First Right Of Refusal

I recently sold my horse. It was EASILY the hardest decision of my life; for those of you non-horsey people out there, imagine it feeling as it would be like to give up a 7 year old child. It was the right thing for me to do at this point in my life, financially, but about the only thing that made me actually go through with it instead of climbing on my mare's back and taking off into the sunset, neither of us to ever be seen again, was the fact that I was able to include a legally-binding buy-back clause in the ownership/sale agreement. This means, that if the barn were to ever sell her one day down the road, legally, they have to track me down and ask me if I want her back before they can offer her up for public sale. This is called the First Right of Refusal, and it is a lovely, wonderful thing.

Which is why I think it should be an unspoken agreement in all relationship stipulations.

Look, don't lie to us. You want to make things as painless as possible? Than tell us the truth, instead of a convenient cover, so we can skip the false hope, the anguish, the want, the heartbreak, and the loss, and skip right the fuck to hating you, get it out of our system faster, and over with, so we can dust ourselves off and move on with our lives. It's really the only humane thing to do. If you say, "I think I need some time on my own," please best believe that we'll be keeping a weather eye to make sure that you actually stay that way-- on your own-- for a while, like you told us you were going to. If you say, "Maybe sometime again later after I've had time," PLEASE, BEST BELIEVE that to us, that is like the First Right of Refusal. If we disband because YOU want some "alone time," you best believe that we fully intend to be the first woman tapped for duty when you get tired of playing by yourself. THAT is how women work. THAT is what we assume. When we say, "I'd like some strawberry jam on my toast, please, but no butter," what we mean is, "I'd like some strawberry jam on my toast, please, but for the love of god, if you bring the butter near me, I will CUT YOU," when what a MAN seems to mean when he says, "I'd like some strawberry jam, please, but no butter," is in his thinking, a politer way of saying, "Yeah, I'll take that toast with some strawberry jam, but later, I'm going to actually go back for that butter that you just offered me, because I was thinking about my body muscle index and I really do need to eat some more fat today before I hit the gym."

Woman: No butter means NO BUTTER.

Man: No butter means maybe I actually am going to have that butter, after all.

I can understand it is hard sometimes; life is confusing. I mean, hell, some mornings I wake up and have no clue where the fuck I am for the first 10 minutes that I'm barely cognizant. And there are some tough calls out there-- pay the heat bill, or the electric bill?-- that I thoroughly understand if they take you a while to work through. But let me break this down-- when you tell us you've thought long and hard and not taken anything lightly to reach a decision...you sure as HELL better follow through with that decision. To the T. Perfectly. Textbook-style. Like the lawyer who was holding our Terms of Sale agreement was keeping close tabs on you and your movements. Because in matters of love and relationships, that sale was not of a horse, as much as I have loved mine-- it was the sale of our heart.

XOXO

2011: A "Space" Odyssey.

I know I said I wouldn't do it, and I promised as much in about three different languages to about half a dozen people, but I broke first. Maybe it was from watching too much SATC over this very long long weekend and watching Carrie put herself out there and say "Women's magazine advice be damned; this is how I really feel!" but finally, yesterday afternoon, I snapped when I saw TGIS was online (yet still unheard from), and reached out first.

Damn.

I said "Hey." I know, STUNNING opening line, but I decided it was better than "Are we not talking?" or something equally confrontational and jumping-to-conclusions-esque. We chatted a little bit about totally meaningless things, all the while, I was waiting for him to say something, ANYTHING at this point, from "Sorry I've been out of touch-- I've been busy nursing African orphans back to health, but now that we're back in touch, I've been meaning to ask you-- would you like to move to Zimbabwe with me and save the world?" to "After some careful deliberation about what you look like when you sleep and the way you have a habit of inhaling sharply when you laugh, I've decided to end things with you. Never talk to me again, please," so then that way, I would at least be put out of my misery. And when neither of those extremes presented themselves, I then decided to cut to the chase and say, "So, I tried to get a hold of you the other day."

He said, "Oh yeah? My bad, I've been kicking it with the guys all weekend. You know, I obviously like hanging out, and I have a lot of fun with you...but if I don't respond to a text or message or whatever, then just don't worry. We spend a lot of time together, which I enjoy...but I also need my space, too."

Oh. Space. Alone time. Time to be the "uno" instead of the "duo." Well, I'll be damned.

So I said, "I totally get that."

Which, for the record, wasn't a lie, because after he explained everything that I needed to hear for the past 3 days, I really did understand. And, surprisingly, felt fine with it. Space, I can do. I give great space. Let me know you need space and, believe me, I won't be nagging you. I love space. I love space so much I've now started sleeping diagonally in my queen-size bed when he isn't here sheerly because of the fact I CAN. So long story short, all I really needed, in fact, was to hear that he needed some space to start actually enjoying my space.

...Why must he be so smart? And why must I be so easy to read?

