There were a couple of inquiries posed to me the last week or so that are stuck on my brain.  Maybe I should have been offended, but I wasn’t; instead it just got me thinking very hard in the days since.  (And that’s far more dangerous and self-destructive than my temper) But as I was taking a break from writing my articles this month, it hit me: us creative types might be destined to be single.  I’m not looking up any statistics on this (frankly, they may confirm what are simply humorous musings and that would just be sad), but I would wager artists, writers, musicians, etc are far more prone to infidelity, divorce (NEVER doing THAT again), or (as in my case) what seems will be a solitary life.  Now granted, I’m making a bit of a leap throwing myself in that group.  According to a Facebook quiz [which we all know how scientifically sound those are], I’m an exact split of 50/50 left & right brained.  Either way, I was cruising on I-10 today listening to Eminem’s last album and realized the fact I relate to the lyrics prove I’m just as crazy as him [or Van Gogh, Sylvia Plath, or any other name you wanna add to the list. And yes, I consider him just as incredible as others so judge me now, I’m used to it. Well, there ya go, I just proved my insanity right there!].

What had happened was…I was sitting in a bar next to an older, distinguished, married, and obviously wealthy (bro’s not flashy but sophisticated watch and blazer made my timepiece and jeans look like they had come from a thrift store!) having a rather delightful chat.  Which was Life showing me It will have the last laugh cause before I started talking to him I was totally over the usual suspects hitting on me and turned to my friend and said, “Watch this, I’m gonna put a pacemaker on my List.”  So there we are enjoying the band, the drinks, and chatting away when he stopped, examined me quietly and then leaned in and politely but seriously asked, “Why is a girl like you single?”  And that is the million dollar question stirring about my head for many days.  Now, that is not the first time I got asked that.  Shit, that’s kind of regular in the rotation.  However, the fact it didn’t come from some drunken redneck or hoodie acting like your average douchebag [sorry for the language, Mom] kinda struck a chord [one I don’t play often].

I can’t speak for every creative type, only myself.  Which, thanks to that guy, I’ve examined in depth now and I present to you the answers.

1.  Passion.  Creative types like me are generally very passionate about our expeditions in life.  We get all hyped up, we obsess, we stay up odd hours, and we wake up in the middle of our sleep to write something down from a dream because it could be the AHA we were looking for.  In outlets that require both creativity and financial investment, we will pretty much double those qualities and perhaps add a few other hints of lunacy into the mix for fun.  I jumped out of the shower yesterday and ran to grab a pen and my notebook (so old school huh?) to write down a line I just knew was brilliant and just had to be in my article [I think it was one I ended up editing out FYI].  And we do stuff like that because we are driven inside by a desire to create and we stop at nothing until we are satisfied [and how often is that exactly? That’s kinda rhetorical although may be a wonderful topic for discussion later].  Now, I try and imagine what if I were sharing my life with someone and that person had seen me exit the shower, run down the hall, write it down, and go back into the bathroom.  First off, if he’s a timely individual, we’re probably running late(r) now.  And that leads us to…

2. Time Means Nothing.  People, I use watches and clocks.  I set my alarms way early, I set the clocks ahead by no less than 15 minutes, and I gauge my activities so I know how long I will take to do something.  But damnit, time slips by and I’m generally late.  Unless it’s super important.  Then I will cause myself anxiety because I probably rushed out the door and have to smell my arm pit to make sure I remembered each and every step of my grooming process.  So now you’re talking to the super anxious, possibly deodorant-lacking, nerdy writer girl.  And we all know how sexy THAT is.  Imagine significant other: probably likes to be on time or will have some issues with my timekeeping.  Like today for example, I’ve been writing and got up to get a cup of coffee [fourth maybe?] and walked by the French doors and noticed it was dark.  I had no idea what time it was.  Last time I looked at a clock was 2:19pm [see! I use the devices which tell time!!].  You can’t put creativity on a schedule.  Well, I can’t.  Because if I could, I’d be a billionaire with bestselling novels flying off the shelves.  Sadly, it wears me out doing the 8-5 thing.  And it’s so damn consuming of me that I will freak out if I stay up late doing what I’m passionate about because then I won’t be well-rested and able to face the 8-5 thing at my best and God knows I gots the bills to pay.  Which in turn means…

