4 Days: Butter is best

Just made luscious pasta.  So scrummy.  We eat far too much pasta, I think, but if there are enough veggies and flavor, it should be OK.  The secret?  Butter.  Butter is always the secret.  Why?  Nobody wants to know it’s there.  But if your food tastes extra-amazing at a restaurant…it’s because of the butter piled on as a finisher.  You can count on it.  It’s my secret, too.

Pasta is my sisterly tradition.  I have two sisters.  When we’re together, one of us very often hops into the kitchen and whips up some pasta.  When one of them does it, it’s pretty plain.  A can of tomato pasta sauce, maybe some extra garlic, salt, and pepper.  When I do it, I usually make my own sauce.  Veg, of course onion, tons of garlic, tomato, olive oil, sometimes zucchini, bell peppers, greens, ginger, mushrooms, and so much more.  I like my pasta spicy.  I throw in a ton of chili.  Cayenne.  Hot paprika.  I’m fond of Vietnamese fish sauce instead of salt (don’t tell my sisters!), and sometimes, I throw in butter at the end.  Oregano, basil, rosemary, thyme, cilantro.

Then we sit, each with a deep Asian soup-cereal type bowl, and watch sappy cable TV.  Sometimes it’s America’s Next Top Model.  Sometimes it’s a a wildlife documentary like Big Cat Diary, which my youngest sister, Indiana Jones Jr, loves so damned much.  And my personal favorite — British Murder Mysteries – Dalziel and Pascoe, Inspector Linley, Miss Marple, Midsommer Murders.  These days if we’re lucky there are some great Gordon Ramsey shows.  It’s fab that he has so many damned ventures, because he’s on in some capacity all the time…and usually fantastic entertainment.  I dream of being on Hell’s Kitchen these days.  I have the skills and training.  Wouldn’t it be cool to be screamed down by that blond monster?

But these days, our middle sister is stateside.  We miss her.  Jones Jr and I are boiling and sweating in our skins, watching Finding Neverland, after a slew of boring modeling, wedding, and other ridiculous reality TV shows didn’t make the grade.

Pasta.  Spaghetti.  Al dente.  Cooking in water as salty as the sea.  Tonight served with zucchini.  And butter.  Always finished with butter.  It’s best that way.  Warmed with memories.

9 Days: Naked

We’re into single digits here…

I took a good look at myself naked today in a large wall-sized full length mirror, standing perhaps ten or more feet back.  And you know what?  I liked what I saw.  Sure there were flaws.  Stretch marks.  Thunder thighs.  But overall, it was refreshing.  Even invigorating.  It was exciting to see myself from so far away, and so completely.  Usually when we look, if we even dare to look, it’s rather close up…I mean, who owns such a large full length in perhaps their largest room, so they can have the most far-off perspective?  And here I was.  Nowhere near perfect.  But really beautiful.  Someone, who if I didn’t know it was me, that I would consider quite attractive.

Being so close to the big 3-0, it was surprising how little if anything this had to do with age.  I’m finally OK with my body.  Sure, I know I can and should improve it.  But I don’t give a flying F- about criticizing my body so much so that I hate myself.  Looking at this body, almost as if it were someone else’s, I thought, “wouldn’t it be wonderful to give this body the gift of some yoga once in a while…” I giggle just thinking about it.  It’s such a ticklish fanciful thing to be able to walk around in the nude and be really really OK with that.  More than OK.  To enjoy it.  To actually start to understand why someone might even want to go to a nudist retreat.  It’s a real pleasure to like living in your body.  Who knows, it might even lead to positive sexual experiences.  Which is another huge can of worms in and of itself.  And I’m not sure I want to go there now.

