what Mama told me / hair

I have naturally curly hair.

It’s plagues me.  It’s always big and poofy and pointy and unruly.  I’ve had it short, I’ve had it long.  I’ve had it layered, I’ve had it thinned.  When I’m at the CVS I’m amazed to see all the home perm kits for sale.  Who would wish this on them self?  I guess we always want what we don’t have.

In 2001 my hair was a little longer than shoulder length.  I was liking it long cause the weight of it all pulled some of the curl out – it was “wavy” instead of “curly” and that was suiting me just fine.  Andy and I had been together for just about a year at that point, and that’s when he told me he didn’t like my hair.  He didn’t actually say it directly, but he was looking directly at my head when he said:  “You know, the shower drain is backed up again.”

Co-dependent that I am, I went right out and got my hair cut.  Short.  Super short.  The “sincerely-hope-you-have-a-nice-shaped-head” type of short.  Now, my hair, without the weight to make it “wavy”, is very, very curly.  One night, lying in bed, Andy peered closely at my short, coarse, curly hair, chuckled to himself and said out loud:  “Do you think God just screwed up and put pubic hair on your head by mistake?”

In that moment I remembered something my Mother told me when I was ten and I knew that Andy was not the man for me.

When I was ten I got my first curling iron.  A curling iron has no place in the hands of a ten year old, especially not if that ten year old has thick, curly hair.  But it was 1978 – straight, thin, hair was in; preferably straight, thin, blond hair like Cheryl Tieggs had, and curling irons were made for women like Cheryl.  Do you remember that shampoo commercial she did?  She talked about standing on her balcony each morning and combing her freshly shampooed hair in the sun while it dried.  I can’t tell you how many times I tried to do that.  It’s all fun and games for the first four minutes while it’s still soaking wet, but as soon as the first few locks dry and bounce into their spring-loaded coil position it’s all over.  Tangles, snags and tears ensue.

So the curling iron.  Theory was that through militant blow drying I could straighten out my natural (and therefore undesirable) curls, and then use the curling iron to create new curls.  This never did happen.  Blow drying does indeed straighten out some of the curl, but the curls that stubbornly remain serve to bolster and volumize – resulting in a gravity defying full 360 of hair.  To this I was supposed to apply the curling iron to the sides and back for a finished look, but mostly I got second degree burns to my wrists and the sides of my neck.

I was ten years old, and I was tired.  My daily hair ritual demanded over an hour each morning, taking up valuable time other ten year olds were using to eat Eggos and drink Tang.  Alas, ballcaps were decidedly prohibited by my school’s dress code, so my day started with lather, rinse, repeat, followed by deep condition, blow dry, mousse, curling iron, and hairspray.  I may well be single-handedly responsible for poking a hole in the ozone layer.

It was the day of the science fair that was my undoing.  I’d stayed up late with my Mom, gluing coffee grounds to a mound of paper-mache that was designed to belch vinegar and baking soda in a rough representation of a volcano.  I couldn’t take the volcano on the bus, so Mom was going to drive me to school.  Knowing I’d be pressed for time in the morning, I washed my hair the night before, and fell asleep with it wet.

In the morning I woke up with the bed head from hell.  Half my hair was smashed flat against my head – remarkably straight, actually – but not in a good way.  The other half stood somewhere between a right angle and perpendicular to the floor.  There wasn’t enough mousse in the world to fix it.  I brushed, I combed, to no avail.  I did not look good and therefore neither did Vidal Sassoon.  I tried barrettes, no luck.  A headband didn’t even last a bull rider’s eight seconds before my hair threw it to the ground.  My Mom was shouting at me to hurry up, that I was going to be late for school.  I had the curling iron in one hand, my brush in the other, and a ponytail holder in my teeth when my Mom walked in, hands on hips. “Jennifer Marie,” she said, “we have to leave NOW.”  I turned from the mirror, frustration and fury boiling up in me, a trail of spittle running from the corner of my mouth.  As I looked from the curling iron to the brush, I felt a wayward curl tighten on its own volition and actually poke me in the ear.  “I hate my goddamn hair!” I seethed, and threw the brush across the room.