I think the inherent issue here is that anytime I start to realize that I really like having someone in my life and, in fact, really LIKE someone, I start to panic that they're going to leave me. Like Madison mentioned, I have a really bad track record of this actually happening to me, so it's not an unfounded fear, and as soon as something in my current relationship starts to happen like it has in a previous relationship, it sends me into a spin. At which point, I start to look for signs of deterioration-- like silence-- so that I can at least cut ties and jump ship first before my ass gets dumped and I get burned, again. (This may be something worth addressing with TGIS at some point, as I really don't want to throw everything away, but my behavioral norm is to do so as soon as I start feeling like someone may be pulling away, themselves.) Is it fair to my current relationship? No. But it's all I know. That whole slippery, tricky "trust" thing has to be at work here, and while it may not be my strong suit, I'm trying, hard, especially now that it's apparent TGIS has caught onto this one.

Again...damn. Nothing like being outsmarted at your own game. Or neurosis.

XOXO

Freaks and Closet Geeks.

There are some things that are sacred to women: Chocolate. A pair of heels that fit perfectly and would never pinch, even if you walked 50 blocks in them. A perfectly made cocktail. Sleeping in on the weekends. Happy hour with your closest friends. How our mother will always be one of the first people we call with news. The four-letter words S-A-L-E and L-O-V-E. And closet space.

A few weekends ago, wading knee-deep in down from a comforter that's apparently determined to molt in time for spring, the guy I'm seeing took one look at the floor in the corner of the room he normally puts his clothing in, and winced at the gathering tumbleweeds of feathers residing there. "Do you have someplace I can put my stuff where it won't get down on it?" he asked, and I froze, like I was suddenly subject to the 10 degree weather outside. There was someplace he could put his things, but I really didn't want to think about it. How could I tell him that my closet is like my personal kingdom, where I am ruler of all labels and ruling regent of all spatial reasoning, keeping the tank tops separate from the dressy shirts from the cardigans, without sounding like a total freak of nature?

In the end, I ended up pushing aside the hangers and clothes on the hanging rack so that he could have easy access to put his bag and jacket on the shelf underneath, but my clothes looked so forlorn, pushed to the side like unloved stepchildren. I'd like to blame what happened later on the fact that I was overtaken with thinking about my black mesh dress pressed up against my woolly Italian sweaters and getting pulled on by their fibers, but actually, there's no excuse for what happened next.

Sometimes, we can all go a little bit crazy. As far as it may be from us, our past is still our past, and as much as we dislike to have it tarnish the golden views of our present or future, it sometimes does. I live in eternal fear of the One Reoccurring Theme of my dating history: That I am merely a placeholder until some thing or someone else better comes along...that while logic states I, an obsessive-compulsive, nymphomaniac, time-consuming, giving, impulse buyer of gifts, needer of needy men, should be more than enough for one man, but if there's one thing my history has taught me, it's that I am remarkably replaceable, and that I tend to be the entrée-- there's always an appetizer or dessert on the side.

But while I've served as the main course, it's important to note that there's a lot of things that I've never done before that I suddenly find being a "normal" part of my life: I've never had someone else's toothbrush and towel residing in my bathroom, other than a roommate's. I've never eaten out so often together or gone out as a couple. I've never slept as many consecutive nights with someone as I have been doing recently. Only one other man was ever even allowed into my house to stay overnight, and that was one time, so I understandably am not used to someone living with me nearly a third of the time. So you better believe I've never had reason, cause, or practice to give away a drawer or a shelf for a man to use as his own. The strangest part of all is, I actually really love all of it. (I seem to have come a Very Long Way since the girl who went through men in under one month like Brawny paper towels.) None of this actually feels strange until I take a mental step back, look at my current life, and assess the Big Picture. Which I did the other day, while simultaneously having a VERY spectacularly large fret about putting all my eggs in one basket and shirts on one shelf and worrying about the possibility of other women fucking my toothbrush-and-towel present reality over. And so I did something when the opportunity arose after he left that I'm not very proud of, at all, and took my last deep breath of sanity, and momentarily dove off the deep end. I freaked.

I knew it was wrong. I knew what I was doing was like stealing, or at very least, breaking and entering, even though the metaphorical doors were already unlocked for me and I didn't touch anything; didn't open any Pandora boxes. All I had to do was use the two eyes I was born with, but even that, I knew, was too much. I surfaced when I didn't find anything that I seemed to be looking for-- there were no illicit messages, no secret trysts set up, no whiffs of another woman's perfume or lip gloss smudges. There was nothing of cause for concern. In fact, what I did find made me feel even worse than what I imagined finding something that I was looking for would make me feel: Instead, there I was, my name staring myself right in my face, not erased or replaced-- the messages a sane women had written being saved by the man who was doing her right, as she let her inner freak flag fly postal. I felt worse about myself than I have in years. I vowed at that moment to lock the super-freak in me up in the closet and never let her out like that again.

As a silent mea culpa, I cleared away my tank top shelf and consolidated some of my hanging rack for his stuff in my closet --like he had asked for the other night-- at 3 in the morning in a "retribution-for-my-wrongs" fit, all while mentally begging for forgiveness, and finally letting him, and trust, into my life...for real. I figure, in my world, giving him a part of my precious clothing space says "I'm sorry; and I'm showing it by proving I love you more than I love my tank top collection" far more than anything else I could ever say or do.

XOXO