stopped the first time in December because it was a complete failure in my opinion. I started up again in January because I thought it was maybe worth another try.)
And then I found this guy on Match who was possibly the Holy Grail of online dating. He was hot. He was funny. He didn’t seem like a weirdo creeper. So I messaged him and we talked and then he said something that struck me as somewhat odd, but it was a legit question: Did I want something serious or just something casual? I chose to say that I wasn’t sure and that you couldn’t really know what you wanted until you met that person and could gauge the potential chemistry. Boom. Solid answer. Get me ready for The Bachelor now.
He was all like “yeah that’s right, you can’t know until you meet someone” and I was like hmm…maybe this guy is legit? So I traded numbers with him and we texted and then…I get this little textular bomb: I’m just looking for a hookup.
Of course he was. Because of course. That would have tied in nicely with The Single Chick Bucket List #3: Have a random hookup/one night stand. But for some reason, that felt wrong. I didn’t want a stupid hookup situation. I very politely told him that I was past that phase of my life (because I am) and I wished him the best and that was that. I deleted his number and I stopped talking to him. I’m sure I could have kept slogging through the endless profiles and photos until I found “The One”, but shit. It’s not worth it. I don’t have the time for that and I couldn’t shake the inherent feeling that I have that it’s not really for me. It’s not. I hate dating, but I think I hate online dating even more.
So I deactivated my Match profile and cancelled my membership. I took that as a sign. I also took it as a sign that The Guy had the same name as my ex but spelled differently and he turned out to be a cretin. Shocker. I can’t delete my eHarmony one until November, so I just don’t go on it and I have all the emails from Match and eHarmony directed into my trash. I guess I will suffer through the stupid traditional way of dating…but not right now. This online dating thing reminded me that maybe I’m not ready to jump into the pool of quicksand that is dating and relationships and heartbreak. I have way too much going on for a boyfriend. I have a list of life things to get through and a dad who is super sick with cancer and a wonderfully fabulous nine year old and a brand new shift at work and a fledgling social life and I just don’t want that boyfriend aspect. I still somewhat want that boyfriend aspect with my ex, who has pretty much become less than a stranger to me and as sad and as pathetic as that seems…it’s true. And it’s not fair to anyone for me to pursue a relationship when I’m still kind of broken up over him. I will have my Netflix and my son and my family and friends and that’s fine for now.
4. Be moderately successful or even slightly successful at this online dating stuff.
So I got dumped. And fell into a depressive rut.
It’s kind of weird and liberating to see that typed out. Kind of painful too. But anyway, I was dumped by someone who I thought loved me and it made me fall right on my face…and then I decided that I would much rather wallow with my face stuck in the rug of despair than to get up and face the world like the cruel bitch that she totally is. I spent all my time outside of work sleeping to avoid the sharp ache in my chest and lost weight grieving for the relationship that was no more. I was a sad and emotionally lost mess of a person for a while.
Time heals wounds slowly, and even though I’m still kind of sad and still really hurt, life goes on. I have some amazing friends, and they helped me tremendously. I figure I am one awesome, badass chick and if my ex-boyfriend couldn’t see that and had to go back to his ex, then…that’s his loss. I’m still beautiful and smart and funny. It still sucks for me, though. I’m trying to keep my head above water, and I am getting there, one day at a time. It’s even harder because I have to see him every day, but when life throws you lemons you mix those bitches with vodka and simple syrup and make grownup lemonade. And then proceed to drink a lot of it.
But anyway, I was inspired one night while on the dice table (the most random shit comes to me while I’m dealing) to make a list of shit that I can do now that I am single. Sure, I could have done it while I was in a relationship, but it wouldn’t help me heal and feel better about myself–nay, it would have just become more memories for me to cry over at 5 am. So I have jotted down little things in a numbered list (I don’t usually make lists, but when I do, they are either bulleted or numbered) in the Notes app on my handy dandy iPhone. I plan to knock these babies out as an awesomely single lady and make some amazing memories sans dude that I can look back on when I’m an old lady with no regrets.
I call it…The Single Chick Bucket List. I plan to blog about each one as I go, and hopefully I can add to the list as I go and cross off as many things as I can.
1. Go to NYC alone.
I went to New York in 2012 with my ex, and I would really like to create some new memories of my own. Plus, I had always dreamed of moving there after high school, but life kind of got in the way. I would like to spend a few days there alone just to indulge in my Girls-meets-Sex and the City fantasy.
