Pedestal Fairies, You Got Wings. Go Fly.

Unlike a Girl, I don’t wish to be blonde, or taller. I don’t wish for my hair to fall the way that hers does, or have a flat stomach, bigger boobs, or skinny ankles… (ok, I’m lying, I. Want. Skinny. Ankles.)… I don’t compare relationships or furnishings or name-brand jeans. I’ve relinquished the need to have all the answers, or to make you see things my way. Unlike a Girl, I’m comfortable with transparency, even if you aren’t. In the ways that my heart is young, it has, as a Woman’s does, acquired the necessary walls and carefully maintains those worth keeping. As a woman, I’ve embraced the very real meaning behind “You’re not a little girl anymore.” I’ve embraced the real me. Now it’s time my Facebook friend does.

I was having a conversation with this friend last night, and although I appreciate his kind words, and the sincerity in which he says them, he’s actually created this person in his mind that is supposed to be me, but it’s not me. Instead she is a 20-something year old, smokin’ hot, Victoria Secret model that wears wings on her back, has a trunk load of emotional strength in reserve, never breaks down, can create World Peace, has a heart of gold, and, I imagine, speaks with a an endearing accent that, if you really listen to, probably slightly mimics the sounds of one with a severe speech impediment. That’s adorable. That’s not me. 

On listening to the advice from another friend, “Write, write, write, write… Be you and let the chips fall where they may…” I’m about to do that right now.

My conversation last night, and in retrospect, ALL previous conversations with this friend, seems to center around his complimenting my looks. …you look like your still in high school… you look barely old enough to be a mother, let alone a grandmother… you have a hot body…  you don’t have wrinkles, you don’t have gray hair… (That’s right, these pesky motherfuckers are deprived of color- they’re white).

These compliments may have been more believable about a year ago – well except for the ‘hot body’. There are hotter bodies out there, just look around. No wings on my back!! And seriously, you are not allowed to do this to me – don’t put me in some category that forces me to suck in, turn down, avoid and basically threaten my ego.  Some of us jiggle when we sneeze too hard. That’s it.

I hate hearing these things, especially when he says them while looking at a picture of me that has been blurred and contrasted and toned and layered with photo effects like squirrely things. “I’m looking at your picture.” IT’S BEEN BLURRED AND CONTRASTED AND TONED AND LAYERED WITH PHOTO EFFECTS LIKE SQUIRRLY THINGS.

And then there are the words of wisdom and pep talks …you’re a smart girl …you’re a survivor …you’re a strong woman and can get through anything …

I hate hearing these things, especially after I just spent the entire ride home, literally aching inside because my heart hurts, my ego hurts, my plan fell apart, I’m scared, I’m alone, and I am missing my mother’s couch – the one place that was the safest for me and it’s gone forever, for good, even though I need it, and now I have to somehow make my own safe place, without help, with no net, for my daughter. She needs a couch and I don’t have one. And I cry.

Friend from Facebook, please don’t talk to me as if you know me, who I am, what I’m capable of, how much I can handle and with what amount of grace I can do it with. We’re ONLY Facebook friends. You don’t know me. Don’t dismiss my flaws as if they are non-existent. They exist; the physical ones and the emotional ones. I’m okay with them. You should be too. They prove I’ve survived 45 years. Stop downplaying my problems for me. You make me mad when you look at me as that person in your head, the one that can bring about World Peace with her shiny armor. That’s not me. I can’t do that. I don’t want to do that. I’d rather vent and then eat chocolate. And please don’t tell me again that everyone has problems, everyone makes mistakes.

I know. I know. I know.

I. KNOW.

I’m not the only one with stuff, but if you ask me how I am or what’s happening in my life, then listen to me, or please don’t ask. It affects me emotionally, and I’m too emotional right now to handle it.

The real me  - well my feelings get hurt easily, I doubt my decisions, question my feelings, require validation and always need advice - real advice like let the chips fall where they may, channel your emotions, don’t be so hard on yourself, and put yourself first.

A year ago, plus the 8 or so before, I spent the better portion either in the gym or on my calculator calculating - calories in, calories out, calories left to play with. I worked out 2 to 3 hours a day, at least 5 days a week. I ran 6 nights a week, no less than 5 miles a run. I washed my car by hand. Unless I was buying ice cream, I walked to the store and back, no matter how many bags I had to carry. I carried a case of water for a mile and a half once. I climbed stairs, even if I wasn’t going up. I walked my dogs… individually. I weighed myself every morning as soon as I woke up and always in the buff. The scale was always placed in the exact same spot on the bathroom floor. I weighed 105 lbs., ninety of which were muscle. Thirteen percent body fat.

