Should We WANT To Lose Ourselves?

We all know the sayings: Lose yourself in the moment. Lose yourself in your work. Lose yourself to find yourself again. But should we want to lose ourselves in the first place? Lately, I've been wondering what good can come from losing oneself. I hate that moment in a relationship when you suddenly realize that you're not happy being alone anymore, or, at the very least, have come to expect that someone else will be around to entertain you. And when that's not the case, then that thought becomes an obsession, and it's like you're suddenly a half of a Siamese twin severed, who feels like they've lost their identity, or what was special about them. In many way, identity theft may be kinder than the moment in which you find yourself realizing you're losing yourself, or, at least, losing the things that used to make up your life or define you as an individual or Single Person.

The existential crisis started around 56 hours ago (and counting). Thursday morning, I was woken up by a text from TGIS, and we continued correspondence from afar until about 5 o'clock that night, after which, I haven't heard from him since. (Granted, I haven't been trying very hard, but that's because A.) I'm under the severe impression it's just better not to nag, and B.) I've always thought it gives you a better symptom of your relationship to see when he finally gets back around to you.) One day was fine. But when I woke up this morning, I felt odd, disoriented. And that's when I realized it was because I'm so used to waking up beside someone. Noon came, and I found myself still in bed, because no requests for brunch out had been made. By this evening, I was in full-out obsession mode about not only the state of my affair, but also, about what the FUCK I was supposed to do with myself and all this free time that had suddenly (and unwelcomely) been found on my hands. So while I may not be neuros-ing about it all over him, I found an outlet for it elsewhere: With my girl friends. Obviously. Because some things never change, even if your established weekend routine suddenly does.

I'm in my twenties. I'm so close to having my Bachelor's Degree in hand I can almost feel it; I paid for the insanely expensive and insanely luxurious Ralph Lauren sheets on my bed myself; I'm paying down my credit card; and I'm giving a presentation at a national writer's convention in Boston in March. My life is pretty fabulous, and yet, all it takes is two day's worth of silence, and I find myself acting like I'm 16 again, trying to occupy myself by making a list of things to do with items like "Wash dishes," "Moisturize entire body," "Watch a 'thinking' documentary to try to get my mind off of 'thinking' about the fact it is a weekend and I don’t believe it without another person here: Sexual Intelligence; Wild China; Food, Inc.; or Prehistoric Predators, Season 1," "Find some way to make a palatable drink with Skyy vodka, the dregs of orange juice, whipped cream that’s lost it’s whip, and anything else in the fridge, all while really just wanting a nice glass (or bottle) of wine," and "Try not to 'wine' anymore." It made me wonder: Do our lives really still revolve around boys?

Once upon a time back in sophomore year of college, my mother thought my friend Madison was secretly my lesbian lover. I can see why she might have thought that-- we spend an uncomfortable amount of time talking to each other. Mostly, I think, it's because we usually have equal levels of confusion in our lives, and think about things similarly. So it was Madison I turned to when asking, "Why do I always panic like this if I don't hear back from a guy for like, I'm not shitting you, two days? I mean, it's TWO DAYS. My sane self knows this. However, my relationship self is going mental. What I want to know is, why do I FREAK out?"

And then Madison said something very true, yet not very heartening at all: "Because you haven't had good luck with similar situations in the past."

Touché, my dear, and good fucking lord, there is no hope-- I'm done for.

I am not the only one who seems to be wondering about the ramifications of losing yourself for someone else. Madison has her own issues, too. "The problem is that I've always known that [I was letting him use me like a doormat]. I just kind of let it happen. And that's not me at all. And that's why I'm ashamed."

And that's when I hit my epiphany in our conversation: "Secretly, I think we're all ashamed at things we do in relationships or non-relationships with other people. Look at me-- I've forgotton how to be ok with being suddenly alone. I think there's something about wanting to be with another person that makes us crazy and makes us forget and sacrifice parts of ourselves because we want something else SO MUCH."

