sueeeus

I stand in condemnation and read the words on the page that summarize conclusions about my personality, my issues, my mental state.  People who love me have taken it upon themselves to make conclusions about me, and speak authoritatively, as if they know.  As. If. They. Know.

If I rise up in indignation, does that mean there is credence in the accusations?  If I were innocent, I wouldn’t have anything to be angry about, and why would I care what anybody says or thinks?  That’s a bunch of bullshit, though.  I care what people say and think, whether it has credence or not.  THAT is one of my personality flaws.  Whether or not it matters, whether or not it’s true.  I only want goodness for everyone and for myself.  From the time I was a child, I was hyper sensitive to these things.  Always wanting to do the right thing.  To please everyone.  Not to let anyone down.  It’s the core of me.  Do I need therapy to correct that?  I don’t know.  Maybe.  What is wrong with trying to be good?

I actually HAVE had counseling for that very thing.  The bottom line:  if the manifestation of my people pleasing tendencies serve me well, amen.  If they don’t serve me well, then pay attention and be aware.  Case in point.  I kick ass in my professional life.  Kick. Ass.  People pleasing has served me well.  I’m an over-achiever.  I get things done single handedly that take entire departments to do.   Cradle to grave.  Me.  Just me.  Requirements. Design.  Architecture.  Business model.  Business case. Construction. Test. Debug. Release. Communication.  Training. Process definition.  Project management.  Change management.  Documentation.  The business. Analysis.  Diagnosis.  Troubleshooting.  Corrective  action.  Tracking.  Statistics.  Marketing. Support.  Administration. Business focal. Technical focal.  Information Technology focal.  ALL OF IT.  And my reward?  I’m respected in my field, by my peers and my management.  I’ve been promoted as high as I can go.  I’m recognized and esteemed.  It serves me well.

And what of my mental instability?  I’ve blogged ad nauseum for years.  I work through my stuff here.  Openly.

“What you’ve been through since your divorce is kind of making it seem like your marriage to Gadget wasn’t that bad after all.  At least you had some stability.  I envisioned you crusading forth like other single moms, but that’s not the path you’ve taken.”

Now that’s a kicker. The suffocating abyss in which I lived was preferable to the life I live now.  I’ve met a lot of men in the last two years, but I haven’t paraded them through my kids’ lives.  Met, not dated.  Yes, two men have come and gone in that time.  Does that make me unstable?  Of course I would rather have met the right one and stayed with him.  But I didn’t.  How the hell does anyone know whether someone fits unless they try?  So I’ve tried.  God bless me for picking myself back up, brushing off the dust, and starting over again.  So why the condemnation? Mama ain’t no ho. I’m not going to put myself or my children in harm’s way.   And even if I were drunken and delirious and high and completely blind in the moment, it would become evident in very short course, and I would snap out of it and that would be that.  So why drag someone through the dirt and invoke unnecessary pain?

I’m not trying to fill a hole in my life with somebody or some thing.  I stand strong as a complete human being.  I am good.  I am whole.  I am not broken.  I DON’T NEED ANY BODY OR ANY THING.

I want somebody though.  Want!  Not need.  I want to spend the rest of my life with one and only one man.  The rest of my life.  Every breathing moment.  I want to be a devoted and loving wife to a devoted and loving  husband.  I want my kids to grow up with a positive male influence.  I want them to have a step-dad.

Who the hell has the right to tell me I shouldn’t want these things?  It’s MY life.  My decision.

Some might call it a momentary lapse of reason.  But I don’t.  My eyes are wide open.

love monkey

My family is staging an intervention to my ‘love addiction’.  My natural inclination is to bristle with indignation for being accused and placed on trial for, gasp, exhibiting delirium and showing joy.  Of course the look on my face isn’t something they’re used to seeing.  It’s called happiness.  Because I look like a deer who is caught in the headlights, does it mean that I am blind to my surroundings?  Because I’ve been thrilled by the prospects of love at other times in my life, and ventured forth in hopes that it was indeed truth, only to learn that I was once again mistaken, does it mean that I am incapable of discerning anything?  Am I not allowed to make mistakes and learn from them?  Good Lord in heaven above, I put myself through more than enough condemnation for the mistakes I’ve made.  More than enough.  I hold myself to an extremely high standard, and of course I continue to fall short.  Yet I strive, strive, and strive some more to be better, see more clearly, be more wise, be more patient.