Mom drove me to school in silence.

That was the longest day of my ten year old life.  In my family children were to be seen and not heard.  I had never had a tantrum like that – I had never thrown anything, never yelled at my Mom, and you can be 100% sure I had never cussed out loud.  I was terrified to go home that day.  The red ribbon I got for second prize in the science fair was worthless in light of the trouble I was going to be in.  I’d be grounded for life.  I’d never see TV again.  She was gonna take away my books and my Barbies and worst of all:  she was gonna tell my Father when he got home.  My life was over.

When I got off the school bus it was raining, and my Mom was waiting in the Pinto to pick up me and my brother.  She drove us home, and just like every other rainy day of my childhood she made us popcorn and hot chocolate.  When my brother went to the family room to watch TV, I cleared the table and tearfully fumbled through an apology:  “Mom”, I said, “I’m really sorry for yelling this morning, but my hair is horrible and no one is ever going to love me.”  As she came across the kitchen toward me I could practically taste the Tabasco she would surely put on my tongue for cussing.  I wondered if I’d get the belt or the paddle when Dad got home.  Mom stood before me, ran a hand through her own thick, curly hair and then put her arms around me.  “Oh Jennifer”, she said.  “Someday you’ll find a man who’s gonna love you no matter what your hair looks like.”

I’m an idiot.

Now, typically I shun such negative and demeaning self talk.  But today, today I can’t find a better way to sum up my behavior.  I’m an idiot.  Why else would I sit for 97 minutes waiting to use the ATM?

Truth be told, it seemed important at the time.  A client had given me a huge amount of cash, and I knew if it went anywhere other than the bank it would never make it to the bank.  Not that I’d go out and buy something huge, like a leather coat or a 60″ flat screen TV, no, that huge chunk of cash would be slowly whittled away.  A latte here, a “special treat” gourmet dinner there.  A massage, a “I deserve it” new sundress.  Nope, I’ve got far too compelling a sense of rationalization and justification to take a stack of Benjamins home with me.  Those bad boys needed to go straight to the bank.

The ATM I frequent has been out of order a lot lately.  That’s a problem, but mostly just an annoyance.  I have been thinking about switching banks.  I’ve been with this credit union since I was twelve and where I live there’s only the one ATM I can use.  It’s inconvenient, but I’ve got this loyalty thing.

Today as I pulled up to the building I could see the “Insert Your Card To Begin Your Transaction” screen glowing green on the ATM, a very positive sign.  As I walked up the steps and entered the vestibule  I began to hear clicking and beeping, very negative signs.  My hand was mere inches from the card reader, paused in some kind of bizarre ATM card foreplay when the screen message changed to “Temporarily Out of Service”.

I should have left then.  That ATM was out of service for the better part of last week.  But I had all that cash I couldn’t trust myself with, and I heard sounds from the other side of the machine.  Surely what I was hearing was the ATM workerbee, refilling it with twenties.  How long could that take?  I’d wait.

Oh yeah, I waited.  I waited and listened.  I waited and chatted with the other patrons who walked in, saw the “Out of Service” message and left.  As each minute went by I became more committed to staying longer.  I mean really, you can’t sit waiting for something for twenty minutes and then leave – that about guarantees that what you were waiting for will come to fruition at minute twenty-one.  So I waited.  I filed my nails.  I checked my email.  I consulted my user’s guide and learned how to work my phone’s call waiting.  I made a To-Do list.  I read through all the text messages I’d gotten last weekend and decided which guy I hope asks me out this weekend.  I stared out the window.  I stared at the ATM.  I listened to the ATM workerbee talk on his phone.   I listened to the ATM go through several rounds of diagnostic tests, and when it clicked and clacked it’s deposit slot open and shut, I caught a glimpse of the workerbee and gave him a friendly wave.

All told, I spent 97 minutes waiting for the ATM machine to come back online.  Ultimately I deposited that pile of cash and went back to my office.  That’s almost two hours of my life I’ll never get back.  My ass is actually sore from sitting on the window ledge all that time.  What’s weird is I actually think that made for a fun afternoon.  I’m an idiot.

dinner date dud

You know what I think?
I think the guy should buy dinner. That’s what I think.
Old fashioned? Yes. But that’s where I stand with it.

