Giving Up The Ghosts

Last night, I had a dream about the first boy I ever really liked and had a mad, raging, multi-year-long crush on. It was an interesting dream, because in it, he was just as blase and indecisive as he had been in real life. Finally, driven to the end of my proverbial rope by despair and out of my wits with frustration, I wrote him a letter, outlining the fact that as long as he couldn't choose to keep a monogamous relationship either between me and him or him and my friend, I was done-- I wanted nothing to do with him. I upheld my promise pretty well-- until we survived a life-or-death situation together, caved under the pressure, had sex again, and then I got to confront my friend while helping her move from her apartment about the fact he was playing us both.

It was an emotionally-charged, fascinating dream-- possibly made more interesting by the appearance of the ex at the tail-end of it, as well as the fact that I knew that my first crush was actually the symbolical representation of my last relationship. I woke up, utterly fed up, and started thinking about the lengths that women will go through to try to keep a relationship.

I have never been a fan of the ultimatums, unlike much women. I firmly believe that if you're going to make a "if...than" statement, you should be willing to stand by it under pain of death, dismemberment, or break-up, and, as my dream obviously revealed, I've never really been great at doing that. If a woman gives a man an ultimatum-- "It's done forever and ever until the end of time when the Universe is sucked into a black hole if you ever sleep with another woman"-- and then doesn't actually have the balls to stand by what she said in earnest, it teaches both of them that A.) A woman can say things that she absolutely doesn't mean, and B.) That he can get away with it. I consider both outcomes horrible things. And I'm always quick on the draw to call a bluff. So, instead, I stick to the "Do it once, shame on you; do it twice, shame on me, I'm leaving," mentality. It works, for the most part. In real life, not only was I able to walk away from my first crush when he perpetrated events much like the ones in my dream last night, but I also repeated my feat of fortitude and strength again when the ex repeated similar events, later in my life.

And yet, I find myself still dreaming of them both. What does this say about me; about them?

Despite the fact that we grew up together and still are in casual touch, I hadn't thought about my first crush in months before last night, so I happen to think he was just a handy vehicle for my dream-self to craft the morality lesson of last night's sleep around. As for the ex...well, that's a more slippery slope, but I can explain where the specter of him came from, too. Before I went to sleep last night, I was watching a movie when the dishy main actor suddenly smiled, and in a blinding flash of realization, I realized why I was drawn to him-- he very much resembled the ex, especially when he smiled. I started flipping back through my Rolodex of Previous Relationships, trying to put famous faces to my exes who resembled them. I made the same obvious match of Aaron Eckhart to someone as I had when I'd been seeing him, but, other than him, the only other one of my ex-lovers who I could pin similar faces on was the ex, and as I kept coming up with names of people who I thought looked like him-- the guy from the movie; Emile Hirsch; Adem Ljajic-- I started wondering why, to me, he was one of my most recognized faces. It wasn't the fact that he was my longest running on-again, off-again thing; it wasn't the fact that I truly loved him-- I truly love my most recent ex, but I was fucked if I could come up with a doppelganger for him, so there goes that theory. I will admit to the fact that in his heyday, the ex was certainly one of the most striking and handsome men I have ever seen, let alone been with, so maybe that was it. We human beings can be incredibly shallow, after all.

The ex was beautiful, and he and I shared a lot of emotional history-- and hysteria-- together. But does that, and the fact that I can still catch glimpses of him in other people mean that I in any way desire him back? Oh, helllllllll noooooooo.  Let's face it, I'm a little bit of a masochist, and a little pain never really hurt anyone, but I would have to be declared clinically insane to ever go back to him. THAT much pain and turmoil he put me through just isn't worth it; no matter how attractive he was, no matter what we had in common; no matter the fact that we shared friends, professions, and a common life. I remember how miserable I could be when I was with him, and in general, I tend to believe that there is one thing human beings should never actively seek out to be, and that thing is miserable. Learning that lesson through him-- and, in some ways, the baby starter steps to it with my first crush-- was possibly one of the defining moments of my life thus far, and it has always served as a valuable lesson every time another relationship starts to turn the same way. I am more important to myself than a man will ever be, no matter how much I happen to love him. And if he makes me miserable, well-- then someone has to go, and it's sure as hell not going to be me. One of the most important things you can ever learn is how and when to go about giving up the ghost of relationships failed, past, and never to be repeated again.

XOXO

Attack Of The Pod People.

My childhood best friend is getting married shortly (a June wedding; classic, of course). Despite the fact that we've been largely out of touch for the past few years, my family and I were still invited. My dad bowed out-- weddings aren't exactly his thing-- but my S.O gamely agreed to be my date, anyhow. What startled me the most about these upcoming nuptials wasn't the fact that I actually have a date to a wedding; it wasn't that my childhood best friend, one year older than I, was getting married; it was, rather, the fact that I remember sneaking downstairs for midnight snacks with her in 5th grade, laying on the carpet on our backs in front of the drink cart in my parent's dining room, and planning out her wedding. That's when it hit me as I read her wedding invitation and RSVP card--

We're not playing little-girl games anymore.

And it shows. Lately, I've been feeling a sort of shift in myself and my desires in relationships that I thought was imperceptible to everyone but myself, until in the eyes of my first college roommate, I finally saw reflected a very different vision than the college freshman who used to slink back into our cramped dorm room ashamedly at 2 AM from her forays in the RA’s room, sex hair rampant. I was poised. I was graduating. I was in a functional, happy, mature relationship that was defined by the both of us in accordance of what we wanted, what we needed, and what we were looking for from each other. I was—Jesus Christ—in love. What shocked me most was when she commented after I told her that my current relationship was making me realize how much the past, less-serious relationships I had been in irked me in their undefined, let's-just-see-where-this-takes-us-before-one-or-both-of-us-abruptly-jump-ship, laissez-faire attitudes, "I've seen how you've struggled and been hurt, even when you said you didn't want anything that was serious, because I knew you'd figure it out for yourself, one day."

Me? Actually be one of those girls her likes her relationships done defined with a side of seriousness, going in a positive, delineated fashion? Mais, non!

Mais, oui! As we stood on the corner of Church Street and Main last night, my S.O referred to me in passing to his friend as "my girlfriend." And that's when I realized-- I haven't had a guy call me his "girlfriend" since I was a junior in high school, and that's also the same guy who ended up proposing to me. Since then, I've been "my friend," "the girl I'm seeing," "the girl I'm sleeping with," or just plain "Carissa," but never the "girlfriend." Until now, when I've met the family and keep my pear-and-sugar exfoliating scrub in his shower and have brought him back to my hometown. It makes me wonder if all of this-- the meeting of the families, the mature partnership and cohabitation, the giving of solid, concrete titles, the endeavoring to actually, I don't know, BE TOGETHER-- was what was missing in the rest of my relationships, and thus, why they all ended up failing. While watching an episode of SATC yesterday, it brought up the question: If men and women are like cabs, cruising around with our lights off while we pick up and discard all sorts of people until we finally decide the time is right-- post-college, post-nearly a decade of dating debacles, post-living abroad, and now, pre-friend-in-the-same-age-group's weddings-- are our lights now suddenly on?