I understand their concern, and I stifle my inclination to be angry and hurt for the accusations put forth.  They love me.  Who can possibly ever measure up to be good enough for me?  After all, nobody ever has.  They’re protective, and I understand that.

I took the quiz.  I’m not a love addict.

In the nearly two years since I’ve been divorced, I’ve learned much.  My marriage was a legal agreement and a place of desolation.  The air that we breathed was stifling.  The space in which we moved was thick with tension.  There was no joy, no freedom, no peace, no comfort, no communication, no sharing, no meeting of the minds, no blending of the hearts.  No love.  It was an abyss, and I’m grateful to have had the strength and courage to make it end.

Of course I effervesced in the thrill of new love, when new love is what I thought I had found.  And during that rebound I found that I had compromised myself and my children, to my utmost horror.  Retrospectively, I understand that the thrill of new love was indeed the rush of infatuation, and not love at all.  I learned from that experience.  Truly.

The next time I allowed myself to get involved, the circumstances seemed different.  Two single parents, wanting the best for their child(ren) and wanting a long term, loving, committed relationship.  Again, the thrill of the prospect of happily ever after.  Again, like oil and vinegar briefly mix, it was quickly evident that there was no possible way of amalgamating our lives.

Am I an addict because in my heart of hearts and for all of my life, what I’ve wanted most was to settle down, entrust all of me with one and only one man who entrusts all of himself to me and only me,  and be a whole and loving family?  Must I forfeit that dream, because I failed the marriage that I had?  Do I only get one chance, and that chance is spent because I have children?  Of course I need to protect and shield my children.  Of course I need to edify them, and keep them safe, secure, healthy, and sound.  I am.  I do.

Why is it a character flaw for me to want to love and be loved?

I’m in love, and I want to shout it from the mountaintops!  Am I infatuated?  Of course.  Am I delirious?  Maybe.  Am I blind?  No.

Love that is real bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.  Love, in truth, does not fail.

Does. Not. Fail.

I’m all in.

taking a chance on love

I’m feeling scattered again.  Oh, I don’t like to feel scattered!  I like to know the boundaries of my world, as they constitute my comfort zone.  The perimeter can be very extensive, but I so very much like to be aware of what the perimeter is.

I’ve been house hunting and man hunting — up to my internet mischief.  It’s exhausting!  Add to that the cold that is trying to catch me.  My throat is a battleground.

The house hunting is proving to be very similar to the internet dating experience.  I’ve been to view several houses lately, and what they look like in real life is a far cry from what they look like in their on-line photos.  Rooms look impressively spacious, only to find they are tiny cracker boxes.  Earlier this year I was intent on finding a home with a view, maximizing the tranquility of my sphere –proximity to work, neighborhood safety, proximity to my family, and a view of mountains and salt water were my top priorities.  Frustrated with that, I refocused on vacation properties.  I thought I could buy a weekend home with the view and tranquility, and remain in my current home for the day-to-day living.  I’ve since reconsidered matters again, now that my Brutus is in school, and raised the school ratings above the desire for a view.  It has come to my attention that we don’t live in a particularly good school region, so I would like my boys to have the benefit of better schools and the stability to grow up with the same set of people.  Better views and better schools come at a price, so a similar home to the one I have is far beyond my means.  While there are beautiful and affordable homes available the further one extends from the city, and there are pockets of better schools in the outlying regions, the commute and proximity to family are prohibitive.  I don’t want to add any further stress to the world in which I live, so I have to be mindful of the effects of a difficult commute.

Add to this the pursuit of togetherness.  If only I knew what I wanted, or what would work best for me.  I know much of what I don’t want, but to quantify what I want and what I’m capable of is very difficult.  So far, it’s been an iterative process that has consumed years of my life, because I don’t know how else to approach it.  The current mission statement that best describes what I  think I want is “a respectful, respectable alpha male sex machine who is okay with me having my way when it’s important to me“.  In a nutshell.  Ha!

