Still Hopeful

Last fall, I wrote about my new life, and how big life decisions influenced my state of mind, how I was taking up residence in Hopeful, Unincorporated.

Divorced life- divorced without the drama of infidelity or the tragedy of abuse, divorced only perhaps because of the realization that each was not whom we thought the other to be- is a state that I have found to be both profoundly satisfying (as I am now incredibly sure of who I am and what I want) and a good boost for my self-esteem.  Take, for instance the following text exchange with my friend Mrs. Hansen:

Mrs. Hansen: Question posed to Hansen children: Can you think of anyone to date Miss Rachel? Response from N: No and even if I could, she'd be way out of his league. J: She's too awesome to date anyone I know.

Me: And THAT is why they are my favorite kids. Those answers deserve pierogi.

Mrs. Hansen: N also added, "She can't date just anyone. We have to know he's a good guy that will treat her right." Smartest 11-year-old I know.

Big smile, warm fuzziness, and a contented feeling that I must be doing something right to get that sort of response from the children of my friends.

And yet.

I have spent almost every night the past year sleeping with a flannel pillow filled with feed corn; once zapped in the microwave for about four minutes, this pillow acts as a source of radiant heat for hours; the immediate hot heat fades through the night, replaced by the heat from my body. The weight of the thing- maybe five pounds- coupled with the slow, steady warmth lulls me to sleep, and acts as a sort of security mechanism for me.  The weight is also about the same as that of a partner's arm resting on your hip, or thigh, or between your shoulder blades while you both half-sleep, twisted in among blankets and bed clothes.

I write about this because divorced life- the other part, the part where your free time is filled with everything your ex never wanted to do, never could understand, never could grasp the importance of the things they rejected- is also incredibly lonely.

I have tried to ignore this part, hoping that it would go away, fade like the intense heat from my corn-filled pillow and somehow be magically replaced with a more mellow version of itself.

And yet.

I look at my family, my friends, people at the grocery store, the gas station, the mall. I contemplate the possibilities for a partner in this small community, in the realm of online dating services, or in a bar, or the grocery store, the gas station, the mall. I am at a bit of a loss as to how the juxtaposition of the happiness for my new freedom and the loneliness of my new freedom can coexist in my daily life without causing external conflicts beyond a knot of hardened steel between my shoulder blades.

"Loneliness adds beauty to life. It puts a special burn on sunsets and makes night air smell better," said Henry Rollins. He's got a point: loneliness certainly makes one aware of everything else around you, intensifies every part of your days. I understand the need for contemplation, meditation, solitude, quietness.  It's just that I think having someone to share those moments with- even if only in conversation after the fact- is what magnifies and intensifies those experiences.

My friends are trying to come up with possible dates, going so far as to help me compose "personal statements" for online sites. They toss names into our conversations, hoping that something will spark my interest, raise my eyebrows, make me say tell me more.

And yet. And yet. And yet, I remain unconvinced that My Best New Boyfriend will be the result of any of this requested meddling. I still want to believe that he'll just show up, I'll blink and look again, and say "Oh! It's you." That he'll have been here all along, waiting for me to turn around. That I'll wake up one morning and the flannel pillow will really be his arm. That the burning sunset will be something we can share.

Taking a cue from the quote above, I will try to remain in a place where possibilities are more prominent in my thoughts than not, and I will try to remain open to new experiences; I will remain ready for unexpected suggestions, and I will remain content with being alone (if only for a while longer) here in Hopeful, Unincorporated.

The Physics of Water Displacement, or Why I Now Love Swimming

In my last post, I wrote about 2012 being my Year of Trying New Things ; one New Thing I have a love/hate relationship with is swimming. Yep. Since before Christmas, I've been dragging myself out of bed and off to the pool at our local YMCA for what my friend Fast Jessica has dubbed "Master's Swim." Mondays and Wednesdays, I'm in the pool for 5:30 am.


A couple of things here: 1) I hate getting up early, especially during the Winter when my bed is warm, and the pool is...not; 2) Ugly one piece swim suit + pasty Winter skin + jiggly body parts; 3) As a Sagittarius (fire sign), I'm instinctively cautious around water. I like water, but I don't like water, you know? 4) New commitments are scary.


So I'm getting ready to head to the pool the other morning, and I'm really just not feeling it. I'm in the middle of testing students at work (read: 12 hour days), and I've been battling a persistent cold for over a week; both of these factors make ignoring the 5 am alarm pretty tempting. Not. Even. Motivated. One. Bit. UGH.


But I've made a commitment to myself and the other Master Swimmers (bt dubs, "master" just means "adult"- I am quite clearly a novice) to be there. Accountability, right? I follow as much of the posted workout as time allows, swapping things like 4 X 100 breast stroke for kicking, breathing, and pulling drills. Mojo still under the blankets, I go anyway.