While pop culture knowledge may say that I should now be desperately plotting how to wrangle a man into my marriage bed now that my friends are starting to say their "I do"s, I say "I don't"; I may not be on the fast-track to engagement or marriage (the only thing I like about engagements is the ring, because I adore diamonds, and the only reason I'd really like to get married is to put my Star Wars-themed wedding plans into action; both of which don't quite seem like good enough reasons to do either), but there are some disturbing signs pointing to the fact that I may, quite possibly, be one of those "pod people" types who is actually happy inside of her relationship, just the way it is. You know, those couples who are always together, just happen to end up wearing matching outfits, and constantly use the word "we" all the time? You know, pod people. "We" people. "'We' went here," "'We' did that," people. But then I rolled over this morning, and suddenly realized the novel "Chasing Harry Winston" by Lauren Weisberger was on top of my reading pile, while "The Bridesmaids" was on my Movies-To-See List, and my mother and I had recently debated the choice of my childhood best friend having her reception at The Legion and the S.O and I had ended up in front of the engagement display, comparing tastes, while on a trip to Periwinkles to find him a watch. I started getting suspicious. Maybe I was getting antsy. Meanwhile, in the formulation and brainstorming process of writing this post and getting into the "wedding" frame of mind, I've been trolling countless big-name jeweler sites, ring-watching. (If you don't think it's not a competitive sport for women, guess again.) And until I found this ring on Harry Winston's site, which isn't even an engagement ring, I was rather lackadaisical about the whole thing. Still no real drive to hear wedding bells. Still entirely loathe to put together a guest list (my own personal nightmare). And then, I saw the ring. Imagined what it could look like with a diamond crowning it, instead of a sapphire. Thought about how I could rope my father, a jeweler, into designing and making something similar. And I suddenly got it. The itch. The diamond fever. I realized that every relationship before now was wrong because we weren't on the same page. They were all in the casual lane while secretly, unbeknownst to even myself, I was in the "Skyscraper ring on my left ring finger" lane. I started wondering where I could find decent flower arrangements and a hot pink Gerber daisy bouquet. Then, I caught myself. I almost, unknowingly, without being on guard, let myself slip into the "we" people zone again. The diamond almost got me. While I may be the sort of girl who has rediscovered that she cherishes being called "the girlfriend," I'm still not the sort of girl who thinks picking place settings and napkin fabrics out is a good use of my time, when I could be, I don't know, catching up on all the new episodes of Sons of Anarchy or creating a new, catchy acronym for inappropriate relationships (P.I.W.B: Professor I Would Bang, anyone?). So, while I may be discovering, through my relationships, through my friends, and through myself, what sort of pod person I really am, I'm also still not overly tuned into my biological clock or life plan. It was all the ring. The fucking ring. Weddings. They're still on my "highly skeptical; treat as you would a leper patient" list.

XOXO

A Rose By Any Other Name Is Still A Slut.

While my ex seems to be content with popping up on my cell phone's screen at all hours of the night, now plagued with a need to reconcile after all this radio silence, my S.O's ex didn't seemingly take to the news that he was seeing someone new so well, which has resulted in such jewels as "Makes more sense now; Carissa is a whore's name :)," popping up on HIS cell phone's screen.

I Googled. There seem to be no whores named Carissa. At least, none with websites or internet access.

While it's not the first time I've been called a whore-- let's be serious, this blog's name is "Sex and the College Girl," not, "Aeronautical Nuances of the 21st Century and How They Effected Young Women,"-- it still bothered me more than I thought it would. I think the hardest part for me is that I've been on both sides of the equation that I currently find myself in, and so, I have empathy for my S.O's ex, even if she did call me a slut. Her life was torn apart when she realized her ex had moved on and started seeing someone else, and I've been there, too. While she feels emotionally (and maybe physically) cheated on, I've also been both cheated on, as well as the cheatee, in previous relationships. All in all, it leads to a confusing war of emotions-- part of me wants to land a good right hook on her nose for calling me a whore when I have done absolutely nothing wrong (or whore-like,) while the other, greater, more Gandhi-like part of me wants to help comfort her and work her through this, since I have the knowledge and experience on how to survive something like this from before. If we were men, it would be so much easier. We'd have a good rough-and-tumble fist-fight, and then we'd be best bros. Instead, it all just gets to be awkward and I get to live in fear of opening his bathroom door after a shower, dripping wet, naked, and vulnerable, to find her standing there when I'm home alone at his place. Have I mentioned that she apparently has 8 inches on me? Yikes.

But maybe, it's not all so cut-and-dried. As I guiltily found out when the ex cheated on me, it's easy to hate someone you don't know. I was CONVINCED the girl he'd slept with was born with the express purpose to ruin my life, be a bitch, and look horrible in her Facebook profile photos. (There may have been many, many catty references to her resembling a wall-eyed bass. Not my finest moments.) But gradually, I started to realize that she probably A.) Had no idea I even existed, and B.) Was just looking for the same sort of love I was. Unfortunately, we were both looking for it from the same guy, but all the same, I couldn't fault her wanting her happy ending. And so, little by little, I started to forgive. The other day, thinking about her, about me, and about my S.O's ex in the current situation, I looked the ex's indiscretion up again. And you know what? She looked good. She looked happy. And not even the least little bit fishy. Maybe it had just all been me, being a cat-fish.

Then again, maybe it wasn't. The other night, at dinner, my S.O mentioned something inside-joke-like in passing about his mother, a different women than his father is currently seeing. I happened to be looking at his dad's girlfriend when he said it, and I saw a look flash across her face as quickly as it was then gone. But I recognized it. It's the same look ALL women, when the name of the woman who came before, or who they're afraid will come after, adopt as soon as the syllables hang in the span of air between mouth and ear. As I sat at our table in the dining room of the Woodstock Inn and looked at my S.O's father and his girlfriend, it hit me-- The ex-girlfriends of our past and present are only going to become the first, second, and ex-wives of our future. And it'll still be just as difficult, awkward, and confusing as it is now, so we just might as well get used to it, and get good at letting all the flack slide off of our shoulders. So here's to turning the other cheek and waiting for the day when she knows better than to think I'm actually a whore, or that I ever meant to hurt her. Because I, possibly more than most other girls, know both the exquisite pleasure AND pain that comes from these sort of relationships past-yet-still-present. I've been in those tight size 8 shoes, and it's not a fun trip, not in the least.

XOXO

Mmm, mmm, Jailbait!

I found a Tumblr thread today re: why it's freaky as shit when guys date high school girls. The mixed responses were overwhelming. My favorites were the still barely-legal girls defending their choices to older, 20-something boyfriends.