Meeting men is easy enough (with the online venue).  Determining a definite ‘no’ is easy enough as well.  Encountering a possible ‘maybe’ is very, very rare, and if it happens, I don’t know what to do next, other than tread softly, try not to cast forth too many pearls, and hope to remain clear headed and open minded.  None of which I am particularly good at.  (Oh, how my dad would cringe at my split infinitives and dangling participles, were he alive and reading this.)

It’s all so hard for me!  I just want to be settled down.  To know where home is.  To know with whom my heart is safely entrusted.  I want a simple and beautiful life.  (Yes, I know, I know, I already have a simple and beautiful life.)

I have been working for the man for the better part of my life, now.  Twenty. Five. Years.  A quarter of a century.  Holy smokes!

For my constancy and dedication, there is great reward. Yes, the coveted parking pass.  Now I can park in a general parking spot, inside the gates.  This privilege is somewhat moot–  Or rather, lucky for me, my office is not in the gated campus and happens to have covered parking already.  I’ve been living the sweet life for decades!

But I have a dedicated parking pass, by golly.  Neener neener.

Yes, my company goes all out.  I get the pleasure of dining with the executives and sharing some highlights of my career.  My, oh my, am I ever looking forward to that.  What story will I share?

The time the VP introduced me as Mister Maximus?

The time the director told me that I couldn’t work in the field because there’s no telling when I might get married and have kids and leave the job after they’ve invested so much in my training and relocation etc etc etc?  (If I had been half smart, I’d have had a killer lawsuit.  But I’m just not that smart.  And I’m non-confrontational.  And if I’d had a crystal ball, I could have told him that I have a hostile womb and an uncooperative reproductive system and I just won’t be having little ones for another twenty years or so.)

I could talk about the time I went to Manchester, England as the lead on a technical assist team, much to the team’s chagrin, because having a woman around seemed to cramp their style.  When the cat’s away, the mice will play, and that time, the mice didn’t get to play (as much as they’d have liked to).

I could talk about the time I was training a new guy, and he fell asleep as I was talking to him.  I know, I’m riveting.

I could talk about my love triangle and probabilities – what are the odds that my ex-boyfriend would take an internship with my company prior to going off to grad school, and land a job in the very same group as my new boyfriend?  Further, that the Casanova coworker who trained me would also transfer to that very same group?  This group of twenty in a company of over one hundred thousand (at that time).  Awkward!

I could talk about my experience working on a tech assist with the Koreans, and how they ignored me and wouldn’t let me help for most of the night, until I finally was able to break through to them (or they just gave up or gave in).   I can be persistent– I’m part Korean too!  Actually, I shared with them that I am half Korean, and they shook their heads with disapproval and disbelief that I don’t know or speak any Korean.  Unthinkable!  One kind man took it upon himself to explain the Korean alphabet to me, and by the end of the evening, the technical crisis was resolved, the Korean alphabet was neatly written, and we  thanked each other and parted ways with smiles all around.

Maybe I’ll talk about the time I transferred to another organization against the advice of almost everybody I knew, bent over backwards to completely overhaul things and single handedly obliterated the entire backlog, only to be rewarded with a goose egg at the end of the year.  That was the time that I posted my salary chart publicly with a big red caption, “What’s wrong with this picture?” and wrote a lengthy impassioned email about [not] valuing employees, researched the entire management chain from my first level to the CEO, put them all on distribution and hit send.  Then thought, oh CRAP, I’m going to be fired.  Only a few middle managers made any comment.  I was just a voice crying in the wilderness.

I have no complaints.  The company has been good to me.  Unpleasant hiccups in the journey caused me to change paths here and there along the way, and ultimately propelled me to the sweet spot where I now earn my bread and butter.

I work with a fantastic bunch of people.  We have grown up and grown old together.  Marriages, divorces, births, graduations, retirements, joys, sorrows, tragedies, triumphs.  We  have been through so much together.

It has been a worthwhile twenty five years.

And to commemorate this fine moment?  I treated myself to some bling.  Yep.  The railroad watch.  Didn’t the railroad companies reward their employees in days of yore with a gold watch after a notable tenure?  My company wouldn’t do that for me –they already went all out with the parking pass– but I can do it for myself!  A whole bunch of teeny tiny diamonds and pretty dials and buttons that I’ll probably never use.   Form, fit and function.  The engineering trinity. It’s nice to know that it does have function to accompany its fine form and fit.  I like it.

say cheese - it's the railroad watch

Happy Anniversary to me!

