August 3, 2014. 290 days.
614 items deleted from phone.

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.

I miss you.

Ya know, I’m just throwing this out there, I’d be more grateful for Hump Day if it really lived up to it’s name. 😉  I jest. [Sorry if I embarrass you with my crudeness, Mother.]  No, what had happened was I came home and finally got my shoes off and Chloe and I were relaxing on the sofa.  I was sitting here thinking of how Wednesday kinda felt like it beat me up!  And, after a few minutes, I realized I was mentally reciting a list of the horrors Wednesday had thus far brought.  As I let Chloe out the back door [Chloe’s relaxation time is about 5 minutes most days], something came back to me.  I listened to Iyanla Vanzant’s speech on gratitude this morning in the shower.  And I recalled her posing this to the audience: Think back to a situation where there was something you really, really, really needed and you couldn’t see it coming from anywhere.  Did it show up?  And even if it didn’t, did you get by without it?  Were you grateful for that moment?  Are you grateful about that moment right now?

Here I was not being grateful.  I needed to change that. With a quickness.  So I began ticking things off…

• I’m grateful for the birds, the grass, and the trees in my yard.
• I’m grateful I have my own yard and my own house.
• I’m grateful to get up off the couch and let Chloe out a million times because for 12 years and 11 months I have had a constant companion with me.
• I’m grateful for the $300 vet bill today because it means Chloe is still alive and fighting.
• I’m grateful for the after-hours phone calls from work because it means I showed up in this life as a follower and now I’m a leader, my voice counts, and I have a job when so many others do not.  It’s a gift, not a burden.
• I’m grateful for my friends who let me vent and show empathy when I forget to be grateful for it all.
• I’m grateful for the toothache because it reminds me I have teeth, I have insurance to cover a root canal, and what isn’t covered by insurance can be covered by American Express.

And then it got a little deeper and emotional and Iyanla’s statement resonated loud…

• I’m grateful for the heartaches because it means I listened to my heart and had a priceless adventure.

This list just goes on & on.  It’s endless.  But it refocused me.  Lastly, I’m grateful for the silent mode on my iPhone because I need a nap.

Lately I’ve been mulling over confidence, authenticity, vulnerability, and gratitude.  These are areas I want to improve in my own life.  It seems to me these things are all connected.  I’ve spent brief moments conjuring the image of people I know (and some I don’t) who inspire me: self-starters, artists, authors, spiritual teachers, etc. I’ve spent lots of time thinking of these principles and how they apply to the many, many people I admire so much.  Today it struck me that these are the people subject to scrutiny by others.  They are the ones putting themselves out there!  And with it comes the inevitable gossip and slander.  Eminem raps about his experiences.   And–I guess I’m still on the Brene Brown kick–this quote from Teddy Roosevelt came to me, which I first came across in Dr. Brown’s books:

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”

Suddenly, with a little bit of new insight, my own journey makes more sense to me.  It isn’t that your skin has to be tough to put yourself out there doing whatever it is you do; it’s that you have to realize those people putting you down are NOT in the arena with you. It’s like the serenity prayer with a spin: serenity to accept that some people will not change, courage to face the critics I need to hear, and wisdom to know the damn difference!  I take SO much personally lately.  Which is funny because how much of anyone else’s life is about me?  Well, there’s my mom, my dog, and my 2 closest friends I message multiple times a day.  Aside from that, I really do not play an active part in anyone’s life.  So maybe when I hear one tiny thing about me, I give it far more weight then it should hold.

So why do I do it?  It’s toxic.  It creates worry, sadness, and holds me back from the very thing I want to achieve (see first paragraph).  It stops me from doing the very things on earth I firmly believe I came to do–write, inspire, and spread the love.  I know, I’m nothing but a hippie (who is enamored with Eminem).  I’ve seen 3 or 4 instances of my acquaintances and friends being subject to hurtful things the last couple of days. And when the people I admire so much for the qualities they exhibit and the work they slave over get slammed, I kinda want to take it personally!  It isn’t, I know that, but I feel like cheering on the people in the arena!  I want to say, “I don’t care what they say, I think you’re doing awesome.”  And again, the heart of the matter, if people weren’t actually out there and DOING it, they’d get no attention.