As a definitely-no-longer-barely-legal girl who was engaged in a long-term 8 year age gap (I was 16; he was 24,) relationship in high school, here's my two cents:

It's wrong. Just plain wrong. On so many different levels. And I can see that now.

It was possibly my most dysfunctional, most fucked up relationship ever, and believe you me, that is saying something. A 16, 17, even 18 year old girl does not have the emotional nor mental capacity to make the sort of judgement or relationship or logic calls that you need to be able to achieve to date someone who can legally drink in a bar, or rent a car. I can see that now, clear as the warning signs I somehow conveniently missed back then. I thought I was sooooo mature. He probably thought he had it soooooo easy, going for a girl who had just gotten her license and was as of yet unburdened by emotional baggage or the relationship carcasses of other men. My life consisted of my new license and car and driving wild and free, my high school friends, convincing my older friends to buy me beer, and making out on the weekends, followed shortly thereafter by having sex and staying over on the weekends. His life consisted of college, paying college loans and the utilities on time, trying to find a "grown up" job to pay said bills, buying a car, and going to the bar with his boys. Can we see where we got lost in the other's translation yet?

Being at roughly the same age demographic now as he was then, I could no more date or condone dating a high school or equally age-spanalicious kid more than I could conceive flying to the moon by flapping my arms and wishing really, really hard on a star. I am far too worried about my thesis and grad school portfolios to worry about someone's sub-par SAT scores, though I DO remember when they were the most important thing in the world. It's odd enough dating someone my same age who isn't going through the same end-of-college crunch that I am; to walk across campus on the way to work and think that he's not doing the same. I have too much to think about figuring out how to spread my paycheck over bills and credit cards and debts to be oh-so-taken with someone's infatuation with drinking (tee-hee-hee!) and smoking doobies 'cause man, I am sooooo mature and alternative and deep when I'm stoned. It is not because you're so mature, little girl, and he is so very interested in how progressive and intelligent you are; it's because you're young, and fresh, and naive and unspoiled and he sees something in you that he kind of wishes he still had-- namely, that point in his life where he didn't have to worry about bills or graduation and the Real World, and he's confused about what he wants.

My relationship then was based on playing pretend, that I was so much older and could handle dating someone with whom I'd cook dinner and spend the night and entertain his friends and family with and babysit his dog when he was out of town. Now, my relationships are all about not actually playing at cooking dinner and spending nights together and entertaining and helping out, but actually cooking dinner and spending nights and entertaining his friends and helping out because THAT'S WHERE I REALLY AM IN MY LIFE, AND THAT'S WHERE THE PEOPLE I DATE REALLY ARE. A late teenaged girl doesn't get that cooking dinner and then going to sleep in the same bed and waking up together and digging each other's cars out of the snowdrifts is reality, and not some pretty pictorial spread of The Way Things Should Be When Grown-Ups Act Like Grown-Ups-- in fact, at nearly 22, sometimes I still don't believe it's my reality-- and that it's not all pretty and fun and games: It's work and communicating and stressful and exhausting and emotional and sweaty and stinky and privacy doesn't really exist anymore and you'll never get that sense of childhood back when you thought that this was all so exciting, so baby girl, don't wish it away, and you not-quite-men-yet-not-boys, don't try to enter into her fairytale world while it's in her twilight. She'll realize soon enough, like I have, that it's about finding someone who appreciates my sense of humor and has life goals for themselves more than who wants to sleep with me really badly or can get me beer and bring me drugs, because, like me, that stuff is old, and that ship has sailed. And that is such a bittersweet, really maturing time, that she needs to find, on her own, to really be the sort of girl a 20-something guy would really want to date.

So, for the record-- most 20-somethings dating high school chicks, or even college seniors dating college freshmen? You're both losers. Yes, that means I was a loser, too. Now for god's sake, both of you, grow up, and date someone within a (better be legal) two-year span. I'm not even 22. I shouldn't have to worry about the suitable men my age going for younger women already. Thanks.

XOXO

P.S-- This is not to say it doesn't always work; though my relationship was a facsimile of a sham, and all of those of my friends' with similar age ranges were as well, my parents married when my mom was 17 and my dad was 23, and they're still together and managed to procreate this wonderful little bundle of joy that is me, and still be relatively sane and still in love, so that's, what? A 1 in 33 chance you crazy kids could make it work? Or, excuse me, you crazy kid and misguidedly-in-love dude? As Matthew McConaughey once famously said in "Dazed and Confused": "That's what I love about these high school girls, man. I get older, they stay the same age." Chew on that fact-- she'll always be younger, and those younger girl quirks will always still be there; she won't outgrow the things that she does now that annoy you in her immaturity. I should know. I still have mine when I date older men, and it drives them insane.

Give A Little, Get A Little (Love).

I saw a special on gift-giving and the Christmas present tradtion on BBC news last night that was really eye-opening. Their human behavior expert was adamant about how we started giving gifts because they cement social relationships. It's a way of enforcing bonding for us, a tangible reminder that we care a lot about that particular person. However, once the gift is out of our hands, the way it's received is a little more ambiguous: The recipient can see it as a token of appreciation, or an admittance of guilt, apparently, which is what makes us so anxious as we give it and they open it. (High adrenaline stakes, perhaps?) Effort, thoughts and feelings that go into finding the right gift that show how much, or how little, we care about the person we're buying for. Or, at least, that's how it's supposed to be.

You can't just buy the esteem that comes with real bonding, as I've found on numerous occasions. While our society places the whole gift-giving dynamic on men treating women, for the majority of my life, I apparently mis-read the memo, and did all the treating while reaping absolutely none of the rewards, other than that "oh my god, does he even like this?" feeling. For my last long-ish term on-again, off-again guy, I bought him a leather jacket in Italy. Its wear-life already has outlasted our relationship. It's a nice coat. He stills wears it. I'm still don't regret buying it for him. But that's just the tip of my over-spending on the less-fair sex.

It all started with my first boyfriend. I was 16, didn't even really like him all that much, and yet still dropped over $80 on him for our first Christmas-- an Irish necklace, new boxers, a stuffed dog to replace the one his very real beagle had ripped to shreds, a 6 pack of his favorite beer, and on, and on, and on...just to find out he got me NADA for the holidays, and to also find out he was cheating on me 6 days later. I bought another guy a new hoodie...which I ended up keeping because I loved it so much (we shared custody of it for awhile, anyhow). I couldn't resist buying two soft-as-second-skin t-shirts I found in the most complimentary colors of blue and green for a guy...even though we'd only been seeing each other for a month. I also sent him a care package at college, which facilitated the beginning of our blow up. I used to buy my senior year of high school boyfriend chocolate covered gummy bears, his favorite, and sneak them into his soccer bag for after practice. Needless to say, I've always found it nearly ridiculously easy to drop money on guys. And usually, they drop me soon thereafter.