2. Learn to drive and then get my license.
Little factoid about me: I don’t know how to drive. My parents sold their car before I started Kindergarten and they never bought a new one. I’m a boss at public transportation, but I have only driven a car two or three times, and I was kind of horrible at it.
3. Have a random hookup/one night stand.
This one makes me nervous. I keep reading that one night stands are the best way to get your mind off a breakup, and that girls should be able to have meaningless and empty sex just like guys can without feeling guilty. This one is a huge step out of my comfort zone, but I missed out on dorm life and parties and I hear that these things went down like whatever in college. And my ex is obviously having sex, so why shouldn’t I?
4. Be moderately successful or even slightly successful at this online dating stuff.
Ugh, yes I am attempting this shit again. If other people can have success with this crap, I should too. I still feel like it’s for life losers, so even if I have just a decent or funny story to come out of Match.com I feel like it won’t be a complete waste of time.
5. Take sexy photos at a professional photography studio.
So since February 2012, I lost roughly around 40 pounds. I went from 162 to about 124. I am at my post baby weight circa 2005. I have always wanted to go get those sexy little pinup boudoir shots done, but I always felt chunky and not sexy enough naked to be immortalized on film. I still catch myself stopping and staring at myself in the mirror when I get dressed because I can’t believe how amazing I look now that I lost all that weight. I feel like now I can get those pictures done and feel proud of myself.
6. Get my passport.
I have always had wanderlust, and I want to do something about it. I want to travel the world and see all kinds of wonderful things. I plan on getting my son his passport too in a few years and we can travel together.
7. Write a novel.
I always start, but I never finish.
8. Record a song in a studio.
I’m a phenomenal singer and I never did anything with it. I would love to record an EP just to have so I can say that I sang in an actual recording studio.
9. Go to Alaska/London/Ireland.
I would love to do all three, but I will definitely settle for Alaska.
10. Learn French or Italian.
I want to feel worldly. Spanish doesn’t make me feel worldly…it makes me feel like I had to learn it to graduate from high school.
11. Go back to college.
I want to get my bachelor’s, even if it takes longer than four years.
12. Be brave.
I’m non-confrontational, and I don’t like to stir up drama. I need to learn to find my voice and use it more often.
13. Learn how to finally play the guitar.
I have owned a guitar for years and never figured out how to play it. I want to sign up for lessons and be able to be that angsty-yet-cute musician girl at the coffee shop by my house.
14. Run a 5K.
I hate running. I’m clumsy and uncoordinated and I feel like I should attempt to run a 5K just so I can say that I can. Plus maybe I might turn out to get better at it and actually enjoy it.
So that is the list for now. I’m sure I will add to it, and hopefully I will achieve success to most of the things I have typed out. I feel like this is a great confidence booster for me and will help me to discover more of myself as a person. And maybe someone who went through a terrible breakup or some other horrible life experience will read this post or one of the others where I accomplish these things and be inspired to do something great too.
That would be wonderful.
So I’m going to take a moment to state the obvious.
Breaking up sucks. A lot.
I mean…there’s a lot of shit that happens in a relationship that is pretty wonderful. You become best friends with your partner. You guys have cute moments together. You can do stupid stuff around them and know that they don’t find you weird because they think you are pretty. And hey, that’s nice. There’s a certain amount of comfort in a relationship. You know their quirks and even though you think it’s weird that they turn the water off when they brush their teeth and that they like to wear Crocs with socks, you don’t judge them because they could easily judge you pretty hardcore for snorting when you laugh really hard and that squirrels freak you out more than the average person. You don’t feel the need to wear pants or mascara when you are with them. You’re comfortable. And that’s nice.
But then you break up, and…it’s not nice. It’s pretty fucking horrendous. You go from loving that person and wanting to spend every moment with them to hating their guts and hoping they fall off a cliff, Mayan sacrifice style. One person generally doesn’t really care about the way things ended, and the other person finds themselves underneath a desk, crying and drinking from a bottle of merlot.
And then comes the whole grieving and healing process, which inevitably leads to the moving on part. One of you typically moves on faster than the other, spurring the other one (who hates relationships and love and dating in general at the moment because their heart has been ripped out and soaked in cheap wine) to jump on the metaphorical horse.
Fuck. That. Horse.
