Starting over. Again and again and again.
I think I really like the fact that we live in a fast paced world and we are never just standing in one place. I’m alright with the stillness and the beauty in that, but I believe it to be just as spectacular when we turn the page. We take that next step. If you are anything like me, I take that giant leap and then I take ten steps back and sometimes five more steps back and then I take a tiny step forward. This life is crazy, man. I find that I am constantly changing in my relationships with my friends, what I want and don’t want in a significant other, my role as a mother, and religion, and countless others. Now, do I believe that we really ever start over? No. In essence, sure we do. But realistically we don’t. My life is happening and a good portion of it has already happened. Rather than allowing all of life’s little hiccups to keep me from moving, I have this overwhelming desire to move forward and start over. I wish things just came easy to me. I wish I could read a chapter in a book and not have to go back and read it over three more times for it to stick. I wish relationships came easy to me and that I could communicate with ease and trust without borders. I wish my daughter would get up as enthusiastically during the week as she does on the weekends. But, this life doesn’t really happen with perfect ease.
Relationships terrify me to the core. I have experienced some very hurtful and unhealthy relationships in my life. I would be a liar if I said that those experiences have not hindered past relationships. I have a tendency to carry that baggage with me wherever I go. I’m not talking carry on luggage, because we all have that. I’m talking paying extra to check in my luggage which oftentimes is accompanied by an over limit charge. I bring it all. I am an artist at heart and I tend to believe that beauty comes from chaos. I can’t write when I’m happy, and I do my best work when there is noise surrounding me. I have this belief that the yelling and fighting somehow signifies passion and making up is so much more greater and it makes you feel alive. In recent months, I have found that I am more in love amidst the calm. There is such beauty in the lull of the tides. Although I am so grateful to have finally come to that realization, I’m human. And relationships scare me. There’s a vulnerability to them and I sometimes create walls because I think that makes me brave. When I love, I truly love, and when I hurt, I really hurt. Building walls work well to keep people out. But I have found that when you don’t have them, things seem to happen organically and without reason, and sometimes even better than before. I’m a work in progress.
Religion. So taboo to talk about, right? Or at least that’s what we have trained ourselves to believe. Well, it’s my blog, so I get to write about whatever my little heart desires. So, religion to me has always been an enigma. It’s super scary and unknown and confusing and strangely beautiful. I was baptized when I was a baby because that was the thing to do apparently, and my mom believed in it, so that happened. I do remember going to church every Sunday morning with my mom when I was little. The only strong memories I have were wearing pretty dresses and sitting on a wooden pew listening to some old man preach about a book. I remember playing with dolls and coloring in some kids play room where people would sing about God and “this little light of mine” and had us dip our pretzels in dirt because “God made dirt and dirt don’t hurt.” I always thought that God was an old man with white hair and a really long beard and he lived above the clouds and basically looked down upon me. Going to church was just something we had to do. We never really talked about anything at home about it. We would just get dressed up, go to church, and come home and change into our play clothes and ride our bikes. Through the years, I stopped going to church and as life threw curves my way, I fell more and more out of touch with God. I didn’t see Him anymore when I looked up at the sky and those childhood memories got pushed to the wayside. I had no problem telling anyone I encountered that I don’t believe in organized religion and the Bible was just a whole bunch of made up stories that people felt they needed to believe so that they felt a sense of purpose. I was also in a marriage that was so far from faith based. To this day, I don’t know what he believed in, he never knew what I believed, and that’s how we lived our lives. After my divorce, my sister asked me to go to church with her one Sunday morning. I was living with her at the time, and I agreed to go, because I thought it would be rude if I didn’t. I ended up going every week with her and I would whole heartedly listen to every word the preacher said. When he spoke of this illusive “God” I changed the wording in my mind. While I didn’t believe in God, I believed in the words that I was hearing. After a few weeks, my other sister suggested I attend this little church closer to my home and I said yes. From the moment I stepped foot into that gathering, I swear it was the strongest sense of home I have ever felt. The youth pastors gave my daughter a Bible and hoped that the words came alive for her. I felt this overwhelming desire to get lost in the scriptures and relate them to my life. Religion isn’t for everyone and I love that there are so many sides to the spectrum on faith. I am confused by it on the daily and it’s challenging but it’s my path and I get to pace myself without anyone telling me to hurry up or slow down. I may fall in and out of love with Him and I might fail Him a thousand times. But that love is constant and my one true thing. It’s a relationship based on revival and new beginnings and is truly teaching me how to trust and love without borders.