I need to write a will.  I’ve been meaning to for years, but I still haven’t done it.  I also need to establish a trust for my kids.  I want to minimize any burden my loved ones will have to endure in order to wrap up matters regarding my physical remains. In the event that I don’t get to it before my demise, let it hereby be known that these are my wishes:

• Estate. I leave everything to my children, to be divided equally between them, with my sister C’s oversight, should they not be of age.
• Body. I want to be cremated, via the budget route.  Waste no money on my remains, because I am not there.  It’s just a vessel and I’m done with it.  Enough.  I don’t want to be pumped full of nasty weird embalming fluids, and I don’t want worms and creepy crawly things creeping and crawling through my spent vessel, buried who knows where.  Don’t be duped into an emotional purchase of a cheesy urn, either.   Take my pulverized ashes in the generic plastic container and do with them what you will.  At that point, it’s your sentimental journey with the memory of me, and I embrace whatever that journey may be.   (If I’m wealthy enough or have set aside enough funds for things of this nature, I commission objects d’art be made from my pulverized remains, to be distributed as keepsakes for my loved ones.)
• Obit.  Oh, it’s a stressful thing to be tasked with preparing worthwhile and substantive words when you are traumatized or in shock or barely have your wits about you.  I could write my own, ready to be used in a pinch if my loved ones were in such a state.  Of course they are welcome to write what they want, but I could have something ready for them, in the case that they weren’t up to it.  I don’t really care if an obit is published, but maybe someone else does.  If they do, go for it.  It could go something like this:
  Suueeeus Maximus, 28 Mar 1965 – tbd
  Mother, sister, friend, working fool.  She loved everyone, she loved life, she worked hard, she did her best.  The end.
• Funeral.  I don’t want a dreary sad funeral.  If my loved ones gather, let them celebrate.  Let it be fun, with happy music, good food, drinks and much laughter.  Sing show tunes.  Laugh until your cheeks hurt.  Be together in the sphere of love and rejoice in each others’ company.
• Flowers.  Please don’t waste any money on those wretched stuffy and expensive flower arrangements that you see decorating caskets or propped against podiums at traditional funerals.  You know the ones, with sprays of gladioli arranged in ominous fans.  They mean nothing to me.  Simple happy farmer’s market type flowers are okay — daffodils, lilacs, tulips, lilies.  That sort of thing.

In Situ –  May 17th.

It’s going to be another bulleted post, since I’m lacking inspiration.  Or something.

• I thought I had a concept for a book the other day.  I played it out in my mind, and it was material that could be spun as a humorous tale.  The only problem was that it had nowhere to go.  I wanted a charming ending where the funny albeit wry bumps of the journey made it all worthwhile, but my imagination fizzled…  …however, it was very exciting to almost have a novel-worthy idea.
• I’m hoping to develop an addiction to exercise.  I’m finishing week 6 of the c25k program, and am pleasantly surprised that I actually look forward to the runs.  Who’da thunkit?
• Someone broke into and robbed the house next door to mine yesterday, and I was home and had no inkling whatsoever.  I have security cameras recording to a DVR, and retrieved some footage that might be helpful to the police.  Surprisingly, I’m not freaked out.
• I feel myself cycling back into a semi-anxious state, and need to do some regrouping and thinking over of things, in hopes of learning why this happens, time and time again.
• I stumbled upon a view property a couple of weeks ago, dismissed it, then stumbled upon it again last week and decided to take a look.  It was love at first sight, so I put an offer on it.  It’s a long shot, whether or not I’ll be able to buy it, but I’m strangely peaceful about it.  Whereas I’m anxious in general (see above bullet), I’m oddly and sincerely serene in accepting that if it’s meant to be, it will be.  Wow.

In retrospect – May 20th.

It’s been a strenuous week.

Independently of one another, my sisters and I have been dealing with a cloud of anxiety and depression that fell upon us over the past week.  We talk about these things, and speculate.  For one sister, there could be post partum influences.  My beautiful nephew, the sweetest bundle of perfection, is little over one month old.  For the other sister, there could be other health related influences, as she has adopted a vegan diet.  For me, the usual.  I’ve written ad nauseum regarding the yo-yo that is my emotional state.  We did speculate, however, that someone in the family was failing, and this funk in which we are immersed is the pre-stress to what lies ahead.