It's all so terribly ironic, because as I was driving home on Wednesday night after bringing TGIS back to his hometown, I was smugly reminiscing on this relationship versus past relationships, thinking to myself how you can be the person you're supposed to be and want to be when you're with the right person. Give me 56 hours of silence, and I'm still the confused little mess I was a year ago, give or take a different man, situation, and a few relevant learning curves. Look how far I've gotten on the road map to finding myself.

XOXO

So what about you? How have you learned not to lose yourself, or how to occupy yourself when you'd rather be doing something with someone else? Do you think that we're more willing to sacrifice parts of our lives and our selves if the payback of having the love of someone else is an option? Comment below and tell me what you think-- who knows, we might be able to solve all our relationship issues and neurosis together. Wouldn't that be a freaking miracle? What would the world do with so many more sane people?

The 3-Month Hitch

During Glamour's yearly poll of thousands of men on issues regarding love and sex and relationships, one polled member commented on the fact that it takes the average man between 3 and 6 months to decide that he wants to commit to a serious relationship. Obviously, to people like my mother and like, all other women on the face of the Earth, this doesn't make much sense, because, after you've been seeing the same person for the last 3 months, you just assume you're in a serious, committed relationship, right? Wrong.

One of the most frequent questions I get asked when people are asking me for advice is, "How long should I wait before I ask him to be serious/committed/my boyfriend?" This question usually comes within rapid succession of starting to see someone on a regular basis, because if there's one thing we know about women, it's that in our thinking, the equation goes: "time together + sex = hormonal bonding = relationship on lockdown, now, please." Some girls believe that after a month, you know what you want out of a relationship, and that the two month marker is the time to have The Talk. You know what talk. You've wanted to have The Talk after the first month into a relationship, I promise you. It's when your friends are bothering you if he's officially your boyfriend yet. If you have keys to his place. If you’ve met his friends or family. If you’ve had The Talk yet. Even if you weren’t thinking about it previously, hearing so much feedback almost brainwashes you into thinking the same way; you want to nail that shit down and have everything in neatly labeled little boxes like "Monogamous" and "Committed" and "Boyfriend." You want to know he's not just killing time with you until something else or someone else comes along. You want to know EXACTLY what you're doing together. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about, because not even I—the utterly casual/take-things-one-small-step-at-a-time girl—am immune to it. The more I’m asked if someone is my boyfriend, the more I itch to make him my boyfriend, if for no other reason than to stop the henpecking and make a more honest woman out of myself. I hate society for this reason.

But the fundamental problem is that your beginning months together as a couple are like a trial period to the rest of your relationship. You're still learning things about each other, getting to know the quirks and nuances of co-existing with another person. Things come up in this time that make, break, or shape how you feel about each other— you may not be able to deal with his constant throat-clearing without needing to leave the room for a 5 minute breather, and he may have a big beef with the fact that you steal the covers at night. It's a time of discovery, enlightenment, and compromise— NOT a time of solid relationship status. Even Patti Stanger, the Millionaire Matchmaker, suggests a 90-day trial to commitment, after which time, it's time to shit (in this metaphor, "shit" meaning a really unflattering synonym for deciding to do it proper,) or get off the pot and cast yourself back into the dating pool to try again.

There are so many more "little talks" that need to happen before the Big One that let you discover if you even NEED to have it. There's the "Do we like each other enough to continue seeing each other?" talk, usually after the first few dates. Then there's the "Here are my deal breakers" unveiling, usually done with each other in installments labeled along the lines of Religion, Politics, Lifestyle, Family, and Friends. Next comes a period of reconciliation about things like who drives and who pays the tab at the bar or restaurant and what pet names are appropriate and which aren't. And then there's the precursor to The Talk— the "Are we monogamous?" discussion. These are all important steps to gradually work through, and I can promise you, it'll take longer than a month to get through them. And do you know what skipping them— the necessary groundwork to any functional, grown-ass relationship— or rushing through them makes you look like? A crazy, needy woman who always needs to be in a relationship. Not flattering. So do your homework, hun.