My barometer for if we’re “just friends” or if we’re dating is directly tied to who buys dinner.   If it’s a date, he should buy dinner.   If we go dutch, we’re friends.  Lately I’ve been going out with a lot of guys, getting to know a lot of different people.  It’s important to me on some evenings to be sure that I pay my half of the bill – some evenings where I want to be really clear that it was not a date, that we’re even steven and I owe him nothing.  In fact, if it was a really dreadful evening, I’ll dive for the bill and pay the whole thing myself, letting him know that he doesn’t need to call me ever again.  When the night has gone really well, when I’m really into the guy, when I desperately hope that this was indeed a date, I’ll develop what my friend calls “alligator arms”, meaning I suddenly can’t reach my wallet.  I’ll sit there, smile demurely, continue to make conversation and wait to see if the man across from me has enough good breeding to know how to suavely slip his credit card to the waiter.

Just this weekend I watched this whole drama play out, not to my favor if you don’t mind the spoiler.  I’d been out with Bevin about six times – a couple movies, some dinners, and this past sunny Sunday, a lovely three hour walk and talk around the touristy part of town.  That very evening he sent me an email saying he’d made a dinner reservation for the following Saturday night, would I join him for dinner and a show?

Now, that sounded like a date to me.  And although I’d been very much on the fence about whether Bevin and I were developing a nice platonic friendship or if that urge to kiss him meant more than my usual need to make a mess of things, this dinner reservation pushed me right over to the dating side.  I was thrilled.  It had been on my list of things to do to ask him if he thought we were friends or if we were dating, and it was really empowering to imagine being that straightforward.  It seemed like a risk free situation – I liked him, but not a whole lot – no matter what he said I’d be okay.   But now that I had this dinner coming up I decided against forthright inquiry and chose instead to wait and see if he paid for dinner.

I got the most fun out of the pre-date as I could.  I love planning what I’m going to wear, changing my clothes a couple times, arguing with my hair… in the end I looked amazing.  Truly.  I could find no fault with my appearance. Walking to the restaurant a woman actually told me I have a nice figure. Another woman told me she loved my dress.  I was feeling on top of the world when I swept into the restaurant.  Bevin was standing at the bar, so situated that he missed the benefit of witnessing my entrance.   I was annoyed, and was trying to figure out an excuse to leave and come back in so he could get a good look, but our table was ready so we went on in.

Dinner was delicious, I’ll admit that.  I had a fabulous piece of fish, a salad of fennel and orange, a huge piece of coconut cake and a decadent cup of decaf.  We talked about things – his work, my work, his motorcycle and golf, my performance and writing… things were going really well.  He teased me a bit, and was quite the smart ass a couple of times, which is always gets big points in my book.  Then came the check.  The moment of truth.   I had done my part, it was up to him now.  I had dressed to the nines.  I had made scintillating conversation.  I had touched his arm and laughed at his jokes and asked concerned questions about his family.  He picked up the check – my heart soared.  This was it.  He was going to buy dinner, it was a real date and I was definitely going to kiss him.  It was all so exciting.

But as it turned out, he had picked up the check in only the most literal of ways.   He held it for a while, and after he finally looked at it he put it back down on the table as he fumbled for his wallet.  Suave and debonair was decidedly not in effect, and I knew full well what needed to come next:  my politely asking: “What’s the damage?” as my fully functional, non-alligator arms reached for my wallet.  We both threw down our credit cards, signed on the dotted lines, and walked out of the restaurant.  We chatted for a few minutes, it started to rain. We determined that he’d parked uptown and I parked downtown – being practical had never felt so cold as he gave me a friendly hug and we parted company, me walking myself back to my car.

I think I’m going to take a little break from dating.