I make my way from the locker area to the showers to the pool, grabbing a kick board and pull buoy on my way to my lane, when I notice something new by my fellow swimmers' lanes: swim fins. See #4 on that list above. I try to ignore them, but Captain Andy explains the sizing system and the benefits of incorporating them, and points to the sets he thinks will be my size. Um, thanks? 


I grab the fins, and set them at the pool's edge with my other equipment. I get in the pool and get through the warm up and the first drill of the workout. The second drill involves the fins. Up until this point, I was hardly what you could call "engaged" with this workout. I was putting in the time, padding my workout log, helping heat the pool with my body warmth. Also, I was nervous.


Swim fins? I still have to talk myself through breathing while swimming, and these guys want me to try fins? In my head, I likened "me + fins" to "new driver + Porsche 911": we aren't ready for each other yet. If my palms were sweaty from the anxiety, I'm thankful no one else was the wiser. I put on the fins, and make a remark about how goofy they look. Deep breath in, and...I. Am. Flying.


Really and truly, all of a sudden I was Dara Torres . I stopped at the end of my lane and said, "WOW!" Out loud, even, because there was that much of a difference. Swim fins = Porsche 911. Giant smile. Before I have to leave, I finished what I could of the workout in a totally different state of mind than when I started. All of the anxiety about trying something new was gone. Thank you, Swim Fins! I love swimming!


And isn't that how life is sometimes? Even though we may say we're committed to trying new things- even verbalizing our intentions- we sometimes struggle with follow through. Even when we are presented with an unexpected tool to help us move forward, we still resist. That day at the pool, the swim fins were my helping hands (or feet?) in sticking it out ; my resistance was literally erased by embracing something new rather than pushing it aside and saying, "I'm not ready."


New Year + Trying New Things = New Outlook. New blog post to follow soon.  In the meantime, I'll see you at the pool.

2012: The Year of Trying New Things

...my resolutions will be manageable and relevant...my resolutions will be manageable and relevant...my resolutions will be manageable and relevant. That was the thought going through my head last night as I drove home from Fast Jessica's house, sober and happy to have spent the evening with friends who seem like family.  Not that my goals last year were not either of those things, but clearly they weren't relevant enough to stay in the forefront of my mind, and thus be checked off the list (learn to play golf, I'm lookin' at you!).

For 2012, I have decided that this shall be the Year of Trying New Things. Notice that I didn't "resolve" to do anything in particular, but instead have only made the goal to try something new. Doing so everyday is pushing it, but I'm pretty sure that I can manage to give new experiences a chance, however they present themselves.

Some of the "new things" I'd like to try do include past (failed) resolutions- like learning to play golf- because I see these things as relevant to opening more doors, presenting more opportunities for personal growth, creating more happiness in my life. And who doesn't want to be happier?

I'm excited and anxious to see what 2012 will bring my way. I'm hoping to be more fit, more spiritually centered, and more open to things than I have been in the past.  Not gonna lie, 2011 was a very trying year for me. I like to think that I came out of it a stronger person, and that whatever struggles I faced weren't obvious to those around me; that I was able to walk down my path with grace and unselfishness; that I was somehow helpful to others- in some way, in some little way, in any way- who may have had their own struggles in 2011. I hope I was able to give guidance without being asked to, and only to have led by example, not succumbing to pettiness, sadness, fear, or ignorance.

I hope that when people think of our shared encounters from 2011, they smile and hope for more of the same in 2012. I know I do.

So to my loyal baker's dozen readership (and anyone else reading this), I wish you all a happy and healthy New Year filled with the love of your family, visits with old friends, new experiences, and growth beyond your expectations.

Balance

As I was walking through the airport the other day, I spotted an older couple- maybe mid-to-late-70's- holding hands and talking about the different sights the airport had to offer; I was immediately struck with one thought:

I want that.

I want someone who will hold my hand in the airport when I'm wrinkly. Because they want to hold my hand. Because maybe I need them to hold my hand. As I watched this couple interact, it occurred to me that one of two things could be at play: 1) this couple wanted to hold each other's hands as a sign of affection, or 2) this couple was holding on to each other for balance.

And then this thought struck me: "balance" in more ways than one. Physical balance, yes, like "I'll help you balance so you don't fall and break a hip." But also (and maybe more importantly) balance as in yin to yang, salt to pepper, butter to bread. Balance, Jerry Maguire-style: "You complete me."

