Leaps and bounds

First date. There are boundaries. There are lines. Social niceties that exist for a reason. And I like candor, I do, but there is no need to go leaps and bounds over the line.

I asked his biggest vice. It's a first date, a half serious self-deprecating remark will suffice, thanks. Let me think you're clever. Here's your chance!

And he says, "Horny."

And I say, "With a 'c'?"

And he says, "Horny."

And I say, "With a 'c'?"

Leaps. And. Bounds.

Trophy wife

First dates, you can't do anything with them.

This is because (and we all know this is true) you mostly end up getting drunk because you're nervous and one more gin and tonic? Sure, he's buying. and then you say gin and tonic-inspired things and then no one really knows anything about the other. Because gin and tonic-inspired things? That's called drunk.

And then finally, finally, on date five, when you're getting down to actually knowing the person, you're already so involved that you can't disentangle yourself from this mess. Because you know what you realize on date five? You'd rather be at home watching reruns of Friends in your pajamas. But you've already invested so much time.

This is why people get married.

Keep it in your pants

Self. Restraint.

Self. Restraint. Self restraint. Self restraint. Self restraint.

I will repeat that as my mantra until I get it right. Just because I want something, or maybe someone, it does not mean that I am going to pursue it. Or get it. Or him. Or one. It means, hey, calm down, take it easy, let's see how this plays out in the long run. Let's talk goals, values, is he Jewish?, does he enjoy brunch? Because let's face it, brunch, it's a big deal. These are important things.

So. Keep.it.in.your.pants. In your pants!

Tfln

Am I that desperate?

I'd rather sleep alone, I know this, but I'm compelled to text random standby, just to be sure that -what? That someone, in the twopointfive mile radius, in the future, someone may want me? Someone who wants someone else who wants someone else may want me?

I've had a few vodka tonics, clearly, why don't you want me someone-who-may-love-someone-who-may-love-someone? You should want me. Even if I don't really care and I know it. My mascara is everywhere. I don't want you to see this. It's not even the vodka, it's the mascara. The second you see this mascara catastrophe, I worry I will care. And then you will know too much and be added to the list of Men I Wish I Never Met.

(And we all know it's not mascara. It's everything. Everything that can be smudged.)

Let's just be friends?

Man up

I am going to man up. I'm going to stop whining about things I cannot control and planning my future sadness. This is ridiculous. I am no longer a moody, angst-ridden sixteen year old. I am an adult. I have a job and a life and I will not complain about men and circumstances and plan to be depressed, put it on my to-do list, plan for the downfall. I will not come to terms with the fact that I am alone. I am alone. I will not tell myself things will be better once I meet someone. I will not mope and bitch and act like life isn't fair. I need to get over myself.

Kissing won't make it better

So. I told The Doctor that feelings were complicating things. That usually I don't have feelings. That I'm severed. And with him, there are feelings. And he kissed me to make it better, and the entire time I was thinking, This doesn't make it better.

Fortuitous

Why will I take this personally? Why will I obsess, writewritewrite about it, think it to death, analyze every detail, hate him and hate that we met? I hate that we met. I hate that we met. I hate that we met.

Everything happens for a reason? Bullshit.

Schooled

There are plenty of fish in the sea, yes? No.

No!

Let's rephrase: There are plenty of fish in the sea, but most of them are douchebags. Most of them are too loud or too quiet or can't commit or aren't tall enough or the chemistry is wrong. Most of them don't read books or have interesting things to say or they wear those whale pants. You know the ones. The short man shorts with whales or alligators or some kind of sea creature placed about. Sea horses?

I digress.

It's never right. These men with their starfish pants. They aren't right.

Reminder

Running is my catharsis. Writing is my catharsis. So why is it, why, as I'm running, as I'm writing, as I'm listening to my breathing -in in out out, in in out out- as I tap my keys, as I try to ignore the pull in my muscles, as I taptaptap, as I in in out out ininoutoutininoutout, all I can think, all I can feel, all I can mouth over and over and over, all that comes out, the only keys my fingers will type, the only words that form, I can't stop, I can't think, I can't --

I'm not bitter.

