At work, I have one of those "Book-a-Day" desk calendars and each morning, after turning on my computer, as it whirls to life, I remove the previous day's page, read the book suggestion/description and then either add it to a growing pile in my "junk" drawer (yes, I even have one of those at work) so I have a go-to list of books to read, or toss it.
This time of year, however, I can't help but notice the number of remaining pages getting less and less -- and when this happened the other day, two thoughts popped into my head: I want to get another one of these for the coming year, and then -- "wow, look at how much of this year is already gone."
I knew the date, of course, and that the calendar year was coming to an end, but it took that dwindling pile of paper pages to bring mindfulness to the knowledge, and true awareness to just what the passage of all that time has meant to me personally.
The old adage "the days are long but the years are short" came to mind as I realized just how fast this past year has gone by, and all that has transpired.
I marked 11 years at my current job; my uncle died very quickly and unexpectedly; my cousin announced she and her husband of over 15 years are getting divorced; my mother ended up in the hospital after a very severe and dangerous reaction to a new drug she was prescribed for a chronic condition that she suffers from; I turned 50; one of my two cats died at the age of 15, and the other turned 17; several friends and a cousin of mine had children start their first year of college.
I remember very clearly when those kids were toddlers; marking other landmark birthdays (21, 30 and 40) and how far away and old 50 had seemed back then; I had just brought that cat home for the first time; my uncle was one of the healthiest and most vibrant people I knew; my mother had been totally healthy; and going on my job interview for my present position with a mix of excitement, nervousness and hope.
The years are short and things are always changing, and in these days of techie gadgets to wake us up, give us weather and news updates and tell us what the time and date are, I'm glad for that old-fashioned, old-school Book-A-Day calendar that forces me to look at the date each morning and mark, in a physical and concrete way, the passing of time.
The calendar was a gift. You know those gift bins at every department store this time of year loaded with things people would never buy themselves that make gift buying a bit easier for those that don't know what to get a friend, co-worker or family member -- car weather or cleaning kits, bath baskets, coffee and tea baskets, nose hair trimmers, travel kits, flashlights and -- (insert interest area here)-a-Day calendars.
Well, sometimes those "desperation" gifts as we've all sometimes called them, and let's be honest, have purchased for someone at least once, end up being something even more than just practical or useful.
I'm going to wait to see if I get another one this Christmas from someone, and if I don't, I'll be hitting the discount bin somewhere to purchase one for myself, because that gift has been one I used, and ended up getting a lot of enjoyment from -- some great, otherwise unknown books for my reading list -- and a reminder that time waits for no one and is going by every single day.
Sunday, November 25, 2018
Sunday, November 18, 2018
Back in the Saddle
Well, I've decided to resurrect this long neglected (but never really forgotten) blog that I started over a decade ago.
This cyber version of my journal has/had gone the way of my hard copy diaries and journals -- I have several stored away in a chest that I sometimes take out. One thin book can cover over 3 years because of how infrequently I wrote in it. I start each one with the best of intentions: I will write, every day. Or at least 2-3 times per week.
I promise, and I try, and for awhile, I do write fairly regularly. And then -- BAM -- I stop. I don't really know why; perhaps too tired, or after having spent all day at a computer, the last thing I want to do when I get home is write in my now chicken scratch handwriting in a physical journal, or spend time on my home laptop writing on a blog or working on my book ideas. So I don't write; don't record things that happen to be on my mind or happen to me that bug me enough to make me want to write it down to try to make some sense of it.
It's the same excuse I give for not having made any major headway on that book I've been threatening to write since I graduated college. After being at a computer for eight hours at work, I don't want to do the same thing at home. It's a vicious cycle of reality, excuses and procrastination.
But I'm not getting any younger. I turned 50 this summer, and I realize I need to do more with my life, with my time than just work and if I'm ever going to accomplish my ultimate dream of being a published author, I need to write, often and regularly.
I also need to read more. I love to read. I just don't do it the way I used to or in my mind think I do, or should be doing, if that makes any sense. I'm on GoodReads and I have a friend who is married, has three kids, two part-time jobs and is going to school for a master's degree and reads like, two books a week for pleasure; and reads serious stuff too -- history, politics, biographies. It makes me feel totally inferior, because I've always fancied myself to be a serious reader, more intellectual and well-read than most. Not these days.
I have shelves of unread books -- books I was dying to read, and purchased either while surfing Amazon or visiting bookstores. Books I couldn't wait to go home and take out of the bag and start reading. Some I started and never went back to. Others I put aside for when I would have a larger clump of time to read them because I hate just reading one or two chapters and then having to put it down.
I'm also a slow reader. I like to savor words and sentences and descriptions. Oftentimes, when I hit a particular phrase or description or a particular well-written passage while reading, I'll stop and re-read it -- one, two, even three more times. Or I'll stop and simply look out the window or at nothing in particular and think about what the author was trying to convey. So, yeah -- I do need large clumps of reading time because I like to savor and digest and remember.
I'm in a book club and when I shared that with my fellow members, they laughed, although one friend did say, "I can actually see you doing that."
Another friend said she is a fast reader, and when we've read lengthier books with lots of description, she has no recollection of it, because, she admits "I just skim through those parts. I mean, I only care about the main plot and storyline, I don't need to know what their house looked like or whatever."
