If you've never had a day where you look in the mirror and think, "GodDAMN, I look good," I highly recommend it.
Spring and summer clothes and weather really are my wheelhouse. I'll also be buying more of this new makeup (aptly made by Tarte) and thanking the gods of hair for blessing my rolled-outta-bed coif today.
Sometimes a plan just comes together, and today it did, in the form of my unplanned FINE ass.
"Give it up, boys and girls. Admit it. I look GOOD!" (Don't judge me, Bette is my jam.)
P.S. I went to therapy tonight, and one of the first things she said to me, unprompted, was, "You look wonderful!" So there you go, y'all -- my cuteness is verified by a licensed professional. (My brain went full Cady-Heron-in-the-black-dress: "I KNOW, right?!")
P.P.S. Tonight's agenda: Therapy, takeout food, and Scandal. So basically a therapeutic three-fer.
Me: "I think I've set a new record for getting interested in, then totally over, an OkCupid guy. This last one took, like, three days."
Friend: "Are you serious?"
Me: "I'm probably exaggerating, I guess it couldn't have been THREE days... *looking at email* Holy shit, it WAS -- we started OKC messaging Friday, emailing Saturday, phone call Sunday night, and I woke up yesterday thinking, 'Yeah, I think I'm done.'"
As I mentioned, Elbows Guy emailed me back after I'd told him his comment bugged me.
Here's what I'd said, between other things we'd been discussing, one of which was a second date: "You tell me if you end up free Tuesday, and I'll tell you if my ashen elbows and I can join you. Sound good? (Can you tell I took that far too seriously and now wonder if you're a. Mean, or b. Will think/say things about the rest of my body if ever you see it?) :)"
His response, also among other topics: "You definitely are reading too much into the elbows thing. It was just a simple observation since your skin is really soft and your elbows were a little rougher (I suspect from resting them on your desk while in hardcore writing mode). It's the little details like that which I find fascinating in people, especially women, since they usually have a story to tell.
"Your (a) vs (b) question is actually the same question - 'is this guy a judgey asshat who's going to make fun of me and my quirks in order to make up for his own insecurities and fragile ego?' And the answer to that is no. I have a very thick skin and will occasionally say something without thinking how someone not similarly thick-skinned will take it, but I'm not a judgey asshat. I have a sneaking suspicion that was not the case with one or more of the guys you have recently dated."
Ahem...
1. I pay a nice lady to be my therapist. I don't need you and your degree from the Lifetime Movie School of Emotional Trauma.
2. I HAVE projected from previous men I've known, but I'm usually self-aware enough to recognize it. (Like when you called me "Miss" the other day and my brain spasmed because that's what That Guy called all the faceless, interchangeable women in his harem -- THAT was projecting. I knew it, and I shut it down.)
3. I don't lean on my desk while I'm writing. My elbows are just shitty. (And way to double down on telling me so.)
4. "I'm not a judgey asshat, but I'm gonna point out your faulty sentence construction." (I know he's right. Shut up.)
Sometimes my brain goes all River-Tam-batshit-banana-pants-at-the-end-of-Serenity -- swinging weapons around in a circle to fight off whoever comes near her. Whenever I've stuck that feeling out because, "I might be overreacting," I really can't remember a time my brain was wrong.
I have dates. Two dates, with two different guys. Dates I probably won't end up canceling when I find out the guy has an STD or wants to take out his fake teeth before he goes down on me.
As I told Therapist and my friends, I understand this is a good thing. Aside from just testing my capability for interaction on a date, the last person I kissed was during The Year of Poor Life Choices (2013), so it's been FAR too long. Therapist tells me if I end up kissing one of these dudes, that may be good, because maybe I'll no longer be giving Bad-Life-Choice Guy mental significance as "the last person I kissed."
But Jesus Christ... DATES...Plural...
You can die of anxiety, right? 'Cause I'm going to. Just so you know. Kissing won't be an issue if I have a heart attack. Hopefully the kissing will come first.
If I die, it's been a pleasure writing silliness for you all.
Oh, OK. So I can be messaging back and forth with a perfectly nice guy from OkCupid, and inadvertently say something that reminds me of my ex, then of That Guy, then back to my ex, and now I'm crying?
Sure, yeah -- I am absolutely ready to be dating, even casually. It will not end badly at all.
I understand this is how I move on, and I'm sure a time will come when it doesn't feel like cheating, but...not so far.
I could blame PMS, but I think I might just be ready to embrace my obvious destiny to die sexless and alone.
We'll just add this to the therapy list. That woman is earning her money.
The other day I wrote about That Guy, how I can't block his email address without an existing email, but I'd deleted all his emails, emptied the trash, and sent in a sweeper in case there were any stragglers.