The Ring

There had always been a jewelry store around the corner from Maggie Moo’s, but it never occurred to me to go in there -  I don’t consider myself a jewelry person.  Then one random day I had some time to kill and decided to go in and take a look around.  The ring that caught my eye was diamonds – tiny little diamonds – twenty one of them arranged to make three interlocking daisies.  They called it a “dinner ring”.  I called it gorgeous.  I tried it on and fell in love.  The price I didn’t love so much.  This tiny piece of rock and metal was $1500.  1500 dollars.  I had never spent that much money on anything in my life.  $1500, to me, is the equivalent of 300 pints of Haagen Dazs – an entire year’s supply of ice cream.  It was inconceivable, totally out of reach.  But it was so pretty.

 

I couldn’t get the ring out of my mind.  I’d go to the store every few weeks to say hi and try it on.  I came to think of it as “my” ring, and the lady behind the counter came to know me by name.  Eventually she, Cynthia, gave me a little card with all the details of the ring – including the price.  I wanted that ring.  I imagined myself wearing the ring – it was awfully flashy, but I figured I could pull it off.  My friends would be in awe, but I’d be cool and casual – “Oh, this?  Just a little something I bought myself.  It’s called a dinner ring, but I feel comfortable wearing it for lunch and even breakfast, too.”  I put that little card on my refrigerator and started saving my pennies.

 

My boyfriend was amused by the card on the fridge, he’d tease me about it, ask if I was within striking distance of buying it for myself anytime soon.  I’d been saving for about a year when one Saturday I couldn’t find the ring at the store.  I figured it had been sold, that I’d missed my chance.  I was crushed.  Too embarrassed to ask about it,  I just went home, took that little card off the fridge and tossed it my desk drawer. 

 

A few months later, after the boyfriend and I broke up, I went to Maggie Moo’s to do some emotional eating and decided to swing through the jewelry store for old time’s sake.  I looked at the bracelets and the necklaces and there was the ring.  I was so excited to see it.  I was given a second chance.  I certainly never asked him about it, and I’ve never really told anyone this, but I think he had bought that ring for me when we were still dating and that’s why I couldn’t find it that time.  I think when we broke up he returned it and that’s why it was back at the store.  So, the little card went back up on the fridge and I started thinking about our future together – me: the independent, self sufficient woman, and the ring: bright and sparkly.

 

I was about three months in to a new boyfriend for three months when one sunny afternoon, all jacked up on sugar, and feeling cocky, I got to running my mouth.  I told this poor innocent man that if he ever wanted to marry me, he’d have to engage me first, and that if I was going to be engaged, I was going to need to a diamond dinner ring that looked like a bunch of daisies.  He laughed and told me to keep saving my money, he’d seen that little card on my fridge.

  

He called me the next day and asked what I was doing after work.  “Why don’t you show me this ring you keep going on about?” he said.  We met in the parking lot outside the shop.  I took him by the hand and swept into the store like a true diva.  I bellowed:  “Cynthia!  My ring, please!”   Cynthia peered into the case in front of her, and then scurried over to another case.  As she looked from one case to the next, slowly shaking her head and frowning, I began to get worried. 

 

“Oh Jennifer.” she said.    “Oh Jennifer, I am so sorry.  That ring was sold.  It was sold just this morning.  It was sold this morning to a Mr. Howe”.

 

“Oh.  Oh, okay.” I said.  I couldn’t believe.  The ring had been sold.  My ring was gone.  I felt my heart sink to the floor and simultaneously rise to my throat.  I could hardly breathe.  My ring was gone.  After all this time.  After all the visiting, and the trying on, and the saving of the money, my ring was gone!  It just wasn’t fair.  I’d wanted that ring.  And goddamit, I never get what I want.  How dare she sell my ring!  She’d sold it to a Mr… A Mr. Howe… hey, that name sounded familiar.    

 

You could practically smell smoke as the gears in my brain engaged and I realized Mr. Howe was the man standing beside me.  I was completely scandalized.  I think I was channeling an irate Elaine Benes when my hands hit his chest:  “Get Out!”  I shouted.  I was totally undone, on the verge of tears, and he and Cynthia, now the co-conspirators, were laughing at me.  It had been easy for him to describe the ring over the phone, easy for her to recognize me and they’d planned the whole thing. 