I’ll end by saying this – I was just kissed.  Kissed by a man I can imagine making love to but know I probably shouldn’t.  Kissed by a man I am somewhat attracted to but am also extremely perplexed by.  Kissed by a man who may be able to turn me off as much as he turns me on.  Weird, I know.  It was a perplexing “is this a date or not” kind of evening.  This man propositioned me without saying a word.  Thought he was taking me home, thanked him, and he said, “oh, I was taking you to my home…”  But a kiss is worth more than a thousand words.  I was looking forward to it, despite not knowing whether to be shocked or tittilated by his more than somewhat forward (or rude) behavior.  And this kiss…was wet!!!!  Sloppy, wet, and set off absolutely no sparks.  Not even a mild fizzle. So wet, it’s been over a half hour and I can still smell that “other person’s saliva” smell on my face!  I got my answer, wouldn’t you say?

11 Days: The Conversations That Matter

Eleven pipers piping.

Eleven stars in Joseph’s dream.

And eleven little days until my 30th.

Today was a good day.  Productive enough, but not stellar.  Scheduled some things, raised my sister’s spirits, edited a bit, and saw the new Harry Potter.  But beyond these normal things, it was still really really good.  Why?  A great conversation.  A conversation about important things, trivial trifles, the past, the future, culture, current events, family, art, life…in short, a long long chummy chat about everything and nothing at all.  And at the end, I got a tarot reading!

A friend long ago remarked to me that he could measure the quality of his day by the quality of the conversations had in it.  Following this line, life could be judged by the content of our communication more than by, say, achievements.  And it makes sense, doesn’t it?  Our lives are a collection of moments and what we choose to fill them with.  Who we choose to share rooms with.  It’s incredible to think about the power a conversation has.  In basic terms, it’s just communication of facts, opinions, emotions, and responding in kind.  Most conversations are a matter of mundane necessity.  So why, when everything goes right,  can they be so damned fulfilling?  So…essential, so thrilling, so nurturing it feels almost like it’s feeding some deep part of you that didn’t know it was hungry?  Well, it seems to me that it’s exactly the conversations we don’t need to have that we really do need to have.  An excellent conversation is our unique elegant refined human ability to achieve perhaps the highest level of intimacy.  Albeit different than the physical, a conversation has the potential to connect people and create bonds between people, if only momentarily, in stronger ways.

I used to consider myself a “gourmet conversationalist” and even used that phrase (yes, haughtily so)  in some online dating ads.  And in the last couple years, I haven’t had too many.  Until now.  An old friend who recently appeared in my life has proven on every occasion an absolute elixir of delightfully deliciously complex ideas and thoughts.  And a new friend has provided some simply delightful afternoons full of musings on contemporary dance, art, Israel.  With both of these people, I have had several hours-long talks that seemed to pass in the blink of an eye, leaving me feeling on cloud 9.  And I think the feeling was mutual.  It leaves me wondering what I was doing all this time…how did I exist without conversations like these before?  This must be what having a really strong community feels like.

Is it by chance that we find these mutually-fulfilling gourmet conversationalists?  Is this real friendship?  If you don’t have these essential talks with the friends you have, does it mean they’re not the very best of friends?  Or only that you’ve been so busy, depressed, distracted by the sadness and chaos that often consumes us in life?  Does every friend have to be able to have these soul rocking sessions?  I don’t think so.  But it would be preferable.  Wouldn’t it be wonderful to have one juicy idea-packed gab-session every day?  Wouldn’t we all be the happier and probably the healthier for it?  Yes.  Yes, indeed, indeed, and of course.

When I have one of these excited lingering talks, about god knows what — wine, art, makeup, aging, Chekhov, etiquette, Arabic, emotions, sex, books, movies, madness, and more — I know, I know, I know in my heart of hearts that life is good, that life is special, and in whatever sense, be it religious, spiritual, scientific, agnostic, or merely optimistically atheistic, an undeniable blessing.  A great conversation is our humanity in action.

May you all communicate deliciously as often as you can!

12 Days: Not noticed

Funny how I no longer have to think about how many days until my birthday. It’s incredibly close.

