Kick A

I have been working out for almost six months, people. Six months! This is somewhat crazy. In the history of mankind, I have never stuck with an exercise routine for this long. It's like asking a pubescent male to remember to shower everyday or a kindergartner to stop picking his nose and eating it. I've succeeded in all of the above. Well, mostly.

So what does this working out do for me? Well, I can generally feel smug. So that's good. But also there have appeared these guns. Not airsofts or magnums or tommys, but lovely little biceps and triceps. Imagine me kissing them right now. See? Smug.

Now that you hate me sufficiently (I would), you have to know that all this is because of Cindy Whitmarsh. Okay, okay, and also my smug sister. But Cindy, too. I heart Cindy Whitmarsh. I would marry her workouts if I lived in England and could marry anything I wanted.

So now all I have to do is keep it up. Pshaw. Just because it will be winter soon and it will be dark and lonely and my job will shortly take over my life like a python squeezes the life out of jungle monkeys and my hours at home will diminish and the stress will stack up like unused phone books doesn't mean I'm giving up! I can't. I mustn't. I shouldn't. It can't happen!! If you could see my face, you would see possibly some spinach in my teeth and then you would see the look on my face which would be a look of pathetic pleading. I must press forward in exercise! I must be determined and relentless. Now my face looks relentless. Especially the eyes. They say (only metaphorically) I will succeed!

Cereal

I don't cook. I won't apologize for it. It's not that I can't. No really. I can cook if I want. But why would I want? Especially not when there's cereal. Someone once told me that cereal is like dog food for people. That's a horrible, misguided falsehood. I feel sorry for that guy. Living in the dark like that. No Fruity Pebbles or Honeycomb to comfort him. See, I love cereal. Sugar cereal. I even love the characters, especially the generic ones (shout out to my Marshmallow Mateys and Cocoa Roos). But our relationship, mine and cereal's, has not always been so smooth. It's not that cereal doesn't love me back. Ours is a love that defies time and space. Yet there was once one mutual enemy that almost tore us apart. It's hard to talk about even today. But for the sake of cereal, I will try.

I've always loved cereal. From the beginning of time... since I could eat solids. Cereal has been there for me through the toughest times. Apple Jacks, Cap'n Crunch, Corn Pops, Cocoa Puffs, Cookie Crisp. I've loved them all. The only problem was the milk. Milk had it in for me. As it turned out, I was lactose intolerant. How could this be, you ask incredulously. And you should. With a hearty helping of incredulity. Even after this heartbreaking milky discovery, I couldn't give up on my cereal. Years of stomach aches and embarrassing gastrointestinal breakdowns later, I discovered soy milk, lactose-free milk, rice milk. Yet these were all disgusting, if not utterly bank-breaking. Something had to give. My precious cereal and I made the impossible decision to take a break for a while. Nothing definite. But I was still destroyed.

Eventually, while standing in the dairy aisle one Saturday afternoon, daydreaming of Trix, Honey Smacks, Froot Loops, even Frosted Mini-wheats and Raisin Nut Bran, I decided to try to appeal to our vicious enemy milk one last time. I bought a half-gallon of skim, giddy with the thought of where I would visit next: the beloved cereal aisle.

It had been so long. So long since I had traveled down that exquisite aisle to do anything but yearn from afar. I quickly filled my basket. Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Honey Oh's, Life. Oh, how I'd missed them. But the trial of our separation was not over. We had yet to overcome the intolerance keeping us apart. As I sat down to my first bowl of Honey Smacks in several months, I said a little prayer. Please help me my intolerance for the cereal I do love.

Maybe it was luck. Maybe it was the prayer. Whatever it was, cereal and I currently enjoy a full relationship. Milk still provides an occasional rift, but after that infamous breakup, cereal and I know that it's better to be together than apart. This is why I don't cook. Cereal has saved my life. I love it. It loves me. I don't have to worry about cleaning a million dishes, waiting expectantly near the oven or microwave, wasting leftovers. I pour one bowl. Just me and the cereal. It's synergistic. It's mind-blowing. It's my love for cereal.

Today

I’m sitting in front of the computer screen, the submit button pulsing. Do I buy a pizza? Do I not buy a pizza? I’m trying to be good. But I don’t really care about being good. I want a pizza. But it’s really expensive. It’s like $16 for one pizza. It would be cheaper for two, but how am I supposed to eat two pizzas? I would like to be somewhere else. Possibly hiking or riding a tandem bike. But there’s no one to do those things with. And I’m trying to ignore that fact. It is really pretty outside right now. But if I were to go hiking by myself, there would be a serial killer, or worse, a serial rapist, hiding around the second or third turn. I had a dream about being sexually assaulted. It was more like some one was humping my leg and getting off on it, but in my dream I was crying and screaming and it was just like he was raping me even though it was just my leg. So maybe I won’t go on a hike by myself which means I wont be going on a hike. That thought, that alone thought, squeezes through my eyes for like a second but then I push it back down. No one, especially me, wants to hear about it. I could watch more Law and Order while playing one-suit spider solitaire again. Like I have for the past four days. Why one-suit and not two? Not four for obvious reasons. That’s just way too difficult. Why make things more complicated? So why not two-suit? I tried it, but I like that I can finish in three and a half minutes. I can’t do that with two-suit, and besides two-suit is too complicated, too. I don’t have enough cash for the pizza anyway.