I don’t particularly like horses anyway. I rode one once at Girl Scout camp, and I was not a fan of the experience. They are okay if I don’t have to climb up on one and ride it. But anyway…jumping on the metaphorical horse. It sucks. That person feels like they have to half ass their attempt just enough so that people don’t think that they are crazy and just enough to convince themselves that they aren’t going to grow old alone and die without anyone finding their body for weeks. So you kind of dip your foot in the shallow end of the kiddie pool. Kind of like how I wanted said horse to be a Shetland pony and was promptly told that no, the metaphorical horse of dating is a noble steed. (I can’t exactly jump up on a noble steed seeing as I’m only 5’1″. Maybe I can climb up if someone puts a step stool next to it.) You do what you have to do to shut people up. And hey, maybe you make it just weird enough so that they will quit bugging you to start dating.
Because you aren’t ready and you want to stay under that desk and cry a little bit longer, damn it.
So I tried, just to shut everyone up. I started actually doing my makeup when I went to work and smiled, because nothing makes you look like you are back on the market like eyeliner and a smile. Jesus. I tilted my head and laughed at the appropriate moments in conversations with attractive men. But I’m not particularly feeling it. So I have my moments of angst circa 1997 Dawson’s Creek and pout and feel sad because damn it, I’m sad. I’m allowed to be sad. But society wants me to get over it and there are more fish in the sea and you’re gonna make it after all because that’s life. I made an eHarmony profile. I feel embarrassed. Maybe there isn’t a social stigma attached to online dating, but I still feel like it’s for the weird lame people who can’t carry on a face to face conversation with a person.
I hate it. I suck at dating to begin with, I hate the whole process and feel incredibly awkward–I would much rather just bypass that shit and go right to being in a relationship, but it doesn’t work that way. I discovered that I am too shallow for online dating. I want a man with a pretty face. I met a guy and it seemed okay, we talked on the site’s messenger thing, but he suddenly stopped talking and I am past that point in my life where I am going to try to pursue a guy who will not initiate conversation. I’m 28. I’m too old for that shit. So I brushed it off and had a moment of oh my god I’m going to die alone and the mailman will find my body. I went out for my birthday. Seized the night and all that glamorous glitter. I posted a picture of myself from my soiree on eHarmony just because I wanted to see if there are any hot guys on there, and the non-initiater of conversations looked at my picture (because their news feed is kind of on the creepy stalker side and shows you whenever they go to your page). I don’t blame him. I looked good. Much like Ron Burgundy in a suit.
So I was like well okay, maybe I’ll give this guy another go. We started chatting it up again and exchanged numbers and started texting. It was all good for a few days until he did the same thing as before. I refuse to chase another man. Nope. So I have decided that I am going to be single and wallow until I’m damn good and ready. Screw you society and your norms. I will eat Reese’s cups and read Girls in White Dresses over and over until I’ve had enough of witty chick lit and peanut butter paired with milk chocolate. Judge away. I don’t care.
And as for that stupid horse? I think I’ll walk.
So I joined a gym last month.
I’m not really an athletic person–I got a D- in gym my freshman year of high school, and that was after the A’s and B’s I got on the written tests. (Deduce your own conclusions from that.) I’m rather clumsy and uncoordinated. I’m that girl who trips over her feet and gets visibly flustered, yet does it again roughly fifteen minutes later–I love flip-flops, but I tend to catch the tops of them along the sidewalk for some unforeseeable reason and I always wind up stumbling. I can’t catch, and my throwing skills are pretty sub par. If I go to hell when I die, I will spend copious amounts of time being forced to play volleyball and badminton amid the fire and brimstone–my older brother is the athlete of the family, and I am okay with that.
But anyway, I joined a gym. I figure that a little physical exertion never hurt anyone, and as long as the activities I participated in didn’t involve a single ounce of athleticism I’d be okay. So I have gone quite a few times, and I like it. I prefer the elliptical because it feels like fancy skiing (if I knew what skiing felt like, haha) and because it’s a guaranteed sweatfest. Well…it was. After the first few times my body got used to it, and I exercised the other day for a half hour without breaking a sweat. No bueno. So I hopped off the machine in search of a cardiovascular workout that would make me look like a sweaty mess.
I tried the stationary bike. I got a little sweaty, but I had to keep messing with the seat because I’m short and I couldn’t find a good height to sit at…plus I kept sliding off the seat because it was at an angle (and it made my ass hurt later. Now I see why the fitness magazines tell you to bring your own cushioned seat cover.). I casually made my way over to the treadmill and stared it down for a good thirty seconds–I’m sure the other gym-goers probably thought I was insane, but there was a method to my madness.