That seems unimaginable to me. Why even read a book then? But, to each their own. And I can't criticize because she's reading a helluva lot more than I am right now.
So this weekend, as I was trying to organize some things around my apartment, my eyes fell on many of the books I wanted to read but still haven't gotten to. Some are loaned from friends, some I purchased, literally, YEARS ago, when they were on the best sellers' list. And then I thought about this long-neglected blog, and book(s) I want to write and even started to write -- I have 10 chapters of one -- but somehow never get around to keeping up with or continuing.
Part of the problem, is I've become addicted to TV. I upgraded my cable service about a year ago from the basic package and so now have way more options. I also now get Netflix, and Amazon Fire TV. And I don't regret that. There is a lot of good TV out there now, shows that educate and make you think. Some really amazing shows. And thanks to Netflix I've become a documentary fan -- so I am learning stuff. I'm just not doing the reading and writing I do love to do; once I set my mind to doing it.
I thought of just starting fresh and doing a whole new blog. But I figured hey, this one has some history, and there are some posts I really like a lot. And when I logged back in, I found a draft of one I had started years ago, and never published. I don't even remember writing it, or having remembered my grandma's neighbor Veronica enough to have written a post about her, but in reading the draft, I remembered those two days I wrote about and it occurred to me that that is why I should be doing this.
I love to write, I love to read, and I love introspection and this is a great way to get all of those out. So here I am -- back in the saddle.
I'm not going to promise to write every day, or even to write a certain number of times, because I think that makes me feel like I have to do it and then it's like a job and I resent it and procrastinate and then stop.
Instead, I will vow to write when something I want to commit to permanent record or memory or send out to the Universe strikes me. Which is often; more often than I've written about here in teh past.
I also now have several of those long-ago purchased and borrowed books on my living room table, and am making a commitment to read every day, even if it is only a chapter or two. My goal is at least one book a week.
After setting them aside, I did pick one up and read 100 pages, and as I was engrossed in the story, I looked up from it for a moment and realized how much I was enjoying the process of reading. No TV, no music, just me and a cup of tea curled up on the couch on a dreary, cold and overcast day. It is a simple pleasure I had forgotten how much I enjoyed and which takes me out of my present and gives my imagination and cerebral side a much needed workout, instead of just feeding my work fatigue with spoon-fed info from TV.
I got the same feeling of pleasure after logging into this blog and reading some old posts, publishing that old draft, and putting into words -- concrete,published words -- a new post that will hopefully, this time around, be a true blog and a springboard for more creative writing and publications.
This cyber version of my journal has/had gone the way of my hard copy diaries and journals -- I have several stored away in a chest that I sometimes take out. One thin book can cover over 3 years because of how infrequently I wrote in it. I start each one with the best of intentions: I will write, every day. Or at least 2-3 times per week.
I promise, and I try, and for awhile, I do write fairly regularly. And then -- BAM -- I stop. I don't really know why; perhaps too tired, or after having spent all day at a computer, the last thing I want to do when I get home is write in my now chicken scratch handwriting in a physical journal, or spend time on my home laptop writing on a blog or working on my book ideas. So I don't write; don't record things that happen to be on my mind or happen to me that bug me enough to make me want to write it down to try to make some sense of it.
It's the same excuse I give for not having made any major headway on that book I've been threatening to write since I graduated college. After being at a computer for eight hours at work, I don't want to do the same thing at home. It's a vicious cycle of reality, excuses and procrastination.
But I'm not getting any younger. I turned 50 this summer, and I realize I need to do more with my life, with my time than just work and if I'm ever going to accomplish my ultimate dream of being a published author, I need to write, often and regularly.
I also need to read more. I love to read. I just don't do it the way I used to or in my mind think I do, or should be doing, if that makes any sense. I'm on GoodReads and I have a friend who is married, has three kids, two part-time jobs and is going to school for a master's degree and reads like, two books a week for pleasure; and reads serious stuff too -- history, politics, biographies. It makes me feel totally inferior, because I've always fancied myself to be a serious reader, more intellectual and well-read than most. Not these days.
I have shelves of unread books -- books I was dying to read, and purchased either while surfing Amazon or visiting bookstores. Books I couldn't wait to go home and take out of the bag and start reading. Some I started and never went back to. Others I put aside for when I would have a larger clump of time to read them because I hate just reading one or two chapters and then having to put it down.
I'm also a slow reader. I like to savor words and sentences and descriptions. Oftentimes, when I hit a particular phrase or description or a particular well-written passage while reading, I'll stop and re-read it -- one, two, even three more times. Or I'll stop and simply look out the window or at nothing in particular and think about what the author was trying to convey. So, yeah -- I do need large clumps of reading time because I like to savor and digest and remember.
I'm in a book club and when I shared that with my fellow members, they laughed, although one friend did say, "I can actually see you doing that."
Another friend said she is a fast reader, and when we've read lengthier books with lots of description, she has no recollection of it, because, she admits "I just skim through those parts. I mean, I only care about the main plot and storyline, I don't need to know what their house looked like or whatever."
That seems unimaginable to me. Why even read a book then? But, to each their own. And I can't criticize because she's reading a helluva lot more than I am right now.