As I pointed out to my mother today, in the current economy, dating has kind of died. Three years ago, I was making more as a part-time sales associate at American Eagle than I am now working 20 hours a week as a peer writing consultant and Champlain's Writing Center. Three years ago, people our age had the ability to take a potential new beau out to dinner at places like Sweetwaters or Halverson's or VPB. Now, as our paycheck shrink and our gas bills get higher and higher, we have to be a little more creative. My roommate was recently taken on a very romantic winter walk in the newest snowfall. My friend Julia's favorite date was at a laundromat-- getting food delivered as they did their laundry. Movies and eating in are becoming in vogue again, because with Netflix and torrenting and streaming online, it's cheaper than going to the movies. Going out to eat and seeing a show has become a thing of the past. Brunches and bowling have replaced them. Dollar drafts at 4 PM are king, and if you can't understand why I want to treat you when I can buy you four beers for the price of one at 10 PM, we're done.

This also means that this year, I'm going light on the Christmas gifts-- I'm doling out small things (mostly, new hats, because they all need them,) from Italy that I bought for Christmas presents for my best guys way back when I left la bella Italia in May, or lending out books to friends that I think will interest them. Alli and I decided we obviously love each other enough without having to prove it with gifts. A girl's night out is the method of choice for holiday cheer with my girls-- nothing says "holiday love" with your set like getting dressed up and drunk. And as for the romantic interest? My smitten-ness will have to be enough...for now.

Merry Christmas to you and yours-- be safe, have fun, make merry! And remember...no one ever went wrong giving the gift of great sex. And it's absolutely free! Amen!

XOXO

Make Wise Decisions

The first man who proposed to me was desperate for a family and cheating on me at the time because he knew that at my young age, kids weren't a paramount desire for me-- going to college was. I thought he was joking-- there was no ring, no bended knee, not even any short but sweet speech about how I made his life better. Just a "What would you think about getting married?" I laughed. To this day, I still laugh. Because life with him would have been laughable, and ended in divorce, tout suite.

The second man who proposed to me was drunk. Drunk, drunk, drunk, drunk, drunk. It was at my cousin's wedding, and we'd be talking for an hour, and everyone knows how weddings make people. When he proposed that I become Mrs. Joey Valentino, since I had the class, the brains, the looks, and the connections that he was looking for in a wife, I very gently told him to reconsider in the morning, when he was sober. One tells men used to hearing "yes" due to their family connections to reconsider things very gently. On one hand, I could be sitting in a manse in Red Bank right now, wearing Dior and sipping on Patron, or on the other hand, I could actually be getting on with my life in the real world. But I'm not going to lie-- right around when the time of the month comes to pay the bills, I start to really miss Joey.

The third man to use the words "I'd" "marry" and "you" together in a sentence was one of my best guy friends, after he saw that this was something I'd want my groom and his groomsmen to do in our Star Wars-themed wedding. He was obviously kidding, and it was obviously not really a marriage proposal. It was the best one that I'd gotten yet.

Make wise decisions when it comes to the rest of your life, ladies. There's a difference between being in love with someone and being in love with the idea of love. The wisest women I know have turned down their first 2 proposals. Extremely wise mothers of some of my friends turned down the first 2 proposals of their future husbands and fathers of their children, just to make sure they were serious, or because they felt that as a man, they weren't ready yet for marriage. It takes a while to find out what you're really looking for in a mate, and the best way to do that is to be faced with the idea of spending the rest of your life with someone, and realizing you don't want to for this reason, and that reason, and because they hold their fork like this. Be young; be wise; be single-- don't get married or even engaged until the third time is at least more than a charm.

XOXO

Ready, Willing, and (On Occasion) Able.

Good morning, lovelies and creepfests, alike. (Remember that Google Analytics post a little while ago when inspiration hadn't struck in awhile, and I felt it pertinent to post about how through using stats and simple Sherlock-Holmes-approved process of deduction, I can figure out who is reading this blog and what they're looking for? Well, let's just say, I'm HOT in Russia right now, and I doubt it's for anything good. Or literary. Sigh. One of my biggest fears is that I'll come home one day and unlock my door to find a massive Russian dude sitting on my sofa, waiting for me in full bondage gear. Because that's what I live in fear of. I don't want that. AT ALL. What is Russian for "no"? Nyet. That's right. Sometimes my life is a little too bizarre for me to take logically.)

Anyway, I had a rather productive weekend, complete with a random dude who thought that walking with me in the general vicinity of my apartment on Saturday night constituted "walking me home" from a party and asked for a kiss in return as if we had just agreed to swap his Oreos for my Dunkaroos over the 3rd grade lunch table. I realized, in hindsight, that I should have colored the story about a "friend" of mine that I'd told him 2 minutes previous with the word "boy" in front of it, and headed off the whole debacle so that I literally wasn't stopped in mid-stride up my front steps when he said that like some cartoon character straight out of Looney Toons, did an about-face, and really awkwardly went: "Um. Wow. I have an, um, guy, sorry, but uh, props to you for having the balls to ask. More guys should do that. Uh, so yeah. 'Night," before running inside and slamming the door behind me. My cardinal rule is that-- now, pay attention, ladies-- IF YOU DON'T WANT A GUY ASKING OR TRYING TO EXCHANGE SALIVARY GLANDS WITH YOU, EITHER EMBELLISH YOUR CURRENT RELATIONSHIP STATUS, OR MAKE A BOYFRIEND UP, AND DROP HINTS, CAVEATS, AND STORIES ABOUT HIM DURING YOUR CONVERSATION. I really didn't think this guy whose opening line was "Do you like Pop Tarts?" (again, 3rd grade,) and progressed to "Do you read Chomsky?" the second time he made a pass at me needed to be headed off at the pass. Especially because I hadn't showered in 2 days, smelled like another man, was subsisting on about 6 hours' worth of sleep, couldn't raise my arms past shoulder height for a really embarrassing reason (not even to SMOKE), and was generally disinterested in anything but eyeing my cell phone's clock until 1 AM rolled around and I felt like I could bow out of my friend's house after enough sufficient bonding time with the boys. It's good to know sometimes that you're still attractive. And sometimes, I really just feel like people have much lower standards than I'm comfortable with.

It's just like when women go out to the bars: It does not go, you offer to buy me a drink, I accept, you are now entitled to sex with me. It goes, you offer to buy me a drink, I accept, this means that we get to spend the time while I drink it together learning more about each other and if I would ever sleep with you, or if you even really still want to sleep with me. I'll admit it-- sometimes I accept a drink, and then spend the next 10 to 15 minutes sabotaging myself and acting like the most asinine, alarming, unappealing woman ever so that they'll run away without even trying to make a bid for sleeping with me. What can I say? I'm dead broke.