I think we have this dreamy expectation of starting over. I feel like it’s our little way of building those walls after experiencing some sort of defeat. Welp. That sucked. My marriage failed. So let me build that wall, get stronger, and never ever let that happen again. But that’s not really how it works. At least, not for me. I believe this life is a series of moments which make for very high times and very low times. Sometimes if we are lucky, we will actually notice the in between times, but those times don’t produce much current so oftentimes we just sort of go through the motions. It isn’t until we feel those abrupt movements when our lives are shaken that we realize it’s time to start over. I am so glad that I have finally got to the point where I’m ok with starting over again and again and again. I don’t have this dreamy expectation that whatever mistake I made will not repeat itself. I actually look back at my life and my past experiences. Sometimes I cringe. Quite often I cry. And more often I laugh. I appreciate all of my little stepping stones. They have led me to this silly little life of mine and this ever changing journey I’m on. This life is pretty dope.
A beautiful, tangled mess.
Blended families. They are every bit of difficult and they have the potential of being nothing less than beautiful. It’s hard enough to navigate the dating world and when kiddos are added to the mix, it makes it even more tough. How long do you wait to introduce someone to your kids? Do you hug your bf/gf around them? Do you introduce them as your friend? Do they spend the night? I’m so wishing for a manual on how to date with kids. I swear I would read it front to back, back to front, and ten times over. Reality is, there isn’t one and there never will be. So we are left to kind of sort through it on our own and weed through the advice of our family and friends. Might I add, that advice is appreciated, but when it comes from your friends who have never had children of their own or they have been married to their high school sweetheart for the past however many years, it’s kind of hard to swallow. So in my case, I make those decisions accordingly and sometimes they are very wrong, and I learn from them. We’ve all been there.
I am no stranger to blended families. Not only was I brought up in one, but I married into one as well. My parents divorced when I was pretty young, and my mom remarried, but my dad never did. I’m certainly not going to depict my life growing up as rainbows and butterflies. We had our ups and downs, just like any family, but I find as the older I get, I appreciate my stepfather a thousand times more than I did growing up. He went through personal struggles, but he and my mom remained united and strong for one another. My mom placed him on a pedestal, just as he placed her upon one. Through the years, he has stayed very strong for our family and more importantly, he never left us. There are two sentences that he said the most as we were growing up: 1. “Go ask your mother.” 2. “Don’t be disrespectful to her, because not only is she your mother, but she is my wife.” We knew from day one that he was not there to replace our father, he was there to be our friend and teach us as much as we were willing to learn from him. Our little family of five turned into a great big extended family. One in which I love with my whole entire heart.
When I was 28, I met my ex husband. My daughter was 3 and his children were 11 and 14. I was so very fortunate that the kids instantly liked one another and although I was pretty young, they respected me from day one. Not as their mother, obviously, but as a parent in the house. I became their friend and mentor, and although that marriage failed, I still adore those kiddos with every ounce of my being. Now with that said, I made so many mistakes in that relationship. I certainly don’t put the blame on myself, because that would be so far from the truth. But this is my blog, and I’m not here to rake anyone over the coals, so I’m just attesting to my own shortcomings. I felt like I needed to be involved in every single decision when it came to his kiddos. We attempted counseling before we made the decision to divorce, and I will never forget the advice from our counselor. She said that when you embark upon a blended family, know that those kids have a mother and father, and they are like head coaches on a football team. You become the assistant coach. Before that play is called, everyone is well aware that the head coach consults with the assistant coach. But the head coach is the one to actually the make the call. I became jealous and bitter towards their mother, when I should have been more respectful and just sort of in the background. As husband and wife, we were never a united front. Our foundation as a couple was flimsy at best and while I truly believed we loved one another, we never took that time for ourselves. When that foundation is not built with steady hands and forethought and care…it creaks and it splits and eventually you just fall right through it. I fought hard for my marriage and tried to make it work, but I also gave up when it was necessary.
