When it rains, it pours

A good friend of mine told me recently that I should be dating many hot men simultaneously (okay I added the “hot” part for effect.  Besides, it was implied).  He seemed concerned that I am not being open enough? broad enough? selfish enough? in my pursuits.

I know my friend only has my best interests at heart; he is the one who pushes to try new things and see old buddies, and is one of those people who will remain fiercely loyal to and protective of his crew until the end of time.  He has been there from day one, watching the events of my sparse, yet tumultuous dating career unfold. Enjoy being single, he said. Let the boys fight over you for a little while! He reminded me of all the effort I put into making my last relationship work and that I deserved a break, deserved to let the guys do the work for once.

In some ways, I suppose he is right.  I know I certainly deserve it.  And if I recall correctly, I advised a recently single girlfriend of mine in the same manner. Live it up! I encouraged her. Be sassy and wonderful and date around.  Enjoy your twenties!

So why can’t I imagine doing the same?

Despite all the intrigue that the lifestyle holds and the general thrill of being desired, the thought of undertaking such an endeavor makes me feel uneasy.  I know that most people (…you know, normal folks) are totally capable of dating several people at once.  I applaud their persistence and openness to opportunity, but I just don’t have it in me.  Maybe I’m prudish.  Maybe I’m old fashioned.  Maybe my neurons aren’t firing properly (the most likely scenario).  Or maybe it just boils down to a fear of the unknown, as I have never forayed into such situations before.  Whatever it is, K and I have determined that I’m a serial monogamist: tunnel visioned when it comes to men… where everyone else fades into the periphery and all I see and know and want is The Guy I’m With.

Great for relationships, yes… but being that I am not currently in a relationship, all this means is that I’m failing at being the conventional hot young single thang.  Then again, when have I ever been conventional anyway?

I suppose I should just take solace in the fact that I don’t fit into that mold.  Yes, objectively I’d say that women should want to date around and figure out what works best for them.  But why should I do that just because it’s what others do?  Aside from it being a potential cesspool of stress and drama (both of which I loathe), I have no doubt in my mind that I am happy with how things are at the moment.  I am enjoying the unexpected moments of flattery– reminders that I am in such a better place in my life now.  I like the anticipation.  The smiles that appear on my face at random.  I love waking up in the morning and looking forward to the day, wondering if today’s the day.

So why push it?  Why disrupt a perfectly good thing to chase after other particles that float into my line of vision?  Sure, I would probably enjoy it.  Hell, I might even be good at it.  All I know is that right now, I just don’t prefer doing it this way.

Honestly, nothing beats feeling this great.  Whatever this is, it’s a whirlwind of crazy, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like it.

Talls, you said it best:  It’s life.  Crazy, amazing, infuriating life.

Weddings and babies and pressure…oh my

I attended a wedding banquet with my mother earlier this month.  As these wedding banquets are held primarily for the newlyweds’ parents to show off to their friends, nearly every guest was over the age of 50.  The food was okay, the company was awkward and the conversation was a bit forced.  Still, I did my due diligence and, so as not to embarrass my mother, laughed at their jokes, answered their questions, and politely batted away their attempts to set me up with their sons and nephews.

The following day, there was a telephone message on my parents’ answering machine from a banquet guest’s mother.  My own mother called me downstairs, grinned, and pointedly asked me if I remembered a young man sitting near us.  I had been dreading this.  I sighed and told her that I did in fact see the quiet gentleman in his mid-thirties, sitting at the next table.  My mother then twittered excitedly (like a bird, not the website), WAH YOU NOTICE HIM!  YOU MUSS BE INTERESTING! I told her very firmly that I was not interested in him, and explained that every sober woman of my generation has the ability to sense a pair of eyes boring holes into her person.  The guy had been looking at me for something like forty-five minutes while I sat at my table, alone, and rather than approach me to say Hello, asked his mother to figure it out for him.  Now, I understand that some people are timid; there is nothing wrong with that quality.  Some women like shy men who can’t take their lives into their own hands.  I just happen to not be one of those women.  Confidence is important.  My guy has to have a pair.

After I reiterated the NoThankYous, my dad decided to jump into the conversation.  ”Does he have a house?”

I told him that was irrelevant, that I was not interested in this man.  You’re being too picky.  You are getting old now, do you understand?  There is nobody your age left to marry. I stared at him in disbelief.  I am only in my mid-twenties.  Who cares if he’s 35 or even 40?  You are lucky that anybody is even interested in you.  You are too old, you need to settle for someone. Apparently my qualities aren’t good enough to wrangle me a decent one.  Clearly I am too old and undesirable to be able to find a man of character.  Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dad!  ::thumbs up::

I got a perfectly timed phone call at that moment and so managed to escape the firing squad.  Although it still hurts that my father thinks so lowly of me, I do ultimately recognize what I am worth, and am not the least bit worried that I will marry someone worthwhile one of these days.  What’s the rush?