In some ways the news of my dad’s passing comes as a relief.  It’s an explanation for the anxiety and depression that has clouded us for the past week.  No longer do we have to question our individual selves, wondering “what is wrong with me?”  (I still do, though.)  It also strengthens our sense of connection we have with each other.  We are empaths, within our sphere.

My family.  Oh, I love my family with a fierce and abiding love.

~*~*~

I haven’t been able to breathe well for the past few days.  Allergies and stress are doing a number on me, and I am congested and have a headache from the lack of oxygen, I imagine.  I can’t breathe, I can’t sit, I can’t focus, I can’t stand the feel of anything on my skin.  It’s a good thing this is an exchange weekend — I dropped the kids off with their dad and I have a full evening and a day to be alone and process.

(This may be a very long post.)

By the time I finished my work obligations today, I felt like I was going to pass out from the physical manifestations of the compounded stressors.  I thought that a jog would help me to breathe and take my mind off of things.  I did a 5min warm-up, then jogged for 25 minutes straight, followed by another 5min cool down.  Yay me.  I really did it.  And it did help me to breathe (for that half hour, anyway).

Hello C25K week 7.

And then I curled up in fetal position in my kids’ bathtub and let tepid water rain on me while I cried.  (My big beautiful soaking tub doesn’t have a shower, and I had a strong urge to curl up fetal and be rained on.  I don’t know why, I just did.  And the kids are gone, so I could.)

~*~*~

The police were interested in my video footage, and a digital forensics detective came to my house to work with me to retrieve the evidence.  How CSI.  (I want to use an exclamation, “How CSI!” but I can’t muster it, except in reference.)  It took some coordination, because I happened to have had a very full workload this week, coupled with the flu-like symptoms that were kicking my @$$, as well as all the other bulleted items (see above).  It did feel good to be able to help, and it gave me a pleasant sense of community.

~*~*~

My sister told me she had a dream in which I whispered in her ear that I got the house.

~*~*~

I got the house.

~*~*~

I was serene at first (see bullets), then lost it amidst the fray of details that accompany real estate purchases, compounded with the hovering anxiety (see bullets), burglary (see bullets), and the passing of my father, in addition to that which is my life, i.e, commitments to my job, the demands of he who is two, and the challenges of he who is six.

I don’t actually have the house.  I have a verbal agreement via the chain of agents representing me, the seller and the seller’s bank that the seller’s bank will accept my offer.  My part is signed, and the ball is in motion.

Someday I may write about how it is perfect for me.  It’s small but it’s big.  It’s old but it’s new.  It’s Asian but it’s American.  I can look out any window and see salt water, trees and sky.  It speaks to me.  It’s meant to be.  It will be.

~*~*~

Some day, not too far hence, I will be able to look back on this time.  By then, these things that are closing in on me now will all be taken care of.  But in the next few days my siblings and I have to make our best guess at figuring out my dad’s last wishes, take care of his body, arrange a funeral, contact his siblings and friends, write and publish an obit, look for  a university or other appropriate place for his extensive library, and start to settle his estate.  Also in the next few days I have to choose a lender and commit to a mortgage and proceed with the remaining details of my real estate transaction.  Later I will have to get the new house ready, pack up and move my household, find a reliable renter for the house I live in now, find a good daycare for my children, and enroll my six year old son in school.  (Amidst all this there are plans to travel to Idaho to attend a 30 yr high school reunion, travel to Oregon for my niece’s wedding, travel to Oklahoma to visit my mom, grandma, and aunt, and travel to Arkansas to visit a friend. –This was going to be the summer to see everyone, and I was going to introduce my boys to their grandfather.  We were even planning to make the trip during our first available weekend, which might have been next weekend.  Alas.)

Things will settle.  By September, the bulk of these matters will be a thing of the past.  Today, this moment, it seems overwhelming and I’m exhausted (can’t breathe, can’t sit, can’t focus, see above).  I know we will all get through (barring the end of the world tomorrow, that is).