3.   We’re a bit of a perfectionist kind of breed.  Odd.  Nothing ever turns out perfect but it doesn’t mean we don’t torture ourselves trying to get it that way.  And, sadly, that rolls over to include people for me.  Not that I expect anyone to be perfect–just like I’ll never turn in anything that couldn’t have been revised a hundred more times–but I look closely at an individual.  Remember that guy saying I asked weird questions during our first meeting?  Yes, I do because I look for substance.  Bro, see above, I’m on a limited time here I need to get to the meat of who you are and what you stand for quickly 😉  Seriously though, I’d rather find out sooner than later how much of who you say you are actually adds up.  And that can mean I will cut it off kinda quick.  [Another thing eating at me but in a humorous way: real text I received reads, “I want to see you as soon as I can because you are exceedingly hard to hold on to.”]

4. Damnit I think I’m going to have to throw in A.D.D. as #4.  I’m all over the place.  Creative people are! [Right? or is it just me? Anywho, it’s my #4]  I have a million ideas all at once and I will chase one down when a million more hit and I just have to pursue it.  Again, from the standpoint of another individual, that’s got to be a little rough to live with.  Much less date.  Add to that I get immense amount of personal pleasure being a writer for the Observer.  I am going to be in bars…drinking…talking to people [cue anxiety please] because it’s what I do.  And frankly, having a significant other who can understand that is not easy.  Lord, shall we go down the list…”You came home at WHAT time?” “I saw you flirting with that guy” [yeah that’s probably true but I’m loyal when I’m committed asshat which is why we’re fighting in your car and I’m not in his!!! <–that is not the right answer to that FYI but it’s what I give cause it’s the $%^&* facts!!! Which is why the general rule is significant others–when making their rare appearances in my life–no longer come with me. Deep breath…continue] Ugh. Enough examples.  In addition to the creativity and gig factors come the fact my “8-5” is really a 24/7.  My boss needs me, I’m paid well to answer the questions.  He pays me to know shit & I do.  A lot of it and to the very best of my ability.  I may be doing one thing and get called and have to step away to solve a problem.  Guys don’t like that.  I don’t blame them when it’s at a romantic dinner and half the date is outside on the phone cussing like a trucker about something [me, not him].  Sexy and I know it  [if you didn’t imagine me doing that and then hear the song in your head it’s not as funny]

5. Final answer: we’re freaking hard to live with.  The bulk of this blog came to me when I stepped outside in my pjs (which I’ve had on since like…12pm this afternoon), as I was pacing, smoking, and drinking coffee at…[using watch again] 10:30pm.  Most of the day has been spent pouring over notes, spreading paper out all over the place so there isn’t anywhere near me to sit, and my TWO laptops on–one capable of editing photos on, one a simple Chromebook that I write on.  Ok, now did you read that sentence?!  We are quirky-ass human beings.  And I think bothers guys.  I have laundry list of weird stuff I do.  Being divorced 9 years only intensifies the fact I’m well set in my quirks.  They are probably not going away.  Additionally, these things I love to do or have to do for work, aren’t going either.  [Unless you paying all the bills bro! and even then…oh different blog…tell a guy you want a pre-nup and watch some fans get covered!] I just found the tv remote in the kitchen.  Long story, great example.

So there ya go.  It isn’t that I’m “fiercly independent” [although true], my intelligence is hard for guys to deal with, or a matter of bad timing.  It wouldn’t matter how smart I am or what the timing is, some dude would have to deal with those 5 things.  I’m not real sure he’s out there.  [paging Tony Stark to Gulfport immediately please]  Now, back to the creativity that fuels my lil soul, bless it’s heart.

Life is a damn sloppy mess, isn’t it?  In that way, it’s like the spray tan.  I get a spray tan every week to ten days.  For those whose skin contains melanin like it’s supposed to and who can get color naturally, I envy you.  As for me, I have to find a workaround and that’s the airbrush tan.  During the winter months, I let the vampire in me rule.  I embrace it.  But for summer, the tan is a nice little confidence booster.  You have to let it absorb for about 8 hours.  And the bronzer in the solution makes you look dirty when you leave so pretty much once you tan, you’re stuck not doing much.  You can’t sweat or get rained on.  I’ve learned contact solution is also deadly.  So here I sit on the couch, as upright as possible with a fan on me, doing nothing but pondering life (and scrolling through Facebook like the addict I am).

