Smirk.

I love watching you watch me. I love watching your eyes trace my body lines, both of us knowing it’s over. Both of us knowing you threw me away for the girl with whom you like to have those really terrific arguments.

Keep staring, love. I’ll be here all night long.

Wishes.

Ever fall madly in love and pray it was just gas?

Just stop it.

Drinking: Blackstone Cabernet (eh…it was there)

Listening to: Nothing, but what’s playing in my head is R. Kelly – “A Woman’s Threat”

I stepped on a scale before and I didn’t like the number. And I know it’s just a number. Age is just a number too, but it doesn’t stop me liking birthday candles less each year.

This is a brief blog detailing  my intermittent, utter hatred with being a girl. It takes quite a bit of work to flip the switch from feeling ugly to feeling beautiful, even though I’m not sure I ever come close to either end of the spectrum.

Being a girl certainly seems to comes with its own special sort of cash prizes — drinks on the house, a free lunch “just because,” cover charges waived, etc. — “kindnesses” you know aren’t extended to everyone. But for every friendly bartender, there’s a low-life on every corner leering at you with a depravity that makes you want to retch. There’s the fear of walking anywhere alone. There’s the general mistrust you are taught — unfortunately, you come to learn, for good reason.

But those are the more serious things you endure as a female.

What I hate on a micro level that eats away at me in insidious fashion is never feeling like I’m enough. Like I’m doing enough… Like I’m keeping up…

At any given moment, I’m disappointed with myself for something purely superficial. Horrible skin that I make worse with picking. Messy fingernails. Needing to shave my stupid legs. Wanting to work out, but skipping to eat bad food and drink beer. Forever needing a haircut. Feeling like I have to go tanning because this pallor just does not suit me, then sitting there with those ridiculous goggles on wondering what the method is doing to my body. Eyebrows needing plucking. Finding it impossible to wash my face before I go to bed, to ensure that I wake up hating myself. Never drinking enough water. Retaining water. Cellulite. My staggering metabolism.

It’s just this constant feeling of never being able to keep up. never having enough discipline. The feeling that there’s always someone doing it better. The feeling that it’s only going to get harder, get worse. The wonder if, when the compliments stop, when the cash prizes cease, will I still be able to feel good about myself when I already feel this consumed?

For the record, I know there are way worse things to worry about, and I thank God life is so good otherwise that I can even sit here and ruminate about such trivial shit. It’s not a unique problem. It’s not profound. It’s just what’s weighing heavily on me at the moment — no pun intended.

“If you don’t stop,
Someone’s gonna lay in your bed.
And someone’s gonna eat your food.
And someone’s gonna wear your clothes.
And someone’s gonna fit your shoes.
And someone’s gonna get your keys.
And someone’s gonna open your door.
Someone’s gonna get your check.
This is a woman’s threat.”

White noise.

Drinking: Casillero del Diablo 2008 Malbec
Listening to: Slutty pop music

I never write when I’m pissed off. It’s usually more of a contemplative,  sad sort of mood. Today, it’s like someone set me on fire, and I’m just so lit.

A week passes and no phone call? Seriously? A week? I’m not someone you fuck for four days out of the month, only to get to retreat to your comfortable isolation in between. I still think of you in between, but every day that passes, I wish I did less and less, and I’m starting to. I care about your day-to-day mundane existence. Why don’t you care about mine? Why won’t you let me in? Why did you ever tell me you love me? Was it just what you sensed I wanted needed to hear so I wouldn’t walk away?

I’m feeling so insolent, so on fire. I feel so spiteful, and so alive with anger. I have so much to ask you, but it’s just white noise and I’m yelling into a cave. I hear nothing without saying it first. I get nothing without giving it first. Je suis un fou.

The priss and the scientist.

I’m balanced precariously on the precipice of  so much change. A slight shift in my balance will change everything, send me spiraling. I’m six months into something sure to consume me if I let it. Simply and simultaneously, everything is on the line and everything is on hold.