So this weekend, as I was trying to organize some things around my apartment, my eyes fell on many of the books I wanted to read but still haven't gotten to. Some are loaned from friends, some I purchased, literally, YEARS ago, when they were on the best sellers' list. And then I thought about this long-neglected blog, and book(s) I want to write and even started to write -- I have 10 chapters of one -- but somehow never get around to keeping up with or continuing.
Part of the problem, is I've become addicted to TV. I upgraded my cable service about a year ago from the basic package and so now have way more options. I also now get Netflix, and Amazon Fire TV. And I don't regret that. There is a lot of good TV out there now, shows that educate and make you think. Some really amazing shows. And thanks to Netflix I've become a documentary fan -- so I am learning stuff. I'm just not doing the reading and writing I do love to do; once I set my mind to doing it.
I thought of just starting fresh and doing a whole new blog. But I figured hey, this one has some history, and there are some posts I really like a lot. And when I logged back in, I found a draft of one I had started years ago, and never published. I don't even remember writing it, or having remembered my grandma's neighbor Veronica enough to have written a post about her, but in reading the draft, I remembered those two days I wrote about and it occurred to me that that is why I should be doing this.
I love to write, I love to read, and I love introspection and this is a great way to get all of those out. So here I am -- back in the saddle.
I'm not going to promise to write every day, or even to write a certain number of times, because I think that makes me feel like I have to do it and then it's like a job and I resent it and procrastinate and then stop.
Instead, I will vow to write when something I want to commit to permanent record or memory or send out to the Universe strikes me. Which is often; more often than I've written about here in teh past.
I also now have several of those long-ago purchased and borrowed books on my living room table, and am making a commitment to read every day, even if it is only a chapter or two. My goal is at least one book a week.
After setting them aside, I did pick one up and read 100 pages, and as I was engrossed in the story, I looked up from it for a moment and realized how much I was enjoying the process of reading. No TV, no music, just me and a cup of tea curled up on the couch on a dreary, cold and overcast day. It is a simple pleasure I had forgotten how much I enjoyed and which takes me out of my present and gives my imagination and cerebral side a much needed workout, instead of just feeding my work fatigue with spoon-fed info from TV.
I got the same feeling of pleasure after logging into this blog and reading some old posts, publishing that old draft, and putting into words -- concrete,published words -- a new post that will hopefully, this time around, be a true blog and a springboard for more creative writing and publications.
Veronica
Veronica -- not a very popular name but one made famous at least for a bit thanks to Elvis Costello and his 80s hit -- Veronica.
I never had a real connection with them, although, I remember once, when I was only maybe 4 or 5, my grandmother had fallen walking up the inclined yard that was my grandparents' and not being able to help her myself, I yelled to Veronica, who happened to be out in her backyard that day.
By the time she made it over to the fence that separated her yard from my grandparents', my grandmother had been able to get herself up and was walking toward us.
No help was needed (thank God!)
I never gave much thought to Veronica. She was my grandmother's neighbor. She was nice. She worked at J.C. Penney's. Years later, when I was an adult, I caught a glimpse of her working behind the counter. As I walked by, our eyes met, and a glimmer of recognition passed between us, but neither of us acted on it.
I met her gaze, then looked away, and continued on my way.
She turned her attention back to her customer.
I LOVED my grandmother and as an adult, would have loved to have gotten an outsider's view of her. I blew it. Veronica could have provided the link that is missing. And the one chance I got, I blew. How I wish I had had a conversation with Veronica that day.
It's too late now; she and her husband have both passed on. But recently, upon hearing the song that bears her name, I recalled that day as a young child when I went to her for help and that day as an adult when I saw her, recognized her, but didn't take the opportunity to say hello, and perhaps reminisce about Grandma.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Flashbacks
"You're so pretty," he said. And he meant it. I could tell by the look in his eyes, he really did mean it.
I blushed. I could feel it happening. And I closed my eyes and tucked my face into his hand, and shyly smiled, eventually looking back up into his eyes.
"No, you really are," he said. "And the thing is," he continued, "you have absolutely no idea how attractive you really are....which just makes you all the more attractive."
We kissed. A long, deep kiss.
It's ironic that the thing that jogged this memory from more than a decade ago, was an advice column in which a woman admitted that altho she had been with her now ex-boyfriend for a year, he had never once told her she was pretty or beautiful or even attractive.
I felt sad for her.
What woman doesn't want to be told by the man she's in love with that he finds her pretty, or beautiful?
While my failed relationship left me with a multitude of emotions, many of them bad, there were also alot of good memories. Especially the memories of when he was totally enamored of me and told me often how he felt, that I was beautiful, that he loved me, and we shared our ultimate hopes and dreams.
God, I loved him! I really, really did. I thought he was The One! And even as our relationship started its downward spiral, I still truly believed that in the end, things would work out and that we would be forever together.
But it wasn't meant to be.
(I still remember how he used to hate when I'd start a statement with the word "But". lol)
There's no chance of us ever getting back together. The last time we were together, the night things ended, was awful and heartbreaking. And despite the good memories I have of him and our time together, that last nite overshadows them all.