Three months is the perfect amount of time in which to decide if you want to turn seeing someone into a serious, committed relationship. In three months, you should be able to assess how compatible you are, if you have the same goals and objectives, if the way they take their coffee is going to infuriate you every morning for the rest of your time together, if the sex is still as exciting as it was in the beginning and looks like it still will continue being exciting and fulfilling, and where you see this relationship going. You can date, meet each other's friends, get in fights, make up, sleep together, sleep in the same bed together, develop a routine for how you spend your time together— are you a stay in or go out couple, or a little bit of both?—, discover what aspects of the other suit and complement your own personalities, and get to learn each other's pet-peeves and deal breakers. You even have time to go on trips together, learn how the other deals when one of you gets sick, and possibly even meet the family. If you feel like you can't wait three months before jumping into an official relationship, I'd ask you to please look up the differences in the dictionary definitions between "love" and "lust."

So, the next time you feel the itch to break out The Talk and after a month, control yourself, girl. Wait it out a bit. Maybe, if you give him the time he apparently needs to make the decision on his own, he’ll even bring it up to you, which is just about the most romantic (can we guess what the word of the week is sponsored by?) thing that I can ever imagine happening. This may be one of those times when the man is right, after all. Give both of you some time (preferably around 90 days), and it'll all work out the way it should be, organically.

XOXO

Honeymoon's Up

I'm ridiculously impatient. It's one of my worst character traits, and it always has been-- ask my mother. I was one of those kids who started digging my elbow into her side in the supermarket when I thought that the conversation she was having with the acquaintance she had bumped into in aisle 4 had gone on for long enough, and I was getting hungry. Maybe it's because I'm an only child-- I've always wanted the show to be about ME. I am my own circus. There's a fire under my ass, and I don't have time to wait in line for other people's side acts. At times, this makes dating and relationships-- with ANYONE-- extremely trying.

I try really hard to rein it in, I do. At first, in the honeymoon phase, it's so easy. I can be patient because at first, it always seems great and like it's the answer to all your prayers. I'm as chill as I can possibly be, because I'm out to prove that I am a chill girl who he wants to be spending his time with and on. In the starting phases of any relationship, the "Meet and Greet," if you will, he's excited about you, you're excited about him, neither of you want to leave the other alone. I live for this phase-- I love getting to know people and love spending night sitting up, talking...call it the journalist in me, but I love to know their dirt and what drives them and what they're passionate about. Responses are instantaneous. Someone wants to know what you're doing, all the time. They're asking to see you, making plans, taking charge. God, it's so exhilarating and hot, especially if your previous relationship's attitude on keeping in touch and making plans was decidedly not.

But if this sort of stamina could be kept up, we'd all be in grand romances. As I think we all notice when we look around, we're not. Suddenly, you realize it's been a week since he asked you what night you're free so he can see you. You sit in front of your computer or phone waiting for a answer to a question for 10 minutes, 20 minutes, and then give up and move on. And since you've already covered all the exciting shit about yourselves, conversations are a little more...mundane. After years of reading Cosmo and Glamour and women's magazines, we all know the little tricks to seem more endearing and make sure that you're still in the picture-- making sure to ask them questions about themselves and their day by bringing up specific details to prove that you listened and are interested, sending the cute little random "thinking of you!" messages, pulling your own weight by doing half of the communicating, surprising them with little things from bringing home that new action flick he's been dying to see to sending random sexts to make sure to keep things spiced up, yadda, yadda, yadda. We know we have to be nice. We know we have to be sweet, and entertaining, and patient. A week ago, maybe he was sweeping you off your feet, but this one, maybe he needs to lean on you a little bit. Or maybe you're both getting a little complacent, and there's not that fervent need to prove to the other that you're soooo into them every time you talk. But even when I know everything is copasetic, making me wait 20 minutes to get back to me about something I asked or abruptly leaving a conversation can really get me going and turn me all indignant. And that's when you realize, in a blinding flash of abject horror: Different guy, same shit.