Six months ago, I think I met whom I want to marry, but I don’t trust myself. Do I only want to marry him because he’s the first guy I met since realizing I want to get married? A super trippy idea, and not a terribly romantic one. How much is wanting to get married coloring my experience with John? I think in order to experience this more genuinely, I need to take marriage completely out of the equation, pretend we’re 20 and 24, instead of 26 and 30.

Must not marry by default. Must not marry by default.

But at the same time, should I be investing this much of myself in something that isn’t likely to end in marriage? I do feel a little too old for that. I don’t want to end up 30 years old with another failed relationship under my belt wondering where the hell the time went.

When I close my eyes and think of John, what do I see? I mean what do I really see?

Immediately, I see him smiling. I see his dimples, and his funny teeth, and the perfect slope of his nose. I see his mop of brown hair liberally streaked with grey. I see his neat fingernails and his gentle hands, and the way our fingers look intertwined. And most of all, I see us happy, and I end up smiling a ridiculous smile.

I see myself introducing him as my husband. I see us in our Victorian, New England home with the round room. I see a dog that I hate but he loves. I see it strewn about with gadgets, puzzles, fake nails, Mental Floss magazines, heels, tech manuals, and the rest of the mish-mosh you’d expect from the marriage of a priss to a scientist.

I see us successful, comfortable, and happy. I see us getting old, and being okay with that, even laughing about it. I see true fidelity, warmth, and steadfast love. Quiet, profound Corinthians love that is not proud, that does  not boast, that is kind and does not envy.

The trouble isn’t all that; it’s looking around now and seeing that I’m kind of  lonely, happy when I’m with him, often twiddling my thumbs when I am not, wondering if we’ll ever get to all that good stuff. Knowing he doesn’t look much toward the future, content to exist day by day, what will make him look forward? Another month? Another twelve? Ever?

Does he regret telling me he loves me? When will I ever hear it again without saying it first? Will he surprise me with a ring like he did with “I love you”?

I really hope so. I just don’t want to have to wait around forever. I want it to still be exciting. I want to be caught off-guard. I want it to be a little too soon — still slightly irrational. I want it to make me nervous and to feel my stomach flip when we take the plunge.

How, then, do you take marriage out of the equation when you absolutely want it to be its answer?

Echo.

Drinking: Little Boomey, 2006 Cabernet (It’s aiight.)

Listening to: Hungry Like the Wolf, Hypnotize, and whatever’s next alphabetically on my playlist.

So we’re in bed cuddling on Saturday morning. He’s snuggled up tight behind me and it’s just perfect. I say to him, “I love when you hold me like this.” He replies quietly, “I love you.”

And my heart’s been singing ever since…

To have someone echo something you never said… something you’ve wanted to say so many times… something you’ve said so many times in your head and wished they could hear… it’s just unreal. It’s unreal and I’m just so, so happy.

I love him, and I’ve spent the last two weekends we had together trying not to blurt it out unexpectedly and scare him. Instead I settled for saying it silently every time I’d run my fingers through his hair, every time I ‘d cradle his head and study his face. And I thought I heard him say it silently with his embrace and his kisses, his preoccupation with my comfort, his loving stares.

I’m so grateful that he had the courage to put himself out there like that, the courage that I had not, because it made all the difference in the world to me. To think or suspect, and to know are so different, especially when there’s so much distance involved. It’s too easy to lose your footing, to feel like it’s best to let go, but now that I know, everything’s changed. I can’t wait to see where this goes.

So much for my big plan

< 3

What: Smoking Loon (how apropos…) Cabernet

Listening to: More Dan Black

In less than three days, I’ll be on a bus to see Boston (the boy, not the city) for what will probably be the last time.

In the two and a half months since I last wrote, a lot has happened and, really, nothing has happened. I’m still crazy about him, communication is still infrequent, and I’m still frustrated, still grappling with the usual “Do I call him? Do I wait for him to call me? What’s he thinking? How does he feel about me?”