That’s pretty dangerous.  This week I’ve caught myself thinking how life demands of everyone that you break and then find a way to go on.  Everyone gets hit differently.  I’ve been relatively lucky in that my breaks are small compared to the losses, rejections, and beatings others take.  But “comparison is an act of violence against the self”–as I once read–and we can’t really compare our path to others.  I try very hard to remain grateful for everything and remind myself any pain I feel could always be worse.

I’m not gonna parade around the issue.  In October I connected with someone and I kinda thought what we had was very unique and special.  I really thought it had the elements of something that could last.  In April, I found out I was mistaken.  My problem was that I didn’t want to give up hope.  I still don’t.  I’ll freely admit that.  Sometimes it’s sheer insanity that I refuse to give up.  I haven’t ever gotten a letter, flowers, or anything.  And yet I daydream that one day I’ll walk to the mailbox and there will sit a letter from him.  God, what would it even say?  See, that’s the problem with insane thoughts: they tend to not make much sense.  Cause what could he even say that would make it ok?  Ya know, since all this honesty is flowin out of me like snot does with the flu, it’d just have to say he misses me and he wants it to work.  I can’t decide if that’s pathetic, sad, simple (as life should be), or ridiculous.  Maybe it’s all of that.

But reality is that letter isn’t coming.  I know the Universe works in mysterious ways–and I never say never [well, not more than 20 or so times a day]–but all signs point to the daydreams of something materializing never coming true.  And, I am learning to just be ok with that.  I don’t want to miss something spectacular by sitting here weeping over what’s gone.  So I don’t.

And that’s my point.  No matter how sloppy things get–no matter how insane the hope levels rise–you can’t stop living because things don’t work out with another equally sloppy human being.  People come, people go.  And life MUST go on.  I refuse to give in to the undertow of grief that swells deep in me.  I put one foot in front of the other, day after day, minute by minute, and I go on.  And I pay attention and do it happily.  Grateful for the day and the experiences I will go out and have.

Example: I guarantee no matter how much perfection was applied, I’m gonna have some “moons” where my thigh and ass meet when I put on my swimsuit tomorrow and go to Detox to celebrate the Observer’s 15th birthday.  Hopefully my swimsuit covers it up enough but hell, I’m totally accepting the fact it may not and I’ll be the girl with the funny white spots under my ass if I forget and bend over.  Hell, all I hope is that I give somebody a good laugh.  Best case scenario, I share a huge laugh about it.  Worse case, someone whispers all snarky like but what they don’t know is that I’m snickering about it already.  I’m not perfect–I’m one of the sloppiest humans I know.  If you know me (or read this blog), you’ll already be aware that when it comes to love, no one messes it up more.  I should get a Covey [huge awards in here in MS every Jan for Best Of’s] for Best at Picking the Wrong One.  Oh, I got that category.  You other nominees eat your hearts out. 😉

I don’t know if anyone can relate to this post at all or not, but I find humor and self-compassion will make the days easier.  Hearts break.  No reason not to treat yourself to something nice.  And beating yourself up is just gonna prolong it.  He ain’t the first; he’s just the first in a long time to really hit me somewhere it lingers for a while.  Sloppy, sloppy life (but a good reminder that I am human…and I CAN still feel something deeply for someone).  You just clean it up and get ready for the next mess.  Whistle while you’re cleaning it up.  Put on some good music and dance while you do it!  Soak up your friends while you can.  Don’t get caught up in your own problems and let an opportunity pass you by.  Those are my thoughts.  And, once again, it could be a lot worse.  In fact, I just got this *one* tiny area of life I screw up repeatedly.  Hey, that’s not all that bad.  I don’t even think I can get a nod at the other Covey category ‘Best Little Hot Mess’ with only one area.  And ya know what?  That hope I can’t get rid of–this particular man even completely out of the picture–whispers that one day I might get nominated for Best Happy Ending.  And therefore, it’s totally worth it.