A free pass…
My therapist recommended I give myself a free pass these coming two weeks. This blog has in many ways helped quell my anxiety over turning 30 (which is really about the larger issues confronting the fear I encounter daily, confronting the expectations I have for myself compared to what I have actually accomplished, etc). I fully expect to feel either a complete “let down” at this build up, or on the other hand, feel exhilarated and liberated over turning 30. I don’t expect to feel sad or especially depressed on the day of my birthday or the day after. I know I will be fine. On the other hand, I have artificially built up this day. Counting down to something highlights it in a way that it would not have been before. And a 30th birthday highlight enough in anyone’s life. So…I’m to give myself a break…I may feel worthless, depressed, anxious, scared, and who knows…maybe even some overinflated good things…in the 12 days I have left. And that’s OK. Wow, 12 days “I have left.” Dead man walking, indeed.

Community – the clincher
Whether it be Ross, Rachel, Chandler, and Monica at the Central Perk, the office mates by the coffee machine, your college sorority, your band camp buddies, or (gasp) even your tiny dysfunctional nuclear family – community is everything. Everything. And I know I’ve lacked it in a substantial way since moving to Israel. However, what I didn’t know is how strong an effect this has had on the fabric of my life. When we don’t have a routine (work = the same people depending on you doing a task every day; family = washing dishes and laundry and helping each other with essential basics; friends: comfort and support from ordinary things like a weekly cup a joe) it’s very difficult, and for me nearly impossible, to get anything done. I am terrible at self discipline, as you would know if you’ve read any of my past posts here. This is a sort of catch 22 situation, as this is almost impossible to achieve without help…but I can’t get the everyday help of a support system without working at it… All in all, the longer you are alone, the harder it is to find and “fit into” a group. And the longer you are alone, the more difficult everything is in life.

Being seen
What is that crucial element of being in an integral group? It doesn’t matter if it’s work or friends or family or a social niche of some sort. What all of these things have in common is that each member is required to notice the others and be noticed in exchange. It lends itself to caring for others, and in turn being cared for. It’s why the word network is so appropriate. A web, with one strand connected to many others, supporting many others, while being supported by many others. The fewer strands, the weaker the web. The more strands, the stronger everyone is.

Being alone means that on a regular basis there are many fewer people noticing me, caring about me, depending on me, than ever before. When I had an interesting and fairly important job, I was needed on many levels and many people needed me. The more friends I had, the more natural it became to see them regularly, to depend on them regularly, and for them to depend on me.

And the fact that I am now aware that I am not being thought about, that I am not being seen, kind of really hurts. It’s another perspective to the shape of my life. It makes me want to create community, and create one in a hurry. Applying to a doctoral program sounds pretty darned great. Not necessarily for the career or interest motivations. But for there being a lot of the kind of people I tend to gravitate towards, around me a lot. I don’t know if this is a good answer. But seeing my situation in this light…feels funny. I know I have friends all over the world. Some of them great friends. Really great friends. But the fact that we have no common routine, no common rituals, means that we do not spend much of any time thinking about each other with any regularity. And that sucks.

It means I need to make a huge effort, perhaps a very difficult and un-fruitful effort at first, to surround myself, and to find a way to regularly include friends. Calling people every other week, getting together once or twice a month, is not going to cut it. Because I’m drowning here. I’m having trouble finding work, finishing my editing, even identifying who it is that I am anymore, with my being alone so much of the time. And I don’t want my 31st birthday to be spent wondering if anyone is going to show up at my party. I want to know it’s going to be great, whatever happens. I want to be such a good and dependable friend to others that I will have that support in turn.

Now if only I didn’t “like and enjoy” being alone so damned much…

140 Days: Xanax Solace

I’m a bit woozy, as I took a xanax an hour ago or so.  Not the best day.  Well, an eye opener.  My writing workshop consensus was that my book, although ridiculously promising at the beginning, needs a lot of work in the middle and end.  I mean, when they gave me the critique a while ago on the first third, it was through the roof.  The kind of stuff that a publisher would have a wet dream over.  And now I realize what a grandiose mountain it is I am really standing before.