So all in all, I'm beat, and not feeling particularly creative. Instead, I give you this blog post from The Redhead Papers on oral sex. Here's an excerpt to get you started and prove why you need to read this: "I’ve had a handful of serious relationships (if by "serious" you mean "seriously dysfunctional") and more than my share of casual sexual encounters and I’ve only rarely come across a man who simply just won’t travel to the nether regions. For the most part, they’ve been ready, willing and, on occasion, able. What they lacked in knowledge and experience, they more than made up for in enthusiasm and a desire to please at all costs. This enthusiasm isn’t always, shall we say, preferable, but it is welcomed."

Erin is much more witty and eloquent about the topic than I could ever be today, and I laughed so hard while reading parts of this that I nearly snarfed my hummus. (For those of you fortunate few out of the know, "snarfing" is when you have a liquid or a solid in your mouth and get so suddenly surprised by something funny that you forget that you're currently engaged in masticating or swallowing, and when you suck in to go to laugh, said liquid or solid gets partially sucked up your nasal passages. In some cases, this results in aforementioned liquid or solid coming out of your nose, if you're really unfortunate. It is mostly a painful process, and much funnier when it happens to someone who is not yourself.)

Neverfear, I'll be back soon with something more substantial than stories of how women lie to men about having boyfriends because it's easier than giving a flat-out "No." I know. We're evil, devious, fickle creatures. I'm sorry. It's just in our biology. I can't help it.

XOXO

Assumption Eats Away At You Like Consumption.

I am an idiot.

Sometimes.

And assuming really does make an ass,

But mostly out of me.

I take it back.

Not all.

But most.

XOXO

Train Wrecks and Re-Doing Old Mistakes

"It's not good for me, but I want it."

It's probably the motto of my life. Everything, nearly everything I prefer the hard way, be it jobs, plans, or men. I have been known to end relationships that were "too easy." I've also been known to completely scorn the conventional way of doing something because it's too tried and true and lacking in excitement. But it's perfectly fine with me if I turn my life upside-down and bassakwards going after something slightly dangerous, more than stupid, and highly unobtainable.

"Sometimes I feel like my friends are my teenage daughters," I told my mom the other day. "They're doing all these things that just aren't smart, and I want to help them so bad, but then I realize they have to figure it out for themselves in order to learn anything. It's just so painful."

My mom lived through her 16 year old daughter cohabitating with a 24 year old dude. My mom knows where I'm coming from, and has put up with much worse. My mom said the same thing that she said to me when she watched me barrel out the front door with overnight bags: "It's their train wreck, and they have to figure it out for themselves."

We can see a friend's train wreck coming from a mile away and preach and preach and preach until we turn red and run out of breath, but when it comes to our own ongoing mistakes, we're deaf, blind, and dumb. Why can't any of us get out of our own way?

I have a theory. And it goes like this: Secretly-- like how we'll pour over our pores for hours behind the safety of our bathroom door, or how we believe that curling our hair and using hairspray makes up for not washing our hair-- we like it that way. I'm not 100% happy unless I have something to mull and churn over and over and over and over and over again in my head, like a washer of self-destructive tendencies on spin-cycle. And I've been told more and more recently that other people are exactly the same way. Maybe the perks that came with this highly-evolved human brain are just too prone to being used for obsession, over-analyzation, and drama than good.

Oh, and as for that whole "learning from your mistakes" thing? Bullshit. I'm still re-making the same mistakes. And I'm still just as happy trying to rectify them, the hardest ways possible.

XOXO

Being Yourself... Apologetically.

In every girl's life, there's that moment in their youth when they look back at their past, and suddenly see the huge, purple elephant standing in the middle of the room, and do a perfectly executed forehead smack/"Oh shit!"

I recently had mine in regards to my last relationship. Enough time and distance had finally passed to allow me to step back, look at it non-judgmentally, and try to sort out who did what to whom and where and when it went nose-dive-spiral wrong. It didn't take that long, because when I looked back, I saw something odd: It wasn't a relationship that had two distinct characters in it. It was a relationship that had three. And sometimes, more.

Maybe it doesn't come as a surprise, knowing that I'm the anti-dating, anti-commitment snarky love harpy that I am, but we started as TV-and-drinks night hook-up, nothing overly interesting. Yes, we clicked, yes, there was intelligent conversation and good humor and great sex, but I was not doodling hearts on my notebook the next day in class. Or the day after that. Or the day after that. What was interesting was when he texted me 5 days later around 1 in the morning, to check in because he "just hadn't heard from me" since that night. I was just trying to play it cool and keep things normal, but when we finally switched over to voice-on-voice action via the phone instead of thumb-on-thumb, it became clear that our objectives were not eye-to-eye. I told him I was leaving for Italy soon, and not looking to start something. He countered back with, "Technically, we've already had relations, so like it or not, we're already in a relationship."

"I'm fine as long as you don't actually say that to me," I told him, fighting down hyperventilation. (I think until this day he still didn't know that my body actually locked up when he said that "R" word and I could only breathe in shallow gasps for the next 5 minutes.)

"I didn't expect that to happen," he told me, and I swear to god I rolled my eyes.

"Oh, please. I knew it was going to happen. You don't think I go everywhere with an overnight bag, do you?" (Actually, that's a very smart idea, and do as I say, not as I do myself.)

"Ok, I had some idea when you came over that we would end up sleeping together, but I didn't expect anything other than that would happen. But what could go wrong in 2 months?"

"Oh, sweetheart, you don't know me."

Honestly, as in, 100% brutal, public honesty right here and now, I didn't expect anything to happen, either. Honestly, brutally, publicly, the only thinking I'd done about it, and about him, and about me previously was "You're hot. You're really, really hot, and I'm going to just keep having sex with you until you won't let me anymore, and then I'm going to point at you and say, 'Do you see that gorgeous man? Yeah, I tapped that,' and brush my shoulders off." That was my game plan. I wasn't initially serious. At all. I was just seriously horny. And was just thinking he was seriously hot. But he was also raising some good points, and I hadn't connected with anyone like that in...ummm...ever. So we decided to take things slow, until I went to Italy, or until we drove each other crazy, whichever came first. (Keep in mind, I'm a One-Month Girl, and Italy was 2 months away. I was hedging bets on it crashing and burning before then.) I was being honestly, brutally, totally myself. I wasn't playing games, and I wasn't going to sign on to something that I didn't see myself wanting to do. A lot of the time, women tweak aspects of themselves or their personalities to appeal more to men, but it was odd-- I hadn't done anything but be exactly myself with him. I had no ulterior motives. I wasn't trying to impress anyone-- in fact, I believe I tried warning him off. And strange thing-- he seemed to like that. He seemed to like me, the me that not even all my friends get to see.

