126. Maybe it’s situational?

I had the best night that I’ve had in a long time–maybe even ever–this past Friday. It’s been a while since I’ve really let loose, let my hair down, turn’d up, or whatever the kids are saying these days… so it felt fantastic to go out to the clubs and get a lil’ crazy. Even though I was enjoying myself sans alcohol (this old girl can’t party like she used to) it was nice to get out &¬†socialize.¬†

I loved it. I made normal conversation, witnessed a mind-blowing, gravity-defying dance-off, made abnormal conversation, met new people, and topped off the night with a good deed done right: driving three incredibly inebriated fellas home.

This is where shit got really real: between one of them running away, the other repeatedly attempting to ask my friend Celia out on a date (unsuccessfully–sorry Eric), and the third falling face first into a brick wall, I definitely had my work cut out for me. None of them knew where we were going, two of them were barely conscious, and Eric, well, he was more concerned with romance than actually getting home at any point in time.

Eventually, over a chorus of “Is this a cab?”, “Celia! CELIA!”, “Um, why are you doing this?” and ¬†unbridled screaming, I managed to make it downtown–no thanks to any of the buffoons in the back seat. From there we made it to their place (after¬†much¬†ado about¬†everything) and, despite their very best efforts (somebody, I won’t name any names here, couldn’t possibly understand why giving me his keys would be a good idea…), we even managed to get¬†inside¬†the building.

It was fun–even the shitty parts of the night left me laughing. But, given that this is one of very few interactions I’ve had with the opposite sex in a long while, it makes me wonder: how can I ever hope to meet somebody if the guys I¬†am¬†interacting with are too drunk to even remember who they are, much less who¬†I¬†am?

Maybe if I spent more time around sober men (or even men in general) my chances of romance wouldn’t seem so slim.

126. Maybe it’s situational?

125. Maybe it’s because I’m lame?

I was never a popular girl.

I was always picked last in floor hockey, & usually first out in dodgeball, & I spent a lot of my lunch hours eating alone. I was kind of an ugly duckling–I didn’t grow into my looks until way later in life & by that time I’d solidified a set of awkward social skills that made it near impossible to maintain & create relationships. I was forever trying to strike a balance between trying too hard & staying aloof–people either thought I was a needy nerd or a mean bitch. I made terrible jokes that only I ever thought were funny, dressed weird & was chubby, & I¬†either was overbearing to the point of annoyance, or overwhelmingly shy. I could barely make friends, so¬†having a boyfriend was completely off the table.

That was then, though, & this is now. Since my time in Edmonton’s public school system, I’ve managed to level myself on the fulcrum of social norms & niceties. It’s allowed me to formulate a somewhat-social social life, but my dance card is still never quite full. ¬†It doesn’t bother me (usually) because I’m happy with the friends I do have–they are great, & they make my life full, & they support me (sometimes from all the way across Canada–here’s looking at you, BFF) when I’m overwhelmed & crazy. I’ve also managed to maintain a romantic relationship or two in the years since my embarrassing attempts at courtship¬†in grade school, & that’s boosted my confidence in that area. But sometimes it can take the slightest nudge to push me over the social precipice–to remind me that I’m still just not that¬†cool.¬†

We were picking groups in class the other day–I’m talking a university class here, with people I’ve gone to school with for 3 years & who I know by at least first name & probably¬†on a more personal level… everybody knows everybody, just to give you some context. So, we were picking these groups & nobody picked me.

It was like tenth grade gym class all over again. But somehow more hurtful.

No matter how hard I tried to tell myself to calm down, it’s no big deal, it doesn’t even matter, the little voice in my head wouldn’t stop reminding me that I wasn’t good enough, smart enough, pretty enough, or popular enough for any of these people. Nobody wanted me–still.

Ouch.

I wanted to disappear. I was immediately conscious of all of my faults: the fabric of my leggings stretched translucent over my thunder thighs, the two zits on my chin that refuse to be camouflaged, the greasy hair tucked under my frumpy toque. I felt dumb, inadequate, unwanted. I didn’t have enough good ideas or constructive critiques to be welcomed into a group of my peers. I was overtly aware of everything wrong with me (physically & intellectually) & so was everybody else. All I wanted to do was curl up & die. Instead, I relied on my other mode of self-defence: aggressive passive-aggression & semi-public tears.

Looks like I may not have outgrown all of my childhood idiosyncrasies… the least of which being my lameness.

Maybe nobody wants to be with me because sometimes I don’t even want to be with myself.

125. Maybe it’s because I’m lame?

124. Maybe it’s because I’m so great.

A friend commented earlier this week that she has absolutely no idea why I’m single.

“You’re just so funny!” She said, to which I replied:

“I know. I’m great. I just don’t get it.”