I felt really alone today.  Really wanted to cry and be comforted by a mother.  My mother isn’t the type.  So not the type, it’s laughable.  All my life I never realized that I approached her with so much hope that she’d finally just embrace me without opening her mouth.  With pure acceptance.  Without curious, suggestive, self-centered, egotistical, judgemental jabs.  And I spoke with my father today for the first time in what must be over a month or maybe even more.  I think it’s like more like two.  And the weird thing is, I don’t have the strain with him as much as with my mom.  He just doesn’t call and is so busy and in so many countries, I never know when to call and where I might find him.  It was nice to hear his voice.  But it made me so sad.  I wanted to cry, to tell him that it is quite possible I’m terribly depressed and that I’m not sure my meds are working and that I feel that my life is insignificant sometimes and that I don’t know what the solutions are.  But I couldn’t say anything.  We just talked about my travel plans for the spring, and he helped me with his industry-insider knowledge in booking some flights.  And part of me was so angry.  So angry at him that I couldn’t say these things.  So low.  And all we did was “talk business” as usual.  I’m pretty sure I sounded strained.  You know, when someone asks how you are, you always say you’re fine.  Even though you might be the farthest thing from it.  Why open Pandora’s box?  Why tell a parent who can’t do anything to help you and usually gives you advice you don’t care to hear because it’s conservative and insensitive, that you’re lost and scared and miserable?  It would only hurt them.  But then who do I turn to?

I took a xanax, not something I do often, maybe 2-3 times a year…but it’s gotten closer to 4-5…not a dangerous amount.  Because I was sensing myself start to spin.  I called a friend on the phone and she didn’t answer.  I would have called one or two others, but it’s the Sabbath here, and they’re religious and won’t have their phones on or won’t answer.

My date went well.  He was exceptionally smart.  We have a lot in common.  But I sensed I wasn’t quite all there.  We are going to meet again.  But I need to have a heart to heart with myself, if such a thing exists.  My gynecological issues these past couple months have been scary and uncomfortable.  I can’t pretend that the idea of sex isn’t still off-putting.  It is.  I want to get to know people.  Just people.  Sometimes I think I’d give almost anything up to have unbelievable sex just once in my life.  Maybe even pleasant good sex.  Other times, I know in my gut that I’d be more than OK if I’d never have sex again in my entire life.  Funny.  It’s a take it or leave it.  Sometimes I feel (or rather I know) that I’m really missing out.  Other times, I really know it’s not worth it.  Sex has brought me nothing but worry and discomfort and jeopardized my health.  I don’t know what it feels like to burn with desire.  Maybe I’m not capable of it.  But I know I need a partner.  I need to keep dating.  I want to built positive relationships, have strong friendships, weave a varied and colorful and supportive basket of people around me.  But the intimacy thing.  Sometimes I wonder about hypnosis.  I’d really like to dig to the root of my problems.  I was never physically abused as far as I know.  But after all my years of dating, of sexual dabbling, and therapy on top of it, to still be so uncomfortable, so panic striken, seems fishy to me.  Regular yeast and urine infections, along with the worry of STD’s and pregnancy, for crappy sex that feels a bit uncomfortable at best just isn’t worth it.  Keep the dirty knobs away.  For the moment, anyway.

187 Days: Doesn’t matter anyway

Funny how I spent the evening ranting about maintaining a healthy vagina.  It doesn’t matter for the time being anyway.  The lovely man broke up with me not half an hour ago.  Right around midnight.  I wasn’t expecting it, but it makes sense, if I had been reading the signs clearly instead of wondering what mind games were going on and if I was doing something wrong.  He was so sweet about it.  And I’m so sad.  In some ways, sure, it wasn’t the most natural fit.  But in some ways, I was far more comfortable than I’ve been in a long time.  He was kind to me, and I really need that.  And I’m crying.  And it hurts, and it will hurt.  It was so nice to have a boyfriend.  A musician.  A sweet soul.  Beautiful eyes.  Made me feel like I was pretty.  And normal.  For a while.  And the thought of having to look again.  To find again.  To possibly sign up for jdate again.  Just turns my stomach.  I hate dating.  I don’t understand men.  I feel like I never know where I stand.  And, hell, I barely know myself.  Sometimes for inexplicable reasons, I just turn off.  And then there’s the never-ending libido issues I have.  Goodness.  But it will be OK.  It must be.  Someone sweet liked me for a while.  I will be OK.

