Dissecting just got ugly

I’m going to save a life today. I’m leaving it in the hands of the universe to direct me on how best to do this. But in the meantime, while I’m waiting, I’ll tell you a story.

I woke up this morning feeling sweaty and panicked. Last night, I dreamt I was lost. I couldn’t find my way back to my room. I think I was in college and on my way to class when I realized I left my books in my room… in the dorm?! The hallways all looked alike – which, by the way, was set up like a mall – and the desperate race against a ticking clock triggered a delusional “I’m losing” feeling; I needed to get what I needed and to get back to where I needed to be before I was out of time. All of this is quite bizarre. You see, I’ve never lived in a dorm. I was pushing an empty baby stroller. All the doors in the mall were made of glass, and all the beds that I could see through the glass doors were California King’s with red bedspreads. 

I dissected this dream before my Keurig shut off.

To dream that you can’t find your way home means you’ve lost faith and belief in yourself. It can also signify a major transition, or that you’ve lost direction or sight of your goals. To see glass in a dream symbolizes protection, putting up an invisible barrier to protect yourself. Red is an indication of courage, impulsiveness and passion. Books in a dream… well let’s just say it represents my need to be writing more. An empty baby carriage indicates an unfulfilled goal.

With all of that said, today is New Year’s Eve. That means New Year’s Resolutions, which I’ve never been good at. Every New Year I want things to change drastically that I can’t even imagine what resolutions are required in order to make this dangerous and irrevocable leap.

New Year’s Eve 2014. I am completely lost and frustrated with jobs, relationships, family, goals, cars, traffic, my iPhone 4, variations of the ever-boring plank…

But I’ve decided, just by writing this blog that the first change I am going to make in 2015 is to write more. I will write every day – till my head hurts. I will write until I can’t write anymore, then I’ll write 10 more pages. I won’t care (in the beginning) whether people read what I write, I’m going to write anyway. This will be for me. I will write on all sorts of topics, from how yoga humiliates me to how we are degenerating as a country. Eventually I’ll want to write stories that people care about – like how I saved a life today (just waitin’ on the universe). But right now, this is my first order of business.

The second order, well, to find my way out of the mall. 

Happy New Year, friends! May you all feel the warmth of love and happiness each and every day throughout the new year – especially on cold days.

Am I there yet? How long is this escapade going to last?

I have an overwhelming and painful urge to eat a 3-pound bag of peanut butter M&Ms. If I don't give in, I'll get this blog written. 

I am knee-deep in writing a book. 

Well... it's more like an outline. And maybe just up to my ankles. Or one ankle. 

This is lonely shit. Writing a book-slash-outline has to be the loneliest job, and it's an immense amount of work. I give props to my author friends that have been successful, have published, and still have their hair. Right now, my book is a lifeless bunch of ideas until the moment it isn't - and as a writer, I am hoping that moment comes. It's as if I can smell the book before I can see it. I know it's in me; I just need to write until I find it. I'm not entirely sure if I'm intuitive or irrational, or even if those things are different. I just know I can't drag this book into existence; it has to drag me. 

Step 1: open a Word doc

Step 2: give it a name

Step 3: eat the M&Ms 

Words of encouragement are welcomed. NO, REALLY. I'm begging. 

I accept white - especially on my wall

I’m in this funk, and I’m not exactly sure why – or even if it’s legit. As a writer, you’d think I’d see opportunity. I mean, a funk to a writer simply fills our arsenal with a ton of literary genius that quite possibly sells a million copies and wins the Pulitzer, right. Instead, I have to analyze the heck out this funk, this … thing …

Is it real? Am I making it up? Do I even have a right to be in a funk? I’m not dying, homeless, hungry; I’m not poor, abused or in jail. I can’t even remember the last time I cut myself shaving. What is my problem, and how dare I feel bad. I have a job. I have a roof over mine, and Haley and Marley’s heads. I have a serious stash of Pumpkin Spice m&ms, and let’s face it, I can’t remember the last time I cut myself shaving.

Well, it turns out today was a fine day for an epiphany. I’ve had one or two over the course of my lifetime, but this one was the most heart wrenching of the three. (Wow, once I put the total count in black and white, it’s almost funk-worthy in itself the serious lack in divine manifestation that I’ve had. I mean, just three?!? Holy Jesus, no wonder I don’t know shit.)

I am a series of contradictions. It starts with how I live.

I don’t allow myself to attach to ‘things’. I don’t. Things come and go. You have them then you lose them. You want them so you compromise something to have them. Then you lose them. Nothing comes and stays, except the expectations, obligations, and the awkward dependency. Things are objects that, in certain instances, can attach to emotions. I don’t need to look at a table and remember, “Oh, that’s the table that I dropped dad’s glass of wine on and it shattered and dripped on to the carpet and he turned into one angry Aztec God on me.”

Things clutter my life and they can very easily misdirect me most of the time. 

But things look nice on the wall.

Then the contradiction moves into my heart.

Men. Maaaannnn… men.