I'm not bitter. I'm not bitter. I'm not bitter. I'm not bitter.I'm not bitter.I'm not bitter.I'mnotbitter.I'mnotbitter. I'mnotbitter.I'mnotbitter.I'mnotbitter.I'mnotbitter.I'mnotbitter.I'mnotbitter.I'mnotbitter.I'mnotbitter.I'mnotbitter.Imnotbitter.Imnotbitter.Imnotbitter.Imnotbitter.Imnotbitter.ImnotbitterImnotbitterImnotbitterImnotbitterImnotbitterImnotbitterImnotbitter

I shouldn't have to remind myself.

Objective affection

Am I getting what I deserve? Do I set myself up for this? Likely. But, rules- rules? I'm not saying I'm above them, I'm saying I'm too evolved for them. Let's cut the charade, the games, and get straight to the truth.

So why am I hurt by The Rules? Why do I get my feelings hurt?

It appears I'm not evolved enough. And when I say evolved, I'm pretty sure I mean severed.

Insult to injury

Through a convoluted chain of events, I have learned that The Musician may not actually like me. This is bizarre, seeing as though the kissing went so well. And perhaps we can also take into account that he kept saying things about how he liked me but didn't think he had a chance.

But he hasn't initiated any conversation recently, which I at first attributed to shyness. But, maybe it's that he just isn't that into me. Fine, that's fine. I will promptly wash my hands of the ordeal, of The Musician, I just hate not knowing right now. I hate the waiting game.

(I have to wait, it's early in the morning. He gets another couple hours before I call him to see if he wants to hang out, and if he declines, if he is reticent, then fine, FINE, I don't care, I've got men lined up all day long, I don't need you, I don't need your fickle nature, I don't need feelings- honestly, I don't need your odd sense of game playing.)

But to add insult to injury, I awoke to a text from The Doctor at 1am asking if it was too late to text. Please, please, please, strip me of my decency, my feelings, my thoughts, and let's just all get real. Let's say what we want.

These feelings. This bruised ego. This was not the plan.

Disclaimer

I'm feeling profound, it'd be best to stop reading...now.

Healthy, functional relationships. What.A.Rarity. I can talk shit all day long about how being single is so cool and I don't have to share things and I can listen to all the Taylor Swift I want and not know who I will find in my bed next week. But. But. You healthy relationship people. You're lucky, I tell you. Do you know how lucky you are? How rare you've got it? Do you? Someone always has your back. And you don't have to wonder what you're going to do on a random free Saturday afternoon, do you? I bet you get coffee made for you in the morning, you Healthy Relationshippers!

I'm tempted to begin referring to you and your crazy, I've-got-my-shit-together sub-group as HR, but I will not. No, I won't, don't worry.

So you're lucky. Someone having your back and respecting your opinions and loving you despite your drunken in-poor-taste-comment to that sketchy girl last week. Someone will walk you home at night, will be your plus one, will kiss you and mean it.

Last rites

It seems all the men in my life want to tell me their secrets of late; all their fears. Draw me close, closer, closer, so close thatIcannotbreathe. Tell me what you won't tell anyone else, then let me go. Burden me, get it off your chest, be done with it. Leave me with it. Leave me. Break my heart, leave me.

Music to my ears

There is a musician, who henceforth shall be referred to as The Musician. And I've gotta tell you, he is unassuming and shy and awkward. And I'm liking it. I like him.

I have a crush.

He's also taboo; this is the good part. He's friends with my roommates, and the only reason I know him is because he comes over to hang out with them. And we've spoken in passing many times, but then a while back just the two of us were talking and it felt like there was something there- what was there? And recently he invited a bunch of people to a show he played in, but only I went, and we talked. And drank water.