So things progressed. I was spending at least a night a week at his place (he never even saw my place), meeting his friends, doing the not-dating thing. It was casual; it was comfortable; it was perfectly in my comfort-zone. One night, he called to see if I was doing anything more exciting than painting my nail and watching Sex and the City reruns. (Fact.) I wasn't, and he invited me to go with him to a friend's birthday party. I declined, saying that if it was just a party, I'd be up for it, but since it was this girl's birthday, I didn't want to show up as a stranger. It was like that, for awhile-- he'd say he was going to a show or concert, and I'd say I'd meet him after; he'd call and see if I wanted to spend the night and go to our morning class together, and I'd be already in bed and unwilling to get up and drive through the winter's chill just to get into his bed; he'd say he'd ditch bar night with the boys if I wanted to come over, and I'd decline saying that he needed boy time and I needed girl time (fact #2, and also, something very important to keep on your mind when you're under 21 dating someone over 21-- they need their bar time. And you can't go. So don't impede.)

I wasn't one of those girls who wanted to be included in everything, though I'd help break down a performance space and drive his buddies home if they needed a ride. I baked brownies to stay on his roommate's good sides, and tried to keep the late-night noise down. And then something odd happened-- I started to actually fall for him. It wasn't just about the sex anymore-- it was about his bookshelf. His vocabulary. The way if he tipped his head back and said "Oho!", you knew he was getting ready to contradict something you just said. The way he'd call, just to say hey, if he hadn't seen me that day. His eyelashes. The way we both regarded bantering as a form of foreplay. How he would personally say good-bye to my friends and check in to see what my plan was before we'd leave someplace. The fact that we functioned pretty well together and surprisingly had a lot in common. I started to actually say "yes" to those invitations. It wasn't all great-- we went through some shit that was rough and ultimately took its toll on us, but I started to think about not sabotaging it. Maybe, I don't know, but I've heard of this weird thing that normal, committed people do-- nurture it?

And then I went away. For 4 months. That's a long time. At first, we Skyped a few times a week, or, when I lost internet, we'd have trans-Atlantic calls. Some weeks, we talked constantly. Others, not so much. I was fine with it-- I was busy exploring a new place and leading a new life, and he was the first one to bite the bullet and say "I miss you," which went over really well with me, as I had tried to say it at the end of the conversation before, and literally had choked. But he got that. It was difficult, yes, but whatever it was, it was working ok for the situation, and ok for me.

After Spring Break, what had previously been a pretty steady stream of communication started to trickle down. It became harder to get a hold of him, which was hard and frustrating for me because it was also when I was having the most issues being abroad. I got public-ally felt-up and molested by a stranger. I got bronchitis, with no doctor, and no drugs. I was getting broke. I had to find someplace to live for the next year while across the ocean from America. I was planning my senior year and starting to think about grad schools. I was really homesick. And he just didn't feel "present" anymore. About this time was when I realized he was seeing other women, which explained a lot.

Italy proved to be my undoing. Not that I'd ever take the experience back for, literally, the world, but in the last few dozen days before coming back home and moving back to Burlington, I got more and more keyed up. The girl who previously wanted a very achievable, functional, next-to-nothing relationship now wanted everything. And wanted everything to go perfect. I wanted my fairytale ending-- a reward for all my hard work. I wanted to actually be able to say "relationship" without fainting. I found myself daydreaming about things like washing his dishes and grocery shopping. I started looking at music calendars for shows we both liked. I started calling back to the U.S, just to whine about how much I wanted to be gone, and be home. A lot. If I couldn't get through to him (which, by the point, was more un-often than not), I would call my closest guy friend, conveniently his best friend, and bitch. (I am so sorry.) In other words, I jumped the gun. Not just any gun. I jumped the Heckler & Koch G36. (And yes, go to that link and look at the photo so you can see just how far ahead of the horse I put the cart. That thing's a beast.)

I think I temporarily misplaced my identity with that of one of Mad Men's housewives.

I ended up becoming one of Those Girls-- one of the whiny, insecure ones who seeks constant validation from her partner because she's not secure enough in what she wants. And I ended up rendering myself wholly unattractive and pushing him away, before I even realized what I was doing. I effectively took that G36, and shot myself in the foot. Or, maybe the heart. (And this is now the part in which now that I've claimed my share, I also acknowledge that he was a particular dick for a bit, too. So it wasn't all him, but it wasn't all me, either.) I went from being someone who knew exactly what she wanted, and exactly what she was comfortable with, and exactly what was fair to ask or be expected, to someone whose thoughts on commitment and relationships flip-flopped every other day and was getting increasingly demanding while at the same time never being pleased with the results, even if they were exactly what I had asked for. I became (and I'll say it since I know you have,) a total, raging, whining, needy cunt-bitch. No, I wouldn't have wanted to be with me, either. In fact, I hated myself while I was doing that, but it was like a personal train wreck I just couldn't stop-- I'd built up enough momentum, it just had to run its course. Oh, how the mighty had fallen.

And this is what I have to say about this whole affair-- my Cliff Notes, if you will:

- Know what you want out of a relationship, always. It may change, but at no point should you be waffling around about it. If you are, it means you either don't want it enough to still be in it, or you're too confused about something in yourself to be a productive member of it.

- Do not, do not, DO NOT become someone who picks petty fights over text, or calls or texts numerous times a day for unimportant reasons. Here's an example of when it's ok to call and/or text more than a few times in one 24-hour period: Medical emergencies. If pertinent, timely plans have become subject to change. If you've just won tickets to a Philadelphia Eagles game. Here's when it's not ok: When you just want to "hear his voice." Again. 2 hours after the last call. When it's to say that you still haven't found your sunglasses, and can he please check his car again? When you know he's at work, or with his family. When you are drunk.

- When things change, you've gotta put the Big Girls pants on and talk about them. Things like emotions. Goals. Where you see yourself in a month, or 5 months. Where you see him in that. If you don't see him in that. If you'd like to see him in that. Mind-reading (still) is a lost art.

- After the break-up, wait it out. You're gonna be sore, and tender, and touchy, and bitchy for awhile. For maybe, a long while. Wait until you sort yourself out to sort anything else out. Maybe that's why I'm in such a total "no nothing" zone right now. No relationships. Nothing even casual. I just want to be me, and figure out what that means again, and not have to worry about anyone else. (Though, 2 months later, even when you're creatively slurring their name paired with rhyming insults at 3 AM, you're still going to be worrying about them. Worrying if their life's on-track. Worrying if they're remembering to feed the cat. Worrying if they're getting a chance to bitch about their work/parental/friend issues with a caring ear like they need to. Worrying if they're just eating pizza every night and haven't seen anything green or leafy in weeks. Worrying if they're happy. Not fair, and it sucks, but true.)

- In some wise dude words, "It's between you and him." Remember that. Act accordingly. At one time, you liked each other. You still might, half of the time. So be nice to his friends. Be nice to his property. Don't talk shit about him. Have some manners, and bitch about it with your roommate later. (All this personal informational is strictly for educational purposes, from my side of things. Another "do as I say..." moment.)