 

Now, my mood was shifting quickly.  I could hardly catch my breath.  Clearly I was about to get the ring, months ahead of schedule and I was getting married, too!  I mean, obviously this was going to be one of those jewelry store proposals, right?  I tried to pull myself together so I’d look good for the candid photo Cynthia was sure to snap at any moment.  You can imagine my confusion as we left the store empty handed. 

 

I kept my mouth shut, I didn’t want to seem presumptuous or greedy, but days went by and neither of us mentioned the ring or marriage proposals.  Sunrise, sunset, weeks went by and nothing.  It was almost a month later, when that sneaky Mr. Howe, in his wonderfully romantic and quirky way, put a velvet box in my Easter basket, tucked in with the purple and green plastic eggs.  That’s how I finally got the ring.  And we did get married that September.

 

That was years ago.  I recently had it resized, and I don’t wear it on my ring finger anymore.  It was a little awkward a few weeks ago when I bumped into Mr. Howe, who is now my ex-husband.  He nodded toward my hand and said:  “I see you kept the ring.”  “Oh, hon”, I said.  “It’ll always be my ring.”

a story to listen to

Oy, I haven’t written anything here in a few weeks, but I do have something brewing.   Meanwhile, if you need a fix, here’s a fabulous tale written and performed by a wonderful up and coming storyteller.  A poignant, true story about love and ice cream.

on sun, off sugar

Whewee the last two days were tough.  It’s good to reflect that I used to spend weeks and months feeling down, desperate and hopeless – two days is nuthin’ compared to that.

Added bonus, when I’m depressed these days it’s authentic.  I can see patterns, connections – and change my behavior.  This last week was a perfect storm of lousy weather, upsetting family interactions, disappointing dates and sugar.  Every one of those things bring me down, and to have them all together was just way too much.

Turns out my brother continues to drink like an alcoholic.  You’d think two stints in jail would cure that – especially when you consider the state of Arizona says jail for DUI is a six month desert stay in a tent with no a/c or running water – but no, he’s still drinking.  I have no idea how low he’s going to have to go before he makes a change, or if he ever will.  That makes me sad for him, for his kids, and for me and everyone who loves him.

That’s how I started the week: visiting my brother.  Then I came home to cold and rainy miserable weather that really fueled my dark mood.  Then I had a date, which unfortunately I was counting on to uplift my mood – nay, transform my life – so I felt even more deeply disappointed by it than I would have regularly as I discovered he’s not second date eligible.  To underscore a theme, this guy has his share of DUI’s, too.

Then, as fate would have it, I crossed paths with that gorgeous man who dumped me.  I knew he was there before he even walked in the room.  His pheromones preceded him up the stairs.  Five o’clock shadow, tussled hair, broad chest and casual afterwork slacks…  that man still makes my heart stop.  As I shook his proffered hand I remembered what it felt like to be wrapped in his arms.  That upset my emotional apple cart and set me up for the wedge of triple chocolate truffle cake I ate that night.  Not a good coping skill, I know, but sometimes that’s the way it goes.

Tragically, nothing will tank my mental health faster than a big sugar indulgence, and I spent all day yesterday at my wit’s end:  questioning my career, my life, my will to live…  But today, today all that is in the past.  The sun is out, I’ve had some time without sugar, and I’m seeing a friend tomorrow to talk out all this family, dating, ex-crush angst once and for all.  Go team go.

Dating is Depressing

I’ve just been on a date and now I’m depressed.  Conclusion:  dating is depressing. 

I didn’t have big expectations for this date.  Actually, wait.  That is utterly untrue.   I did have big expectations for this date.  I have big expectations for every date, I’m realizing now.  Larger than life expectations.  With the eagerness of a kid at Christmas, I spend the hours before a date anticipating the ways this date will end all dates.  I did it today like I’ve done with every other date.  No one, no date, could possibly fulfill my fantasy – that of being swooped up and out of my day to day life and transported to some magical sunny place where my new found love and I walk around in the rose-strewn countryside and amaze each other with the depth and intelligence of our conversations for the rest of our lives together in mutually compatible mental, emotional and sexual bliss.  These are big expectations.

Of course, from those heights, the reality of a lunch date with a mere mortal is guaranteed to be disappointing.  And if that mere mortal turns out to be ten years my junior, without traditional employment and has only recently gotten his license back after another unfortunate DUI, the disappointment is all the deeper.