So fast forward to right now. Mid 30’s. Divorced. Dating. It’s all bananas and it’s messy and complicated and difficult. I have this constant guilt looming over my head. I work at least 40 hours a week at my full time job, and then I come home to start on my real job which is parenting. I usually don’t get home until about 6 and I have to do dinner, homework, argue, running around, cleaning, argue, laundry, bath time, argue, bed time, and wake up the next morning and repeat. And that’s ok. I signed up for this gig, so yeah. As much as I love being a mother to my spirited little daughter, I also want to find someone to spend the rest of my life with. I sort of want to grow old with someone. I want that person who sticks. That guy who is strong and willing to take on my baggage. Because I’m also willing to take on his baggage. So how do you find this person when you only have every other weekend to date. Let’s face it my little lovelies…we aren’t getting any younger. Do we find them as we are grocery shopping and just randomly go to pick up the same jar of spaghetti sauce on the shelf and touch hands and look into one each others eyes and fall in love at first sight? Do we meet them at the library? Just kidding. Who goes to the library. Do we meet them at church? Have we known one another for years and have mutual friends and for some reason, fate has finally brought us together? Does this really happen? I’m certain it does, but it’s not exactly the norm. Once you find the one you think you are destined to be with, you make the decision to introduce them to your children and honestly you take a leap of faith. When you have every other weekend without your children, and they have opposite weekends without their children, scheduling alone time is tricky and sometimes it works out and oftentimes it doesn’t. So. It’s all very difficult and challenging but I’m a hopeless romantic and think that our love lives are written in the stars and it just happens when it happens.
I still believe with my whole heart that blended families are so amazing. I think the dynamic of blending two families together can be magical and messy and complicated and sometimes it just works. I think if we just accept the dynamic for what it is then it’s alright. It’s all fundamentally the same. You can be raised by a single mother, a single father, two mothers, two fathers, adopted, or whatever structure you are familiar with. Families are all tangled and there is hurt and there is joy and there are ups and downs and everything in between. But they are yours. And that makes it beautiful in it of itself.
“Not all those who wander are lost.” I think….
I forgot to pick my kid up from school one day. Yep. I got out of work a little early and I turned on my music and drove off into the sunset. I remember that drive home like it was last week. Well. It was last week. Nothing was different about that day. I fought with my daughter that morning about brushing her teeth. She stomped around because I didn’t have time to make her lunch. I had no milk in the fridge for her cereal. I wouldn’t let her wear the shirt she came out with, and I was dubbed the “worst mom in the world.” It was business as usual. Work was fine. My boss didn’t need to talk to me away from anyone else and I didn’t hang up on anyone. I didn’t even have to use my A.K. I gotta say it was a good day (Ice Cube…rap music…yeah, so….). I got home, out of my car, and something was missing. After a few choice words, I realized I forgot to pick my kid up from school. Not like…oopsy, silly me, I got off the wrong exit, let me turn around. I full on went home as if I was dunzo for the day. So, I went upstairs and….JUST kidding. I picked her up from school. I told her what happened and she laughed and said “Mommy, what were you even thinking about???” I thought pretty hard. All I could come up with was “absolutely nothing at all.”
I checked out of my world for a moment and it was G.L.O.R.I.O.U.S. I didn’t even think about what I was going to cook for dinner, or the fact that I needed to buy milk for the next morning. I just literally checked out. As parents, and in my case as a single parent, the weight of the world is super heavy upon our shoulders. I feel like I have to do everything. When I leave my house in the morning, I can barely close my purse. I have my phone, my charger, my checkbook, a sandwich, aspirin, bills I have to pay on my lunch, permission slips, a sweater, highlighters (that’s legit. One day I found a highlighter in my purse and I don’t even know why). And all of those aforementioned items are things that I’m grabbing through the house as I’m trying to get out of it. It’s like I’m a crazy woman on a rampage getting ready for battle. I’m grabbing every single thing in my path that I think I may need at some point that day. I gotta be prepared for whatever anyone needs. When I’m at work, my mind wanders and it’s running wild and I’m checking personal texts and emails and making phone calls in between work and meetings and everything else. I’m presuming your life is just like mine. Our days are consumed by so much stuff. Soccer practice. Grocery shopping. Homework. Bills. Work. Shuffling kids from here to there. Eating on the go. Doctor appointments. Dental appointments. Sometimes, we need to shut it down.
