Who Started This?

Chicken - egg situation:

woman: "I'm not in a dating space right now"

man: 'There's no way she means me.'

Was it women? Saying things they don't mean in order to guard their actual feelings? Were they trying to play a game and see if it would stick? Or are men to blame for somehow assuming they're ALL the exception to the rule? I find this behavior quite curious and terribly frustrating. Yes, you could boil it down and simplify it to the act of "just another man not listening to a woman", but I am not sure it is so blatantly sexist. I don't know that men even know that they're doing this. I'm not saying that makes it okay, because - and let me be clear - 

IT

DOESN'T.

If it were just a simple misunderstanding;

man: "...Oh, you didn't mean other ppl? You meant me, too? Oh. Shit. Sorry 'bout that, then."

That would be one thing. But it never is. Or at least certainly hasn't been in my case. Don't get me wrong; this is a relatively new discovery for me, and as such am keeping the typical open mind about it until I can do proper research on it (for what it's worth, I would trade facts in a heartbeat to just never have to go through this again). To quote Austin Powers: "Having said all that, I do have some thoughts..."

So far, I have made it abundantly clear that I am, in fact, not dating right now. I shouldn't. It won't be quality/my best self and I refuse to waste my time with anything less anymore. There's just no reason. I know I only have so much resolve when it comes to actual physical contact in that way, and as such am trying to break the news to everyone to better protect them and myself. I have told women, I have definitely told men; all of my friends. Most of them are probably sick of hearing me say this. That's fair - but clearly enough-to-get-sick-of is still not enough when it comes to the male ego. 

Surely not all men are like this. I don't like getting grouped in with all 20-somethings, all people of my generation, all women etc... and it would be illogical to assume that one man could speak on behalf of all of them. Those men are an exception to this blog. To the kind of male and overall arrogant attitude/thinking process I am now assertively against. But they are still not an exception to my rule of "not being ready to date right now". You could be the man of my dreams and I would still be relieved to know you had someone else you were going after. And if by the time I'm ready to date you are married to said other person? Fair. My loss. I'm not going to pout about it because it is not sensible to wait for me and the whole prospect of a man doing so at this point would prove to be incredibly stressful to me. It's not personal. Which, by the way, surely proves moreover that I am not ready to date. To quote Kathleen Kelly in You've Got Mail: "...It ought to begin by being personal."

I am a logical, yet understanding and sensitive person. I am patient. I am sensible. I don't feel as though I am asking for too much to just be single - and not hassled - while I am sorting some things out. And even if I was asking for too much by expecting this; trust me. I am doing you a favor by denying a relationship with you at this point in time. 

I have never in my life assumed that someone of the opposite sex is sexually interested in me simply because they are being polite to me. Because they are laughing at my jokes. Because they are taking the time to talk/listen to me about my day. Because I can relate to them. Because they asked me how I was doing, or even remembered something about me. Some people love others. Some people treat their friends with respect and love. Some people just fucking care. And I refuse to not care. So I guess this is the price I pay for not compromising that principle. You wanna know why people get bitter about relationships/the opposite sex? Haven't the foggiest, old chap.

Autumn and After

I pulled out and freshened up my cozy sweaters, readied my boots and queued up the Fleet Foxes. I even swapped my typical iced Americano for that of a toasty hot one.

Then I went outside for a smoke after 4pm.

Jesus.

It's fucking cold already. I knew it was coming! I have been (and continue) trying to keep up with the weather, prepare for the outdoors with my layers of sensibly thick purchases from the thrift store and refuse to skip a meal or a wink of sleep in a feeble attempt to keep sickness at bay. I am likely more prepared this year than ever before, but still it was not enough to shield my body from the shock of Autumn. 

You can spin me tales of long walks, seasonal lattes & pumpkin carving, but I would forgo it all just to stay comfortably warm. I am getting older. Soon the only weather I will be able to stand is that of a "real scorcher" as I begin to trace migration patterns; southbound, with the other white-feathered birds. Perhaps I will surprise everyone and land somewhere in Texas. Go Cowboys.

I love driving, and the pending cold weather does its best to destroy the joy ride. That goes at least double for the casual jog or race walk. You can no longer throw something on and go. I think that might be it. I think that the minute I have to plan something to death, the fun gets sucked right out of it. Where are we going? Is there parking close to the building? Is it more up or down hill? Are we staying until dusk? Later? What's the forecast? And then, of course, you have to factor in the usual questions that let you know whether or not to wear heels, a dress, eat before you go, bring a bottle of wine, champagne or infused teas.