I am not a runner. Not necessarily by choice, more or less by my lack of athletic prowess, my questionable coordination, and the fact that I can trip over nothing. Oh…and did I mention that I’m a 34DD? Yeah, that too. So I turn on the treadmill and put it at 3.5 mph, a good speed for getting my walk on. The chick next to me is running at a speed of 9.3 mph, and not to be outdone, I crank that shit up to 5.9 mph, bust out that Justin Bieber song that I’m embarrassed to admit I really like (“As Long As You Love Me”), and start running like a cheetah.
…Make that a cheetah with huge boobs and lungs not used to running. I lasted about a minute and a half before I had to slow my shit down and walk without looking like a winded old lady. Fighting the urge to hunch over and gasp for breath, I walked it out and attempted to find my inner Usain Bolt. I made it for about two minutes this time before my chest started screaming at me to stop–it wasn’t that I was out of breath, to my partially winded surprise I actually had found a decent rhythm and was doing okay. It was my boobs who were threatening to cause a chesty revolution and attack me. Now I’m used to having to double up on sports bras and the such when I exercise, it comes with the territory, but that day’s choice of a strapless bra underneath a Target sports bra wasn’t getting the job done. Nay. I’m sure the boys in the gym enjoyed the show, but I was in pain and I had to jump off the treadmill and call it a day.
Sweaty and broken, I immediately Googled “how to run with big boobs” and found all kinds of sites where girls complained about running with large chests and how it really sucked. It also seemed like they were running in search of making their ladies smaller–I like being chestacular, I would just like to be able to run without being in pain. So I have decided to go on the search for the Holy Grail of Sports Bras. I hear compression bras are the way to go, but I need a really spectacular one to lock these babies down, or my half-assed dreams of running will never be fully acheived. I have received suggestions of trying the VSX line by Victoria’s Secret, or even Under Armour, which I think I will test out in the upcoming weeks.
Speaking of running, I’ve decided to participate in the Cleveland edition of the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure. It’s Saturday, September 15. I won’t be running in the 5k, but I will be doing the 5k walk. I’m collecting donations and my goal is $200. If you feel like donating, please click here. You don’t have to feel like giving a lot, even $5 will help.
I have mixed feelings on the Susan G. Komen Foundation after all the crap happened with Planned Parenthood funding earlier this year, but I have friends who lost their mothers to breast cancer when we were in high school, one of my former co-workers’ mother had a double mastectomy due to breast cancer, my boyfriend’s mother and sister have both suffered from it, and no woman (or man, for that matter) is immune from it. I feel like we need to make strides to find a cure for breast cancer, hopefully in my lifetime. If you choose to donate, thank you and I appreciate it. If not, please just take the time to do monthly self-exams and stay vigiliant.
I loved Disney movies as a child.
I loved to sing along with the songs, and I adored the princesses, especially Jasmine and Belle. As a gap-toothed, messy haired eight year old, I loved that Jasmine decided she’d run away before marrying someone she didn’t want to (I just found the idea of marriage ridiculous since you know, all boys were gross and had cooties) and I loved that Belle would rather help her kooky dad with his inventions and read books all day instead of being interested in that jerk Gaston (because, yet again, all boys were gross and had cooties). I will admit, that even at eight, I was fascinated with the idea of a happily ever after, where all your dreams came true and all the wrongs were made right by true love’s first kiss. I had no idea how unrealistic that was.
I had a fairly good idea that life didn’t actually work out like it did in The Little Mermaid or Aladdin. There was no magical Genie, full of jokes and goodhearted cheer, who would make all my wildest fantasies come true. I wasn’t going to rub a lamp and become a princess or marry Jonathan Taylor Thomas. It didn’t work like that. I also wasn’t going to be attacked by a crazy lady who was half octopus. I was pretty grateful for that 😛 But still, I loved the idea of finding my own Prince Charming, this amazing and beautiful and perfect guy who was going to sweep me off my feet and we’d get married and have a happily ever after of our own. I figured that I’d find him eventually, and when I did, it was going to be the greatest thing ever. I’d have the big stupid house with the white picket fence and the two kids (one girl, one boy) and the dream car and the obligatory golden retriever and life would just be friggin’ grand.