So often our struggles are about how we will get from Point A (here and now) to Point B (where we'd like to be, like to have, like to accomplish), and we don't stop to factor in balance. Ignoring the need for balance in our lives can have awful consequences, though. We can lose touch with our friends, children, partners, ourselves. We can forge ahead with our A-to-B plans, and even meet those goals, but at what price? Are we able to maintain balance? Who is holding our hand?

It was my birthday when I wrote this post in my hotel room, and although I'd like to pretend otherwise, I had just realized/recognized the importance of having balance. It's more than finding time to help kids with homework, or having dinner with girlfriends, or going out on a date with someone you like, or squeezing in a workout before bed. It's about all of these, and none of these. It takes a village, right?

It has taken me all forty (!!!) of my years to get this far, and I'd like to extend a sincere thank you to everyone who has helped me find some semblance of balance.

Who is holding your hand? Go say "Thank you. I love you." Hold on, friends.

Annoyed, Defensive, and Relieved

In the past two weeks or so, I've been one bit annoyed, one bit defensive, and two bits relieved. Let me explain.

So, it's been almost a month since my last post, and you would think that I'd be swatting back men like flies from honey, what with those fairly easy rules for the guys to follow and my super hotness (Ha!). You would be wrong.

I personally don't think that I'm being all that particular with those "rules." My mother, on the other hand, is probably rolling her eyes upward and saying a little prayer for any future dates I may have; I'm told I've always been picky. And I can see where you might think I'm being overly choosy. Wait...no, I can't. I don't think I'm asking that much at all.

You see, I think that I have earned the right to be discerning, that I shouldn't have to "settle" or re-think and re-configure what it is, exactly, that I want from a relationship. I think that I have earned the right to be happy, using my own definition of "happy" and outlining my own parameters for a relationship. Which makes waiting for dates that much more annoying.

What's gotten me on my high horse? Talking to other people in my position, in similar geographic regions, with similar backgrounds. And this article certainly gave me tons to think about. I mean, you would think that with this "husband shortage" in the United States that I'd be willing to budge on some of those rules, that I'd be willing to look in unconventional places for dates (The grocery store! The Secretary of State's office!), and that I'd be willing to date a decent guy who just so happens to be down on his luck and living with his parents "until things turn around."

Again, you would be wrong. (There's the defensiveness I was talking about.)

One of the things that Kate Bolick writes about in the above mentioned article is the immaturity of men in my age bracket, that they are too willing to make do with less, that they can't be bothered to take the initiative, and they don't really see the value in trying so hard. At least that's what I got out of it. That, and how women are paving new roads for the way they'd like to live (like in that all-female apartment complex in Amsterdam), both with and without conventional relationships with men.

I, for one, like men. And I would like to find someone to share my time with. And I'm not about to "settle for Mr. Good Enough", even though I'm pretty sure I've suggested doing just that to at least one friend (and yes, she still talks to me).

Further, I think I need to clarify what it is, exactly, I'm looking for in a relationship: shared goals for the future; shared values; shared sense of optimism, but with a healthy dose of skepticism. Adventure. Romance. Companionship. FUN. Family. Friends. Food. Curiosity. Laughter. Sunshine. Rainbows. Unicorns.

Okay, I'm kidding about that last one. But Potential Prince Charming will spend hours with me dreaming up fantastical stories about those unicorns and making plans about what we'll do when I win the lottery. And if I could spend all of my free time with My Best New Boyfriend and our stories about unicorns and lottery winnings, well then I don't think I'd ever want to do anything else except maybe do all that with a thin crust cheese pizza and some cheap beer.

And since doing all that doesn't pay the bills around here, I'm two bits relieved that I still have a real job. But a girl can only entertain her fantasies for so long before she gets more annoyed or more defensive; and lest you think I'm one of those women who can smile and fake it...

...you'd be wrong one more time.

The Rules

And so it begins: my foray back into the dating world. It has been twenty-plus years since I've been on a date, and as a courtesy to 1) all the guys lining up to ask me out on dates *that was a joke*, and 2) my friends (hopefully) trying to set me up on dates, I've come up with a list of rules. Without further ado, and after Level One, in no particular order:

The Rules: Level One
Thanks to my friend, Bridgette, for this part of the list.

Any guy hoping to take me out on a date should:
1. have a mouth full of teeth.
2. have a full-time job.
3. not live with his parents.
4. have a sense of humor (but I'm not kidding about those first three rules).

Made it this far? Let's move on to Level Two.

Any guy meeting the Level One requirements can proceed with date plans if:
1. he is still considerably taller than I am even when I am wearing my highest heels.
2. he is at least as smart as I am; I don't want to date someone I have to explain a lot to.
3. he is social without being a party animal or bar fly.
4. he is a non-smoker.
5. he enjoys participating in physical activities that are not sex.
6. he thinks learning is a lifetime activity, not limited to "school years."
7. he is a smart dresser, and has an overall awesome sense of style.
8. he will indulge my inner fashionista with approving looks and compliments.
9. he recognizes that my pickiness extends beyond food and date choices.
10. he understands that no one can out-Martha Stewart me, except for Martha Stewart.