So obviously today I get an email from him saying he'd been going through some books and found two I'd loaned him a million years ago, wanting to make arrangements to return them. (By mail or go-between. Not by seeing me in person. Don't be absurd -- you save "in person" for people you give a fuck about, right?)
So he either saw the post, because he follows this page on Tumblr, or he just happened to have emailed me. I really don't know which.
Also, if he saw it, part of the post was: "There was comfort in the idea of closure, because there'd be no more worrying about letting my guard down when checking email — let’s be honest, stupidly half-hoping I’d ever be worth more than a drunk-texted apology at 3 a.m."
So...if we're going to assume he's seen it, the underlying message of that email is that I'm NOT worth more than that.
So I guess it's a good thing I'm heading to therapy in a half hour, yeah?
Breathing. Breathing. Breathing. I am, like, 150 times stronger than this.
This happened the last time I tried online dating, too: After the initial ego boost, once I actually read what people are saying and how stupid most of it is, my brain has this tiny seizure, like, "What the fuck am I even doing? I belong with my Ex. This is absurd, he is my Person, and I'm never finding anyone better. I am going to die alone, or worse, under some 24-year-old townie-fuck douchebag with a naked-except-a-hand-over-his-junk mirror selfie** as his profile pic.
So. There you go, Therapist. Take my money, let's work this one out.
Kidding. I don't really need her for this one. I just have to keep reminding myself I don't have to answer anyone I don't want to, or do anything I don't want to. They can't come GET me, they live in the computer.
Onward. (Or if you prefer, "Excelsior.")
** Yep, that's a thing. I'd been on the site for 24 hours and saw three of these tykes, along with several merely-shirtless mirror selfies. Don't get it twisted, I'm not mad at it -- those guys SHOULD be shirtless at all times. But they're looking for "DTF" girl. (I mean, I AM, but...not like that. I'm a lady, motherfucker. I'll see you naked when I am jolly good and ready...which, in the grand scheme, really doesn't take that long. If you can't wait 'til the second or third date, you're more than welcome to go fuck yourself. But although I'm not always the most confident in my sexual prowess, I can pretty much guarantee I'm more fun than fucking yourself.)
Today I saw my psychiatrist (ie, my Drug Czar, not Talky Therapist -- it takes a village, y'all). And she thinks I should start dating again, before I "get used to being alone."
Um... How 'bout "Shut up and give me my drugs?" You're not the boss of me. Talky Therapist is. (Though, um, Talky Therapist also thinks I should.)
You're shrinks. Shouldn't I be OK being alone? Shouldn't I be happy with myself before I bring in a Crazy copilot? Did you HEAR me tell you about the last times I tried dating?
"Well, you can just date casually. You don't have to sleep with them."
Well, no, I don't HAVE to. But if history is any indication, I WILL. If I kiss (and I really NEED to kiss), I will tease, and then the man will end up touching the "on" switch on my neck, then I will lose my tenuous-at-best "lady" decorum, and then suddenly we're post-coital, and he wants me to spend Christmas with him or leave a toothbrush at his place, and then I'm hyperventilating and doing The Fadeaway because I am a big fat coward.
I don't feel like dating right now. I'm not cute in the winter, all shrouded in big bulky sweaters and corduroy pants. (Though, it's supposed to be fucking 74 degrees in Philadelphia on Thursday, so I guess that's not a valid defense right now.) But generally, sundresses are more my wheelhouse.
And by the way? I LIKE being alone. I'm pretty rad. That's how I'll know when I'm ready to deal with a relationship -- if I wouldn't rather be alone than with the guy. This almost never happens. Normally it's "UGH, I have to...TALK to someone? And...shave things? This will not stand!"
*sigh*
On one hand, I don't think it's fair to potential dates that I would be comparing them at least a little to these previous relationships. But Talky Therapist tells me that's actually a good thing, because I know what I want and what I don't. Also, I do understand it's not doing me any good to sit and wallow about any man who, perhaps over-simplistically, doesn't want to be with me. So maybe it wouldn't hurt to go check out OkCupid again. (I'm not going to meet anyone in a bar, that's not my scene. I wanna get with a dude who steps to me in a Barnes & Noble -- instead of sending me a drink from across a bar, he can send his favorite book and preferably a scone.)
If nothing else, attempting to date will give me good stories here. So here's to 2016 being the year I finally get some. (And blah blah blah, true love, soulmates, rainbows -- FINE. If I happen to find that while rubbing up against people, then yay for me.)
Therapist assures me she can change my thinking of myself as "Slutty von Slutwhore."
[challengey face] You go ahead, dearie. It's so much a part of my lexicon that my phone knows the word "Slutwhore," so let me know how that works out for you.