Yeah…life doesn’t work like that. And if it does, Lord have I kissed enough frogs to warrant me my freaking happy ending. My son’s father was a class act who was separated from his wife and swore he was going to get divorced, and I was stupid enough at 18 to believe him. He wound up leaving me to go back to her twice, the final time being after she had a kid exactly ten months after my son was born. There have been guys who turned out to be crazy morons who may or may not have beat their past girlfriends. There have been guys who couldn’t kiss their way out of a well-lit paper bag with the exit clearly marked. There were guys who were even worse in bed. There were guys who strung me along, guys who just wanted to be friends with benefits, and guys who turned out to be racially confused drug dealers. I’m only 26, and I have to admit that I’m tired. I feel like I deserve a happily ever after.
And I kind of wish that Disney had put more effort into the realism of the “happily ever after”. Why not show what happened to Belle and the Prince after they got married? All we saw was them dancing at the end of the film. Why not show what would happen once they got comfortable and Belle realized that the Prince wasn’t going to be all sweet and romantic like he was when they first fell in love? Why not show Jasmine getting frustrated because Aladdin wouldn’t take that damn monkey outside to poop? Why not show Ariel laying in bed, wishing that Eric would get the hint that she wanted to have sex instead of him watching Pawn Stars again and falling asleep before midnight? I wish they had showed us girls that it’s not easy, that the idea of a happy ending takes work and patience and a healthy dose of rationality. Maybe then people wouldn’t give up on a relationship the first time you have a huge fight. Maybe then we wouldn’t rush into marriage and rush into divorce even more quickly than we rushed into the wedding. Maybe we wouldn’t be so preoccupied with the end game of our relationship…maybe then we’d focus on the now. I’m learning that the now is the best part of being in love with someone. When you focus on the end game all it does is stress you out and cause you to feel like crap.
My boyfriend is here on business; that’s how we met. I knew from the beginning that he was going home after he was all done here in Cleveland–home being roughly five and a half hours away. It’s not crazy far, but I’ve never been in a long-distance relationship before, and honestly, the Internet really hasn’t been much of a help in telling me all the fabulous ways for us to stay together (But really, is the Internet ever really helpful? Really.). I’ve had people tell me it’s not going to work, while others have said that it most certainly will, if you are willing to put the time and effort into it–I’m more than willing to try, but Jesus Christ, I wish that there was something that I could have referenced as a child that I could draw upon now to make me feel better once he leaves in June. Seriously, Disney, you need to come up with a modern princess who I can relate to. Right now, the only princess I’ve got is Emma from Once Upon A Time, and she doesn’t even know she’s a princess, damn it!
All I know is that I can’t be the only one who is tired of chasing after a guy who doesn’t really exist. Perhaps I’ll stumble upon Charming when the time is right. Maybe I already have 🙂
I have been a naughty blogger.
It’s been what, like almost a month and a half since I last posted? For shame!
In my defense, however, things in the life of Lashawn have been pretty hectic, and in a good way 🙂 I’ve been training for the casino opening, and I have to say that although my roulette skills need some serious tweaking, I could probably deal a successful hand of blackjack in my sleep. We open in like 26 days or some shit…super excited, but hella nervous. It kind of feels like how I used to feel before going on stage and singing–butterflies in my stomach, heart pounding, a general feeling of excitement…all under the nagging urge to vomit. Fantastic. I’m sure I’ll do fine once I get my girlish nerves out of the way, which should hopefully be the first few hands at the blackjack table, or the first few hours I’ve dealt roulette…because god forbid I have another tear-filled breakdown at the wheel again like I did during training on Sunday. We will just be optimistic and hope for the best.
I’ve also been spending time with my gentleman lover (hahaha that sounds so awkward and horrible, yet awesome at the same time–makes me think of Anchorman). We have done pretty much a whole bunch of nothing, which sounds boring but is actually pretty splendid. We did go on some fancy schmancy art walk through Tremont the other night, but neither of us was really impressed with it, which leads me to believe that 1.) we are neither cool nor hip, 2.) we don’t know crap about art (although it really seemed like the theme of the evening revolved around taking random photos and either framing them or screenprinting them onto a large canvas, and then selling them for like $250 a pop), and 3.) it must be an acquired skill that neither one of us possess. We ate dinner at a restaurant that was virtually non-Lashawn friendly (meaning it was super trendy and had super gross food on the menu), but the appetizer and the bread was yum, so it wasn’t entirely a crap dinner for me. I also got chocolates from my favorite little chocolate shop (Lilly Tremont) and cupcakes (A Cookie and a Cupcake), so the night wasn’t exactly a culinary bust.
I shall post more frequently, I feel kind of like a deadbeat parent…which shall never happen again. I am going to post a delightful picture for you from our hipster date. I think I could frame it and sell it for like $50, hahaha.