But that’s his stuff and not really about me.  What is about me is the ongoing angst I feel trying to figure out who I want to be in this dating world.  I do know I don’t want to be married.  That may seem like getting ahead of myself but I have a history to getting in over my head in pretty short order so I want to stay clear on that.  It’s this dating that’s got me confused.  I like to think I enjoy dating, that going out with lots of different guys is exciting and validating and fun, but it’s the post-date depression I’m in right now that tells me my motiviation for a long term relationship is more true to my soul than I let on.  I do want a somebody.  I do want a partner, a constant companion.  My fantasy involves two people, not one, and not dozens. 

The most depressing part of this date today was when it was over and I was back at my place alone.  Double whammy of depression to know that the guy who just left wasn’t the guy, and to suspect that there may well be more disappointing dates before I find a really good one and won’t be alone anymore.   Triple whammy of depression to look at my very nature and know that even in a good partnership, I’ll still be alone.

There isn’t enough ice cream in the world for this one.

god’s will and luck

I’ve amused myself lately with trying to figure out what “luck” means to me.  At first glance I thought I didn’t believe in “luck”.  I’m of the mind that there’s making things happen, and there’s god’s will.  The god’s will part has got to be in place, and from there you’re on your own for the making things happen part.  No “luck” about it.

But just today I found myself being pretty darn manipulative about this god’s will thing.  This afternoon  I really wanted a chocolate chip cookie.  And a latte.  Now, the latte would be a soy decaf, so that’s no problem, but I needed that cookie like I needed a third arm.  Knowing that, I decided to put some parameters in place – some qualifiers to make the cookie-getting more divinely inspired than just self indulgent.  “If there is a parking place right out front…” is how the mantra began.  “… then it will be god’s will that  I get a chocolate chip cookie.” 

It occurs to me that someone not up to her eyeballs in 12 step programs might just as easily think that nabbing that enabling parking place was “luck”.  Seems my spiritual shunning of the “luck” concept boils down to semantics.  Either way, there was no parking, I got no cookie.  God’s will be done.

Beyond the phraseology, I’ve noticed that there’s some liberal interpretation going on with this whole thing.  Take, for example, a song I fell in love with this summer.  It’s got a melancholy bass line, the lyrics are moody and unsettling, too, and while I drove up and down the east coast trying to put some distance between my ex-husband and me I decided it was “my” song.  My independence song.  My single-girl-on-the-road-starting-a-new-life song.  It didn’t turn out to be a very popular song, so I never heard it again on the radio, but I downloaded to my Ipod and played it every morning while I was in the shower.  Shower Power. 

Later, in the winter, I found myself sitting across the dinner table from the most gorgeous man I’ve ever shared a meal with.  It was, of course, someone I had no business whatsoever spending time with, someone who has since bruised my heart and stunted my ego.  At the time, though, I was thrilled to be there.  Stunned speechless to be having dinner with the walking pheromone I’d had a crush on for almost a year.  And it turned out he liked me, too.

Somewhere between the burgers and dessert I heard it.  My song.  My melancholy, moody anthem, and I knew what it meant.  It was god’s will that this stunningly beautiful man and I be together.  It was a sign.  Kismet. Karma.  God’s will.  I sighed deeply and settled into the booth, gazing at this flesh and blood Adonis and basking in my good fortune.

Broken heart almost healed, this morning I heard the song again, and remembered it’s true signifigance to me - that of independence, liberation, self discovery.  Then, sheepishly, I remembered how quick I was to toss that aside and tuck the song into my own hormone driven agenda that night at the restaurant.  God’s will?  Hardly.  I’m just lucky god’s will always overrides my own self will sooner or later.

spoiled brat

Ok, I’ll admit it:  I’m a spoiled brat.  I want what I want when I want it, and right now I’m not getting what I want so I’m pissed.  This is weekend Number Two with no dates, no prospects,  nuthin’.