I also… came up with reasons why I couldn’t make Happy Hour. I pretend-ate birthday cake. I nursed lite beer. I stopped answering my phone. When I laid down, I’d feel for my hip bones, and I’d sigh relief when I felt them. I always looked at myself sideways in the mirror. I ate ONLY frozen yogurt and drank a tall, skinny Caramel Macchiato (twice a day) for an entire year – 580 calories. I pinched. I sucked. I saved all my big clothes because I wasn’t sure how long it would last. I gave up on God. I always felt guilty… about… everything. I never made decisions. Distrusted men.  Politeness took precedence over honesty. And I always acted like I knew what I was doing.

…and you think that person has wings on her back…

Today, January 31, 2013, I’ll happily (and proudly) agree that I don’t look my age. I’ll also cop to the following: I still nurse lite beers, I run as often as I can, I will skip ALL meals of the day and instead just eat a Cadbury Egg (plus… umm…  one?), I still feel for my hip bones when I lay down, I haven’t found God, I cry a couple times a week, I get pissed-off angry when I hear or read stories on infidelity, and I’m scared I haven’t prepared Haley well enough for motherhood.

But please don’t think for a minute that I THINK my life is over because of those things, or because I was cheated on or my daughter might go into labor while I’m STILL in Vegas or that I sent an email without a subject in the subject line … because as much as those are all stressors in my life, I’m pretty confident I’m not going to end it over any of those. Try saying “He lost the best thing he ever had” or “No cop will give you a speeding ticket when you tell him why you’re daring a road trip between Vegas and Phoenix in less than 3 hours.” Those would be good things to say. “It’ll be okay, honey, don’t worry, so what else is new in your life?” is not. When I complain or get emotional about things, don’t offer that crappy line “You can handle it.” I’m pretty sure I can. And I don’t have a choice, really. Either stop asking, or just offer your advice or your pep talk a little more SILENTLY. Accept my rants for what they are. Then accept me for who I am – someone without wings on her back … (but with lovely hip bones...) 

Before I get drunk in my sweatpants, let’s reflect

I’ve been blogging a lot lately on only two topics - Vegas and Richard (that’s code, get it?), and I promise this is the last time. After this, I will not publish any more stories about my horrible journey here in Vegas, or about a cheating man that got off Scott-free, minus a little damage to his $200 pair of shoes, or his beloved Mario Andretti-signed garbage, or his iPhone. I promise not to flood my blog with anymore sad stories told with Leona Lewis tunes playing in the background. You hear them, don’t you? Besides, what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas... and if he's smart, he won't show his face in Arizona. And I promise not to write on these topics because, after all, we all go through a bit of damaging, right? I'm no exception. A little bruising. Some scratches. Dents we don’t notice until you crank on the light and you realize motherfucker you hit me and you didn’t even leave a note of apology!? No more of these stories. I promise. (I think.)

But this last one is a must. I’ve done things this year that need reporting:

I moved. I explored a dream. I ate vodka-soaked gummi bears. I leaned on friends.  I became a grandmother. I ate vodka-soaked gummi bears. I Facebook stalked his women. I kicked my caffeine habit. I endured heartbreak. I revoked his privilege of knowing how I’m doing. I defined (and redefined) my standard of happiness. I was reminded of things I already knew, but apparently didn’t trust enough. I ate vodka-soaked gummi bears.

And I’ve learned things this year that need reporting:

No amount of crying or screaming will ever make you actually crumble. Screaming does make your windows rattle and your vocal chords bleed, and crying buckets does lead to a heavy aching of silence, but you do not crumble. Sometimes alcohol is the answer. So are endless miles of running, spray tans and Matlock. Call a spade, a spade. It’ll save you a lot of time. Do what you do best. Keep your standards. Don’t change for anyone. Don’t wear all the hats. Blog often. Delete friends. Have a tryst. Initiate. Spoon. Eat four desserts for lunch. Trust yourself. Meet someone new. Look for the story, wherever you are.

And I’ve lost things this year that need reporting:

My taste for gummi bears.

**************************

 

I’m headed back to Arizona and my blogging will be better because I’m a (FILL IN THE BLANK) kind of person. A couple things are inevitable this year: 1) My stories will evolve, 2) I'll have new people to talk smack about, 3) The temperature will hit 120 at least once and I'll want to complain, and 4) I'll pick someone up at the airport, flash him, and I'll have to tell you all about it. I predict these inevitables. And I predict this will be the last time I get drunk in my sweatpants. (I think.)