AND IF! By the end of this ordeal your spouse/friend/family member you are attending with somehow can stand you long enough to get in the car and get to this event, something inevitably will go wrong. Be it the weather ("Wow, colder than I thought..."), the timing ("...Storm should've passed by now") or the usual stuff (i.e. transportation, uncomfortable outfit/shoes) that is absolutely made immediately so much worse with the added effect of freezing your little ass off. 

Halloween should be fun, though.

Food-Piphany

I think I have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.
I know I used to suffer something awful from a sensory disorder. (No I haven't gone to a doctor for this, but sometimes you just don't have to.)

One of the symptoms of OCD is that you may have a strange relationship with cleaning, orderliness (that's an actual word?? Whoa) as well as guilt. A person suffering from sensory issues may hold issue with foods of certain quality and/or strange texture. I recently was able to change my relationship with the food that I eat by going vegan! It has been over a year now, and never have I ever been so damned comfortable with grocery shopping, prepping, cooking or eating food. Furthermore, it is so easy to take care of my dishes - there's nothing dodgy to me about veggies, rice and legumes!

I used to have a strenuous relationship with the food going into my body and the food I cleaned from a plate. Sometimes it was the rubbery texture of a chicken patty, sometimes it was the astounding amount of cheese someone had decided to litter my pizza with, and it always was absolutely horrifying to touch any of the food on a plate that had already been eaten off of. Naturally this was seen as an attempt at dodging my chores, but I can assure you that was not the case.

Meat was always creepy - sure, less so when it was in the form of a strip or giant pepperoni-esque circle, made just for sandwiches, but if I ever saw the chicken breast before my mother cooked it, I would be completely disgusted. So that was fairly easy to give up. Dairy used to weird me out something fierce - the thought of the process, the texture of most of it, the fact that if you left it un-refrigerated it would immediately turn to garbage. Once I learned that the Diary industry is the stuff of nightmares, I quickly decided to venture into veganism - and I'm so glad I did.

In addition to the "cleaner-living" aspect to this lifestyle/diet, I have no guilt over what I am eating, as it never had a face/nothing with a face had to suffer for it. It is terribly difficult to cook vegan food incorrectly, as most of it is perfectly edible in its raw form, so there goes the pressure of feeling as though you might get sick/get someone else sick from your cooking. And if you're eating whole food, you have no reason to fear the odd texture of processed "food" (basically just don't eat moldy fruit and you'll be kosher).

I'm not entirely sure why it took me so long to make the correlation, but I am ever so glad that I did. I'm not afraid of food anymore. I enjoy myself when I am eating. One less thing to worry about in a day (especially for a busy Obsessive Compulsive mind) is one big step toward happiness and contentment.

The Sixties

It is as if I have been transported to the sixties.

I feel partially responsible, of course, this being the only decade that I have ever yearned for. Not in exchange for my own, of course, just for a visit. Mostly for the fashion and the music.

I work my small business, locally-owned office job in my pencil skirt and Italian-inspired loafers with the pointed toe, look completed by a white, tucked-in oxford and mod haircut. Half way through my shift I walk outside and before I can light my cigarette, I notice the sidewalk is rife with political signs being held and waved by a group of older people who have assembled in their frustration for the "way things are going". Cars that speed down the one-way occasionally honk. I hear the murmur of the people; something about health care. Something else about the elderly. Something else about the Republican party. I pay no mind. I snub out my cigarette and throw it in a nearby bin - I was taught not to litter.

Once back inside said office job's building, the discussion on the local broadcast raises in volume. My male boss - sweating from manual man-labor - curses under his breath. Something about women's rights. Something else about women's rights. I tune my own dial to the freeing sounds of the Kinks.

I suppose that something like this has always happened around this time of year; voting time, I mean. Maybe it's been just long enough since the last go-round that I have forgotten the details. Maybe I'm just noticing it because I am finally in the thick of things, downtown, in it. Or maybe it's never been this obvious. This wild. Maybe it's just a matter of time until we commence mandatory drills, heads under our desks.

Money & Kicking Ass.