I watched my dad die and with his very last breath, he kissed my mom. It is the one time, in my lifetime, that has left me breathless. I want that. I want to love that man that much that I am willing to give my last breath to him in a kiss. I know this man exists, because if he doesn’t, that would be terrible and I don’t want to think about it, but, like things, men come with expectations and obligations and dependency; compromise is a given, and often one-sided, as well as trust and honesty. Let’s add monogamy in there, shall we. If he’s the right man, then [most of] that list is worth it, but if he’s not, and what if he’s not? Why take the chance? Why not take the chance. Why? Why not. Why? I could do this all day.

He might look nice on the wall.

Let’s move on. Why has the goal in life been to be smarter and funnier and more successful tomorrow than today? Why do I work so hard at making more money? Why do I care about living in a nicer house in a nicer neighborhood, or driving a car that has two working headlights? Why develop that cure for cancer? Extreme, I know, but stay with me for a minute. In the end, I will die.

I. Will. Die.

It’s bound to happen. Everyone is going to die, even the person that is cured from cancer will eventually die – not from cancer, I get it, but death is death is death is death. Why do I go through all this, why is my attention focused on being better, getting better, wanting better – more school to become smarter, work longer hours to be more successful, work harder to make more money, when in the end, after spending all those moments in a classroom, in an office, in Firestone, I am going to die. Moments spent that way shouldn’t matter that much to a person… to me. That cliché, there is only one happiness in this life, to love and be loved, is spot on. When I die, that is what will matter. When I die, if those things left in my house mean more to Haley than the love I had for her, then I messed up. Why can’t I just sit down and not want more, not feel guilty about not wanting more, and not feel lazy for not going after more? I mean, what’s wrong with a little white space on the wall?

Plenty of Fish. (more like a school of Mr Limpet's)

No, I didn’t accidently take the same medication twice. What I’m talking about is real science! Real science, people!

Believe me when I tell you it wasn’t my idea to take to the internet to find dates; it was my friends. But to be honest, anything sounds better than sitting at home, waiting for the perfect guy to fall through my ceiling and land on my couch. That’s just magical thinking, and who believes in magic? I believe in revenge. I believe in germophobia. I believe in laser hair removal. I do not believe in magic.

So I'm on the internet. It worked for my friend, plus the advertisement says I'm next!

The first step to finding Mr. Right is to fill out my profile. Now I admit I’m getting old, but I think I’ve done a pretty good job holding on to my “cool” quotient. I look completely normal, I have all my teeth, no pronounced facial scabs, and my manners are totally a cut above any African dictator who uses skulls for candlesticks. I should be good. This should be easy. 

And it was. It was very simple. In fact, the first thing that popped into my head is exactly what went down as my profile.

That was a bad move. I should’ve put more thought into it.

My profile (teaser campaign) reads [unchanged] something to the effect of: I prefer to spend my time outdoors, I believe that some micron of the universe will shift if I concentrate hard enough, I laugh in the face of ruthless 193 degree temperatures, I choose ninjas over pirates, and I enjoy smiling. I believe I also mention that I hate folding laundry, I'm Under 5 Feet Tall, my interests, among other things, includes chocolate and I have a car.

Within minutes of publishing, I had a string of at least 30 emails from fish. I don't know how it happened. Looking back, thinking I can shift the universe is a bit weird.

I’m going to speed ahead and ramble off a few of the User Names and Tag Lines that I’ve received messages from: NothingFishyAboutMe, Looking4the1, OnlyWantsToMeetYou, GetsItDoneAndFun, ImYourDreamDoctor, HammertimeHandyman, FromTh3Lotus, Mircleman, ChillyWilly2014, Deuceman, UWished4Me, BarneyStinson70, EpicDreamDoctr. I'm not making these up.

Some of the usernames were borderline offensive. Others, well it's clear they have not yet conquered the pinnacle of adulthood. 

Their profiles. My thoughts.

·         Please do not put down Athletic Body Type just because you wear Nike’s

·        If you describe yourself as a Class Clown, you now have a reputation

·         Your interests and hobbies should not include Internet Dating

·        Under the fill-in-the-blank “I am seeking a…” the answer should read “woman.” Don’t be creative here. Seriously. Stop.

·        Photos. Don’t post memes. Post photos. Don’t post photos of your feet buried in sand. Don’t post photos of you and three other guys and make me guess which one is you. Don’t post a photo of a body of water with the caption “I’m a fish in the big open sea – come catch me.” Just. Post. A. Picture. Of. Your. Face. Period.

Now let’s talk about the actual profile.

·         If your profile is more than three paragraphs, I'm skipping words and just trying to get to the end. If it’s seven paragraphs, I've screen shot you and you're now viral.

·         “I can think outside without a box; I don’t need a box to think outside of, especially if the box is outside of what needs to be thought of in this world that many of us put in a box.” What? WHAT? Just tell me, do you like to hike?

·        I would never be so arrogant as to have a shopping list of qualities. Evidently, men think it’s the way to go.

·         If your profile reads anything close to “You are (insert that long shopping list)” then I’m writing back and I’m telling you exactly what I think you are.

I need a moment … yes, I’m about to go on a flaming tantrum.