250 Days: Layoffs, Fatigue, and Love Again

Four people were laid off at my work. An office of 50 people. Now, closer to 43, as two quit (including me), one was fired last week. And 4 were laid off as a consequence of the economy’s effect on the company. It’s pretty somber here. One person who was let go is weighing on me particularly. I wonderful caring man. Early middle age, if I can even say that. Probably early forties. Three kids. Was always at work early. Worked hard. Very hard. Had brilliant ideas. Was a model of the kind of person that a startup should have. Gone. Where is the logic? We keep maybe 10 very young programmers whose jobs are ridiculously elusive to me, and this nice fellow has to go.

I feel extremely tired and empty today. Yes, severe lack of sleep over the weekend, really lovely, pleasant, fun lack of sleep it was. But I have so much to do this week, I want to cry. It’s still all fun. It’s still somehow manageable. But I still don’t have a visa to India. So…who knows if I can go…and whether I should even book any activities or hotels. And I have an article to finish for tonight/tomorrow-ish. An article I love to write. All about food and culture and Israel and recipes. But some time consuming concentration for a few hours is certainly required. And I have no energy.

And then there is Thanksgiving. Which I’m doing Friday instead of Thursday. Which I’m doing in a kosher kitchen in Jerusalem, a very close friend’s house. And I’ve invited some good friends and my sister, all from Tel Aviv. Not only is there the worrying about the food, the shopping, the cooking, the number of people….there’s the stress of it being in Jerusalem on a Friday! How do we all get there? Or, they, as I’ll have to be there from the crack of dawn and that’s OK. But when the buses and trains all shut down…how will I responsibly get my friends there? And will we ALL stay the night? Will they want to? Will it be OK? Will there be room? I wish I could just give them the time and the address, let them figure it out themselves, and just leave the cooking to me. Maybe it is that simple, who knows? And…it’s about 2.5 days before I leave the country (!!!) that is, if my visa comes through.

And then there’s leaving work – making sure everything is done, that the torch is passed effectively. It’s the kind, polite, good thing to do. But I’m tired and fed up. Who knows how the last scramble will be…

And then there is the new man. For the first time in a long time, I really feel a click. A nice connection. Some excitement. But because of the very strange aspects of my week and this phase of my life and the very busyness of it all, this excitement feels too sedate. I want to be revved. And of course, right about now my paranoia will kick in. Does he like really like me? Does he really? When did he last call me? Should I call him? How much should I limit my contact with him? Don’t want to appear too clingy and paranoid… And do I really like him? Do I? Is it worth this? Getting excited again? How much of myself should I stake? Is this an inevitable heartbreak…so just have fun with it…or is it actually a good thing…and I should invest as much of myself into it as possible?

But at the end of the day, he is a kind man. Smarter than I expected. More tender and caring than I had expected. And I think he is just beautiful. If he feels a fraction of this for me, perhaps he’ll wait for me to come back from India. If he feels even a fraction of this, perhaps he might have intentions bordering on serious…

Thank goodness I’m too tired to weigh in on this too much. Fatigue has its uses, too. And right now it’s protecting me from myself.

254 Days: Feeling Pretty Darned Special

Party location

Yesterday the company administrative assistant knocks on my door with a giant smirk on her face, and says to me, “Should I just tell you now, or do you give me permission to humiliate you…”

Well, well, well.

It seems the she had just received the strangest of phone calls.

“Who’s A-?” she asks, like a pesky little sister on the verge of the giggles.