And then again last night, I went out with my roommates and he showed up. And then there was just-the-two-of-us Connect 4. And just-the-two-of-us kissing. For hours.

Seen and heard?

Um. I think The Doctor's best friend (because I see him everywhere as well) saw me canoodling with The Musician.

And when I say canoodling, I mean full on kissing. And also, playing Connect 4.

I am the sun

Is it me? Is it me? Tell me. Someone tell me I'm not going crazy, that some twisted karmic game is being played on me.

Someone tell me I am the center of the universe and clearly I keep seeing The Doctor everywhere, literally everywhere, because some cruel joke is being played on me.

867 530-what?

Stop coming out of the woodwork! Stop! Stop!

Crazy Ex from four years ago, the one I had to change my phone number for, e-mailed me. Oh hey, you want to catch up?

As a matter of fact, not at all.

Surface tension

Ran into Old Standby. The one of late-to-Easter-dinner-and-my-mom-is-blowing-up-my-phone fame. I don't even really know him. Clothes on, running into him on the street (it does happen somewhat frequently, I must say), I'm not sure what to do or say. So I act awkward. I say vapid, nonsensical things. Why am I so on edge? Why do I care?

I come across as superficial. But the thing is, that's all he's seeing, the nervous, superficial side of me. I have things to say, I do. Intelligent, sarcastic, funny things to say. But somehow, somewhere along the brain waves, it comes out wrong.

It's not just him, it's just that he's the latest case of this superficiality. And he's seen me naked. If anyone should think you clever or intelligent or interesting, shouldn't it be a bedmate? How did you end up in bed otherwise?

Rattling cages

I can't snap out of this. It's the Doctor again, he's making me -

It's the way he smells. And his dorky laugh. How he's so polite and unassuming. He rattles me. He. Rattles. Me. I wouldn't be so rattled if he were staying. If he were a legitimate possibility, I would want nothing to do with him. But because I can't have him, because I can't keep his smell and laugh or even his drinking habits, I want him. I want him. I am absolutely obsessed with the idea of him, with the what if, with the it-coulda-been-nice,-a-functional-relationship. I could prove that I can function inside of a relationship. A monogamous one. With secrets and hand holding and looks and the future and having a person. That one person to come home to. So this is what he's done to me today, shocked me. Put me in my place. Don't get used to this, because you know what? Tomorrow it will be the same, the same empty space in the same empty bed and the same -

Absence. It's the sudden absence I notice, it's his absence from my bed tonight. It's as if he's been there all along, and tonight he's out of town. We're in a fight. He's sleeping on the couch. But truly, truly, this loneliness, it feels gaping. It feels like it's swallowing me. Just come back to bed.

Straight up

The Ex Live In asked me to get a drink the other day.

No amount of vodka tonics could get me to agree.

Say the magic words

I was offhandedly talking to a man recently, with no particular interest in him, just making idle small talk. Until he said the three magic words: I'm a doctor.

Doctors are following me, and I'll be honest, I'm not terribly upset about this.

Foreign currency

There was a Norwegian. We had this wonderful e-mail courtship. This lovely trans-Atlantic lovefest. I was also dating someone locally at the same time.

And it had to end. I got more serious about said local boy, and it felt wrong. It felt wrong. So I ended the e-mail lovefest.

But that only lasted a couple months, before we tentatively began speaking again. E-mails. Skype chats.

I ended things with the boyfriend, the Norwegian planned a trip to see me. Unoffically, of course. He planned to see "the regional area," but really, it was me.

It felt like such a Big Deal. A man was flying thousands of miles just to see me? What a grand romantic gesture! Until we actually saw each other. Until he started touching things and always being around and not really liking cats. Until he used this one annoying voice constantly and would look at me like he could see no one else.

Obviously, it had to end. I had to send him packing. I'm a self-sabotager. I am. I want a man I want a man I want a man Iwantaman IwantamanIwantamanIwantaman until I have him. Because where's the fun in that?