I think my lesson from the Universe today is to immediately stop taking things personally.  I’m going to continue to cheer on the people who are in the arena and I’m going to put myself in the arena in more areas of my life that truly matter to me.  Now, my (very interrupted) lunch break is over and I got to finish this battle in the 8-5 arena!

Confession:  I almost reactivated my Plenty of Fish account this week.  I stopped myself.  I decided to think that over and not be so impulsive (ahhh, a sign of maturity-noteworthy).  I’m glad I didn’t do it.  Last year it was active for a week or two and dude, that was like crazy.  You get 99 messages a day, all from people who you have nothing in common with, mostly all with bad pickup lines, and mostly everyone was just looking to get laid.  Wow.  And you have to deal with all of that sober.  No, it’s too much.  There’s a host of venues large and small that you can go to any night here on the Coast with the same results, sobriety optional.  It’s called a “bar” and I’m a bar professional. (Wow, that’s a serious line and not comedic, which makes it all the more hilarious).

Why did I think that was a good idea to begin with?  Well, I’d like to meet people and possibly go on a date or few.  I can’t tell you the last time I went to the movies.  And when I did, it was probably alone.  I’ve been hiding in my house since the end of last summer when some health issues threw me down and sucker punched me.  On top of that, I thought I had actually met someone with whom I belonged.  I am perfectly healthy now, a free agent, and ready to (metaphorically only) jump back out there.  I’m doing things I love again–writing for the Observer, seeing my friends shows, supporting others with their business ventures, taking less anti-anxiety meds in the midst of that, and I look freaking fabulous.  I mean, not fabulous on the grand scale of all females in the nation, but damn good for Apryl!  So, I feel like a million bucks.  I just think it’d be nice to experience some of that with someone else and not alone.

But since I’m on this vulnerability and authenticity kick, playing “the game” isn’t easy.  I am too old and too shitty at lying to be anyone but me.  Apparently, I’m a minority.  Ex: I met this guy, he’s alright, not my type per se but we chat easily about whatever, he tells me his name is Phil Robertson, just like Duck Dynasty.  “Haha that must suck!” blah blah.  Later, he puts his credit card down at Waffle House to pay for his meal.  Um, I didn’t have on my glasses, my skirt was above my knee, but did I misrepresent myself as an idiot?  Amateur.  He’s not named Phil Robertson.  Bro, that’s the best you got?  I’m too old for this.

I’d forgotten the misadventures you encounter amidst the adventures when you leave your home and get social.  Which is why I’m glad I didn’t POF it.  For now, I will sit back and observe the scene.  Still sucks to go at it alone, but lawd it’s better than sifting through a bunch of crap.  I’m thinking a “referral only” plan needs to be in place.  Aw, well, so be it. “Phil Robertson”?! LOL. You need an awesome sense of humor in this world or it gets to be a grim place anyway.  For now, it’s deadline weekend and I can’t really go out much those weekends so I spent Fri & Sat night in. Crunch time.  Enough whining.  I have to go take some pics, visit Sephora, edit pics, polish article, and send to editor.

You are about to be a witness to thoughts forming.  That’s how I roll on dis hurr blahg: I get a spark of an idea and I grab my Chromebook to think it through.  I shall attempt to prove my hypothesis that vulnerability has led to my recent confidence.  What had happened was…I was going to go through and delete someone’s existence from my phone.  Oh, don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about: screenshots, pics, contact info, FB messages, etc.  Pretty much, I can wipe his digital imprint (which is far too easily accessible) out of my life.  Now, obviously the memories and the writings and tangible souvenirs are around.  I want to be clear, this isn’t the drama-filled crazy “I hate you, I can make you disappear” emotional rant with snotty crying and high emotion.  Nope, it was the peaceful kind of wipe.  The kind that says, “I have to let you go and all the things you said that I believed and all the hope that those things would come to fruition. That is my past, not my future.”  It’s a peaceful farewell to things I’ve been hanging onto for months & months.  [For the record, I was considering a Print option from phone to wireless printer and stuffing everything in a keepsake sooooo….]