Seems some guy had called up and said something very strange and very vague along the lines of — so, I met a woman somewhere recently, and I can’t remember her name.  I do remember she works at this company, and that she’s been training as a chef.  Could you put me in touch with her…

The administrator got more of the story out of him – that we had met at a party that he was hosting, and that he had been too drunk and out of it to ask for my phone number.  Hell, he was too drunk to remember my name!

Lucky me, really.  It’s really hard to find my company’s number, as we’re a startup, and it would have taken some good searching.  Not to mention guts, to call up with a story like that!  And what luck, that he would have remembered my company and a detail like culinary school…because had he remembered my name only…he would have been screwed.  Now…the fact that he was drunk at a party he was hosting…don’t think that’s in his favor…but I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt for pulling off this stunt.

To the general roar of my fellow office workers, I was handed a slip of paper with his number and email.

We’re going out Thursday.  Hell of a story to tell the kids, n’est ce pas?

You MUST check out this video.  I can’t embed it, as there is no URL or linking possibility, but it is HILARIOUS.  A friend of a friend on facebook posted it (I think he works there and is in the video…which is why he was able to post it).  As I’m getting out of the internet startup business for the moment, this hits remarkably close to home.  It’s a daily staff meeting…

273: I was just kissed

I was kissed my a man no less than one minute ago, and he was in a hurry to leave.  A big hurry.  We had a great-ish evening.  And it was out first kiss.  He didn’t have to kiss me.  So why did he do it, if he was so adamant to leave?  I didn’t push it?

He was helpful this week, yes.  He has been sweet.  I am attracted.  He’s certainly a nice guy.  And I promised him dinner.  And I cooked for two hours.  And he got here late.  And it was awkward.  And he is a little afraid of cats (!).  And we settled in and watched four (four!) episodes of Coupling.  He’d never seen it before.  They were great episodes.

Then he gets up and leaves.  Bolts.  And kisses me on his way out.  He didn’t have to.  I wasn’t begging for it.  I’ll let him call me.  If he doesn’t, no big deal.  He can’t be the one.  He can’t.

What the hell is a 29 year old woman doing going out with a 23 year old man, anyway?  He’s not educated, working a boring job, and has no other ambition but taking over his family’s real estate business, which is really just a nice network of apartments they own and collect rent on.

But I have to say.  It wasn’t a bad kiss.  I’m rather glad it happened.  Or maybe that’s just all the really nice wine speaking for itself.

God, god, god, I wish I had a libido!!!!  Or the energy!!!  Or the fucking, I don’t know what!!!!!  The desperation to go all out there and date every night of the week.  I’m too comfortable.  I’m too self sufficient.  It was nice to be kissed.  It was nice to be kissed.  Remember that.  Someone young and pretty kissed you.  Before he ran off, that is.

Coupling

362: Love the one you’re with?

Did you ever get what you want, in the best possible circumstance, and then discover you may not have wanted it in the first place? Or maybe, after you get what you want, you just don’t want it anymore…not that it was wrong to have wanted it in the past…

What am I getting to? I was casually dating a very nice man. Taking it very slowly. And I think it was clear to the both of us that it wasn’t right. Almost from the start. But he was so nice…(“you are so nice…”), and sweet, and it’s nice to have dates on the weekends and someone to call you at work to chat. And we very mutually decided to end it. But it turned into us becoming best friends almost instantaneously.
The day after the “break” if you can even call it that, we drove to the Dead Sea on a whim, having a marvelous time. Thing is – half way through the day, I realized that this was the most relaxed, best “date” we had ever gone on. But we were not together anymore. Then the thoughts came creeping up…”well,
we could try again, this is so nice…” and “wait…why doesn’t he want me anymore…maybe it was me…” and “God I wish I had thought this through more…” At the end of that day, after a whole adventure at the sea, and a movie at his house, it really hit me that this guy isn’t going to kiss me goodnight. And he will probably not allow (cringe) at my touching him “inappropriately” because we’re not “together anymore.” Which is weird. Very weird. Because the night before he was naked on my bed. The night before he was crazy about me. And now I can’t rest my hand across his shoulder. And I can’t touch his shaved head, slowly becoming fuzzy and pleasant to stroke. And I can’t feel free to touch anything, a pat on the back, a touch of the arm, lest it be interpreted as something else. And he was naked on my bed a day ago! I knew he wasn’t the man for me. But what I realized after he wasn’t available to me physically anymore is that I would miss the presence. The touch. The other body. And it’s harder because he is so nice, and he wants to be friends, and we should be friends. And the relationship feels exactly the same, except that we don’t touch and that there is no chance at a romantic future (which did take a huge load off at the time of the break up…it was a mite stressful). But it’s confusing. He wasn’t right, yet it was somewhat comforting.