- Space, like silence, is sometimes golden in a relationship. You need time alone or with your friends. He needs time alone of with his friends. Doing everything together, or expecting to do everything together, is not sexy. It's suffocating. I never appreciated sleeping alone more than the nights after I spent the one before with him.

- Goddamn, it's a phone, not a texting device. That is still your cell phone. Stop with the day-long texting, and actually take 45 minutes to talk. It is so important. Honestly, that's one of the things that won me over and made me go from "just another bro" to "I'm really feeling this Joe."

- If you see yourself becoming that Crazy Bitch, please, for the love of god, try to stop or have someone step in and perform an intervention/exorcism.

That's what I have for you in hindsight. The rest, you'll have to take and make up as it comes along on your own. But believe me-- heed me. If I could go back, fix it, make it right, and take it seriously, I would. Maybe not now, but when I'm ready. Don't fuck yourself over, too. You deserve a whole hell of a lot more than that. You're all smart, pretty, fabulous girls. So start acting like it, and not someone else.

XOXO

Playing With Boys

I have two traits that can be extremely useful in meeting men: When I want to be, I can be extremely charming, and I am what could be called a "guy's girl." I generally tend to like men-- it's easy to be in their company; I'd rather chill with some of my boys than have a girl's night. I think it's just the level of energy-- women, as a general rule, require more energy to keep up with than men do. This is one reason that I can understand why a man would rather be single than have a girl. This is also another reason why I hate being stuck with needy men.

A good indicator of this is someone who tells you 4 times in the span of 20 minutes that "you're a real chill girl, you know that? I really like you."

And then, my friends, is when you know it's GAME. OVER.

Last night was one of my friend's birthdays. We got to her place over an hour late, and walked into a mixed bag of people-- some familiar faces; some not. Normally, when out and about, especially with people I don't know, I'm quiet and more reserved than I am with say, my circle of friends. But last night? It was like a switch had been flipped, and I came out swinging, feisty, and quirky, climbing on top of a dresser to touch the textured ceiling, and begin my hostile takeover of the men from a bird's eye view. Last night, with some wine lubricating me, it was like I was playing jacks with men-- by the time the ball dropped, I wanted to have as many as possible in hand. And this worked, apparently, because I landed not one, but two.

...That may not have been the best metaphor I've ever crafted, but you get the point-- juggling men. One had green. The other showed up and had a dog. I traded stock real fast after literally burning through the first. As I hopped over the porch railing to get down and play with the dog, leaving my smoking buddy on the other side, I remember saying, "You have a dog? I'm your new best friend." I have never said I was extremely loyal to anything with testicles.

"So, how was your evening?" Alli asked as we walked back home.

"I have no idea what got into me," I told her.

"ME." She's right-- it was like Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Normally, Alli's the out-going, friendly, flirty one with strangers, and I'm standing somewhere in the back, rolling my eyes, going "When he's blowing your phone up, I'm going to be saying 'I told you so'," and passive-aggressively drinking myself out of conversations-- you know, that move where people take a sip of their drink so they don't have to answer you as their eyes scan the room, looking for some way out? HELLO. I may not be the most optimistic, equal-opportunity dater. I was a part of receding-hairline-affirmative-action once before, and when I got home, after the sauvignon blanc wore off my eyes, I realized there is absolutely no way I can forsake, as I called them, "those thick, luscious locks you can fist your hands in." (Bachelor #1.) Or a vocabulary that extends beyond the words "bro" and "right on." (Bachelor #2.) So while I may have had a productive evening, it ended up this morning as a wash.

And this is why meeting people and dating makes me long for the good old days when every. single. thing the guy I was with for actually over a month did drove me fucking nuts and to chain-smoke. Because despite the "thrill of the new," there's nothing better than someone's old quirks that you know and are used to. I forgot how hard finding someone you actually like is.

Fuck.

XOXO

Men By The Numbers

I know I just wrote a post on which I professed that people are not just "numbers", but it got me thinking about my numbers-- not just the number of partners I've had, but the more esoteric things about my relationships. How many of them do I still talk to? How many could I still recognize just by their voice? How much do they know about me? How much time did we spend together? What sort of time was it-- just time for sex, or are they people I spent afternoons or nights or meals or awkward moments with?

I got down to it and compiled some numbers. In an over-arching, long-term hope for things, I'd love to know other people's numbers like this, so we could all start compiling a database of what is normal, what's quirky, what's sweet, what's not, and what real relationships sex lives in the 21st century are really like, dispelling urban myths, and talking openly and honestly. How awesome would that be? And so, I give you...

Men By The Numbers:

Only 1 man knows how I brush my teeth.

Only 2 know where I'm ticklish. (If they remember.)

Only 5 men know how I share (or don't share) a bed. Only 3 of those men actually know what I look like when I'm asleep. Of those 3, only 1 has spent hours around me while I haven't been wearing glasses. And a fun fact: the average number of sexual partners for heterosexual men is 7; for heterosexual women, it's 4. I like being above average.

Only 1 ex and my closest guy friends know what my living space looks like. I tend to be overly mysterious and protective about it.

Only 1 man other than my father has ever cooked for me. Only 2 men I'd been seeing have ever paid for my food. Only 4 have offered. None know how I like my eggs. Only 1 knows how I take my coffee.

I've only had to supply the condom once. ...But I've had to make a point of it twice. 2 guys asked if I was on birth control. Good guys!

4 times I've bought men clothing only to have it crash and burn soon thereafter. Lesson? No more buying men clothing.

Number of times I've been in love: 3. Out of those times, 1 ended after a bloody and prolonged death, 1 will be eternal, and 1 fell out-of-love with pragmatism and change. Number of times I have said those three words out-loud: Never.

Number of times I've been proposed to: 2. Number of proposals I accepted: None.

Number of relationships I've had since I started dating at the age of 16: 9. Practice makes perfect.

Number of those 9 relationships that lasted over a month: 2. 1: Abysmal and too apathetic to end it sooner. The other: A hell of a learning experience. Number of relationships that lasted over 6 months: None.

Number of times a man has surprised me: Once.

Number of men who have up and died on me: 1.

Number of times I've been left: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. TOO MANY TO COUNT. Number of times I've been the dumper: 2. Most commonly heard excuse: "I think we need to take a break." "Breaks" never happen, FYI. "Breaks" never un-break. Breaks are The End.

Most commonly-cited reason for me ending things with a guy: "I know about her." Number of times I've been cheated on: 3. 1 actually admitted it to me-- thank you. Number of times I picked the other woman out of the crowd: All 3 times. It's an odd and sad gift. Number of men I've cheated on: 2.

Number of exes I've stayed in close contact with: 2.

Most common denominator among the men I've been with: Dark hair.

Favorite type of the opposite sex: Dark hair, dark skin, light eyes. Did you know? People with blue or green eyes are more biologically attracted to other blue or green eyed people because the chances of their offspring being born with brown eyes is a great indicator of either A.) A stray recessive gene, or B.) Unfaithfulness. It's natural pre-natal planning.