Internet Dating

Really, one could create an entire blog devoted solely to this topic. I'm sure there are some out there. Here's mine.

So like a dog to its vomit, when the well of dating runs dry (and when is it not dry?), I go back to the internet. The internet that brings us the finer things in life such as karaoke youtube-style and that one unicorn guy from Brooklyn. Why wouldn't the internet, the giver of such grand things, be a well-suited and magical place to meet people, even a dateable people? Good question, me. The hypothesis gains credibility when you consider that I can name three couples right off the top of my head, happily married, who met on the internet. And if I thought about it, I could probably name more, some married, some dating. (But I won't name names. Don't you guys worry!)

So if this is the case: people do meet their significant and dateable others on the interwebs (as my brother-in-law calls it), why is it such a shameful thing to say, "Oh, yeah. Me and the wife, we met online!" The fact is, it is shameful. It is creepy. And it is unnatural. Let me tell you why.

As I have dived back into the seedy world of online dating, I have discovered some things. One, I spend more time looking at my own profile than really caring about the other profiles of eligible men out there. I like looking at my pictures. I smile and inwardly giggle at the cleverness of my personality in my introduction. "Gosh, I'm adorable," I think. But as I think this, I click on my inbox and find that it's still devoid of messages. Devoid for weeks, mind you. So then I want to change the subheading on my profile to: "Hey, I'm cute dammit! And if you're too retarded to see, screw you, buddy!"

And this is on a good day.

Most of time, if there is a message in the inbox, it's from a "laid-back guy" who "loves the outdoors" and who will probably kill and maim you after he attempts to chat you up via video-chat where he reveals himself as the next TLC reality star in "The 700-Pound Serial Killer." If this is not entirely accurate, then the message is from someone who knew your great-grandfather in "The Great War" and finds you "cute as a button" and who will also kill and maim you and possibly eat your flesh. (Yes, I do realize I've changed to second-person, but I'm only trying to distance myself from this harsh and sobering reality. Get over it.)

If, by some miracle of God, in my inbox there appears a message from someone who, by all accounts appears to be "normal," I will write him back with something witty and clever and something I will spend entirely too much time on crafting. Even if all he writes is something completely inane or more boring than taxes, "Hey, what's up?" I will respond. I will spend whole minutes debating on whether to go with the smiley emoticon or the winky emoticon.

If this strategy works, and the "normal" online male responds with some equally clever banter, we may volley back and forth a few emails. And every night when I come home I will have this ridiculous bubble of expectation in my stomach: "I wonder if he wrote back? Did he? What did he say? Oh, he probably didn't write back. Don't be such a Desperate Doris. What if he likes me? Will this be the email that takes us to the next step?? The phone call???"

Of course these thought patterns are ridiculous. We all know how it ends. You either meet and he turns out to be a weirdo freak after all, or you don't meet. Usually for me, it's the don't meet. Want to know why? Of course you do.

After so many emails, I can't take it anymore. "Let's be like actual people who actually have conversations," I think to myself. This emailing is ridiculous. If I want a pen pal, I'll find a lonely inmate in Siberia who only speaks halting English or a poor Puerto Rican kid whose dream is to play soccer in America (not knowing this will only put him one rung above fast-food managers here). No more emailing. I want a damn date. That's why they call them dating websites, people. To date. D-A-T-E. Not the raisiny thing that tastes like flour. Going out. On a DATE. So I'll start by implying such things in our emailing volley. When he doesn't pick it up (which is a given), I inevitably resort to drastic measures.

Now, I don't think giving men my number is drastic. It's not. If I ever happened to meet someone in the real world who was not a serial killer and with whom I had some things in common, I wouldn't think twice about handing over my digits. I will never, ever hand over my digits if the man seems the least bit insincere. I'm not going to force myself on anybody, 'cause pathetic much? Come on.

Now, that said, at the point in the email correspondence that screams, "Go big or go home," I will type in my digits. My finger will hover uncertainly over the mouse which is aimed to click "Send." Finally, I will say to myself, "Screw it. If he's not man enough to ask you out on a real date, you never needed him anyway," and I will send him my phone number, naked and vulnerable little numbers.