I have read profiles that go on and on with pointless details, details that give it all away. I know everything from the first concert you saw when you were nine to what kind of bread you buy at the store. You not only tell me who you are and where you’re from, but you tell me what you like to do and how you do it. You tell me how you act, what you eat, how you breathe, the brand of underwear you buy, it goes sock, sock, shoe, shoe, and the TP roll to goes under (wrong, it goes over). You make it clear that you will not be a Sugar Daddy... jeSUSSS!!!... Moreover, that you don’t like drama. Really? I thought everybody liked drama. Now I know you don’t. Then your profile tells me who I am and how I act. You tell me what I look like, how I think, what I do for you, what I do in my spare time, how I glow like the moon, or is it the sun, either way, for you I’m bouncing from the horizon in my perfectly fit body that participates delightfully in public displays of affection while being independent, funny, kind-hearted, tan, tall, not too tall, not too tan, soft spoken, smart as a whip, quick witted, I laugh at myself, I have a perfect driving record. I’m also a free thinker, an adventurer, I smell like lilacs in the spring on my worst day, have no ties, no drama, no bad days, no spinach in my teeth, I can turn rubbish into gold, I wear sparkly lipstick, and I accept you as you are – flaws and all. Well how lucky are you?

Does this mean hookers that pee in the open need not message you?

Moving on to the Messages. Here’s a couple:

“Aren’t you a sexy little chickie that I would love to squeeze.”

“Exactly how many times in your life have you met up with both a pirate and a ninja and you’ve had to choose between the two? I’m very curious. But if this is the standard of “cool” than I think I will have to choose Fonzie, after all he could make music play from a jukebox with one slam of a fist. To continue with my rant (which is meant to double as being flirtatious), what do you suppose the Japanese would say if the local ninja showed up with wrinkled tights and head wrap? I would like to think he irons before he goes out. Now I do believe we have a few commonalities. You like chocolate and my mother is from Belgium. Also, I think we… um… well, did I mention the chocolate thing? So tell me, what do you write? How much Under Five Feet are you. Did you go to summer camp as a little girl? I hope to hear from you. Eugene.”

“J”

“I’m John.”

“I like your First Date idea. So what time should I pick you up?”

“Please post more pictures. I’m very successful and enjoy where I am in life. I do not need a woman to make me happy, especially one that comes with drama, as most of you do. I am also someone that is very big into communication – real communication. I know this an unknown concept to most women, but if you try it, you may find it works. I’m looking for a commitment. The word is in the dictionary, although 90% of women have no clue what it means. I am never on this site as I have a very busy life and do not spend much time obsessing on the computer. Email me at xxx.xxx. Talk soon.”

“You have a great smile. I’ve been looking for someone like you for a long time.”

Ready for the cool part of my story? The part where I tell you how some of my dates went? YES, I actually went on a few.

First date. Tom. The plan was to meet for a drink. Little did I know the restaurant that he chose was the restaurant he and his ex-wife ate at every Friday? I listened to all the cool stories about the meals they shared. He told me about the games they played, such as he would tell her to pick out one man in the restaurant that she would go home with, not tell him which man she chose, and he would try to guess. Then it was his turn and she would have to guess which woman he was secretly lusting to go home with??? His nostalgic emotional attachment was… well it was downright disturbing. The “game”… even more disturbing.

Second date. Steve. The plan is to meet for a drink. He’s late. Turns out, he had to fit in a yoga class first. He was feeling fat.

Third date. Lainn. Well this date went pretty well and the few others that came after. Then I got the phone call.

Wait for it…

“Hey, it’s Lainn. I just wanted to tell you that I really like you. I have a great time with you. I’m very attracted to you and I want to see you again, but I want to be upfront about something. I’m probably not going to fall in love with you – I’m just not getting that with you – and I’ll date other women still. But if you’re okay with it, than I would really like to see you again.”

***

 I believe in romance and love and connection and that whole "soul mate" thing. I believe amazing magical things can happen over plates of gnocchi and bowls of frozen yogurt, but I also believe there are some strange fish out there with a messed up idea of how this whole thing should work. This is a message to men: I understand you have this ideal woman in your head – what she looks like, how she acts, how she makes you feel – but that kind of woman only exists in a country song. We don’t all dance barefoot in the kitchen, and if some of us do, we might dance like a white girl and you need to be prepared when you see this. Not all of us turn heads while wearing t-shirts and ball caps. Some of us need 12 minutes in a tanning booth and that sparkly pink lipstick. And women, your message is to not fall for cheesy pick-up lines or the first email you receive. There’s a man out there that will go to war for your heart. Wait for him.

While science and formulas and matching interest for interest sounds good, in my opinion, it’s really just a theory. For some it works. For others it pushes us into Email War as we defend all of our species from the attacks of jerks that think they know us and have set us up to fail through a shopping list of qualities that are too fairytale-like for anyone to match except maybe Angelina Jolie. The moral of the story – well there isn’t one. My profile is still out there, I’m still receiving emails, my ego has received a bit of a boost, but more than anything, I like making fun of people’s profiles.

I know it’s mean, but ImURDreamCumTrue is just asking for it.