That Woman

I am that woman at the pool. You know, the one who showers facing out from the wall and who waltzes all over the locker room totally naked save for her pink flip flops. The one who, when you were 13, made you so incredibly embarassed about everything about yourself and your mom and women in general you wished your bra and underwear were painted on like Skipper's. That's me. I realized it a few weeks ago. I don't know when it happened. Maybe with the regular bikini waxing. But now I think it's time that I take that locker room confidence out on the town.

I know. I come across as sassy and brash and trusting of my every instinct. But you better believe that I spend a good amount of time practicing in the mirror and at the kitchen sink and with Frank. For a long time after I moved I didn't have a full length mirror and it was actually a blessing. I had to trust that the outfit I was wearing up to the market to get milk on a Sunday morning was good enough. Now that's become a wardrobe event. Do I look cool enough for the Bike Messenger Checker but not so cool that the Weird Girl Checker will know I stood in front of the mirror?

Then again, sometimes I catch myself in the mirror and I think, Is that really me? Do I look that grown up and together? Cause I don't feel that way very often. I want my inside to match my outside all the time. Well, at least when I look grown up and sure of myself. Not necessarily what I look like on laundry day.

So anyway, this is me in an extremely corny and Lifetime TV worthy moment, promising myself that I will not second guess myself anymore. I will not worry that what I just said to the Bike Messenger Checker was not funny enough, I will not keep my thoughts to myself at my Sunday night class, I will go boldly to the bar and get that drink, I will smile and look people in the eye, and I will change my shirt no more than two times before I leave the house. From now on I will be waltzing naked in my pink flip-flops everywhere I go.

Damned Brazilians

Thanks, Jen. It's not like I'd forgotten about meeting Guillerme in Barcelona but I had not, until I saw the picture of us on your flickr, lusted for him. In meeting Guillerme I felt I'd found a kindred spirit, a fellow goof ball in the world of hipper than thou print artists. But now I am kicking myself for not taking down his email. It was posted right there on the wall, after all. I mean, I could be living in Brazil with an adorable and talented man of indeterminate age who barely speaks English (how great is that?) right now if I had taken down his email. Oh Guillerme. I know that you wanted to love me.

If you are so inclined, please have yourself a peak at Bon Iver's myspace. Billed as the heir to the Iron & Wine throne he is a lovely and haunting musician. Give a listen.

To Wit

To clarify, I am not looking for a boyfriend. Not at all. And certainly not Mr. Right or a Husband. I am not pining, hunting, searching, or longing. I certainly do a little window shopping now and then, but it's a lot of work to try things on. I mean, you've got to find your size, get undressed, put it on, twirl around in the mirror, decide if you like it and if so decide if you want to spend the cash and if not take it off, hang it up again, button it up, put it back where you found it. Ugh. And anyway, how do I squeeze a boyfriend into this mania that is my life? I don't need nor do I want that hassle of having a Commitment, having to worry about someone else's Wants and Needs, showing my Ugly Side. No ma'am. Not right now. It's terrifying, the thought of it. This is not to say I don't get lonely sometimes. It would be nice to have a boy friend to call and meet for a beer or try a new restaurant or with whom to attend a friendly function. But he's not sleeping over. Maybe just staying late. Because he's two words, not one.

So right, the whole match.com thing. I thought this was a good way to "meet people" and have a few "dates". And, like I said, I found match is not for me. Not once did I think I was going to meet anyone worth more than a cup of coffee or a few beers. My god did I just say that? It was for practice. And did I just say that?

And to any of you who suggest I might meet a nice young man at the dog park I beg to differ. The dog park is not for meeting men. It is for running your dog. Men go to the dog park with their dogs or quite possibly their girlfriends' dogs and their girlfriends. Men who go to the dog park alone are usually either grandpas or freaks. Just my experience. Maybe not vast but I've been to at least a few dog parks over the the years.