Newness always works like a Band-Aid for a girl's down-and-out dating ego, but feels like a bitch when it wears off and your current Prince Charming is just as late in coming as your previous one was. Are we really ever any better off, or is the grass just always greener on the other side?

XOXO

Photo Cred: http://i289.photobucket.com/albums/ll233/AshKabu/comic%20art/Bored.jpg

Dirty Little Secrets

When I was 8, I went to New York City with all the women of my family to celebrate my grandmother's birthday. We stayed at the Waldorf Astoria, drank at Trump Plaza (where I sent my Shirley Temple back for being too light on the grenadine-- I've always been particular about my drinks,) ate at delis and from Zabars and Tavern on the Green and went to a Broadway play (Ragtime). At night, tucked into our hotel rooms, we amused ourselves in the city life. My aunt still had her opera glasses from the play, and using them, we peered into the lives of the people in the apartment building across the street. There was the muscular gay couple tangoing. (Not a euphemism.) There was a woman who couldn't decide what bra matched her outfit. Lots of people watched TV or worked out. And there were a few windows I was not allowed to look in. (Now I understand.) This, the strict voyeurism and the intrigue, more than the play, the food, or the weekend's daytime events, sticks with me the most about this trip.

If there's one thing I've learned, it's that people have a fascination with other people's lives. What strikes me the most about Batman's villains is that they're all different people than they appear to be, just like Batman himself, or you, or me, or the guy you're currently dating. True, they may not be as juicy as Selena Kyle/Catwoman or Bruce Wayne/Batman, but we all have secret lives. There are things that we all do that other people may never know about. There can even be large chunks of unaccounted for history between people who think they know each other so well. But the fact is, no matter how much we want our secrets to stay secret, there will always be someone else with a pair of binoculars looking into the windows of our lives and our minds. And though we may prefer to be creatures of mystery, damn sure we hate it when others are.

I air my laundry pretty throughly. Part of this blog is making a good half of my life public knowledge, but there are some things I have learned to draw the line at. Hence, recently, a casual friend of mine came up to me with a surprised "I never knew until it was over!"

I shrugged. "I like to keep some things low-key; quiet," I told her. Even you, dear readers, probably only get a very sheltered half of the stories. Some of you know more than others. Some of you know EXACTLY the story. Still others of you, have absolutely no need to know. It's difficult at times. Sometimes, knowing that I could get the feedback or sympathy or support I crave by telling the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me god, is tempting. Sometimes, I want to Anais Nin that shit and blow it all wide open. But what stops me is the fact that no matter how many hundreds or thousands of people read about it, it's not really going to change much for me. In fact, it may even get in the way. Just like those people living their lives in those New York apartments didn't know that they were being watched, knowing that they were would have made them act differently, in ways less true to themselves. So, maybe, by at least pretending to leave someone's life alone, it's really the best way to let them learn and grow through whatever is happening, without interfering. It's hard, but it's best to wait it out.

That's why it's so weird to be living in the same city as people you know so well, so intimately, so conventionally, and still have no idea what's happening with them.

XOXO

P.S-- I guess I've come full retribunial circle with the whole , because due to my lack of modesty, I have become That Girl in the neighborhood that the neighbors can count on to forget to close her curtain, cook half-naked in the kitchen, or sprint by the living room windows on the way to the bathroom fully nekkid. Perhaps I have a guilty and paying-for-it-now conscious from all those years back.

Why You Should Never Say "Panties" And Why Victoria's Secret Is The Best Kept One.

There are a few things in life I like to indulge in: alcohol, shirts, shoes, smoking, driving above the speed limit, cheese, fresh artisan bread, a good latte, women's magazines, lavender soap. And then there are a few things in life I just can't deny myself, no matter how bad it gets or how much it will cost me: books, men, chocolate, the perfect dress, a chance of a lifetime, and underwear. Oh, the underwear.