I can't think of him now without remembering that nite; how he told me he wouldn't consider trying a long distance relationship; how he wanted and needed a clean break; how he didn't have time for the relationship any more -- he had other things to worry about -- like his upcoming move and in addition to that, how that move was going to be stressful on his dog. (yeah, he really said that). The dog meant more than me. I had my answers.
It ended with me sobbing uncontrollably for what seemed like a lifetime, and him, sitting on the couch with cold, distant eyes, not saying a word. How when I left, his last words to me were to ask if I could shut off the downstairs light and lock the door! Seriously. And ya know what? I did! I actually did.
I've recently learned that he is still living in the city he relocated to all those years ago. He's married now, with kids.
And, truth be told, it probably is better that things didn't work out between us. I like who I am today and had we ended up together, I know for sure that I'd be a totally different person. And I don't know if I would like that person.
I like who I am now. I'm grateful for the experiences that I had because of our failed relationship. I reached out, made some great friends, traveled. Faced some demons. Proved to myself and to others through a revved up career focus and attitude that I had gumption and could succeed all on my own.
Still.....the path not taken.........
None of us ever really know the path that Life is going to take us down. Even when we plan or assume, Life is always there, ready to throw a wrench into even the most carefully laid out plans.
I used to dread the flashbacks I had of my relationship with M. They tended to be a reminder of loss. Of a way things used to be. And I'd always end up in tears.
Now, I don't look at them the same way.
The experience, while heartbreaking, made me stronger. More self-sufficient, while also showing me that I had friends who would rally around me when I needed them most.
(That's another post -- how friends who had faded into the background when I was with him and didn't need them and didn't really interact with them all that much, rallied around me once they learned what had happened.)
My memories, while sometimes debillitatingly sad, are also heartening because I was able to pull myself up by the bootstraps, eventually, and move forward in leaps and bounds.
I can't help but think that M would be proud. Quite honestly, I don't believe he thought I had it in me. But I did!
So now, I can look back on the relationship with some bittersweet memories, as well as some triumphant and tender ones.
Still, I wish things had ended differently.
After all this time, some 13 years later, and despite everything that happened, I still miss him. A part of me still wants his approval. I wish we could have ended things as friends, but that was his choice, not mine.
Maybe it was for the best; maybe not.
Had things ended differently, they would have been alot less painful, and I'd be able to think about him, about us, without that last, painful memory always surfacing and being the last thing I think about when I do think about him.
Unfortunately, that is not the case and my memores are what they are. I can't change them and besides, they're now part of the fabric of my life; a big part of who I am; who I've become. And that is something I wouldn't want to change.
I blushed. I could feel it happening. And I closed my eyes and tucked my face into his hand, and shyly smiled, eventually looking back up into his eyes.
"No, you really are," he said. "And the thing is," he continued, "you have absolutely no idea how attractive you really are....which just makes you all the more attractive."
We kissed. A long, deep kiss.
It's ironic that the thing that jogged this memory from more than a decade ago, was an advice column in which a woman admitted that altho she had been with her now ex-boyfriend for a year, he had never once told her she was pretty or beautiful or even attractive.
I felt sad for her.
What woman doesn't want to be told by the man she's in love with that he finds her pretty, or beautiful?
While my failed relationship left me with a multitude of emotions, many of them bad, there were also alot of good memories. Especially the memories of when he was totally enamored of me and told me often how he felt, that I was beautiful, that he loved me, and we shared our ultimate hopes and dreams.
God, I loved him! I really, really did. I thought he was The One! And even as our relationship started its downward spiral, I still truly believed that in the end, things would work out and that we would be forever together.
But it wasn't meant to be.
(I still remember how he used to hate when I'd start a statement with the word "But". lol)
There's no chance of us ever getting back together. The last time we were together, the night things ended, was awful and heartbreaking. And despite the good memories I have of him and our time together, that last nite overshadows them all.
I can't think of him now without remembering that nite; how he told me he wouldn't consider trying a long distance relationship; how he wanted and needed a clean break; how he didn't have time for the relationship any more -- he had other things to worry about -- like his upcoming move and in addition to that, how that move was going to be stressful on his dog. (yeah, he really said that). The dog meant more than me. I had my answers.
It ended with me sobbing uncontrollably for what seemed like a lifetime, and him, sitting on the couch with cold, distant eyes, not saying a word. How when I left, his last words to me were to ask if I could shut off the downstairs light and lock the door! Seriously. And ya know what? I did! I actually did.
I've recently learned that he is still living in the city he relocated to all those years ago. He's married now, with kids.
And, truth be told, it probably is better that things didn't work out between us. I like who I am today and had we ended up together, I know for sure that I'd be a totally different person. And I don't know if I would like that person.
I like who I am now. I'm grateful for the experiences that I had because of our failed relationship. I reached out, made some great friends, traveled. Faced some demons. Proved to myself and to others through a revved up career focus and attitude that I had gumption and could succeed all on my own.
Still.....the path not taken.........
None of us ever really know the path that Life is going to take us down. Even when we plan or assume, Life is always there, ready to throw a wrench into even the most carefully laid out plans.
I used to dread the flashbacks I had of my relationship with M. They tended to be a reminder of loss. Of a way things used to be. And I'd always end up in tears.
Now, I don't look at them the same way.
