A glass of Merlot takes it hold…

If I’m being as honest as humanly possible, I would have to admit that I miss the erotic touch from a man that I physically and emotionally crave, or the comfort of coming home to someone who’s as wrapped up in my well-being as I am. Those are things that even the independent woman in me wants, but I’ve been single for so long now that I can’t remember if those things are worth the compromise and sacrifice that a relationship takes.

Here’s my romantic history in brief. From high school up through the months after graduating college, I was a serial serious relationship gal, with the most supreme of relationships resulting in an engagement that never came to fruition. After a few bitter and judgmental years I found Dave. I loved Dave but Dave did not love me back – he barely appreciated me and we stopped having regular sex – so I cheated because I desperately wanted to be desired. The cheating broke me so I ended it, though that turned out to be a strange and sad experience, because in the process I learned that I didn’t want to lose him, but that he was fine with losing me. The whole ordeal again soured me on relationships.

Two years post Dave, I feel like I’ve reached a state of personal relationship zen. Neither am I in search of or opposed to a relationship, I just am. I’m doing my own thing, and I desperately want that to be a professional win for me.

I don’t know why, but every time I’ve been serious about a man I’ve let that relationship dictate way too much about my life. Maybe it’s that realization or some other fucked up flaw, but each man that I’ve become emotionally connected to since Dave has been unavailable in more ways than one.

To say that I wasn’t slightly comforted by these men and their respective off-limits vibe would be a lie. I was extremely conscious of the fact that I could never fully have the type of life-draining relationship with these men that I’ve had in the past. It just wasn’t physically possible. Did I use them for affection or attention? I think it was a mutually beneficial pity party that always ended badly for both parties. One person always begins to care more, and that’s when trouble starts to brew.

So here again I find myself on a Saturday night with no love interest and really no perspectives on the horizon. The peace I have is derived from knowing that I’m not waiting for any calls or trying to decipher the subtext that is man’s way of expressing his interest, I am just me being me.

Two glasses of the previously mentioned Merlot, Jon Foreman’s, The Cure for Pain, is playing, and the air is thick with reflection and solidarity…”So blood is fire pulsing through our veins. We’re either writers or fools behind the reigns. I’ve spent ten years trying to sing it all way, but the water keeps on falling from my tries.”

I just want something that works, but society wants me to settle down, get married, and have babies. Heck at this point I think my parents would gladly settle for a bastard grandchild in lieu of the nothingness that they’ve come to expect. Extended family seem to think it appropriate to always ask about a significant other. There never is one to report.

“It’s not as if New York City burned down to the ground when you drove away…are we breaking up? Did my heart break enough this time?” – Rilo Kiley, Breakin’ Up

It feels good to be free. Unavailable men, ex-fiances, abusers and controllers, they’ve all been eradicated from my life, and this independent woman wants to rejoice in that fact. But why am I still craving the carnivorous lust of a man who can’t stand to be in the same room with me without ripping off my clothes. Sexual frustration? Maybe. Human disposition playing a cruel joke on yours truly? More likely. Quixotic social preconditions influencing my thinking? That sounds right.

Let’s just say I’m one narcissistic creative junkie (remember the wine and music quotes?) who needs an outlet. I’ve chosen writing to be that outlet. Someday I’ll choose love.

Bottle of Merlot finit.

*Photo courtesy of Greg_e on Flickr

There’s something inexplicable about the weakened immune system that simultaneously weakens my strong independent woman persona. Every time I get really sick, I find myself fighting against the emotional wreck buried inside me. Ex-boyfriends magically become saints who I never should have discarded, new prospects offer the hope of a relationship, and the sight of me in the mirror makes me question my beauty and my success (or lack their of) in life.

You girls remember the episode of Sex and the City where Big has heart surgery and Carrie takes care of him? Big, the biggest of detached and unemotional male pigs, was rethinking everything in his life including the nature of his relationship with Carrie. He goes to sleep a changed man, ready to commit, but he wakes up feeling better and it’s like those thoughts were never real. Samantha suffered the same malady, but quickly rediscovered her sexual diva when the sickness faded away.