GAH! We all know what happens after this: nothing. Can someone tell me what the hell this is all about? I'd like some logical conclusion: My number causes instantaneous blindness, or typing so much has caused irreparable carpal tunnel (did I even spell that right?). All I'm saying is that all you "men" out there on the internet are cowards. That's right, cowards. If you can't even show the least bit of initiative toward a cyber-relationship, what hope do you have of a real one? For crying in the night.

So, I've learned my lesson. Again. I'm leaving internet dating. If that means leaving dating period, so be it. I'm packing my metaphorical bags, and I'm traveling solo. Because my profile is adorable. And so is the person behind it. Even if I'm the only who thinks so. So there.

Discovering an Anchor

It all starts with a seemingly small series of nonevents. As it turned out, I was to go to the Shakespeare Festival alone to my secondary teachers conference. As no one was coming with me, I prepared myself with audiobooks, journal, cooler full of my kind of food (too much of it as usual), novel, patriarchal blessing, scriptures, and a vague idea that if I had time outside the conference and seeing plays, I would absorb into myself some kind of miraculous peace about everything. All things denoting a journey in meditation, a reevaluation of self.

My second day after the conference ended at 5pm, I found myself in my car throwing a tantrum as I am sometimes prone to do. This tantrum was monumental for being by myself, and it was because of myself I threw it. Because I could. Because I was by myself. The reason for it is silly by itself. But not so much given what became context.

I berated myself for having left my cover-up that I had carefully placed into a plastic baggie which never actually made it into my purse. "Berated" is possibly too mild. Feeling hideous and ultimately inhuman, I decided to treat myself that way. And it was a decision. For a fleeting moment I could see outside myself and what the more logical part saw could have frightened her if I hadn't whipped her back into the froth. I knew I was being vicious and ridiculous. I didn't care. I couldn't contain my feelings of loathing in thoughts or words, so I half-screamed, half-gurgled in my car. Yes, gurgled is the best word for it.

Later that night, sanity came back to me. "Okay." I said. "This, this needs to stop. This is not just on occasion, but always seething under the surface. And it needs to stop."

Then the image of this little girl, this care-free little person telling stories in her dramatic way to all who would listen, who would dance around the living room in her slip and watch the Solid Gold Dancers for dance moves, who knew she wanted to be an actress from the time she was sentient. Who felt the magic at the Shakespeare Festival and wanted nothing more than to bottle it and have it and keep it forever. This was a person I would never in a million years insult and injure the way I had myself. What had happened to her? Where did she go? I asked myself. The answer is so simple. She is still me. She is still me. We don't have to be separate, but we are. I have always felt a separation from myself. Always. In conversations on the topic, I just didn't feel like people understood the degree of the separation I felt. I don't know what happened. I don't know why I care so much about what other people think. But I have cared about that so much for so long, it seems the pattern is an impossible chasm to cross.

But it's not. I'm working. She's going to help me. We are separate but the same. Any time I need her, I remember who I am. This may not seem like a big deal to some. But not to us.

I can't express here how it feels to have her back in my life, to remember she is me. Words are never enough. But action. Action is what I am taking.

This is a waking up. A revelation.

SSDD

Another day, another date, another reason not to go out. Ever feel like Sisyphus, rolling that stupid boulder halfway up the hill every day, never progressing? Or just generally looking for a needle in a giant stack of needles? And you can say a thousand times that you give up. You're done. No more. But saying that doesn't make that boulder go away. It'll still be there when you wake up in the morning. Don't kid yourself. The only way to get away from it is to sleep and hope you dream about finally reaching the top or just finding some dynamite and blowing the damn thing up. But then you wake up.

Christmas Again

It's been six months since my last confession... That's quite a long time, really. It's Christmas again already. And I have to admit, I've been facebook-stalking my exes. Now I try to be realistic here. I would never in a million years want any of them back. But there are certainly things I miss. I wonder why the holidays always make being an awesome single person feel like being a lonely sad sack destined to live for several long decades in a dingey apartment with three or more cats until neighbors start to smell something funny. Not funny ha-ha. Funny "For the love of all that is holy, what is that?" Of course the smell will be my cats because after they've eaten my body they'll have starved. Ah, decomposers.

But on the upside, I get presents. My parents are pretty awesome that way. They like to get their children lots of neat things. So material goods are always an effective way of getting one's mind off of Christmas's relentless brandishing of marriage and family.

Also, there's shopping. Shoving people to and fro, laying on your horn, seething for an entire half hour in your car because the stupid guy in the antique shop where you finally found something awesome for your artsy mother is a cantankerous ass-hat who obviously wants nothing more than to keep all his stupid old trinkets to himself and you didn't have the presence of mind to call him on it while you were actually in the store being badgered by the onerous fart.

So perhaps New Year's will bring something better than this. Or perhaps I'll meet another desperate divorcee (I'm not divorced, but he was) and have another three to four month long fling that gets me that much further from real love if it even exists. Now I'm just being bitter. And with that, I will go my way and wish you Happy Holidays. Or whatever.