The experience, while heartbreaking, made me stronger. More self-sufficient, while also showing me that I had friends who would rally around me when I needed them most.
(That's another post -- how friends who had faded into the background when I was with him and didn't need them and didn't really interact with them all that much, rallied around me once they learned what had happened.)
My memories, while sometimes debillitatingly sad, are also heartening because I was able to pull myself up by the bootstraps, eventually, and move forward in leaps and bounds.
I can't help but think that M would be proud. Quite honestly, I don't believe he thought I had it in me. But I did!
So now, I can look back on the relationship with some bittersweet memories, as well as some triumphant and tender ones.
Still, I wish things had ended differently.
After all this time, some 13 years later, and despite everything that happened, I still miss him. A part of me still wants his approval. I wish we could have ended things as friends, but that was his choice, not mine.
Maybe it was for the best; maybe not.
Had things ended differently, they would have been alot less painful, and I'd be able to think about him, about us, without that last, painful memory always surfacing and being the last thing I think about when I do think about him.
Unfortunately, that is not the case and my memores are what they are. I can't change them and besides, they're now part of the fabric of my life; a big part of who I am; who I've become. And that is something I wouldn't want to change.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Midnight Cravings
Okay, so it's not quite midnight, but the smells coming from my downstairs neighbor's apartment are downright intoxicating!
I'm an adventurous eater. I love just about all cuisines -- Thai, Japanese, Indian, Mexican, Greek, etc. My palate is a venerable United Nations!!!
So tonite, as I sat in my apartment -- reading, listening to music, surfing -- I didn't anticipate the smells that would be coming from my downstair's neighbor's apartment.
Up until now, he had been a quiet guy. Friendly enough, but never seemed to cook. Much like my next door neighbor, who is a single lawyer and obviously eats all his meals out.
Anyway, about two weeks ago, downstairs neighbor was nowhere to be seen. Rumor had it he had returned to India to take a wife. A pre-arranged marriage. Well, he has returned and there is definitely a female presence.
I now hear a woman's voice when I pass by their open window, and now, there is more activity and more cooking.
Tonite, there are smells emanating from their apartment that almost make me want to go downstairs and ask exactly what they are cooking and if I can have a taste. First, their was the aroma of seared beef, now, a smell of burnt soy sauce, which may sound gross, but actually smells reallly, really good!
And, it is not dissipating, nor getting stronger. It is simply remaining. And, it smells delicious!
That is part of what I like about living in the complex that I do. There is a variety of lifestyles and nationalities. For some reason, the aparment below me always seems to end up being middle eastern -- and their cooking gives me a glimpse into their lives.
The guy who lived their before was Saudi, and the cooking smells were always spicy - and filled with the intoxicating scent of curry and cumin and seared vegetables being stir-fried with the skins on.
Now, there is a guy who hails from India and recently married, and altho I still get the smells of seared onion and ground beef, I get both curry and a burnt sweet smell that makes me salivate!
Since he brought his wife home, he has kept a low profile, but I hope to get to know him better (and get some of his new wife's recipes!)
I'm an adventurous eater. I love just about all cuisines -- Thai, Japanese, Indian, Mexican, Greek, etc. My palate is a venerable United Nations!!!
So tonite, as I sat in my apartment -- reading, listening to music, surfing -- I didn't anticipate the smells that would be coming from my downstair's neighbor's apartment.
Up until now, he had been a quiet guy. Friendly enough, but never seemed to cook. Much like my next door neighbor, who is a single lawyer and obviously eats all his meals out.
Anyway, about two weeks ago, downstairs neighbor was nowhere to be seen. Rumor had it he had returned to India to take a wife. A pre-arranged marriage. Well, he has returned and there is definitely a female presence.
I now hear a woman's voice when I pass by their open window, and now, there is more activity and more cooking.
Tonite, there are smells emanating from their apartment that almost make me want to go downstairs and ask exactly what they are cooking and if I can have a taste. First, their was the aroma of seared beef, now, a smell of burnt soy sauce, which may sound gross, but actually smells reallly, really good!
And, it is not dissipating, nor getting stronger. It is simply remaining. And, it smells delicious!
That is part of what I like about living in the complex that I do. There is a variety of lifestyles and nationalities. For some reason, the aparment below me always seems to end up being middle eastern -- and their cooking gives me a glimpse into their lives.
The guy who lived their before was Saudi, and the cooking smells were always spicy - and filled with the intoxicating scent of curry and cumin and seared vegetables being stir-fried with the skins on.
Now, there is a guy who hails from India and recently married, and altho I still get the smells of seared onion and ground beef, I get both curry and a burnt sweet smell that makes me salivate!
Since he brought his wife home, he has kept a low profile, but I hope to get to know him better (and get some of his new wife's recipes!)
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Weirdest Date EVER!
Okay, so last Friday I had a second date with a guy I had first met two years ago online. The initial meeting went well, except for the end of the date; as we left the restaurant and stepped outside, he stopped dead in his tracks.
I asked him where he was parked; he asked where I was parked. So, I assumed he was going to walk me to my car. Well, he then said he was actually parked behind the restaurant, in the total opposite direction and then started walking that way.