Another failed attempt

I admit I'm starting to question my taste in men, and the ease with which I am able to sever myself from emotion.

Do I sever myself as a self preservation tactic, or is it something else? All this making myself available to unavailable men. Is it Freudian? Am I unconsciously doing it? I say I'm good to go, I just want to date you, Said Man, but am I purposely finding you because I know you will be Not What I Want?

Remember when it felt like we were in love?

Boy crazy

I am coming to terms with the fact that I have always been boy crazy. Always. I always envisioned any kind of future situation in terms of the man who would be in my life. I've always measured my happiness against who may love me one day.

Up until recently, every thought I had in relation to the future always centered around a man. Around meeting The One and life falling into place. Things would finally make sense, I would lose 10 lbs, live in a great, bustling city. The two of us would be a perfect blend of organized and unkempt, eloquent and then sometimes just leaving it unspoken; we'd be charismatic as well as a bit introverted.

Up until recently I kept thinking my "real life" would start later. Once I met said faceless man, life would begin.

Now all I want is to put it off. The One needs to stay far away right now; I've got shit to do. I want to go it alone, I want to be my own person, I want the life that I want, without compromising.

White flag

It's defeating.

Another man. Another not gonna work. Another we're better as friends, don't you think? Another Lost Cause. Loss of meaning, of feeling, of something that may have been.

Another reason to close myself. Another reason to drink away feelings. Another sad, sad afternoon, knowing it's okay, this is my decision, this is right, but also knowing that I'm tired of logic. I'm tired of pragmatism. I want to be swept up. ..in something.

And what a shame, you know? It was magical for a moment, four months ago. That's the terrible part. That it was. And somehow, somewhere along the way, it died.

Oh pity me, I'm throwing in the towel.

Covert operations

Sneaky McSneakerson. I received a text from the Doctor while sleeping next to The Boy.

Something like: I'm not texting you because it's late, I'm texting you because I've missed you.

Fine, I'm falling for it. Hook. Line. Sinker. I could use a little smooth talking. I could use a little knowing this is nothing because he's moving, but pretending, maybe just for a moment, maybe just for a bit, that it's something. That it is more than it is. Let me let down my guard and pretend like you could love me or that things could work under different circumstances. That it's not really me, it's not my fault, that it's fate. That I'm happy alone. Because I am happy alone.

But you, you would be a wonderful addition.

"..."

This morning, my roommate wandered around my bedroom, touching all of his pink clothing, giving me a knowing look.

Rom com

Dancing alone to the strains of "Moon River," squeezing under my tiny umbrella while walking home in the rain. Forfeiting entirely and just running, laughing, back.

All these perfect moments. These idyllic, magical, movie-worthy parts. Shouldn't that mean something? Shouldn't it be adding up?

No.

This life thing, this love thing, it's not so cut and dry. There's no time for perfect hair or a musical number. There is a lot of gray area. Sex appeal only goes so far. Talking only goes so far. And no amount of slow dancing in the rain while cherubs play harps in the background is going to change a Lost Cause.

We had a window. We missed it. We're friends.

Sitting next to him now, having him near me, even while I have him so close, makes me sad. I miss our window.

Neither here nor there

It's not him.

It's Boston. It's Boston that I want.

Self.Sabotage.

I am a self sabotager.

Hey Boy, I'm so glad you're here, but now, please go away, I'm more interested in other man endeavors. Thanks, though, it's been lovely.

It's not you, it's me

He keeps moving things. Touching things. His shoes are everywhere. There are cards and cords and foreign objects all about my bedroom. I'm trying not to be a neurotic mess, but honestly, I'm having a hard time.

And the kissing! He's not really kissing me. Have we missed our window? Did we have a window? We missed it! It feels like somewhere these last four months, this time apart, something shifted. I think I've closed myself to him.

He's chivalrous and well-spoken and quite a lovely height, but I'm not sure it's going according to plan. It's not him, it's me?