So I go to start this task and I see a video at the beginning of where he entered in my life.  I’m like, “Apryl, what did you hold up your phone at the TV for?”  Turns out, an Oprah Lifeclass with Brene Brown and the subject was what to do when you’re ready to be vulnerable but your mate is not.  Now, I ask of the Universe, how the heck did I know that was going to be essential information way back then?  It must have struck some chord, although I can’t tell you now what it was last year.  [Well, holy shit.  It just dawned on me it’s nearly July.  “Last year”…dude, no wonder I’m peaceful.  This is long overdue.]  It ends up a discussion of the premise Brene Brown says: when you cannot ask for help for yourself without self-judgment, every time you give help, you also do so with judgement.  [Why are judgment and judgement both correct?! Damn you English language, you little bastard of linguistics!]

I subscribe to that theory.  Asking for help, accepting you need it, and being at peace with yourself despite whatever rough spot you’re in–whether it’s financial, emotional, or physical–is a hard task.  Took me a long time to get there.  But I’ve also learned it’s much faster to just admit and accept what is (then go about doing the lifework of making things better), than it is to torture yourself with thoughts and action that bear no results.  The Universe will make you do that–think you can find the answer and act as if you could change some things.  It’s mental thrashing.  And no one does it better than I.  I hold like the championship belt of wildly independent “solution” seeking.  When I could have just admitted, “Bro, I’m like totally out of my element and could you offer some assistance?”, gotten the info/help I needed, and moved on.  The good news is that in trying to figure life out all by myself, I researched.  I have read some major life changing books and identified in the process the ways I was sabotaging my own effort at peace.  So, yeah, I thrash mentally a lot but I also learn so much.  Thanks, Universe, high five.  As part of that research a year or two ago I started reading Brene Brown’s work on vulnerability.

Vulnerability carries the tarnished image of weakness.  We use that word in society as politely inferring something negative.  I did it; until I read about vulnerability, authenticity, and success stories of people who make their dreams come true.  Your dreams are gonna shatter like glass until you open yourself up.  I don’t care how big you go, how high you get–if it isn’t authentic, it isn’t lasting.  Like writing this–this is a very open discussion of my person, who I am.  But I’m unashamed of my journey, who I am, and how I respond to the world around me.  I’m not going to apologize for the Universe making me this way and no one else should have to either.  That doesn’t mean I can’t improve or make my impact for good on this world a little bigger; it just means I’m on the journey and I allow myself to enjoy each step and find the value in the valley.  I come with flaws AND THAT IS OK.  I love them.  I’ve taken the time to battle them and finally I reached the conclusion that being human means we all come with a little hidden label that contains ingredients and–like all awesomeness–some stuff that’s bad for you is inside.

Growing up means monitoring the intake and output of those ingredients.  Maybe you learn to substitute or change the recipe a little so you don’t damage yourself and people you love.  That’s what I do.  I see people all around me too…….too…….fuck I can’t find the word!  Why aren’t you being YOU and loving yourself damnit?! Why do you keep acting so self-loathingly?  Why are you spending your days and time with people who bring you down instead of up?  GAW.  It’s like seeing the craziest chicks in the world–whose insecurity and drama fill up a room–walking alongside the most gorgeous, kind, and creative geniuses and he’s all like, “Yeah, I got me a hot chick.”  Dude!  Really?!  She’s with you for the attention of YOUR accomplishment and to steal your thunder.  Or the guys who think snagging the megahot chick IS an accomplishment for themselves.  Hollywood’s red carpets are lined with it.  Go to the supermarket (bless your heart) and read the tabloids.  Those couples–and it can be men & women, men & men, I don’t care–are struggling publicly over someone’s private battle inside themselves.

Shiz, all I got here is a little blog.  I don’t really care who knows about my inner struggles.  You only learn from people who expose the truth.  I firmly believe it.  The truth can change.  The truth isn’t a constant, it’s a variable.  As you do all that lifework and open yourself up, you morph.  Therefore, how you respond and the way you live your life is going to morph as well.  But the struggle doesn’t stop until you actually face the demon.  It’s like all the hype and trash talk (which I love!) before a game or a fight.  It’s why people place bets.  We anticipate that and find some sort of joy in the build up.  But it all comes down to the actual game.  I talk shit every week during football season but I don’t know if the Cowboys are gonna win (but they might!) until the clock runs out.  And they could go undefeated, but that would be life changing.  In the same sense, I don’t expect to have an undefeated season either.  But if I do, I’m gonna celebrate.