I thanked him for dinner, and went to my car. Well, when I got back to my car, I didn't immediately pull out -- it was cold so I opted to wait for a minute or two to let my car warm up. Well, less than a minute after starting the car, the guy appears in front of my car. No, he wasn't stalking or following me -- he was parked directly in front of my car. Totally lied about being parked behind the building.
Feeling brazen, I rolled my window down and called to him, "hey, I thought you said you were parked out back..." He said nothing. Had the deer in headlights look, shrugged and quickly got into his car.
A couple of days later he emailed to say that he had had a nice time, but had recently met another woman a week or two before meeting me and was opting to pursue a relationship with her. However, if things didn't work out, he'd still be interested in then seeing me again.
UGH. I never replied.
Since then, I had seen him out at different social events, at bars, etc. and always said hello, was pleasant.
A week ago, he asks me out again. I agree and we meet for drinks. Well, drinks turn to dinner, which turns to an after-dinner drink and the date ended up lasting 5 hours. And we had a nice time. I wasn't crazy about him, but liked him enough to spend that much time with him and as the date was ending, I was thinking, hmmm -- no major fireworks, but I do kind of like him, so if he says something about getting together again, I'd be interested.
So we leave -- and the same damn thing happens again. As soon as we get to the parking lot, he freezes, and so I say, "well, I'm parked just over here -- that's my car there." He says, "Oh, okay." And that's it. So I ask where he's parked, he says across the street. Deja Vu!
I don't question it, I simply thank him again for dinner, gave him a quick hug, and go to my car. Within 30 seconds, I'm pulling out of the lot -- but here's the rub. As I am pulling out, there is no sign of him - he totally disappeared; I don't see him walking through the parking lot or out of the lot's exit and as I exit the parking lot, there are absolutely no cars parked across the street from the restaurant.
WTF?!? I couldn't believe he would pull the same thing again. I mean, okay. I didn't even care that he didn't walk me to my car; but why lie about where you're parked? Why not just say good nite and simply go walk to your car then.
Next day, I text another thank you, curious to see what he would do. He responds quickly and says he had a nice time. Maybe we could do it again sometime. I say sure.
This week, I get an email from him -- telling me, in detail, about how he injured his foot the day after our date, and his doctor visits and antibiotic, etc. REALLY?!? Seriously.
Then, I get another email -- So, how've you been?
I swear -- I am a weirdo magnet.
This guy is 50 years old. He's not a teenager on his first date, or a college guy still not experienced in dating and protocol. And this is how he acts.
I mean, even dates that were disasters, with both of us knowing before leaving that we wouldn't be meeting again --- even then, those guys either still walked me at least part-way, if not all the way to my car, or said goodbye and simply walked to theirs.
There was no lying about where they were parked and quickly loping out of my view.
And to do it a second time!
I definitely have to write that book about my dating experiences that I keep telling my friends I'm going to write one day.
I asked him where he was parked; he asked where I was parked. So, I assumed he was going to walk me to my car. Well, he then said he was actually parked behind the restaurant, in the total opposite direction and then started walking that way.
I thanked him for dinner, and went to my car. Well, when I got back to my car, I didn't immediately pull out -- it was cold so I opted to wait for a minute or two to let my car warm up. Well, less than a minute after starting the car, the guy appears in front of my car. No, he wasn't stalking or following me -- he was parked directly in front of my car. Totally lied about being parked behind the building.
Feeling brazen, I rolled my window down and called to him, "hey, I thought you said you were parked out back..." He said nothing. Had the deer in headlights look, shrugged and quickly got into his car.
A couple of days later he emailed to say that he had had a nice time, but had recently met another woman a week or two before meeting me and was opting to pursue a relationship with her. However, if things didn't work out, he'd still be interested in then seeing me again.
UGH. I never replied.
Since then, I had seen him out at different social events, at bars, etc. and always said hello, was pleasant.
A week ago, he asks me out again. I agree and we meet for drinks. Well, drinks turn to dinner, which turns to an after-dinner drink and the date ended up lasting 5 hours. And we had a nice time. I wasn't crazy about him, but liked him enough to spend that much time with him and as the date was ending, I was thinking, hmmm -- no major fireworks, but I do kind of like him, so if he says something about getting together again, I'd be interested.
So we leave -- and the same damn thing happens again. As soon as we get to the parking lot, he freezes, and so I say, "well, I'm parked just over here -- that's my car there." He says, "Oh, okay." And that's it. So I ask where he's parked, he says across the street. Deja Vu!
I don't question it, I simply thank him again for dinner, gave him a quick hug, and go to my car. Within 30 seconds, I'm pulling out of the lot -- but here's the rub. As I am pulling out, there is no sign of him - he totally disappeared; I don't see him walking through the parking lot or out of the lot's exit and as I exit the parking lot, there are absolutely no cars parked across the street from the restaurant.
WTF?!? I couldn't believe he would pull the same thing again. I mean, okay. I didn't even care that he didn't walk me to my car; but why lie about where you're parked? Why not just say good nite and simply go walk to your car then.
Next day, I text another thank you, curious to see what he would do. He responds quickly and says he had a nice time. Maybe we could do it again sometime. I say sure.
This week, I get an email from him -- telling me, in detail, about how he injured his foot the day after our date, and his doctor visits and antibiotic, etc. REALLY?!? Seriously.