I remember being young, daydreaming about a life of adulthood; I would have a car, a modest house, and enough "extra" cash to eventually be able to travel a bit (even if just to Vermont for the weekend). Yes, I was already reaching for the stars. The good news? I'm basically there. And have definitely been there before. Is it my ever-present realism? Is it my ability to shut down, kick ass and pick myself back up? Or perhaps just the strong work ethic inherited from my mother and father? Maybe a healthy mix of all three.

Along with an unhealthy amount of courage.

If ever I find myself once again descending down the pit of low esteem, if ever should I fall, I hope that I will be able to remember such times; times when my boot (and my boot alone) was the one that kicked the ass. Times when there was no caring parent, childhood home or friends to fall back on. I sincerely hope that I am allowing of my error, no matter how large. On the off-chance that I am not...

Dear future-self,

Remember that time when you accepted that invite to go somewhere new, by yourself? You know the time; when you opted for the sketch-ass ghetto part of town, where the only inhabitants were the drug-addled and the ones making money off of them? Oh, c'mon, you must recall the late nights, driving "home" from work at 1:00am (or somewhere around there), fearing for your life as you clutched your mace in one hand, metal bat in the other? Dodging strange men twice your size to get to your apartment building, only to have them follow you in for a bit? The first skill you acquired was not that of matching guests' names to their faces at the restaurant, nor was it the art of balancing those enormous martinis without spill; it was the art of "not existing" that you mastered first, there. The less you exist, the less trouble you get into, the less immediate danger you're in. You learn pretty fast, kiddo. You didn't fall into unhealthy habits, in fact! You lessened the amount of booze, cigarettes and crap food you ingested. And dodged some drug bullshit while you were at it. And not only did you do a great job out of work; you killed it at the restaurant, as well. Guests got along with you, co-workers (for the most part) got along with you and you learned a whole new way of serving. You made do with the insane amount of hours you were handed and you earned an unusual amount of money. You went home to see your family on every day off, you didn't go out to spend all of the money you earned while you were down there, you bought a damn 5-year-old PERFECT dream car that you decided you wanted and you saved up over four grand. Nobody told you to do any of this, let alone give you pointers on how to do so; you just decided to do it. And you freaking nailed it.

Just sayin'.
Sin-focken-cerely,
past-self.

Does it sound like I'm up my own ass? Couldn't care less. Because sometimes you have to be your own biggest fan. You wanna save money? Do it. You want a different job? Apply. You wanna travel a bit? Make it happen, Cap'n. The objects in your way are mobile. And if they're not, they're temporary.

Television

I think I took the fact that I was raised with a television for granted.

Don't get me wrong; there was no shortage of appreciation for what I had (from cable, to a house, to the food I consumed), I just mean purely from a social standpoint. I grew up learning the dialogue to Seinfeld, impersonating Ace Ventura's catch phrases and quoting nearly every David Spade one-liner. Where did this get me? No place of impressive rank, of course (you can't get nominated for being the best copycat of once-brilliant wit). But it did train me to be the funny one. It was like comedy pre-school; the first lesson being that you love making people laugh. Lesson two: you might have to embarrass yourself from time to time in order to do so. Last but not least; you learn why the things on your favorite sitcom are funny and you just tailor the details to your audience. This was great! I had discovered the formula! I unintentionally made friends with this? And I didn't even have to be good-looking or smart? I just had to bring up Friends and people would like me? Oh, man. FAN-TAS-TIC.

And so began my foundation for socialization. I no longer needed outdoor activity and incredible life experience; I had film to discuss. It worked, sure, but it was all I knew. Twenty-something years later, it is still all I know (put all my eggs in the basket), and something terrifying has happened; I realized this year that...

I no longer watch TV.

When I say I no longer watch TV, that is not to say that I have began the latest boycott or have in any way sworn it off, no. All I mean is that I just don't happen to watch it. Like most other things in my life, my relationship with this activity is very passive. I have only on incredibly rare occasion been the person to purposefully carve out a chunk of time to dedicate myself to sitting in front of the boob-tube (possibly my least favorite and most distracting term for it). My mother, sister, father all loved television and were all older than me, so it felt like there was simply no use in making an attempt to elbow my way in. You guys watch what you want. I'll be over here drawing.