I guess the other thing on my mind is that even though he wasn’t entirely right for me, he wasn’t entirely wrong for me. And at what point (dare I ask) does that become enough? Have I gotten there yet? I am 29. I don’t want to settle. Nobody does. I always thought I would prefer to live alone than to live a life with someone who was less than a great and perfect match for me. I am so used to being alone. It may very well be hindering dating (not that I do much…which at my age, I have just realized, is also becoming a problem). That Crosby, Stills, and Nash song always, always bothered me. Funny that it played in the car on the way to the Dead Sea, both of us listening to it silently for a spell after I had explained my difficultly with it: “If you can’t be with the one you love, honey, love the one you’re with.” As a kid we sang this at camp (yes, it was a hippie-dippy socialist, guitar strumming camp), and as much as I loved the melody, the kind of sweeping umph you get out of a Crosby, Stills, and Nash tune, the chorus bothered me. Really bothered me. If you can’t be with the one you love, you should just forget it and love the person you happen to be with? Why? Sure, sure, free love, bla, bla, bla, you can shrug this off if you’re anyone other than me. But I thought about it, and I thought about it. I may even have written an essay (I was always doing that). Why settle? How on earth is this good advice for anyone? I still don’t know. At some point, I think most people would prefer to not keep living alone. Perhaps it’s stubbornness, bitterness, that keep some people alone. Waiting for an ideal. As I get older I realize that, in fact I accept hands down, there is no one prince charming. There is not the one perfect person for every other. I actually think there are several. Possible people. People whom if you meet at the right kind of time, at the right kind of point in both your lives, it could be amazing. But if it’s not entirely right, it may just turn into the kind of affair you’ll always remember, or the man who got away, or any other variety of true love that didn’t last. We get chances. But yes, we settle. We want kids, we want a house, we want stability, we want comfort, we want to end the void. But what if you’re me, and you don’t believe in the void? Or rather, have taken comfort in the void, a void that doesn’t frighten in the least. And what if you’re me, and when you’re with people who are not quite right, you feel even more alone than had you been in a room alone?

So I ask, when in hell and where on God’s green earth is this person going to show up? A weirdo like me, maybe, the other puzzle piece. Cause, I like the picture I’ve got painted on me now. I just know that humans are mathematical oddities. Gems, really. Why? We are more than the sum of our parts. We are magic. And when two people unite, they become more than two people. What they create, emit, produce, and give back to the world is much more than any two people could have done separately. This is what keeps me going. I want to explode outwardly with someone. But it has to be just right.

And on a side note, regarding my last blog post…whatever happened to living? I mean, sometimes I think that I am a slightly different person every time I get out of bed. Goals, goals, goals. Fear, fear, fear. One thing that struck me on my day trip yesterday was that I was having a genuinely nice time. That having fun, that the absence of worry and stress, are indeed an important accomplishment. They are. If I worked on my novel every day for the next year and never had fun doing it, I should question why I was doing it. And if I worked so hard without any reward, I might as well keel up and die. See, I accomplish things. Sometimes big things. But I have had disproportionately little fun in my life. It’s hard for me. I think it should be an overlying goal. To accomplish, but to accomplish…lightheartedly? With ease? With enough time to breathe? With trips to the beach? And chocolate? And wine?

Yes. Sounds like a plan, Stan.