Then, I get another email -- So, how've you been?
I swear -- I am a weirdo magnet.
This guy is 50 years old. He's not a teenager on his first date, or a college guy still not experienced in dating and protocol. And this is how he acts.
I mean, even dates that were disasters, with both of us knowing before leaving that we wouldn't be meeting again --- even then, those guys either still walked me at least part-way, if not all the way to my car, or said goodbye and simply walked to theirs.
There was no lying about where they were parked and quickly loping out of my view.
And to do it a second time!
I definitely have to write that book about my dating experiences that I keep telling my friends I'm going to write one day.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
I Am FAT!
OMG!
There is no denying it. I am officially fat.
I have been in denial for quite some time now. I always blamed it on the camera angle, or the fact that the camera adds 10 pounds. Or the fact that I have always photographed horribly.
But I can't deny it any longer.
I am FAT!
I can't deny it because I can FEEL it, dammit!
A couple of weeks ago I was at a birthday party. There was dancing and while for most of the night I refrained from dancing at one point the DJ played "I will survive." A song I love. A song I almost always dance to. My cousin's girlfriend was there -- a wisp of a girl and she skipped out onto the dance floor. My other cousin and I followed.
I anticipated having fun....but as I started to bounce and sway to the music I felt as if I were in a body that was not at all mine.
Yes, it had been that long since I danced. But as I did my best to hold my own, dancing to the rhythm of the song, I felt as if I were in a body that was not mine. OMG! how I hope no one caught it on video! I felt clumsy and awkward. I felt out of tune, out of rhythm and like a fish flopping on dry land.
Ten years ago, I could have given my cousin's 20-something girlfriend a run for her money -- even though I was much older than her. Now, I felt like Shamu, a tired, beached Shamu, trying fruitlessly to show my power and my grace.
I made it through the dance and was 'oh so grateful' when the DJ then decided to play an old, slow-dancing song.
A chance for this overweight single gal to go back to her seat, catch her breath and take a few sips of her vodka and tonic.
But as I left that evening, I resolved to make a change. I had to lose the weight. I had to get back in shape. Because I wasn't happy as I am. The realization hit me. I didn't want to be the happy, fat, single girl.
I miss my old body (never thought I'd be saying that). But when I look at old pics of myself, at times when I thought I was fat, I realize now, how fabulous I really looked!
I want that girl back. Granted, I wouldn't want to exchange the experiences -- I want the 'old girl' back with my current wisdom and knowledge, but with the old girl's body and drive.
And I realize I can actually, now, have that, albeit with some work.
My God!!! In my 20's, when I didn't need to, I went to the gym 4 or 5 times a week; I did a skincare regimen, I took care of myself. Now, nada!
Not sure how or why all that fell by the wayside. But, no matter ...... this one night, where I got up to dance and felt like I was in someone else's body...it made me realize.... on some level I am NOT being true to myself. And, most importantly, even tho I didn't realize it until now...I am paying the price in a variety of ways -- my health, my self-esteem, my potential.
No more.
From here on in I am officially turning over a new leaf -- and going back to that high-maintenance girl I used to be.
There is no denying it. I am officially fat.
I have been in denial for quite some time now. I always blamed it on the camera angle, or the fact that the camera adds 10 pounds. Or the fact that I have always photographed horribly.
But I can't deny it any longer.
I am FAT!
I can't deny it because I can FEEL it, dammit!
A couple of weeks ago I was at a birthday party. There was dancing and while for most of the night I refrained from dancing at one point the DJ played "I will survive." A song I love. A song I almost always dance to. My cousin's girlfriend was there -- a wisp of a girl and she skipped out onto the dance floor. My other cousin and I followed.
I anticipated having fun....but as I started to bounce and sway to the music I felt as if I were in a body that was not at all mine.
Yes, it had been that long since I danced. But as I did my best to hold my own, dancing to the rhythm of the song, I felt as if I were in a body that was not mine. OMG! how I hope no one caught it on video! I felt clumsy and awkward. I felt out of tune, out of rhythm and like a fish flopping on dry land.
Ten years ago, I could have given my cousin's 20-something girlfriend a run for her money -- even though I was much older than her. Now, I felt like Shamu, a tired, beached Shamu, trying fruitlessly to show my power and my grace.
I made it through the dance and was 'oh so grateful' when the DJ then decided to play an old, slow-dancing song.
A chance for this overweight single gal to go back to her seat, catch her breath and take a few sips of her vodka and tonic.
But as I left that evening, I resolved to make a change. I had to lose the weight. I had to get back in shape. Because I wasn't happy as I am. The realization hit me. I didn't want to be the happy, fat, single girl.
I miss my old body (never thought I'd be saying that). But when I look at old pics of myself, at times when I thought I was fat, I realize now, how fabulous I really looked!
I want that girl back. Granted, I wouldn't want to exchange the experiences -- I want the 'old girl' back with my current wisdom and knowledge, but with the old girl's body and drive.
And I realize I can actually, now, have that, albeit with some work.
My God!!! In my 20's, when I didn't need to, I went to the gym 4 or 5 times a week; I did a skincare regimen, I took care of myself. Now, nada!