Girls, Girls, Girls ... and a Richard

I got some good advice today: "Write write write write.... Be you and let the chips fall where they may."

With that said, welcome to Open Letter Day.

Dear Jessica,
Have you told your husband yet? He deserves to know (but he doesn't deserve to find out the way I did). You are why women are called the C word.
Sincerely,
The Girlfriend Whose Bed You Fucked Him In

Dear Jessie (not to be confused with Jessica...),
He's a serial cheater. If you don't believe me, ask Jessica. (PS, your picture is not in his office because that's where he fucks them.)
Sincerely,
Someone Smarter Than You

Dear Leslie,
Just one question: Is my ex-husband all moved in and comfortable?
Sincerely,
Your Baby Sister

Dear Women,
Have you not heard of The Sisterhood? WTH? 
Sincerely,
An Ex Member

Ciao! Arrivederci! Au Revoir! I'M OUT!

I’ve lived in Sin City for 359 days WITHOUT a big fat eraser in my petite handbag.

Very. Challenging. 

T minus 16 days and it is crystal’ly clear to me that not all endings are happy. Sometimes they’re messy, sometimes they’re painful, and sometimes they’re down right nothing at all. Lucky for me, I’m leaving with my curls intact and smiling.

My days of living in a pristinely calculated vanilla world are over. Vegas taught me that this is no way to live, and I find it’s better this way. Life seems better living outside what I already know and living inside opportunities and observations. I’m sure y’all are wanting to read the safe stuff like “I’ve learned all these lessons” and look at me “I took chances and have no regrets” and “everything happens for a reason.” Not uber-excited over announcing those things.

What I can announce are the more interesting, mildly amusing things that have brilliantly come into light in the past 359 days, like, I’ve only gotten a car wash once in a year, I have a strange attraction to Criss Angel (I’m convinced he’s truly magical), and blue men terrify me.

I can also report that I am single handedly making a life after a string of disappointments, which, coincidentally, is contributing to my writer’s block. My life is on the upswing now and it seems my wit and dry humor that I write with comes much, much easier when life is brutal and boys are jerks.

Wait, retract  – I am not single-handedly doing anything; I am doing this with the support of some very, very dear friends! (Two VERYs and you know I mean business)

Winnie, John, Margaret and Nick – I am one lucky girl. You are 4 very amazing people, and you are “the real ones” in my life.  Saying thank you simply isn’t enough, but “Thank You” …because that’s all there is… that, and making a life.

The moment you realize you're going to get over him... Priceless!

I'm thinking of changing the name of my blog to something like "The Problem With Boys" or "Love Made Me Crazy." Or maybe I'll write a book... dun dun dunnn!

That's right, there's been a breakup. The breakup occurred between a dirty, sneaky, immoral, unfaithful, poorly-endowed slimeball ... and myself.

(Like how I did that??)

I've been on the fence about writing this post. On one hand, giving him air time sends the wrong message. One might infer that I am pining and bitter and... and... and sad. Airing his dirty secrets can seem childish and immature, too. But on the other hand, crying in the bathroom at work is the world's worst cry!

I would love to say that our time together was heaven on Earth, but that would be a lie. It was more a mixture of heaven and hell, with hell increasingly butting into heaven’s time as the months progressed. Loving him was work, and only someone with as dysfunctional a childhood as my own could have possibly held on as long as I did. But throughout it all, this man became my advice giver, my confidante, my music suggester, candy supplier, my biggest critic, and my biggest supporter.

And then came the regrettable behavior. Mine. I gave him a second chance.

**************

The question I've been asking myself is how long do I get to be mopey and get sympathy before I'm just mopey and a loser? If you ask me, I've gone through the stages of breakup in record-breaking time: 31 days. 

Stage 1: Denial
(I don't have much to say about this stage. I was busy drinking and lying.)

Stage 2: Anger
Anger is the Mr Clean Magic Eraser for feelings. I say that about electric shredders, too. Although hitting the delete button on my computer would be more impressive, the shredder makes noise, like its angry too!

Stage 3: Bargaining
I completely skipped bargaining and went straight for the next stage. It's really comfortable there in the pit of fleece and cheez-it powder.

Stage 4: Depression
I stopped wearing the good panties. I used a sick day at work. I had iTunes opened constantly. Note to self: unless it's in a song, telling a boy you can't breathe without him might be just a tad creepy...

Stage 5: Acceptance
Wait, what? I thought Stage 5 was a repeat of Stage 2. My bad.

**************

Five years from now, when I see him randomly on the street, I’ll silently thank the universe before I run him over with my car.

(By the way, your stuffed chicken sucks!)