I did get a friendly email from my ex-husband, but that doesn’t count for anything.  I did have a lovely day with my girlfriends, but anyone could do that.  I did happen to be in the right seat on the metro just as it came above ground so I caught a surprise glimpse of fireworks in the distance – for a moment I grinned with glee at how lucky and happy I am, but I quickly pulled myself together and re-focused on my misery.  This type of moodiness requires concentration.

I had been at the movies, and being in petulant child mode all I saw there was couples.  So many couples.  Old, young, holding hands, laughing  – everyone all happy and coupled up.  I coulda just kicked the pair sitting in front of me in the theatre – get a room, already, dear god.   Even the single people I saw were surely on their way home to a loving mate.  This is ridiculous.

The main source of my angst is that I think not having a date is a problem.  If I’d just live in the moment and enjoy my time alone, enjoy not having to negotiate or compromise, enjoy just doing whatever I want whenever I want, I’d be happier.  ‘Cause you know the minute I’m dating again I’ll be bitching about not having enough time to myself.  Not only do I want what I want when I want it, I generally don’t what what I’ve got when I’ve got it.  Spoiled brat.

Actually, this “what and when I want” is the core of the problem, I think.  This defining myself by what I want and whether or not I’ve got it is bringing me down.  It proliferates all sorts of black and white thinking, which continues to be my Achilles heel.  Trying to find grace in the gray is my life long journey, I’m sure.

With the dating it manifests like this:  if I’m going to be someone who dates and I don’t have a date, then I’m a failure.  If I’m going to be someone who doesn’t date and then I find myself lonely, then I’m a failure.  And if I’m dating someone I wonder if it’s the right someone.  And if I’m purposefully not dating I’ve got to front with so much bravado about it that not even I believe me.  You’ll notice there’s not a scenario here where I assess myself as a success.  That’s the bugaboo with this whole black and white approach  – there’s no way to win.

So here’s my latest assessment – I’m not quite ready to do away with trying to define where I stand on this dating thing – but I’m making a baby step toward gray thinking, and it feels pretty good to me:

I am someone who would like to date but who does not have a date this weekend.

what they said, what I heard

Fabulous meditation group today.  The reading was spot on for me, went right to my soul – or so I thought.  It was one of those quirky experiences where, later in the day, I realized what I heard wasn’t really what was said.

The reading was from the Tao te Ching; the line that grabbed me was “…the greatest gift is to walk the path alone”.  Yes, I thought, yes.  Alone.  That’s where it’s at.  I gotta walk the path alone.  Forget these men; forget trying to find validation from outside myself.  Alone.  Me and god.  Me and the river.  Me and the birds and the trees.  Alone.  Ohmmm.  Deep breath in.  Ohmmm.  I’m self actualizing as I sit here.  Exhale.  It’s not that no one’s asking me out, it’s that I am choosing to walk the path alone.  Ohmmm.  The reading went on to describe the path as “elusive” and “challenging”.   Yes, yes! Being single in a couples world is hard!  Being confident and secure in being on your own is definitely swimming upstream.  Not getting caught up in the never-ending search for a mate takes commitment!  Tears welled up in my eyes as I felt connected to, understood, by the ancient wise words.

Upon returning home, I thought I’d get online and print out the whole reading.  It really spoke to me.  I thought I’d put it on the fridge so I could see it every day, maybe put a copy in my wallet so I could refer to it throughout the day if things got confusing.

Reading it, versus hearing it read aloud, was a different experience.  Turns out the gist of that line “walk the path alone”, means to walk the path alone.  As in, only the path.  Not so much that you’re by yourself, but that you’re focused on one thing.  Made me feel pretty sheepish to realize that.  It wasn’t what I thought at all.  It wasn’t about giving me some relief from the shackles of coupledom.

Or does it?  And does it matter?  What’s more important, what they said or what I heard?  How I interpret things is completely influenced by the filters of my brain, my spirit, my experience.  That I heard validation and encouragement for a non-dating lifestyle means that that is what I’m seeking in my soul.  And isn’t that what the whole process of sitting there for 20 minutes in silence is all about?  Trying to get clear on what I really want and need?  Ah, yes, grasshopper, now we’re on to something.  I’m gonna stick with the motivation and support I heard, rather than bring myself down with semantics.

Alone.  I love it.