Right now, I just want to be alone, eat kimchee and rice, and say goodbye to my dad.

I’m grateful that I can be alone, this day of all days.

Facebook is great for rediscoveries.  I recently stumbled upon one of my very first boyfriends.  We were so young — back then when going together meant sitting next to each other in the lunch room, or secretly holding hands on the band bus, en route to an event.

teenage awkwardness

Teenage antics.  There was a dance called the ‘morp’ – the opposite of ‘prom’ – in which roles were reversed and the girls asked the boys .  I wasn’t planning on going, and at the last minute, my girlfriends said they were going, so I decided to jump on the bandwagon and find a companion so I could go too.  I ambushed this poor boy with my invitation, after school on the day of the dance.  I was a sophomore, he was a senior.  I think he was stunned, but he agreed, and barely had time to rush home, take a shower, and return.  I don’t think we’d spoken a word to each other prior to the ambush, and we may have barely exchanged a word throughout the entire dance.  In fact, I might have actually ignored him completely, and hung out with my girlfriends.

And that is where we began.

puppy love

We never actually went out, other than the morp and the prom.  We were kids, poor, living out in the country in different directions from town, with very little freedom to wander.  But we were an item for that school year, and we’d sit next to each other in front of our lockers, and hang out whenever we could.  It was so sweet and innocent.  We were so sweet and innocent.

I’ve always had fond memories of that year; that chapter of my life.  I was coolly pragmatic, though, and when graduation time arrived, I let him go, broke his heart, and didn’t look back.

Through the years I’d wonder about him, off and on.  In my early twenties I heard through the grapevine that he had kidney troubles and might not have long to live.  I remember it was hard to hear that sort of thing, and I felt guilty for dropping him like a bucket of hot rocks and leaving him to pick up the pieces of his shattered heart and somehow patch them back together again.  I couldn’t process the thought of death at that time, so I did the cowardly thing and put my head in the sand, and went on with my life.

Thirty years passed.  The world wide web arrived, opening the floodgates for rediscovery.

Wonder of wonders, he survived the kidney failure(s) and is alive!  And not only that, he lives relatively nearby.  I apologized for my youthful cruelty, he graciously let bygones be bygones, and we arranged to meet, to catch up on the last three decades.

There is something warm and comforting about reconnecting with childhood friends.  We shared those formative years, and perhaps the bond feels tighter because we grew up in such a small town where everybody knew everybody.  It was a sweet reunion.  As adults, we live out of the hub in opposite directions, just like when we were kids, only the hub is much larger and the distance is much further.  We met in the city and walked arm in arm along the downtown streets and talked for hours.  We stopped for coffees, got drenched in the rain, stepped around puddles, and strolled and talked and talked and strolled.  We shared our stories of our families and friends, and reminisced about the innocence of youth.  Every now and then we’d giggle over catching glimpses of our childhood selves in expressions that crossed our aged faces.  We walked and talked the night away.

It was just what the doctor ordered.  I’m inspired to reconnect with more of my childhood friends, and awaken more fond memories.

I learned to juggle when I was eight years old.  We lived in Cambridge, England, that year, and some of the other kids would juggle two balls against the wall or in the air during recess.  I was intrigued, and gave it a go.  There’s a certain cadence, rhyme and reason to juggling.  It’s a learned skill, and some are naturally better at it than others.  I was fairly good at the two ball juggle.  I can even do it with one hand.  I’ve tried to add a third ball to the mix, off and on through the years, but never got the hang of it.  Once that ball was introduced, control was quickly lost, and the balls would tumble to the ground.

Sometimes it seems as though my life is like a juggling act.  Working and mothering.  These two things I can manage.  They are sustainable, and I can keep things going, more or less.  It’s not always smooth or with perfect rhythm, but I can generally keep it together.   A pattern seems to be emerging, in which the addition of a relationship is akin to trying to add that third ball.  I haven’t gotten the hang of how to adjust the rhythm, and sooner or later I get stressed out, start to compromise things, my mental and emotional states spin off into the ether, and everything falls apart until I can gather things together and get the rhythm going again.