As I grew up and experienced some strange living situations, I never really had to buy a TV (someone always had one already, and having two of them in a shabby apartment hardly seemed the thing to do). By the time I lived on my own I had better things to focus on (working multiple jobs, remembering to eat, sleeping when I could). I have moved so many times and have always seemed to have gotten too terribly distracted, which resulted, of course, in never purchasing a television.

Now that I am relaxed, back in town and - for the first time in about one hundred years - am working part-time, I have time on my hands! It is only now that I am recognizing how people can fall so dependent on these entertaining screens. Whether it's cable, Netflix, YouTube; I get it. It's nice to have something to look at. Or even have playing melodically in the background as you are making dinner or cleaning. I will also say, however, that it is quite the danger; good luck getting anything done, ever. Your time flies by faster, you stay up later, before you know it you're exhausted and you have nothing to wear to work because you have't done laundry in three weeks. Aren't you so glad you caught that Will & Grace rerun marathon??

It's one thing living without wi-fi and a television when you are keeping your head down and not being terribly social. It is another entirely once you make the time to catch up with one of your friends.

"You don't have wi-fi?"

"So... you haven't caught the latest Game of Thrones."

"What do you do all day?"

Well, read, for starters. And everything else adults used to do, I suppose. It is awfully nice to be able to relax on purpose without anything really distracting you or taking away from it. And this lifestyle teaches a person to be creative when finding alternative activities, and it promotes peace and gratitude for the simple pleasure of quiet down time. My place is clean, meals are prepped, laundry is always done... The drawback? Congratulations! You now have nothing to talk to your pals about. You may try to pull out a rusty punchline from an old nineties sitcom - y'know, from when you actually watched TV - but don't expect that dusty Just Shoot Me reference to land. You'll have much better luck with something from Rick & Morty.

Age: For Consideration

It is as if I have forgotten how old I am.

Is this likely to keep happening? Because it seems unsafe. Last summer I was able to grasp the fact that I was no longer a late-teen/early-twenty-something as I quickly exhausted my ability to recoup after a 50-hour work week (thank you, seasonal restaurant). I had given them great work for a stretch, meanwhile my body eroded into beach sand. I got a fever, I got the flu - the only thing I didn't get was sleep. I was eating better, doing my research on wellness, not going out and drinking/partying, and yet here I was ready to hear my eulogy. Finally I asked my co-worker how she and her friends were able to do this sort of thing and recharge so easily? After all, it wasn't like this was my first time with 50+ hours, at a restaurant or under pressure. Then she gave me my answer:

"...Well, I mean... you are like ten years older than most of us..."

Ah.

Somehow life had gotten away from me, zipped by and the next thing I knew; I was nearly the oldest person sporting a denim apron. She was right! I was old! Not old for this world, of course; the Basilica boasts a Holy 500 years or so. But I was officially at the spot where I would need to give my consideration. I was too old for certain things. Wanna go for a bagel? Sure, I'm good with that. Wanna book a last-minute flight? Sounds great. Wanna feel rested while working more than 40 hours a week, on your feet in a fast-paced, mentally draining customer-service driven job? Now you've gone too far.

Now don't get me wrong - this "for consideration" age is likely different for everyone. Some, God bless them, may never reach this age - forever youthful. I am not one of these "some". So what did I do with that information? Left the seasonal noise to retire to a quiet, mind-meltingly slow-paced office job for the local Chamber of Commerce. Set schedule. No nights or weekends. Holidays off. Days surrounding the holidays off. And the only time I remember being on my feet for long was when I had to make the trek from my ergonomically correct swivel chair to the heated bathroom. It had its nice aspects, but naturally that only lasted until I chose to forget what I had learned entirely and move onto another exciting scenario.

I still have a nice, beautifully calm office environment in the morning, but that was only part-time. So obviously it was only a matter of time before I mucked up the calm in my life by choosing to apply to a retail job where I would be working on my feet all day, get mentally drained by customers and be in the building until about 11pm. I will say that it was necessary for me to fill the gaps. A grown (ish) person cannot expect to live comfortably on part-time alone. Not to mention I would eventually get bored out of my mind, which would lead to brain fizzles. Plus this retail job really seems different from the others I have worked at. It's like I've completed the taxing office and customer service side of things and now I get to enjoy dessert. It will keep me out of trouble. The paychecks will be nice. But how long will it be until I ask a co-worker why I'm so tired again?

Something for consideration.