All this nonsense is the product of inactivity. I hate being inactive. The cliché “the mind is a terrible thing to waste” should read “the mind is a dangerous thing to leave unchecked.” The problem with being out of regular commission is that your life as you know it stops. Meetings, email, dates, and drinks are replaced with sweaty naps, pounding headaches, and extreme body temperature fluctuations. The inactivity settles in and individuals not in a relationship find themselves painfully laboring to make a cup of tea. A sick single gal is nothing more than a germ infested pool of hormones and loneliness.

I know what I’ll be doing tonight, this fine Friday night that would normally lead to some form of debauchery and the promise of a goodnight kiss; I’ll be making another cup of tea and forgetting why it is I love to be single.

Having been a Manchester resident for approximately 4 months, or 116 days, I find myself battling with my sentiments surrounding this move. A few people have expressed malcontent and disappointment with my decision to switch to contractor status. These people have suggested that I’m a failure for walking away so soon and not sticking it out longer. These comments, when blended with my own occasional bouts of self-questioning, combine to create a world of anguish that has manifested itself as a ominous storm cloud, clouding the light that this new opportunity brings me. A cacophony of voices, internal and external, distort and bastardize the truth; my truth.

The truth is that the easier decision would have been to stay. There would be no moving headache, no parting with household and personal accoutrements I’ve spent my young adult life acquiring, no driving anxiety, no cross-country commute. The easiest thing of all would have been to do nothing.

There is purity in my decision. I’m being honest with myself, my work, and with everyone in my life. I’m not pretending to be satiated with my life in Manchester and I’m not faking happiness; I’m finding it and redefining it. I’m finally admitting to myself that it’s okay to be vulnerable, to need a support system (to be clear this isn’t about a man, but about friends and family). Even though I can go it alone (an important lesson this journey has shown me), I want more. I’m running towards something amazing and adding a couple of instrumental adult decisions to my list of life experiences.

I’ve got a story to tell and it’s not about failure or running away from challenges, but about being realistic in times of flux and making life-altering decisions in the face of adversity. I’ve got a story to tell, but the story is just beginning and the remainder of the story will unravel in unforeseen ways, always approaching the limits of my infinity but never quite finding an absolute end.

My conscience is killing me.

For the majority of my four months in Manchester I’ve wanted one thing. I’ve thought about it, dreamed about it, and joked about it. There were times when I thought I could have it and times when having it seemed entirely impossible.

Then, this morning, while doing something rather kind, the opportunity to have it presented itself to me more clearly than the guilt-inducing light of day. But I didn’t doing anything about it. It was mine for the taking, but taking it just seemed all wrong and my motives for wanting it all along were no where to be found.

Where did my mind and my body get lost? Perhaps it has something to do with the winding road with many forks that is my conscience. Or maybe it was all a game. Maybe I’m no better than those guys that chase girls they can’t have simply because they enjoy the challenge. Maybe I never actually wanted it, but just wanted to know that I could have it.

So is there gratification in knowing that I walked away from something potentially very dangerous? Or is there regret and self-loathing in knowing that I played the game and got exactly what I wanted (perhaps at the expense of someone else)?

That happens to be one of my favorite lines from Sex and the City, if only because I’ve had numerous occasions in my life where this very sentence was not only applicable, but captured the entire essence and nature of the relationship I was in.

Granted I’m currently single and have been so for some time, but I’m feeling moody and wanted to share what I think is one the most poignant, difficult to watch, and yet so real scenes in television history (just excuse the very naked scene at the beginning of the clip).