Usually much to the delight of my men, underwear is basically the crack cocaine of my life. I get flat-out withdrawls if a pair has not been purchased within a month. I would probably be willing to trade my car for a Vickies' credit card with no limit and a floorboard-low APR. I am a staunch Vickie's Girl. I cannot pass a Victoria's Secret without going in and at least scoping out the 'wears. The Semi-Annual Sale is like a religious holiday to me, or Christmas, and it happens TWICE A YEAR. I am on a first-name basis with the staff of all the Vickies in the area and I get frequent tip-offs on the best deals, dates of sales, and new orders. I may or may not have personally funded one of Heidi Klum or Gisele Bundchen's infamously outrageous outfits for the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show by now. I also may or may not own over 150 pairs of underwear. (The true number is a closely guarded secret like National Security or Kim Cattrall's real age.)

That is "underwear." Not, excuse me, "underpants." (I wore those when I was three.) Not "undergarments"-- those are like Spanx and the full-coverage deals. Not even "undies," "grunders," "knickers," or "drawers." "Skivvies" is acceptable. What is never, ever acceptable is the cringe-inducing "panties." Saying "panties," especially if you are a man, makes me think of you holding a pair of five-year-old's underwear. The only people who can say "panties" and get away with it is Victoria him/herself and your lady grandmother. (And probably the Queen of England. She strikes me as a "panties" person herself.)

If you want to get technical, than by all means, let me inform you. Women can wear hiphuggers, cheekies, briefs: high-rise briefs, mid-rise briefs, low-rise briefs, boyshorts, thongs, g-strings or v-strings, tangas, bikinis, string bikinis, Brazilians, and garter sets. These all come in cotton, lace, mesh, satin, silk, nylon/spandex, no-show, and every pattern or color imaginable. They can be trimmed with anything from lace, to ruffles, to rhinestones, to sequins, to ribbon. The combination choices are enough to make your head spin. Men out there, right now, I know what you are saying. You are saying "Thank you for the pictures, but What. The. Fuck? A tanga and a bikini look totally the same to me. What are you women thinking?!" Let me tell you, unlike your collection of plaid and striped boxers, out of my collection, no two pairs of underwear are exactly alike-- there is no repeating here. Why would you ever want to, given all these options?

It all seem very extravagant, to a Marie Antoinette-level. I feel as if I should be reclining somewhere on a chaise lounge popping truffles into my mouth and cackling, "Let them wear Hanes!" But let me explain to you the draw of underwear: No other garment can dress your more to fit your mood than underwear can. No one else ever has to know that under your worker-bee required uniform, you are sporting man-eating skivvies. No one needs to know that when you are depressed, you wear black underwear even if the rest of your outfit is bright and cheerful. If lace makes you feel dangerous, great. If ruffles make you feel angelic, wonderful. I personally have a lucky Sunday Football pair that has a helmet print on the ass (this is why you love me). Just knowing that it's there, hidden, has the ability to affect your entire mood. A good pair of deliciously sexy underwear puts a spring in my step, a gleam in my eye, and an agenda in my mind like nothing else can. It's the power of mood, in a tiny scrap of fabric that I probably pay way too much for(average price for a Very Sexy lace hiphugger or cheekie at Vickies: $16), but am willing to, just because I know what the idea means to me: confidence. When you cannot fake it, you dress for it, from your bottom, up. I throughly believe that the most important part of a woman's wardrobe resides in her underwear drawer. (Also, not a good idea to hide things in there, ladies. It's always found.) The good news vis-a-vis price vs. quality of a pair of Vickies undies that is, if treated right, they can last you four YEARS. Legitimately. I've owned numerous pairs since I was 16, including my pair of "lucky underwear", and you better bet your sweet ass I'm still wearing them. Now, that's CPW (Cost Per Wear) for you!