Most common letter of first name of men I've dated: A tie between Rs and As.

What I notice first in the opposite sex: Height. Hands. Arms. Eyes. Facial structure. Hairline. Smile.

Who made the first move: Always them. It's a girl's job to make sure that her interest is known. It's a man's job to act on it from there.

What I will remember automatically about every man I've been with until I die: The way they smell, and the sound of their voice. Other odd things I'll remember: Body language quirks, laughs, and bad habits.

Pet-peeves about men I've repeatedly ground my teeth about: Snoring. When asked "How are you," having them answer, but not ask how I am in return. Leaving without saying goodbye. Holding utensils like a barbarian. Breaking plans.

What I appreciate most in a guy: Intellect, and the ability to both dish it out and take it. Bickering is sexay.

I have never believed a man other than my father when told I'm beautiful. ...Though I am susceptible to compliments about my character.

Most commonly-dated ethnicity: Italian. Number of men I was with while in Italy: 0. Irony.

The Good: 4 men have inspired me to write. The Bad: 2 yielded pretty weak stuff. The Best: 2 gave me the roots of the best poetry I've ever written, and 1 gave me looooooots of blog fodder. So you have him to thank.

I've been with more men over 5'10" than under. I've been with 4 over 6 feet in height. I like 'em tall.

I also like them older, though I have been with 2 younger.

4 were musicians. 3 were party-happy. 6 were artistic. 1 was another writer. 1 was a lay-about. 3 had criminal records. At one time, my bio line could have read, "If you have blue eyes, a criminal record, and a weed problem, you'll love me!" 3 of them fit that exact description. Surprisingly, only 1 of those 3 makes my list of Top 2 Disappointments. The other member of that list just confounds me.

The longest I've ever been able to stay interested in 1 man: Over 6 months. Once. The shortest I stayed with 1 man: 2 weeks.

Of those men, I still think of 1 every. single. day.

And the person who may know me best: 1 of those men. What he still doesn't know: Volumes more.

XOXO

Planes, Trains, And Automobiles

Planes, trains, and automobiles are where I’ve been doing most of my learning here in Italy. Jetting off to new locations on mini-vacations has slightly settled my fear or flying, or, rather—my fear of crashing and burning. In the horrendous traffic and speeding cars in Rome and Dublin, I have trusted people enough to hand my life over to them and let my white-knuckled fingers go from clutching the seat. I always sit facing backward on trains. I like being able to see my past so I know what’s done and gone is really gone. Plus, travel, especially on slow trains, gives you hours and hours to think. Hindsight is an amazing thing. Once you start to gather together the pieces, the picture is astounding.

I’m a runner. It’s true, so I’ll admit to it. I don’t tend to face the hard stuff and have been known on numerous occasions to turn my back on it and put some distance between us instead. I am flawlessly passive-aggressive. I don’t like facing things head-on—I’d rather saunter around the side of it and meet you somewhere near the conclusion. But you can’t live life like that. Italy (which may possibly be my biggest runner ever,) and the circumstances I’ve dealt with while here have changed me, just like I expected and hoped they would.

I came with a purpose: to get better at saying what I wanted to say. To actually say what I needed to. And damn it, if I could learn to do it in Italian, there was no way in hell it couldn’t be easier in English by the end of these 3-plus months. But I never expected that there are some aspects of this trip that wouldn’t be so easy. I don’t know what I was thinking when I left—maybe it was exactly that, and that I wasn’t thinking. I was operating solely on survival mode, for the last two weeks in the States, and for the first month I was here. There was no time to think outside of the present and where I was and the what I was doing, RIGHTNOW. I didn’t have the luxury of time to think or dwell on what happened. I didn’t have the opportunity to miss people or be any less selfish than just thinking about myself. In other words, I was literally not thinking. I was not thinking about how my choices affected others. I was not thinking about how other people’s past choices affected the choices I was in the process of making. I wasn’t thinking clearly enough to put all those pieces together and to start to map out my present. It’s no wonder I got a little lost along the way.

I remember getting off of the train in Assisi and standing there at the entrance of the station, looking left, then right, then at the distant hilltop town far too far to walk to and being floored because I never expected that it wouldn’t be easy. I had been taking so many things for granted, or just not even choosing to think about how hard they might be that I had completely overestimated myself, right until the point at which I took a deep breath, turned to look at the bus schedule, and then walked into the station’s tabacchi shop and asked for a return-trip bus ticket, in Italian. That’s what terrifies me sometimes. Sometimes, it really is just as easy as stepping off one thing and onto another, and other times, you find that you’re out in the middle of nowhere with not a clue how you got there and not a clue where to go from there. And that's when it all hit me-- how lost I was, yet how sure I was about some things. How much I missed people and how far I'd come, literally and figuratively. How much I'd grown and changed. How much time I still had to pass, when, internally, I was pretty much done with what I had set out to do. The Number One fear of all children is that they will grow up to be exactly like their parents, and lately, I’m terrified that this could be it and 20 and I could find out I’m more like my mother than I really would like to admit to. I’m terrified by how fast time has passed. I’m terrified to prove everyone right, and all my friends wrong. I’m terrified to admit that I’m growing up and getting older, but I’m also terrified that I’m too young for all of this. I’m most terrified that this thought doesn’t scare me or even give me a moment’s sway. I went to Assisi, and I had an epiphany as I sat there in the train station.

As Holly Golighty asked in “Breakfast at Tiffany’s”: “You know those days when you get the mean reds?”

Paul Varjak: “The mean reds, you mean like the blues?”

Holly Golightly: “No. The blues are because you're getting fat and maybe it's been raining too long, you're just sad that's all. The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you're afraid and you don't know what you're afraid of. Do you ever get that feeling?”

Paul Varjak: “Sure.”

Holly Golightly: “Well, when I get it the only thing that does any good is to jump in a cab and go to Tiffany's. Calms me down right away. The quietness and the proud look of it; nothing very bad could happen to you there. If I could find a real-life place that'd make me feel like Tiffany's, then - then I'd buy some furniture and give the cat a name!”

For me, the only thing that calms the mean reds and all the questions and terror of the unknown is the fact that in 45 days, I will be home. Every new sunrise brings me one day closer to being home. I can take all of the things that I’ve learned in Italy: how I am not afraid to ask if I’ve lost my way; how I have mellowed; how I can be confrontational—I can demand answers, and I can demand them in both English and Italian—; how I have learned about 20 other new life skills I did not have before, or did not know I was capable of and were hidden away somewhere inside of me, and I am going to bring this new girl home. I have changed, for better or for worse, which means that like it or not, my entire life has changed with me. So, like I recently discovered, even if I do somehow miraculously find an apartment, I don’t have a freaking bed to put in it. So it’s time to buy some furniture, and finally settle on a name for the cat. My path may be straight, but it’s not narrow. The mean reds are not here to stay.

XOXO