Everything always comes back to Sex and the City for me. I guess I’ve always wanted to be Carrie because I can identify with her pain, love, triumphs, and obsession with shoes. I’ve never been in this exact situation and hope to God that I never have to be, but Carrie’s angst and ultimate realization is totally speaking to me right now. Watching the Carrie/Big/Aidan mess a few years ago really helped me through a difficult time with my Jenn/Patrick/Josh mess; at that time Josh was my Aidan and Patrick was my Big (and if you’ve read the About Me page you already know that Josh and I were engaged). Carrie’s weaknesses and strengths were (and still are) so very real to me. She’s flawed but she finds her way home.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ze3QtM_Z4LI]

I was supposed to have a date last night, so on my afternoon run I was pondering my back-up plan, attire, shoes, escape strategy, and purse necessities. In the midst of my manic thought process, I realized that dating is like venturing outside on a cold New England day, there’s a certain level of preparation required to ensure that you don’t freeze to death. If you don’t plan for the worst (ie snow storm or being stood up), then you could find yourself in quite an unflattering predicament.

Quick tips for chics to weather the ice cold dating world:

1. If it’s a first date take separate cars. Escape is just a car ride somewhere else.
2. Bring more than one pair of shoes and stash some pjs or jeans in your car. The walk of shame is never glamorous in 5 inch heels and a shiny metallic dress.
3. Create a text code and escape strategy with a friend. If you ever need an easy way out just excuse yourself to the ladies room, text your bud, have her text you back in 15 min, and make up some excuse about how she just broke up with her boyfriend and really needs you.
4. Chapstick. You need it.
5. Breath mints. He needs it (and you should want to share).
6. $20 – the appearance of money in your wallet makes you appear like less of a freeloader.
7. Shave anything that any man would want to touch. You may have a boundary set in your mind, but he will try anything to cross those borders. Channel the Boy Scouts; be prepared.
8. Decide what you want to do. When he asks, tell him. This way you won’t have the circular conversation about what to do, and…bonus…you get to dictate the events of the date. Hint this is how he thinks – movies = making out, dinner = conversation, dancing = foreplay (unless he fears his dance mojo then this is the scary zone for him), theatre = no chance for a second date.

The list could go on forever, but I’ll stop here in the hopes that single gals will share their personal prescriptions for dating dos and don’ts.

I apologize for the ambiguous metaphor but life is a little too complicated for me to go into detail. I find myself fighting against moroseness and for happiness (and finding joy in the small things) as things start to crumble and reshape in surprising new forms around me.

Running seems to center me and I’ve already managed two solid runs in a 24 hour period, so I’m sensing positive changes are in store for me. Sometimes I just wish the saying, “when it rains it pours” wasn’t so accurate. Maybe the cliche would be a little more hopeful if it went something like, “when it rains it pours, but if it’s really cold it snows.” I like that one better because it’s open to interpretation. Snow can be friend or foe and since it snowed today, the first snow for me in Manchester, I’m all over the friend angle. Peace is sipping a soy latte with a direct view of the snow falling down; I found my peace today.

But back to my chocolate box metaphor…this time around I’m going to pick a chocolate with my eyes wide open and a knife in hand (so I can see what’s inside). I’m going to get that bordeau and eat it even if my thighs get fat.

I signed up with twitter awhile ago and didn’t really see or get the value of it. Then a few months ago I switched jobs and starting reading more about the relevance of twitter; it all started to make sense. So I tried to sign in and get actively engaged, but despite my best efforts, I couldn’t figure out my password. Yeah I’ve got dozens and no I don’t keep them in a spreadsheet (actually I started a spreadsheet as soon as this happened). I didn’t want to create a new account and the system couldn’t seem to recognize my email address (so I couldn’t get a new password). I gave up and decided that I would die in twitterless obscurity.

Today I had an aha moment. I remembered my password! I’m back and although I have absolutely no followers yet, I’m confident I’ll get there…to a point where twitter matters in my life. So follow me darn it. I’ll totally return the favor if you do, plus if you live in the Manchester area you can send me a direct message and maybe we can meet up for coffee (because I need friends…I’m so alone out here after relocating from San Diego).

The funny part of the story is that I’m a huge idiot, but I might have found a way for twitter to help ensure dumb people like me don’t get stuck in a situation I did. So back to me being an idiot. In my profile area I had mistyped my email by one stinking letter, so of course the system couldn’t recognize my email address; I entered it in wrong! Doh! Perhaps twitter could fix this by email verification? Just a thought. Maybe they do this now and I got left in the dust. Who knows. Problem solved on my end anyway.