Forgive yourself for not paying a bill on time. Forgive yourself for skipping soccer practice because it’s hot outside and you want to take your kid to ice cream instead. It’s ok if you get home and forget your kid at school (as long as you go pick them up after you realize it). Forgive yourself for not being able to make an assembly at your kids school because you have to work. Forgive yourself for not volunteering every weekend at church. Your Pastor is not going to stop loving you. We need to start forgiving ourselves for willing to not be everything to everyone all of the time.
This year, I decided to take a year off from a crazy life. My daughter has played soccer for the past 4 years. I wanted her to play this year, and I signed her up, but then things happened and practices didn’t work with my schedule. Lets talk about that for a hot second. Who has the brilliant idea to plan soccer practice from 3-4 on a Monday, 5-6 on a Wednesday, and 6-7 on a Friday. Do we still live in a society where most people don’t work? Or do we just assume that everyone is married or has significant others to help out with transporting kiddos to and from practice during normal work hours? These time frames are difficult, and I’m over them. But I digress. So I decided to look at this year as a blessing, really. I felt it was the universe telling me to slow it down. During school and especially soccer season, I tend to run myself ragged. So this year I decided to say no a lot more than I say yes.
It’s ok to wander from your normal day to day busy lives. We don’t have to go through our days getting ready for battle. This life really isn’t as complicated as we make it to be. We tend to fill our days with so many frivolous and time consuming tasks that our brains are on overload and we tend to overlook the most important ones. Like making sure you hold your daughters hand on the way to class. Or making the time to hear about your sons epic goal he made at practice. Over and over and over again. Making a home cooked meal and eating at the dining room table and talking. Like, actual conversation, absent of television or cell phones or any other electronic devices. Or remembering to pick up your kid from school. Oops.
Unapologetically me. Sorta.
I find that I’m on this constant journey to find myself. I soul search on the daily and I journal like mad and I post the most amazing quotes I find on Pinterest to Facebook and Instagram. Recently I even found myself almost in tears reading one of my friends Facebook posts about accepting herself, flaws and all. I make vision boards with my daughter and I paste uplifting words and positive affirmations all over the canvas. I tape poems and positive thoughts to my bathroom mirror so I’m reminded of that goodness every single day. Yet, I find myself apologizing for the way I am, all of the time.
I have come to this realization since I have been back in the dating scene. It’s one thing when you have been married for a while or have been with someone for many years. That person has seen you in your darkest hours. They have witnessed those moments when you have cried so hard you have no tears left to possibly generate and you wake up with your eyes swollen shut. They care for you when you are violently ill from the stomach flu. They have watched you push a little human out of your body, and are absolutely convinced that you are the most beautiful woman at that very moment you want to punch them in their face as they are telling you to breathe calmly. They have seen you in all your glory stepping out of the shower without an ounce of makeup on or under garments to hide any imperfections you think you may have. My point is, there is a comfort level you reach with someone after you spend a good amount of time with them. In dating, you don’t have that.
I find myself apologizing on a consistent basis. When they offer to pick me up at my house for a first date, I say no for two reasons. First, because I don’t want them to kill me. Secondly, I don’t want them to judge me. I’m 35 years old and live in a 2 bedroom apartment. Now, the first reason is legit, but the second?!?! Lame. Sorry, but I admit it. It’s crazy, I know it is, but I think of it. Ok, so when I’m dating someone and they want to come by after I get off of work, I’m terrified. Is my house clean enough? Did my daughter flush the toilet this morning? Are there spots on my mirror? Will I have time to freshen up when I get home? I don’t want him to see me in my work outfit. Not cute. Not sexy. But then again, I don’t want him to see me in what I really wear when I get home after work….sweats, tank top, hair up in a messy bun, no makeup. Are my favorite jeans washed? Do they even fit me anymore? What top will I wear? It’s 100 degrees out but I don’t want to wear a tank top because I hate my arms. I can’t wear the top I really want to wear if I pair it with those jeans because I can’t button them and it will be noticeable. I need to wear a peasant top, but the bra I have to wear is in the hamper and I haven’t done laundry in 2 weeks. My hair is a mess because I ran out of my favorite product and I can’t afford to replace it. So, I have to pull my hair back, but I can’t find a hair tie or bobby pins because my daughter takes them all. Sigh.