Underwear are a woman's best friend; not dogs, and not diamonds. All you single ladies, go invest in a few pairs that make you feel like you, not Adriana Lima, should be strutting down the catwalk clad in next to nothing, because you, lady, are too hot for clothing to handle. These are the secret Weapons Of Man Destruction for you to wear not only on dates, but whenever you so choose to feel like the cat's lack-of-pajamas. And for those of you lucky gals in relationships-- go buy something your S.O has never seen before; maybe, something a little different then you would normally wear. Variety is the spice of life, and of the boudoir. (I just said "boudoir." I feel as if I should be elegantly smoking a cigarette out of an ivory holder and pouting at my French lover while calling him "mon petit chou." And if there was ever any question, that term of endearment alone is proof the French are flipping crazy. Although, they give us La Perla, so I will cease and desist my complaining.)

And while we're wrapping up the topic, let me lightly touch on men's underwear options. They are significantly shorter, so this will be (haha--) brief. You have briefs (AKA: tightie-whities or tightie-whatever colors), boxers, and boxer-briefs. (If you are European, you may have speedos and trunks and bikinis.) This is what I have to say: Boxer-briefs. Amen. They are like the Wonderbra for the man world-- they lift everything up and put it where it should be, make everything nice and tight, and show everything off to its full advantage. However, there is a rule: if you've got some extra flesh around your waistband, boxers for you, my friend. No muffintop. And if you are a beanpole and look like an emaciated African child in boxer-briefs-- boxers for you, too. I don't want to be thinking "feed you!" when I should be thinking "maul you, you sexy man-beast!" And no spoofy boxers, (yes, American Eagle, I am talking to your merchandise of the hot dogs and crabs and glow-in-the-dark hot tamales.) (I am not kidding. Follow that link. If I woke up to a short's full of glowing hot tamales coming at me, I would be out of that bed and running so fast the hinges on your front door would never close the same again. It's just like colored or glow-in-the-dark condoms-- whatever is coming at me, I want to be as natural, non-threatening, and serious as possible. I am trying to have sex here, not get raped by a circus clown. Thank you.) No one ever went wrong with classic plaid or preppy striped boxers. I am particularly partial to both patterns in blue, myself.

And yes, to answer your question, I could feasibly go for over a third of year or five months without ever having to do laundry for a clean pair or go involuntarily commando. And also yes, a Victoria's Secret gift card would be the perfect gift for me if you ever felt so moved. (Oh please, oh please, oh please, oh, please!)

XOXO

Stuck: Beauty and the Beastly Confusion

[“I’ve always been best at rushing into things, and then running away from them,” she said. “It’s the wanting to run to things that scares me, and the leaving them in a slow and organized fashion.”]

I’ve been feeling “stuck” a lot lately, both figuratively and literally. I got “stuck” between Cait’s bathroom door and sink, which is no mean feat for a petite girl like me, but I somehow managed to get momentarily wedged in there, which was hilarious at the time. What was not so funny was getting a slug “stuck” between the bottom of my foot and flip-flop during the spur-of-the-moment 4 mile EpicTrek Alli and I took last night to find the best view of the heat lightning across the lake. Or getting a beetle “stuck” between my toes later during the same adventure. (Alli seemed to enjoy my utterly girly shrieks though, so it wasn’t all a disgusting loss.) But most aggravating of all, I seem to be “stuck” somewhere half-in and half-out of a relationship with Mr. Perfect.

I feel as though I am in a science experiment no one ever decided to tell me about. There’s the control group: women who have been broken up with; the standard: women who are in relationships; and then me, toeing the line somewhere in the middle because although he opened the “friends” door, Perfect neglected to throw the chain off—AKA: things are pretty business as usual. I am beside myself with confusion.