I admire those kids you see playing that complicated jumping rope game in which two ropes are spun in opposite directions, one clockwise, one counterclockwise, and the kids line up, catch the rhythm, and jump in.  It’s so smooth, so perfect.  They blend, in what looks like effortless motion.  They skip and dance and sing.  It’s a beautiful thing to behold.  I wish relationships could blend so harmoniously, so smoothly.  For me, trying to have a relationship is about as successful as me trying to jump into one of those rope skipping games.  One step and I’m tangled completely, trip, and fall unceremoniously, possibly hurting others in the tumble, after which I have to pull myself together, apologize for the damage I’ve done and the trouble I’ve caused, scrape the dirt from my wounds, and hobble off to some safe place where I can regroup and heal.

The winds of change are always blowing
And every time I try to stay
The winds of change continue blowing
And they just carry me away

As I was driving home this evening, the thoughts milling about my mind converged upon an association, and the sound of Julio Iglesias and Willie Nelson singing “To All The Girls I’ve Loved Before” surfaced.

I consider myself “serially monogamous”. I don’t really know how to date, and I’ve written quite a bit about my frustrations with the singles and dating scene this year. In retrospect, as the year comes to a close, I can say that I gave it a valiant effort!

I’ve met someone who gets me. We fit. So I’m settling in to this state of togetherness.  Separate togetherness.  There are logistics to be addressed, after all.  Single mom raising two young boys.  Single dad raising one young girl. Different towns, different schools, different daycares, different schedules.  Similarly uncooperative exes…    It’s glorious, though, this being understood bit.  It’s a connection in which it feels as though we’ve known each other all along, so the actual physical introduction is anticlimactic.  Hello there.  Oh, there you are! It’s beautiful, really.

So, with all this new found peace on the love front, there is the jumble of this year’s escapades still milling about my mind a little, and I’d like for it to all sort and settle.  Hence, the emergence of Julio and Willie.

I never really dated, in life.  I just went from long term relationship to long term relationship.  My bad.  Even so, having spent the better part of a year dating, it’s a major culture shock for me, and it’s hard to sort it all out.  I never really knew how to be ‘casual’ with people.  It’s contrary to my nature.

I’ve started a mental recap, with the help of Julio.  My poor brain is jumbled and confused.  I have a fantastic love to focus on, but I have these threads that need to be put kindly away in their respective resting places.  How do I sort them out?  I don’t want them emerging to distract or confuse me.  And they don’t distract or confuse me in the sense that there is any interference with the relationship I’m nurturing, but in the sense that phasing from one person to another is something that has been done over the span of years in times past, but in days or weeks or months this year.  It’s a lot to process.

Like Salieri said, too many notes!  My poor brain.

~*~*~*~

the fish, the frogs, the toads, and the prince

In the course of 11 months, I’ve met a dozen men, and kissed most of them (all but two).  Shhh, there were even a couple of one night stands in the mix.  Not my thing, not my intention, but it is what it is, or, more accurately, it was what it was.  Not a whole helluva lot.  Ho hum.  Live and learn. And for all the men I’ve met, there were dozens more that I didn’t meet.

It’s not that they are fish, frogs, or toads, really.  Most of them are genuinely great guys, and it’s heartening to know that there are so many truly nice men out there.  We just don’t fit.  Misfits.  Except the prince, that is.  We fit.

• the gangster trucker (fun, controlling, alpha male, but still friends, after all)
• the electrician boat enthusiast (a sweet man, truly, but scattered; it seemed like we connected, but didn’t, if that makes any sense)
• the industrial maintenance guy with the permanently attached bluetooth headset (moody, controlling, and WTH is up with the headset?)
• the Irish road crew guy (such a funny and sweet man)
• the executive fish monger (more show than go, a disappointment, all told)
• the geek sailor (an inexplicable friend)
• the metrosexual designer (sweet, funny, kind)
• the geek viking body builder (fun, nice, thoughtful, kind)
• the musician (sweet, caring, good)
• the taco restaurateur (nice, sweet, fun, good)
• the resonant nerd.  MY resonant nerd.  He would be the prince of the lot.

I’ve kissed as many men in one year as I have in my whole life combined.  It kind of messes with my head a bit.  I think time will take care of the sorting, and I am so relieved I have one, just one, to focus on completely.

Change We Must

… Spock, “Let That Be Your Last Battlefield,” stardate 5730.2 …