My point is, I find myself apologizing for everything. Sorry I look like crap. You can come over, but sorry my house is small. Sorry I wont be wearing any makeup. Sorry my bed isn’t made. Sorry my kitchen smells like a dead rat. I didn’t want to take the trash out. It was too late, too dark, and well….I didn’t want to. I also didn’t feel like scrubbing the ring around my toilet. I certainly didn’t want to wear jeans because I have put on some weight and I’m much more comfortable in my yoga pants. And no, I don’t do yoga, I just wear them because of the elastic waistband. I’m not wearing any makeup because I wear a pound of it every single day to work, so when I get home, it’s the first to come off.
I am imperfect in many ways. I have a heart bigger than my body. I speak way too loud and I have no filter when it comes to expressing my thoughts. I cry when I see those damn SPCA commercials. Every. Single. Time. I sing like a champ in my car, and I’m convinced I sound just like the artist. Sometimes even better. I eat popcorn for dinner from time to time. Sometimes I drink an entire bottle of wine in the evening. Solo. I laugh at my own jokes. My feelings get hurt really easily. I fall in love sometimes way too fast and way too hard. I am just who I am and who I’m meant to be, and I’m sorry, but I’m just ok with that. I think.
Parenting is bananas.
I feel as if I could have published this blog with the mere title alone. No explanation needed. But it wouldn’t be much of a blog without content, so here I go. Parenting is bananas. On all levels. I have always known it to be true, but it hit me like a ton of bricks the other morning as I was fighting (not arguing…full on fighting) with my daughter to brush her teeth. She’s 10. Brushing teeth to her, in her little 10 year old world, is the equivalent to filling your gas tank up. It’s necessary. We know this. But there are 500 other things I would rather do than pull off the exit, roll up to the pump, turn off my car, and sit there while my car is getting filled up by crap that I don’t really care about, but it’s good for my car and it makes it run. It’s a necessary evil. So the other morning, I ask her if she brushed her teeth. She yells back…”yesssss MOMMMMMMM.” I immediately knew she didn’t. So I ask her again, she gets more vocal, and eventually it escalates to her stomping around and telling me I just don’t understand, I don’t trust her, etc. I never knew that a simple question which involved a child’s general health and wellness would evoke such anger. But I guess I struck a chord. So as I’m arguing with her and well aware that it’s not going to be resolved, I revert to a child myself. I, as a 35 year old woman, ask my daughter to swear on one of her family members to prove that she brushed her teeth. Bam. Truth came out, I called her on it, she couldn’t swear on her uncle, and her breath smelled. So she walked back into the bathroom, defeated, and brushed her teeth. You can’t play a player.
Parenting is one of the most joyous and rewarding jobs in the whole entire universe. Hands down. But it’s also the weirdest. I have spent the last 10 years of my life lying to my child. I have made her believe that a fairy roams the sky at night and enters our home when she is asleep and picks up her lost tooth and leaves her money under her pillow. She believes with her whole heart that a jolly old man named Santa creeps into our house down our chimney (which we don’t have…so I have to tell her that he uses magic to enter our house) and leaves all of the presents that she has asked him for. From a list that she leaves the night before Christmas. Talk about magic. Then we leave cookies and milk for him and also some carrots for Rudolph and all of the other reindeer. I have also spent many nights chasing away monsters under the bed using a “secret magical potion” that I spray on the floors in her room and in the closets so they stay away. I buy crazy outfits for her every Halloween and have her dress up in costume and knock on strangers doors and ask them for candy. Oh, and lets not forget about the leprechaun who visits every year to leave footsteps throughout our house and leads her to a pot of gold. Parenting is weird.