What I have discovered about dog parks is that lesbians go there to pick up women. Yes. Lots of lesbians at the dog park. I am not a lesbian, though. I know my super short hair might suggest otherwise but no. I'm not. Please make no assumptions. I try not to. I have absolutely no gay-dar. None at all. It took me a long time to figure out my friend Craig was gay and not creepy. (You'd understand if you met him- this is not to say that all gay men are creepy.) And since I am oft mistaken I have developed a "well you just never know" thing about other women.

This actually totally sucks. Because I know other women do it, too. I mean, it is absolutely totally and completely uncool to suggest to a relative stranger of the same gender that you might get along and should hang out. Not that I have plans to go running around asking random women at the grocery store if they might like to get lunch, but it would be nice to be able to approach another woman who looks cool or interesting, have a chat, and, if you get along, suggest you hang out sometime without either of you feeling weird. It just might be nice. To not have everyone worrying that everyone else is hitting on them.

So I'm trying to be friendlier to everyone. In the hopes that that will start to break down that barrier in my life. Smile at the guys at the market, make a little small talk. Go out for coffee by myself so that I am forced to talk to the barista or the person at the table next to me. Let Frank meet other dogs. She's good for breaking down barriers. Talk to the folks at the bike shop. You know, participate in humanity. I'm pretty good at getting in, getting out, and getting done. Not so good at friendly.

Anyhoo, yes. No boyfriend today.

Bugger

To Jen, just the other day:

So can you bear a little story that I think you'll be relieved to hear? My infatuation with T. is effectively over. You see, he hasn't had much to do with me since February when I told him to get over himself. Still, I emailed him once or twice a week. Nothing scary or sad or needy, just telling him what I was up to. Course, he never had much if anything to say back. On Friday night I did this really nice painting that I am really excited about and I emailed him and told him about it and really didn't expect a response I just felt like we had that connection and I wanted to tell him. Anyway, I got an email back Sunday basically telling me that he didn't have the time or energy to maintain any sort of relationship with me and that it made him feel bad when I emailed and he didn't have anything to say back and even though he appreciated that I felt I could share with him he didn't really want to hear from me. It was a tiny bit nicer than that but you get the gist.

So of course I fired off a pissed off response. Then I fired off an apology. Then I thought, What the fuck? I sat through his mid-life crisis, I fucked him nightly, I listened to him complain about his house, his cold, B. & A., his realtor, his
siblings, his best friend, the girl he fucked while I was in Europe, his back, his hair, his jeans, his job and lack thereof?!?! And he can't fucking listen to, Hey, I'm having a great day and I did this really cool thing and I'm really excited? Selfish prick. Fuck, man. Thank god he's 200 miles away now. Don't know why it always takes me so long to figure this shit out.

From Jen, just the other day:

HELL YEAH. If he can't be an adult and be your friend, then fuck him. He doesn't deserve to hear about all the good things in your life. I had a similar thing with that guy M. that I dated for awhile. When he moved I would still call because I liked chatting with him, not because I expected anything and when he was in town once I ran into him and he said he felt weird coming into Colombo's with his girlfriend... This was nearly two years later. Men are weird.

I've decided to repurpose this space. Bring it up to real time. This exchange was just the other day and I think it may be one of my favorites ever.

To get you up to speed, I should let you know about my first and last match.com connection. There was really nothing wrong with this guy, just some seriously ugly shoes and a little too enthusiastic. But I wasn't feelin' it. Just wasn't. And so what do I do? I tell him to email me. So he does. So I shoot him down then. Basically I told him to ask me to reject him. Nice. No more match.com for me.

Oh, and I should tell you about the other guy. The guy I sort of met at a Big Brothers Big Sisters event. He was a BB/BS employee. This is a totally inappropriate way to meet guys, by the way. Nevermind, the connection I thought we had apparently was not. I contacted him and never heard back. No, he didn't ask me to but I was being ballsy and it was easy enough to get his email. Or maybe there was a connection and it was just that he had a girlfriend. Which I found out a week later when I saw him at the beach with her. Half a million people in this city and we're at the same beach. And even better, I had unknowingly parked in front of his apartment building. I had to watch in horror from across the street as he and the girl entered the building right at my car.

So yes, I'm repurposing this space. I promise it won't all be about men. Maybe mostly just the neuroses of a soon to be a thirty-something.