I’ve always liked a challenge, but I’ve had it with emotionally unavailable. A friend of mine always says things like, “Well, he’s a guy.” I’m sorry, but I don’t hold guys to special, more forgiving standards just because they’re guys. Not all guys are private, not all guys treat talking like a chore, not all guys have a built-in aversion to expressing emotion.

I’ve always been pretty spoiled when it came to the guys I chose for myself, the guys that chose me. They were mushy; they wrote love notes, said “I love you” often, missed me, and hated it when we were apart. Boston told me the other day, in stark contrast, “It doesn’t hurt me to be away from you.”

Ouch.

But the funny thing is it only stings when I repeat it. I can’t fault him for being honest. He said he misses me and he’s always excited to see me, just that it doesn’t particularly hurt him to be away from each other.

Which either means there is a great disparity in our feelings, or, simply, that he just can’t get that riled up about someone, no matter how much he likes them. Personally, I’m guessing it’s the former, because I think, when in love, all sensibility goes straight out the fucking window — robot physicist or not.

Sigh. So basically, I’m going to do the right thing for me, or as much of the “right thing” as I can muster being the emotional loon that I am — I’m going to go on the trip that I paid for weeks ago, try and shelf the more dramatic emotions, enjoy myself — as people like to suggest, “enjoy it for what it is” —  and then I’m going to come home and get on with my life.

In a way I’m lucky because I’ll know our last kiss is the last. I’ll keep the imprint of our last hug as long as I can, and I’ll take in my last big breath of his smell, the smell I always hope to take home on my clothes, but never lingers long enough. And I’m sure that last wave goodbye is going to shred my heart, but then I’ll be on my way home.

Hopefully there, here, I’ll meet someone who wants my love as much as I’m ready to give it.

Let go.

What:  (More) Toasted Head Chardonnay. Apparently I love this wine.

Well, I think wrote last on like August 22. I caved and texted Boston on Sunday, got a quick but unsatisfying reply. I was adamant about not contacting him onward, and, happily, I got a text from him Monday afternoon that said “4 more nights! You’ve been getting my first and last thoughts of each day.” Swoon.

So, so, sooo what I needed to hear.

On Tuesday, in as much of a non-neurotic tone as I could feign, I told him it’s reassuring to hear that because when I don’t hear from him for a weekend at a time, it makes me think I must have misjudged our whole “thing.”

So, really, from that point onward, I’ve been getting a lot  more phone calls. I feel excited about Boston again, thank God, and Friday finally comes…

I get there (after a 3 hour delay…) and it’s wonderful again. We spent three days and nights on each other, in each other’s heads, laughing together, doing sickly romantic things together. He made me breakfast Saturday and Sunday, which was adorable  beyond words. Made sweet lurve morning, noon, and night, and it was just perfect.

Monday comes, it’s finally time to leave, and here come the tears. He leaves me at the airport, and I cry some more. I cry because I don’t know when I’ll feel so happy and safe again. There’s no end in sight for this feeling…

I arrive home, and the phone calls have been frequent, which I’ve appreciated beyond measure. He’s tentatively scheduled to come down at the end of September, and I can’t wait! I don’t know what little Andria has gotten herself into this time, but it makes her smile an awful lot. <3 <3 <3

Growin’ up.

What: (Still drinking) Toasted Head Chardonnay

Listening to: An exceptionally long drum ‘n bass remix of Hide and Seek by Imogen Heap

I can’t believe I’m going to post two blogs in one day. This is incredible. It might speak to how amazing this wine is, or how bored I am. Whatev.

I am 25 now. I’ve had a lot to say about marriage and kids, most of it bad, and what’s amazing is being an audience to your own evolution. It’s almost like I can see it happening from outside.

It’s gone from “Marriage? Eh. Kids?? Definitely not…ever”

to “Marriage? Gee, I think I’d like that. Kids?? No way.”

to “Marriage? I definitely want that. Kids? I could be talked into one….maybe.”