My hypothesis: although we both know that in the overall scheme of things, a relationship would not be the wisest thing to start at the moment (hence that discussion a week ago), neither of us are exactly willing to let go. Or, it seems, really change anything. Apparently, Perfect got the Hostage Relationship memo, because he’s doing his own job of keeping me quiet, close and (somewhat) satisfied rather well.

Being “stuck” and confused does not suit me. I am someone who is constantly in motion, be it physical, or, in the odd moment you can catch me lounging and seemingly doing nothing at all, most likely mental. For example, the time during my morning shower when because I am “stuck” doing the things I do by motion memory in my 10’-by-4’ white cubicle is my most mentally productive. That’s when I come up with my best ideas, revelations, and thoughts. Now that those wheels are clogged and slow with relationship un-bliss, I am not a happy camper.

I feel an overwhelming desire to get out of the city. But then, I get “stuck”. Where to go? What to do? I don’t want to go home yet, or to go ride my poorly neglected (and apparently, ever increasingly wide) pony, because Cait and Alli and I are going on a road-trip next weekend to go swimming with waterfalls and my fixed (read: nonexistent) income doesn’t allow for another tank of gas to be bought. So, that leaves me “stuck” in the city until the 3rd or the 4th, and I’ve already done all the requisite city things to keep busy—strolled Church Street, shopped, took myself out for tea, went grocery shopping, visited friends, went to the beach, etc. I have a slight feeling that my urgent desire to physically flee Burlington may be directly correlated to the fact that I am “stuck” emotionally, and there’s nothing I can do to evade that problem short of having another one of those lovely chats I am so not fond of of the “what are we doing, again?” variety.

What we are doing is what’s confusing me. I know, I know, I was the one plotting to keep this relationship hostage—I just didn’t plan on it actually happening. I’m “stuck” somewhere in between trying to figure out the right amount or timing of texts and messages to make them “friendly”, while Perfect is still sending me my morning wake-up texts. Our conversations, though while a little more awkward than originally—let me tell you how hard it is for two very sexual people to try and purposefully cut the “sexual things” out of their communication for the sake of being “friends” and not “overly friendly”—are still frequent and charming. I am still the first person he responds to when he gets coverage, and I still take priority when he’s out with his friends, but is still texting with me. He is still the first person I think of to text whenever I have news or am bored out of my mind, which is frequently. We are “stuck” being large parts of each other’s lives, but with no idea as to where or how we’re supposed to fit. It’s an odd transitional period that doesn’t come with any sort on instruction manual or handy survival guide—I’m having to make the rules up as I go along. A “stuck” girl is a girl in trouble.

What does a “stuck” girl look or act like, you may ask? Look for a girl with two primary facial expressions at the moment—perplexed/frustrated or zoned-out/bored-to-near-tears. Look for a girl who’s a little bit flustered—possibly saying or doing things that aren’t in agreement, or frequently losing track of her thoughts or what she was saying. Appearance-wise, she’ll look as pulled-together as normal, although when you look into her eyes they may be a bit panicked. A guy’s name will (totally uncontrollably) be every third word out of her mouth. There will be some obsessing going on, running the gamut from about him, to about her, to about life, to about the date on the milk carton and wondering if it’s ok to drink it one day past the sell-by date. A “stuck” girl will try to distract herself from her “stuck-ness” many different ways, so look for someone busy, busy, busy with self-made hobbies or activities of really no importance, or a To-Do list a mile long. Or for your best example what a “stuck” girl looks like, stop by. I’m usually home and in need of distraction from being "stuck."