I’d also like to take this moment to add that my dad had been hounding me about grandbabies all weekend, so his madman ramblings were probably partly motivated by his own biological clock.  Still no excuse to be jerk, however.  That said, I am currently not on speaking terms with him.  Before you shake your head disapprovingly, please know that I am not playing a game with him; I hate games more than anyone.  I just don’t see why I should choose to call somebody and talk about the weather when this person makes me feel useless, unattractive, and self-conscious.

I have made it a habit to banish negativity from my life; family not excepted.  It has only been about ten days, and I will probably forgive him soon since I am pretty lousy when it comes to holding grudges.  But I certainly will not forget his words, and will remember to hold things much more closely to heart in future conversations with him.

At least I’m not anemic

Today I tried to give blood.

It was a mobile blood bank at the HOA club nearby (heretofore known as Da Club) and since I had missed the last few blood drives (bad weather, a late evening in the office, general laziness), I thought this would be a great way to start off the new year.  I mean, why not give?  It will help somebody out, my body will continue to make blood, it will cause me minimal pain, and I won’t have to move boxes in the office for a few days.  I don’t see any problems here…

When I arrived, I registered at the front desk, grabbed a t-shirt for the bro, and waited for the phlebotomists to poke me with a needle.  Let’s be honest, it’s not a pleasant experience.  I was anxious to get it over with so that I could home and eat another dinner.  You know, to replenish myself… it had nothing to do with my gluttony or anything.

The phlebotomist ushered me into a tiny room, where he checked my health survey, took my vitals, etc.  When I weighed in, the scale read “E” and I gasped in mock horror.  Oh look, you broke it, he said.  You must weigh more than 350 pounds! I laughed, but in truth, had eaten so many carbs in the past couple of days that I certainly felt like I was carrying 350 pounds of undigested pizza, pasta, bread and bloat.  In my mind, out-carbing the scale was not an unreasonable explanation.

He finally did the finger stick to check for anemia.  I was unable to give blood in college once because of my low iron and had worried about it sporadically ever since.  Fortunately, the droplet was nice and fat (like a jelly donut!) and floated gracefully to the bottom of the beaker.  As he noted the results on my donation receipt, I asked how I might find out what my blood type is.  I had been curious for so long, but never remembered to ask when the techs were checking my blood.  He assured me that I would be receiving a postcard with all the pertinent information in the next week or two, and suggested that I dial the hotline with any questions.

Or, he continued, you could give me a call in a couple of days and I can look it up for you… here is my number. I nodded and thanked him.  He must have recognized that his words failed to register with me, and added quickly, as he handed me the receipt, I’d be happy to go over it with you… maybe over dinner or something.

Completely thrown for a loop, I managed a smile and thanked him.  While I was flattered, the entire thing was so seamlessly executed that I found myself wondering how many times he’s used that line before (not that it matters).  I know, I’m a cynic and a total buzzkill.  It’s my defense mechanism rising to my rescue… because God forbid that a guy show genuine interest in me.  I tried to fire my defense mechanism months ago, as it worked overtime during the last several years and I am no longer in need of its services… but it has been loyal to me for such a long time that it insists on sticking around a little while longer, just in case I need some backup.

Receipt in pocket and needle in arm, I thought about what had happened just moments before.  This was most definitely a first for me.  It was intriguing, yes, and the assertiveness was surprising.  But flattery aside, my head wasn’t really in it, and while it wouldn’t have been a horrible idea, it wasn’t a particularly good one either.  Peripheral flattery will come and go, but to be in a nice, steady place is a rarity for me.  I’m not disrupting that for anything.

As I pondered and came to conclusions about things, another phlebotomist adjusted my needle and restuck me several times to maximize the flow of blood.  Sadly, my tiny, shriveled vein, pissed at having been mauled, decided to stop cooperating after giving about one-third of a bag.  I felt pretty useless.  I wonder what they do when they don’t fill the bags completely?  I doubt there’s even enough for them to test, much less use for transfusions.  How disappointing!

On a positive note, at least I don’t have anemia.

Thoughts for the next donation (no sooner than eight weeks from today):
(1) Drink copious amounts of water for two days before the draw;
(2) Make sure they draw from my right arm;
(3) Wear a tshirt.  Rolling sleeves over a swollen arm is not fun; and
(4) Grab a cookie before leaving the trailer.  Where was I on that one?

I just realized that, because I failed in my blood-giving endeavors, I most likely won’t be getting that postcard in the mail.  Here’s to waiting another two months.  I  hope I remember to ask.  And I hope I remember that cookie!