Not sure how or why all that fell by the wayside. But, no matter ...... this one night, where I got up to dance and felt like I was in someone else's body...it made me realize.... on some level I am NOT being true to myself. And, most importantly, even tho I didn't realize it until now...I am paying the price in a variety of ways -- my health, my self-esteem, my potential.
No more.
From here on in I am officially turning over a new leaf -- and going back to that high-maintenance girl I used to be.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Longing To Be Held
I woke up this morning from a dream in which I was being held in an unknown and faceless lover's arms.
It was so vivid that it actually felt real, and even though as I woke, I knew I would be alone, a part of me half-expected to be with someone.
Who that someone would be is anybody's guess. I haven't even had a date in over a year, let alone someone in my bed. But the feeling was nice and got me to longing in a way I haven't for quite some time.
See, I'm one of those girls who are totally okay with being single and alone. I'm blessed with a close, tight-knit, albeit perpetually frustrating family; a job I love and that fulfills me; and great friends who comprise the foundation of my social life who I do a wide variety of things with -- from book clubs to happy hours to concerts and lectures and movies.
I'm also very picky when it comes to being interested in a man, and I'll admit, there is a part of me that I guess is a relationship-phobe. My current life is comfortable, happy, predictable, simple and I like it. Relationships on the other hand, can be complex, gut-wrenching and infuriatingly frustrating at times.
So even when I do find myself missing a man's presence, and let's be honest, the sex -- it usually passes, sometimes via a few cocktails and commiserating phone call with a friend in similar circumstances, or I get through it myself.
This morning was different. After awakening, I wanted to immediately plunge myself back into a deeper sleep, so I could enjoy being held a few minutes more.
That wasn't happening. I spent an additional 10 or 15 minutes lazily lounging in bed, arms wrapped around my pillow, letting myself slowly wake up and daydreaming about several past boyfriends and lovers and the ways they had held me -- in bed, lounging on a couch, while hugging.
Sad? Maybe. Would I have prefered a pair of real, male arms at that moment? Definitely.
But I'm a realist. Wasn't gonna happen, and allowing myself to wallow and get depressed would only ruin a gorgeous spring day, which so far, I am thoroughly enjoying. So I lolly-gagged in bed awhile, then got up and did my normal Sunday routine -- pot of coffee, the paper, big breakfast.
Yet, even as I sit here blogging, a month after starting my clean slate here and my broken vow to blog much more frequently, I'm still thinking about waking up hours ago, feeling as though I was being held, and the fact that during that dream, I was soooo loving it!
Perhaps it's a feeling of long and deeply buried loss finally making it to the forefront of my mind; maybe it was the final scene in a movie I had watched the night before; or maybe a premonition of things to come?
Or, more realistically, maybe it's my subconcious telling me that I'm finally at a point in my life where I'm ready to accept a relationship, a commitment; at a point where I'd actually get more enjoyment from one, than fear or upset.....
It was so vivid that it actually felt real, and even though as I woke, I knew I would be alone, a part of me half-expected to be with someone.
Who that someone would be is anybody's guess. I haven't even had a date in over a year, let alone someone in my bed. But the feeling was nice and got me to longing in a way I haven't for quite some time.
See, I'm one of those girls who are totally okay with being single and alone. I'm blessed with a close, tight-knit, albeit perpetually frustrating family; a job I love and that fulfills me; and great friends who comprise the foundation of my social life who I do a wide variety of things with -- from book clubs to happy hours to concerts and lectures and movies.
I'm also very picky when it comes to being interested in a man, and I'll admit, there is a part of me that I guess is a relationship-phobe. My current life is comfortable, happy, predictable, simple and I like it. Relationships on the other hand, can be complex, gut-wrenching and infuriatingly frustrating at times.
So even when I do find myself missing a man's presence, and let's be honest, the sex -- it usually passes, sometimes via a few cocktails and commiserating phone call with a friend in similar circumstances, or I get through it myself.
This morning was different. After awakening, I wanted to immediately plunge myself back into a deeper sleep, so I could enjoy being held a few minutes more.
That wasn't happening. I spent an additional 10 or 15 minutes lazily lounging in bed, arms wrapped around my pillow, letting myself slowly wake up and daydreaming about several past boyfriends and lovers and the ways they had held me -- in bed, lounging on a couch, while hugging.
Sad? Maybe. Would I have prefered a pair of real, male arms at that moment? Definitely.
But I'm a realist. Wasn't gonna happen, and allowing myself to wallow and get depressed would only ruin a gorgeous spring day, which so far, I am thoroughly enjoying. So I lolly-gagged in bed awhile, then got up and did my normal Sunday routine -- pot of coffee, the paper, big breakfast.
Yet, even as I sit here blogging, a month after starting my clean slate here and my broken vow to blog much more frequently, I'm still thinking about waking up hours ago, feeling as though I was being held, and the fact that during that dream, I was soooo loving it!
Perhaps it's a feeling of long and deeply buried loss finally making it to the forefront of my mind; maybe it was the final scene in a movie I had watched the night before; or maybe a premonition of things to come?
Or, more realistically, maybe it's my subconcious telling me that I'm finally at a point in my life where I'm ready to accept a relationship, a commitment; at a point where I'd actually get more enjoyment from one, than fear or upset.....
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