To Live By

Another rule (or two) for my sweet self:

I will not even think about getting into a relationship with a man because it would be easy. If I am not physically attracted to him now I will not, no matter how frustrated I may be right now, "get over it".

A ding was made in the can of worms but, thanks to my new bible, I stepped back and thought about what I was about to do (further upset myself about patterned behavior that I can control, hurt him, and most definitely ruin a friendship) and decided it wasn't worth it. It's a tiny little ding that can be ignored. On top of that, I'm better than that and I deserve better than that. Whew.

I was so upset about the situation with Mr. P I gave myself a cold sore (yes, I get stress related cold sores because I am awesome). Was that necessary? No. I will not allow that to happen again. Having a stress related cold sore because of a man makes it hard to meet a better one.

Epiphany

So tonight, at the behest of my bikini wax lady, I went and picked up He's Just Not That Into You. Right. This little book is full of gems like, "You've got one asshole. Why do you need another?" and, "Don't be with someone who doesn't do what they say they're going to do." It should also say, "If your bike mechanic, who has nothing but your best interests in mind because he has a very serious girlfriend, tells you that the guy you've been pining over for three weeks is a 'total prick' and he knows this first hand, heed his warning."

At this point I am switching gears. I don't hate men. I spent a couple of good hours Tuesday evening hating myself for no good reason. Well, because of how I let this shit get to me. But no, I don't hate myself nor do I hate men. I hate Mr. P. Not really, but I'm focusing my frustration on the cause. I've proven I'm strong and independent. Fuck that. I don't have to prove it because I am. And now I want a boyfriend. Yes. I want a boyfriend. I am on the prowl. I want a man who likes me and thinks I'm the best thing since Morning Star Sausage Paddies and makes me feel sexy and wanted. According to the book, "You know you deserve a great relationship!"

This one especially hit home for me:
"Meeting someone you like and dating him is supposed to make you feel better, not worse. That's always a good rule to live by no matter what the special circumstances (excuses) are."

And this one:
"If a (sane) guy really likes you, there ain't nothing that's going to get in his way. And if he's not sane, why would you want him?"

Wish I'd thought of that one...

My sister, bless her heart, said perhaps the nicest thing I've heard all week (and it's been a really bizarre week Mr. P notwithstanding) to me tonight. She said, "You know, I really hoped he was going to be a nice guy." So did I.

The Solution

I think my problem this summer has been that I haven't spent enough time in my garden. Not at all. Because tonight while I was home for the first time in literally weeks I did some cleaning up in my flower beds and the clarity washed over me; I decided to just sit tight. Not wait. But chill and let what happens happen. I don't wait. I've got too much to do. But I don't have to be a freak and email again (which I wasn't going to do) or call (even though I'd like to and I don't understand why I can't if that's what I want to do- see me sitting tight?). If he doesn't email, fine. And if he doesn't I will call him when he gets back. I was excited enough about him that I think it's worthwhile to put myself out there. That doesn't really sound like sitting tight but really it's more an internal sitting tight. Cause that's where I have the problem. At any rate. Tight.

I never cook anymore but tonight I'm having braised greens in a mustard dressing with walnuts on whole wheat pasta. I remember when I did this every night...

Please, go check out The Duchess & The Duke.

The Rules

Yehovah help me I will not make the same mistakes twice. Or thrice. Well, I won't make the same mistakes again. While driving home from the Pratt the other night I started thinking about the rules. Rules I need to lay down for myself. They are as follows:

1. I will not lust after men with mental health issues.
2. I will not lust after men who have more than one roommate after the age of 27.
3. I will not sleep with anyone just to "get it out of my system".
4. I will not lust after musicians who cannot get their acts together.
5. I will not take what men say literally.

No. I will not sleep with anyone just to get it over with. This means I will not sleep with Joe. No. No. No. What the fuck was I thinking when I even brought it up? Now I've started something. Let sleeping dogs lie, I say. But I didn't. And now this. Bleh. I have to choose to ignore it (which didn't seem to be working while he visited) or address it again and say, "You know what? I never should have said anything. Consider this door closed. Permanently. You may put that back."

And so. The spiral of despair. I haven't heard from Mr. P. So yes, his father is dying and he's got a lot on his plate and he's traveling right now but is a tiny little email too much to ask? Just a wee one. Right. This isn't about me. I am trying to be cool. I will work hard to be cool. I have any number of girlfriends who have offered me an ear in order to back off the ledge. So far my craziness has been restricted to frantic phone calls to my sister. Whew. The general consensus seems to be that if he does email back it will be OK for me to sit on it, perhaps call (because he said I could) next week. If he doesn't email it sounds like I can call him when I know he's going to be back. God this is so much work. Why do we have to think about it like this? Why is it wrong and crazy and weird for me to call or email and say, "You know, you left just as I was getting kind of excited about you and now I'm going a little crazy. I'm looking forward to your getting back." Sure, a little crazy is probably an understatement. But still. What did Jill say? One day girl time equals four days boy time. So Friday. Fuck. I may have an aneurysm in that time.

Schmoopsy

This is the word that can be used to describe me and my condition at this point in my life. I am schmoopsy. Over a boy.

I went to Super Cute Glen's party. Yes I did. And what did I learn but that besides being Super Cute and Really Quite Nice, Glen is A) bisexual, B) has a girlfriend, and C) all of 23 years old. That was the clincher. Twenty-three is much too young. And no, of course I wouldn't mess around with a taken man but 23 was the biggie. At any rate, Glen had invited a Super Cute Friend. Because guys like Glen have Super Cute Friends. Probably stocks and stores of them in their strange cool and good looking universe that they live in. Parallel to mine. Not quite intersecting. But said Super Cute Friend had had almost as much to drink as I and so he stumbled into my path and I had my courage on and we hit it off. Mr. Pittsburgh we'll call him. Mr. P for short.

I did not leave the bar with Mr. P's number nor did he leave with mine. Glen offered it to me after Mr. P left while I was in the men's room. Yes, it was one of those nights. And so I had to nut up the next day and make the call to Glen to get the number and then I had to sit on it for a few days as I was out of town and didn't feel quite right about calling while I was 700 miles away. And so I was shocked when Mr. P answered the phone the following Monday and said that yes, he would like to meet for a beer at Uber. A little confession? I had been hoping to leave him a message and I had even written out a script while sitting in the Boise airport.

Mr. P and I went out. And then we went out again. And again. And it was fun. And it was awesome. And yes I kissed him all over his front porch and in the kitchen and out the door. And then he grabbed my arm and pulled me back in for one last kiss. Dude. You cannot, simply cannot, grab a girl by the arm as she's leaving and plant a big old sexy kiss on her and think that she won't be schmoopsy. I don't really think that he thought I wasn't going to be. But I kind of wasn't expecting it. Because I am, essentially, retarded. And then Mr. P left town and will be gone for three, count them THREE, fucking weeks. And I am left here to pretend to be cool. And I'm not good at that. And so today when he sent an email after I was fairly certain I was never going to hear from him again (he's been gone all of four days) I became schmoopsy all over again. Someone help me.

FYI. The man is totally age appropriate. Yes, man. He's 30, also. And he just graduated from law school and finished the bar. And he's incredibly smart. And funny. And a bit of a shit and I like that. And he is an avid climber and skiier and hiker and cyclist and pretty much all things outside and it shows. Yes, he is built nicely. Not big and bulky but, as a friend put it, yummy.

Did I just say yummy?