OK, lets talk about school. Getting ready for the first day of school is dumb. Fun? Yes. Absolutely. I love taking my daughter shopping to get her “first day of school” outfit. She gets a new haircut, new school supplies, new backpack, new lunchbox…it’s fresh, it’s new, it’s exciting. It’s about a week before school (yes…I wait until the last minute, and sometimes I even wait until the night before) and I look online to see the “LIST”. The dreamy list that the school district pushes through to their website so that parents know what to buy for their child. Loves it. First on the list is pencils. Not just any pencil. It’s specifically a “Dixon Ticonderoga #2 Pencil”. Then you move on to the erasers…and it’s specifically a “Pink Pearl Eraser.” Ok. For reals. I am on a budget, and when asked to provide pencils and erasers…I’m going to buy store brand and whatever is on sale. I’m a rebel at heart, so had you not been specific on the brand, I may have bought the Ticonderoga or the Pearl. But since you (not quite sure who “you” are) told me what to buy….I’m going to go with what I choose to buy. And what I choose to buy? Is the store brand that costs a fraction of the price, because I would rather save my money for the mandated school agendas and suggested cash donations I have to make to her class. And by the way. It’s not a suggested cash donation. We have to provide it. And we will.
Now, I’m coming at this as a single mom. I’m certainly not wanting to chase away the readers who are married, and I’m not playing the single mom card and saying it’s harder to parent single vs. having a partner. Wait. Yes, I am. It’s harder, #sorrynotsorry. When you are a single parent, and you reach your breaking point, and you realize it’s time to turn yourself into an insane asylum, it’s much more difficult to know that you have to fill out that paperwork on your own. When you have a partner, at least you have peace of mind that if it does truly get to that point….they can at least drive you there and fill out the paperwork for you. It’s just different. I have been married before, and although I thought I did most of the parenting, I always had the comfort of knowing that he was there. He would probably make me fill out my own paperwork, but he would have at least taken me to the insane asylum. I think.
I feel like we live in a bubble sometimes. I think we all want to depict our lives as something brilliant and perfect and seamless. Like…Leave It to Beaver. If your life is like that show? I applaud you, and I need to know you. I know I’m not the only mom out there who argues with their kid to brush their teeth. I even have my daughter make her own breakfast and lunch in the morning because I have to get ready for work and I’m not supermom. I yell more than I should hug sometimes. I make mistakes. I fall. I pick myself up. And as I’m running out of the house in the morning with 10 different bags filled with after work clothes, and soccer balls and cleats and lunches and everything else, and my daughter grabs a bag from my hand to help me. After we fought like mad about whether or not she brushed her teeth. I realize she really does like me. I’m also kind of glad she still thinks Cupid shoots arrows on Valentines Day and that food just magically appears in the refrigerator once we run out. Childhood is truly magical. And parenting is truly bananas.
First dates, and stuff.
Getting ready for a first date is like….terrible. I don’t believe anyone who says they look back at their dating years and recall them to be the best years of their life. And if I hear one more married woman look at their single friend (me) one more time and tell me how jealous they are and how I should be enjoying this time of my life….I’m going to go insane. Actually, I kinda get it. I think the idea of dating could be a little dreamy when you have been married for years upon years, and your spur of the moment adventures and romantic dates are replaced by pizza on the run because you have to take Johnny to soccer practice and you had zero time to prepare a healthy dinner because, well, you work until 5 and practice starts at 5:45. And by the way….these supermoms out there who prepare their meals ahead of time, on the weekends, and they are all labeled and compartmentalized strategically in the freezer….you aren’t human. I don’t know what you are.
So about two years ago, I went through a pretty difficult divorce. I started dating pretty immediately. I know I know, everyone told me to wait. Everyone said to give myself some time to heal so that I could “find” myself. What the what? Find myself? I’m here. I know who I am. I’m a strong woman, I’m a mother, and I’m totally aware. #somuchnope. I wish I would have listened. I will never forget my first date after my divorce. He was the first guy to show some interest in me, and I had all of these idealistic and unreal expectations. We texted a ton prior to going on our first date. I probably secretly thought that he was the “one.” We went on our date, we kissed, he left, I left…..and that was the end of our love affair. He stopped texting and I was crushed. Clearly, he did not invest in this date mentally like I had. To him it was probably pizza and beer with some chick. Well to me, it was like, a knight in shining armor to make my ex jealous. High expectations mixed with bad timing, is a strong lesson learned on my part.