At the time it was nothing more than a flippant comment, but looking back now it makes me wonder. I mean, I don’t really think there is anything terribly wrong with me (despite the long list of possible problems here). I mean, I’ve got my flaws–don’t we all?–but overall I’m really not that bad. I actually am pretty great… maybe even¬†too¬†great.

I rarely get the chance to pump my own tires on this thing & I think it would be a nice change, so let’s just talk about how awesome I am for once.¬†

I’ll start with the basics: I have a job, which is good. I have friends–also good. I know how to drive &¬†I even have a car.¬†I am educated, attractive, kind, & healthy (as far as I know). I’m patient (unless I’m hungry) & I am not high-maintenance (although my Instagram may suggest otherwise–don’t believe everything you see on the internet, folks).

Now, let’s get into the nitty-gritty. The really important shit: I am soft, but firm–physically & emotionally–like a perfectly ripe plum. I know how to use a semicolon & favour the oxford comma, & I read books that aren’t¬†Twilight¬†or its sexy alter ego¬†50 Shades of Grey. I have a sense of humour,¬†I love documentaries, &¬†I enjoy long walks in the River Valley. I own a lava lamp, which is equal parts relaxing & fun–just like me!¬†Oh, & I also know how to use Microsoft Office products which is a bonus in any situation, really.

I am not damaged goods–I might be¬†the complete opposite. & maybe that’s why nobody wants to be with me–I can imagine the thought of dating somebody as fantastic as me can seem¬†pretty¬†overwhelming.

So, to all the guys out there: please don’t be intimidated. I am human, just like you! & I’m honestly not that great once you really get to know me, anyway.

124. Maybe it’s because I’m so great.

122. Maybe it’s because I’m lazy?

It’s the tail end of Reading Week & I have absolutely no desire to do anything. Ever again.

After 6 weeks of non-stop intellectual activity, the past 7 days of doing nothing has been a blissful break. I’ve been living in the lap of luxury–& by luxury I mean laying in bed watching Netflix & neglecting to shower.

It’s been awesome.

Even getting myself to string a few sentences together for this post has been a struggle–my brain is just out of it. It’s had enough. It doesn’t want to think anymore, & who can blame it?

I was¬†just so tired. I needed a break & I’m really glad I got one… But¬†it seems to have backfired a bit. Instead of feeling refreshed & ready to go back to school, I’m even more exhausted than I was to begin with.

I have no desire to leave my bed, or bathe, or even move in general, & that isn’t creating a lot of opportunities for romance–as you can imagine. My newfound lethargy & overall slothfulness, combined with a week of inactivity hasn’t really made me any more attractive to the opposite sex. This isn’t shocking to me, but right now, quite frankly, I am too tired to care.

I’ll deal with romance next week, maybe, if I can muster the energy to look like a human being again. In the mean time, I’m going to continue marathon-ing¬†Bates Motel & eating macaroni & cheese straight from the pot in the comfort of my own bed.

122. Maybe it’s because I’m lazy?

121. Maybe it’s because I love food.

I like food. Yeah, I know, who doesn’t right? But I like, really like food… if you know what I mean.

I’ve always enjoyed it–all of it. I love salty, sweet, & all the beautiful flavours in between. I like fast food, slow food, cheap food & even¬†the not-so-cheap stuff every once in a while, too. I groan with pleasure watching the assembly of my submarine sandwich, I drool in anticipation at the sound of sizzling bacon, & I have planned my life around Brewster’s Bavarian beefdip on more than one occasion.

Sitting down to a mouth-watering meal is a feeling rivalled only by digging into¬†a delicious dessert, & don’t even get me¬†started on how I feel about calorie-filled cocktails or savoury Starbucks beverages–it’sso satisfying.¬†I know what I like, & I know it’s going to be tasty…¬†if you ask me, feasting on my favourite foods is¬†the ultimate gratification. ¬†

It’s been brought to my attention that¬†maybe¬†this is a touch unhealthy–that perhaps my relationship with meals is mildly inappropriate. My gross obsession with grub may be getting in the way of having a normal relationship. Could it be that my preoccupation with all things edible is getting in the way of some romantic satisfaction?

Maybe. I have been spending more time stuffing my face than fraternizing with eligible bachelors, & that’s definitely not doing my love life or my body shape any favours. I guess I could try & keep the snacking to a minimum, but what kind of life would that be?

Maybe I can fall in love with a man who shares my love of food–give myself the best of both worlds. I’ve heard you’re not supposed to mix business & pleasure, but food & romance should be okay.

Love me, love my appetite–am I right?

121. Maybe it’s because I love food.

V-Day

Well, here we are again. Another year, another February 14–the bane of a single girl’s existence. Right?