Meanwhile, in between all the self-made reading and writing and tanning and visiting with friends, I am “stuck” dissecting over and over and over what went wrong or how I could possibly fix whatever is going on. Without a job to take up my time and mind, I have turned into a professional worrier. Possibly, a professional sign-reader. Without any clothing folding, phone answering, or customer servicing to distract me, I have taken to trying to interpret the deep and imagined meanings of all the texts Perfect is sending me. I fret the differences between the two-line texts he used to send me, and the one-line texts I sometimes receive now. (Does it mean he’s trying to blow me off?) I (try to) delve into all the possible emotions behind a “Haha”, a “LOL”, or a two-word message. The exclamation points that used to drive my perfectly punctuated self mental are now mourned like dead children if they don’t appear in a text. When he doesn’t respond to one of my non-response-needed texts (AKA: “I woke up at 7 this morning and still feel like a morning zombie after coffee. And an hour drive.”), it sends me into frantic spirals of “is he ignoring me?”s and “did he used to not respond to these?”s. I am driving myself, and I’m sure everyone else around me, crazy. But I am working my ass off to maintain the light, normal and un-weird conversations of days and weeks past, and I feel like I need to be thrown a bone before the next text I send is, “Perfect. I’m working my ass off here. Throw me a fucking bone and act normal.”

So to the age-old question: should I call him on his weirdness? Or is it weirdness made up in my own head because I expect things to be weird? Or like all women have a tendency to do that I believe goes hand-in-hand with flirting with disaster, am I thinking about this too hard? What if the problem is all in my head? But would I rather be “stuck” there, or really have hit the brakes with Perfect and be “stuck” with him in the real world? Where would it be harder for me to live with myself?

Obviously, the only thing that can really solve any of these (often asinine) questions would be to speak with the man himself. I don’t know if I’m ready to do that yet. Granted, it’s been the longest time yet that we’ve gone without seeing each other and he’s due up for a “girl’s visit” with Cait and I ASAP, but I don’t know if I can handle another “what’s going on?” conversation so soon. I know, I know—I bitch when I can’t talk to him, and I bitch about not wanting to when I could. It’s a woman’s prerogative, you know. But really, what could I say? “Stop being weird even if you don’t think you’re being weird because I’m desperately trying to maintain the charade that everything is fine and peachy here and I am fine and peachy with everything that’s happened even though I periodically burst into tears in my room when I try to open the windows and I can’t and the only thing that I can think of is that if you were here, you, in your hulking manliness and weight-lifting strength would surely do it for me if I asked nicely?”

Yeah. That would be an Oscar-winning speech.

In the meantime, I am not (physically or anatomically) dead. In fact, I was recently turned away from a research project UVM is doing on Women’s Sexuality because after answering the phone interview questions on things like sexual appetite, sexual desire and desired frequency of sex, it was determined that I would be an outlier and skew the data. Oh, yes. The libido is still alive, folks. It just has no outlet other than being beaten into submission at the gym. (I now think I understand Perfect’s two-hour gym-sessions. That poor man must be more sexually frustrated than I am, though I just clocked in my first hour and a half work-out. And have upped both the weight and the number of reps to my weight training.) Cait once said that I have “cute guy” radar like nobody’s business—I scope them out like a professional hunter, and if one is within a two-block radius, I will find them. It’s true—I do have a weakness for attractive men, and yes, I do look quite a lot. (I even found myself looking—to my utter mortification and to Cait’s amusement—when she and I and Perfect were all out for dinner one night. Hot man after hot man kept passing. It’s a wonder I didn’t get whip-lash from all the looking I was doing while Perfect was blissfully and thankfully unaware, mowing down single-mindedly on his lo mien beside me.) I am, I guess, the little girl that never grew up, and the world is my men-stocked candy store. It’s just the fact that though I may look, and appreciate, and possibly even flirt, when it comes down to it, all it takes is to get a text or hear a particular deep and velvety voice or see a certain face with beautiful bone structure, a long and straight nose, and red cheeks for me to think, “Yes, that is the most attractive man of them all. That is who I want to be with. Still.” I am “stuck” in Single Girl’s Hell—wanting, waiting, and wishing.

XOXO

(I'm not 100% pleased with this post yet, though I've been, haha-- "stuck" writing it for the past four days. Expect edits in the future. I just need to clear it off of my desktop for right now, let it lie, and the come back to it when I can (hopefully) think more clearly.)