Ok, fast forward two years. To right now. I still don’t know what I want. But I will say, I know what I don’t want. I have been on many first dates. I have had many “I appreciate you taking me out but I will never ever ever call you again because you were under the impression my clothes would come off on the first date” dates. (God, I hope my pastor isn’t reading this). And I’ve had a few that have lasted quite a few months but timing was everything, and the time wasn’t right now. Then I had that one. The one that made me stop dead in my tracks. The one that made me question everything and made me feel like I was everything. And it scared me fully and completely because I realized that I had masked all of my hurt over the years by filling it with a whole lot of first dates and ….you know….the other kinda dates I don’t want my pastor to read about. While that love affair was real and exciting….it was difficult.
So here I am filling my time with blogging about my failed marriage and first dates that never seemed to quite take off. But I realize now that there is a reason for all of the above. While I’ve been so busy and consumed with pursuing and looking and trying to find the hidden messages and intent on analyzing and picking apart every single scenario and conversation and break up…..I lost me in the pursuit. So it’s time I rearrange that last sentence….
Dating is bananas.
Online dating, specifically, is the devil. Now, with that said, that is how I primarily date these days. It’s convenient, it’s quick, and you can read their lies…I mean their profiles..from the comfort of your own home, while drinking wine and watching Real Housewives. It’s exciting to see who viewed your profile, and the little “dings” that pop up on your phone notifying you that someone added you as a “favorite” or “winked” at you or grew some (fill in the blank here) and messaged you. So, you read the emails, and you start weeding thru the ones that say “hi :)” and “wanna have some fun? ;)” Oh the best are the ones that incorporate the jokes you made in your profile into their pick up lines. I don’t know, some girls may think that’s clever and endearing. I think it’s dumb. Then you find the one that peaks your interest…”Hey, I read your profile, liked it, take a look at mine, hit me up if interested.” Because honestly, that’s what it’s about. As a side note….pictures DO matter. #sorrynotsorry. Guys, if you’re not strong selfie takers, don’t take them. Don’t pose next to your car and don’t take mirror selfies at the gym. And girls…oh my…don’t upload Instagram pictures with obvious filters because in real life, there are no filters. He’s gonna find out. No bikinis, no boob shots. It’s not a good look.
So, you see some good pics and now you are ready to read their profile. Ok. Long walks on the beach…too cliche. I think it goes without saying that everyone in the world would like that. But I live in the country, and the closest beach is about 2 1/2 hours away and I’m sorry, but I’m not going to the beach on a first date. Ain’t nobody got time for that. Oh, and don’t dwell on the fact that you work out religiously and enjoy healthy living and eat super healthy. Trust me. We all enjoy a healthy lifestyle and strive for that, but most women out there are just like me. I don’t mind ordering a pizza and eating 4 pieces while watching reality tv in my sweats on a Friday night. And I will probably eat a bowl of ice cream afterwards and I will not work out on Saturday morning. So guys, it’s intimidating, and annoying to read. Another of my personal faves are “wine by the fire.” Who does that?? Like, really. First of all, it’s summer and about 100 degrees and that does not sound enticing. Secondly, I am still not convinced that anybody does that. Ever.
Ok, so you read a profile with good pics and a decent write up and you start messaging one another. “Hi.” “How was your day.” “Do anything fun over the weekend?” Oh.My.God. As if chatting with a perfect stranger isn’t awkward enough, now I have to lie to him. I can’t possibly tell him my day began with my daughter telling me she hated me and slammed every door in the house because “you just don’t understand MOM!” And I can’t tell him that my boss pulled me aside at work to talk to me about my crabby attitude because well, I hate my job. I also can’t possibly tell him I didn’t do anything over the weekend because I checked my bank account and I have no money to even buy milk. So….I respond “Great! Had an amazing workout before work and I just met up with some friends for drinks and apps over the weekend. It was pretty chill.”
Then…..the moment. You fed him enough lies about your fake life and he asks for your number. You give it to him. And then….well, that’s my next blog. #thepursuitofme