Still with me? You've reached Level Three, Potential Prince Charming.

My Best New Boyfriend will:
1. not buy me chocolate; he will be well-versed in my candy likes and dislikes. The list is long, friends. SO long.
2. understand that sometimes I can swear like a dirty, dirty sailor. Not usually done in public, though.
3. never interrupt a viewing of Project Runway, nor will he argue that Clinton and Stacey from What Not To Wear aren't my friends. Because, oh yes, they ARE my friends.
4. be kind and considerate and not afraid of a little PDA from time to time.
5. give awesome gifts. (Side note: one year for Christmas I received a box that contained a roll of toilet paper, a can of Lysol spray, and a bottle of raspberry-flavored vodka. The piece of paper inside the box said: "Thanks for putting up with my shit. The vodka is to help you forget." I am NOT making that up. Also, I hate raspberry-flavored vodka.)
6. give awesome back/shoulder/leg rubs without complaint, and with the right amount of pressure.
7. be well-versed in popular culture, will enjoy it, and will play bar trivia with me if that's what I would like to do.
8. will love music. Bonus points for being able to play a musical instrument. (However, if you are a "professional musician," you didn't even make it past Level One- why are you still hanging around? Unless you are my skanky boyfriend, Tommy Lee, in which case...)
9. understand that my friends are very much a part of whom I call "family," and that I love my family no matter how crazy they seem.
10. know that a room-temperature Coca-Cola Classic, Lay's Original potato chips, and pink-frosted Loft House cookies are the best & quickest way to my heart.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to go set up the velvet ropes for the masses. ;o)

Here We Go Again...

The past few nights I've had super clear dreams; the one last night had me waking up at 4 am, sweating up a storm (!!!).  Anyway, check 'em out:

Thursday night's dream starts with me walking down a street/city block.  It kinda looks like the downtown where I live now, but the sky is white, like a backdrop, and the whole place has the vibe of a movie set - or a cartoon storyboard- rather than an actual street.  I'm walking with someone (don't see who), when one of those Schwinn Sting Ray bikes zooms up to us out of nowhere and skids to a stop on the sidewalk, blocking our way.

The person riding the bike is none other than my high school friend, Teenie.  Her hair is kinky and wild, her eyes are wild, she is grinning wild and breathing hard.  She is wearing acid washed jeans, a hot pink long sleeved mock turtleneck top with a red boat-necked blouse over it; the red blouse has white paint splattered on it, like she was actually painting in it (not as a fashion statement), and the whole thing is cinched with a narrow white belt; her shoes are classic white Keds.  I look her up and down, and start chastising her:  "Oh, no.  This is all wrong. You can't go to work like this! You can't let your students see you like this!"  Teenie looks at me, still breathing hard, and shrugs "Why not?"  Me:  "You look tacky."  She shrugs again and starts riding her bike along side me & my still unknown companion. We end up at an outdoor wedding reception where my sister Megs shows up out of nowhere and asks me,"How do you like my dress?" I look at her, horrified, because it is a hot pink dress I wore as a bridesmaid back in the early 1990's:  puffy, shirred short sleeves; sweetheart neckline; fitted bodice with a "v" seam in front where it meets the full (but not puffy) skirt; the hem of the skirt is tea length in front, and full length in back.  Of course, there were Dyables shoes to match.  I look at my companion, and say "What the...???"  I never do see who my companion is.

Saturday night's dream followed a lovely evening at an Oktoberfest party.  The night was crisp, and quintessentially Autumnal.  I was home and in bed by midnight, but alas, my sweet slumber was interrupted by...another sex dream.

This is getting old. :o/

This one was pretty graphic, with actual nudity and everything. I do mean Everything. So, yes, I'm one of the naked people gettin' all jiggy with it, and I can see my partner from the start this time. The. Entire. Time. You guessed it: it's Shall Remain Nameless.
Whhooooaaaaaa, mama! I woke up physically sweating, saying out loud to myself, in the dark of my bedroom, at 4am, "That. Was. Intense." Phases of the moon? Phase of my life? A passing phase? Too much beer? I mean, I almost thought that it was a hot flash, but I'm still a bit young for those, and like I said:  IN-tensly realistic.

Guess what I'm going to do now? Yep: 1) check out what the color hot pink means in dreams, and 2) continue working on writing those sex scenes, since the dreams don't seem to be going away anytime soon.

Happy Fall, y'all.