I got off topic.  Like serious.  But I have appointments and things to do today so I’m wrapping it up like this:  “Vulnerability is the birthplace of innovation, creativity, and change.”-Dr. Brene Brown

Every Sunday is getting more bleak…

Anti-production.  That’s the motto of the day.  Actually, I’ve already gotten a few necessary things around the house done but I didn’t even make a dent in the long, long list.  I’m done for now on account of being in a gloomy mood.  Holidays tend to bring out the melancholy when I’m not near my family.  Considering I have Hoozier’s “Take Me to Church” on repeat, and met with some truths that discourage me, I think I should just be honest and admit that it’s the single woman blues. The SWB (kinda sounds like a new reality show).  I mean, it can manifest a million different actions and I can make excuses, distractions, and credit card charges but real talk is that I’m bummed.  And romance, or rather, lack thereof is the root of it.

There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin…

My two BFFs say they are living vicariously through me.  They see single life as no one to share with, no one around when you want peace and quiet.  An endless party where you get to go out whenever you want; living carefree with little responsibility.  Ain’t no compromises about what to eat, where to go, how to get there, who is paying which bill, putting whatever shower curtain and bedspread you want up (in whatever girlie color you desire), sleeping wherever in the bed you want [bullshit btw Chloe gets her half, I get mine. That’s her rules] full-time control of the remote for the tv and the car is always on whatever tune you like.  Not having to go out with people you really don’t want to see cause they’re your love’s friends not so much yours [and feigning interest in what they have been doing].  The only annoying personal habits are your own [Flick that booger! Fart whenever and wherever you want cause ain’t nobody gonna care!!]  Hey, a lot of that is true.  If that’s how they see it, well, I guess I can’t contradict much of that.  On those counts, it’s a sweet deal.

I’ll tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife…

Furthermore, I have no one’s issues or problems to deal with.  And that’s a big one there.  Cause when you’re emotionally connected to someone, as time passes, suddenly your lives start weaving into one where once there were two.  And that’s where I envy them. And I don’t think many people get that.  Which is a little weird isn’t it?  Sure I want laughter, smiles, hugs and kisses in abundance.  But I like the quirks you discover in people as you get to know them.  It could be the way they whistle, a body tic, their catch phrase they overuse, a book they keep with every intent to read but they’ve had for 8 years, the way they hold a wine glass. The more time you spend with someone–if it’s an authentic connection–you start to learn all the pains being alive has inflicted on them.  The deeper you grow together, the darker it gets.  I think to fall in love with someone–the real deal–you got to open yourself up with full honesty and they do too.

Offer me that deathless death, good God let me give you my life…

And that’s where the complications begin. Now they know all this stuff about you!  The real stuff.  And vice versa.  I’ve been known to bail once the sugar coating comes off people.  Sometimes I regret my exit, sometimes it saved my damn life!  Every single time was exactly what I needed.  Everybody showed me something about myself–things to change, things I didn’t even know.  More importantly, it gave me great insight to what I want and what I will or will not tolerate.  So I’m grateful.  Lord, I AM grateful.  But dammit here I sit–a beautiful little human with flaws and comfortable in my own skin–and zero connection to another human.

The only heaven I’ll be sent to is when I’m alone with you…

It’s frustrating to be at a point where I am willing to accept someone just as they are and there’s no one there.  It cuts deep.  By default I wonder “wtf is wrong with me?”  Well, nothing.  I am me: impatient and low maintenance [and I’m told blessed/cursed with a streak of independence and refusal to settle for less than desirable]. This is how I was made and what I became. This week I met a guy who told me I asked weird questions.  I cannot even remember what the conversation was.  Yeah, I guess I probably do ask odd things for a girl in heels and sexy shirts.  I’m not looking for a booty call, a good time, or whatever the term is at present [remember that one time the company president named one of our corporations and we referred to it by its initials “DTF” all day everyday? I still giggle].  But if I like you, I want to know YOU.  Oh “the game” is such a fucked up little maze.  And I’m such a bad playa.  Probably because I’m not one.  And I am figuring out–now that I’ve stepped back out there–you got to do a lot of wasted searching to find that person who has the quirks you find adorable and who is open to getting beyond the facade.  [I feel the hashtag #thestruggleisreal is necessary cause it makes me laugh]

In the madness and soil of that sad earthly scene; only then I am human, only then I am clean.  Amen. Amen. Amen.