Unless you're gonna, like, "Eternal Sunshine" me? Yes. I would like my mind to be spotless, please.
"Well, it sounds like you didn't feel slutty until [Thing] happened."
Um, yeah, in which "Thing" = "I started being slutty." Christ, I pay you for this?
Seriously, though, I'm glad she's planning to help me get past this, because I could REALLY stand to get laid without torturing myself after. It's quite a lot of tension at this point -- I almost feel bad for the unfortunate soul who has to be under me when I get unleashed. I might need backup dick.
N.B. Some of this has dissipated just with the passage of time. I know I wasn't "slutty" -- I made a few bad choices and fell for one wrong person who, intentionally or not, made me feel that way. But I learned from all of it, including the very valuable lesson that sometimes I NEED to get laid.
Besides, "slutty" is in the eye of the beholder, and everyone who beholds me doesn't see it. (And if you do, fuck you, go away.)
Over the weekend I finally settled an issue with a family member who "didn't want to talk about this."
I get that, I really do. I don't want to talk about it, either. But if you keep refusing to talk when I need to, I will hate you. I won't mean to hate you. I won't want to hate you. But you're telling me I'm not worth the time, or enduring the minor discomfort you'd feel during a conversation? No. I'm not gonna smile and play Cool Girl while I silently stew in your bullshit.
We're adults. We talk about it, or we don't talk. Your call. Reasonable? Of course not. But I've learned that NOT communicating solves nothing. It just creates larger problems because now everyone is operating on presumption and hurt feelings.
I forced a 10-minute, in-person conversation because I thought it was worth forcing (because I don't want to spend my life butthurt), and now we're good.
I fucking hate when hippies (ie, my therapist) are right and I can't just be Irish and swallow my rage. Swallowing is my favorite. Oh. Wait, no...
"My therapist is really into baby steps, so she's telling me to just watch workout videos as a step toward getting myself into a workout habit.
"So I'm watching/listening to Insanity while I'm working, and as it turns out, I can't just sit here with Shaun T heavy breathing, grunting, and shouting commands into my headphones.
"AHEM. *squirm* I think I should change over to Netflix."
I am perhaps too aurally stimulated, but... "Start to warm it up. We're going through a few exercises right now, until you're dripping."
Normally with people I like/love/respect, I'm very, "I'm not gonna diss you on the Internet, 'cause my mama taught me better than that." It's part of why I don't talk much about my ex, because he's still one of my best friends and I don't need to air those issues publicly. My close friends and my therapist have heard it, and that's enough. (Plus, if I ever said anything here that got back to him and hurt him, I'd jump out a window. [I know. Hence the therapist.])
But OTHER than him, we're all OK with me being kind of an asshole on my own site on occasion, right? We know I'm a little insane but generally a nice human, except when I get pushed too far? Because tempers are gettin' a little Jersey up in here at Smug HQ -- people are stepping to my backyard swagger. So, um...fair warning, sometimes I'm an asshole, but generally only in writing. (And in my defense, it really does take a lot. I mean...they had it comin'...)
(I love that I'm clarifying as if any of you gives a dick if I'm not Gandhi.)
Every time I hold a baby around my relatives, someone invariably says something to the effect of, "You're a natural." So I can only assume a woman's default demeanor when holding an infant is, "Scared shitless she'll drop it, or that its head will fall off."
It's a baby, not a fucking shark. I'm cuddling a tiny, wriggly human who smells like toast and isn't an asshole yet. Her default state is "snuggle." It's not difficult.
Besides, she has you people for family, so what sounds like me whispering soothing nothings into her ear is actually me singing her my therapist's phone number like it's a Sesame Street song, hoping that, similar to the alphabet, it'll be on her mental auto-dial as she gets older.
Quotable friend, re: all the bullshit thinking therapists make you do: "Therapy thoughts seem like they're probably pretty rough. But you're having them for a good reason. They're like the kale of thoughts."
Get this: I have to make a list of positive things about myself. Attributes, accomplishments, etc. I probably can't list my breasts, and here's the kicker -- I can't ask other people. What the shit? How am I supposed to get self-esteem from myself? That seems counterintuitive.
(Video contains language not at all safe for work.)
If there's not already such a thing as a definitive height of narcissism*, I may have created it this morning when I took a selfie outside the therapist's office.
In my defense, I looked really good -- I wrapped up my Crazy all pretty.
* I assume the actual definitive height of narcissism HAD to have been established at some point in the Kim/Kanye merger, or surely by Presidential Candidate Who Shall Not Be Named.
If you've never had a day where you look in the mirror and think, "GodDAMN, I look good," I highly recommend it.