Weird how that happens…and quickly, too! I think that progression happened over less than two years.

And instead of being terrified that I’ll probably marry the next guy I get serious with, I find myself totally excited at the idea. Wearing his ring, belonging to him, making a life with him, having a house, all that good stuff. The idea of marrying myself to someone… it’s just hopelessly romantic and so, so me.

All right. Enough with the sappy stuff! I’m going to play Tekken like the closet geek I am.

P.S. I would kill to have Dan Black to myself for one night. He is incredibly talented and completely gorgeous.

The scientist.

What: Toasted Head Chardonnay

I’ve realized that this blog is no more than a record of my dates, conquests, etc. since I broke up with my ex on Jan 27, ’09. I am [kinda] good with that because what I’m going through with these many men reflects what’s happening inside.

And don’t take “inside” too literally, sex panthers. I never ended up sleeping with the young one, the doorman. It’s been a formidable blitz of hot men, yes, but none have really kept me interested.

A hot Russian stripper, a cute, young doorman from the Midwest, a sexy Irish bartender… whatever. Fun, but nothing tugging at my heart.

…At least until a “business” trip to Boston.

My college roommate, Jamie, lives in Boston, and I’d been meaning to get up there to see her for the four-plus years I’ve been home, so when the chance to take a biz trip up there fell into my lap, I jumped on it. I had no idea that I’d meet anyone significant.

First things first — it was magic to see Jamie again! Happily, it felt like nothing had changed. I only I had more time with her… like serious QT where we lie in bed and just gab and gab for hours, like the good ol’ days.

So Thursday night, she says her friend John’s coming to hang out… “He’s a physicist, he’s sooo smart, and you’re going to love him.”

That night I was a little preoccupied, but I spent the next two days with him, and I was so taken, I didn’t know what to do with myself. He’s 30, independent, has a PhD, he’s so f’ing smart, kind, and funny. And super cute. And great in bed. (whoops!)

So, after extending my stay one more day, it’s finally time to go home.

So here we are on August 22 — a month from meeting  him and my feelings have gone through a tremendous arc.

The good stuff: He does seem to like me a lot (I guess). On the rare fucking occasion we actually do talk, he makes me laugh so much. He’s so goodnatured. He says incredibly sweet things that melt me. I really felt in some strange (definitely premature) sense that I could really be with him.

And the bad: If he does really like me, he is not very emotionally demonstrative, which I hate. I don’t know how I feel about dating someone more intelligent than I am. I’ve always liked that I’m smart — ask any of my exes — and when I talk to him, I don’t feel like I can like that about myself anymore because, not only is he book smart, but he seems to be exceptional in every regard. It makes me feel patently ordinary, and I kind of hate it. He hates talking on the phone, and if he does miss me, it’s not enough to trump that hatred. And worst, worst, worst — He lives in fucking Boston! What the hell am I doing falling for someone who it takes a train, plane, or 4 hour car ride to see?

So a week ago, I booked a trip to see him Aug 28-31 because I’m a romantic asshole, it seemed like a good idea at the time, and how much I missed him was getting to be bonecrushing.

Today, I feel very much like I’ve got a huge wad of egg on my face. I feel very “Fuck it. Fuck him. What’s the point?” and I don’t even want to go anymore.

I’m getting old enough to know what it is I need and want from a man. If ever I could be in a long distance thing, it would have to be with someone who misses me enough to call me (text, even!) and with whom I talk outside of work hours (we’re on stupid AIM all day at work). How can you forge something meaningful from afar without, errr, talking to each other??

Maybe it could turn into what I want with some time, but, as of now, this is total horseshit. I still plan to go see him this coming weekend, and I hope it’ll be positive, reassuring, and put things into perspective for me, but I’m supremely worried it’s going to be a total disaster. If I like him more, it’ll only mean more pain for me down the ‘pike. If I decide I’m totally over it, I’m afraid it’ll make for an extremely awkward weekend.

=/