Valentine’s Day is an interesting holiday for us on the single-side. When other people are holding hands, buying flowers, & preparing themselves for other date-like, romantic activities, we singletons soldier on. We buy bottles of red wine & tubs of Ben & Jerry’s & watch 10 Things I Hate About You repeatedly & eat our feelings in the form of heart-shaped pizzas–or maybe that’s just me.

I’m trying not to get too hung up on Valentine’s day this year, to be completely honest.¬†I mean, I love cheap chocolate & useless stuffed animals just as much as the next girl, but I’m not going to get bent out of shape if I don’t have a secret admirer dumping them on my doorstep. I think I can survive a day or two without a bouquet of carnations crowding my desktop, or a sappy Hallmark creation asserting a man’s allegiance to me. It’s all so… insincere. & I’m kind of happy I¬†don’t¬†have to deal with it this year. Now, I am not pledging that love isn’t real (for once), & I am definitely not trying to belittle relationships. Love is great, & relationships are awesome. What I am saying is this: not only is Valentine’s Day a big ol’ waste of money, but it’s phony too.

I know, I know. It sounds cynical, but just stay with me.

I find it frustrating when February 14 rolls around & my social media is flooded with affirmations of love on one side & pitiful claims of loneliness on the other. This drives me nuts because, guess what, Valentine’s Day is just another day. It’s no different than the day before it, or the day after it. So, the people that are over-the-top in love–cool, I’m very happy for you. But I already knew that. The same goes for those that use V-day to publicly complain about their lack of significant other. This isn’t new information, to me, or you, or anybody else.

So, instead of feeding the beast & complaining about my single lifestyle, I’m going to spend my Valentine’s hanging with the people I love, working my way through a bottle of wine, & slicing sausage for a tasteful meat & cheese tray–& I think everybody else should too…regardless of relationship status.

blowing kisses

Happy Valentine’s Day readers!

V-Day

120. Maybe it’s because I’m not likeable?

I’ve been thinking, & I’ve come to a conclusion about my dating struggles. It’s so blatant, I’m surprised I’ve never thought of it before.

Maybe the reason I’m so overwhelmingly single is because guys just don’t¬†like¬†me. I am just un-likeable, plain & simple. Well, I mean they like me–they just don’t like-like me. Always the friend, never the girlfriend–you know what I mean?

I’m the girl who you¬†message over Facebook, ensuring that I petition my pretty friend to make an appearance at my birthday party. I’m the girl who doesn’t get directly invited places, but I can tag along if I want. I’m the girl whose shoulder guys look over at the bar, bypassing my face for the beautiful ones behind it. I’m the girl who is never ‘the girl’. I’m the best friend in a romantic comedy, except for this is my own life.

I am just not girlfriend-material. I’m the girl who’s friends with the girls who are girlfriend material. I have gotten to the point where I usually don’t mind… but this is the tail end of an entire week where¬†nothing¬†I do has been good enough.

I try to make up for my faults–I do: I am funny, I am (reasonably) intelligent. I am caring. I am helpful. I am (reasonably) independent. But at the end of the day I just don’t have what it takes. I don’t fit the mould. & that sucks.

This is coming at a time where it feels like everybody is coupling up. Three women I work with are getting married, the rest of them are either living happily-ever-after with husbands of 20-or-more years or just stumbling into an amazing relationship, with an amazing guy, who they never saw coming. As is always the case: if I had a nickel for every time someone told me I’d fall into a relationship when I’m least expecting it, well, let’s just say my university education would be bought & paid for a¬†long¬†time ago.

& then there’s me. I feel more alone when it seems like everybody else has got a hand to hold, or someone to snuggle them at night–I actually tried holding my own hand the other day, just because I’d forgotten what it felt like…that is the level of sad I’m dealing with right now.

People are always telling me: it’s gonna happen when you’re not looking. Like, as if, one day I am going to be walking along, minding my own business, & just trip over the love of my life. You know? That isn’t going to happen. That’s not how life actually¬†works. The reality is that there isn’t somebody for everybody. There are people who are alone forever, & at this rate I may be one of them.

So, if anybody needs me, I will be throwing myself a pity party & crying into my pillow–ah-lone.

 

 

 

 

120. Maybe it’s because I’m not likeable?

119. Maybe it’s because I’m a perfectionist.

I’ve been running a little highstrung lately–but what else is new? I can’t even remember the last time I felt relaxed: between school, work, & my poor attempt at having a social life, I haven’t had a lot of down time.

& now I have the added stress of researching, applying for, & actually landing a summer internship.

It’s a lot for me to handle.

I know, I know. I’m catastrophizing–my life isn’t that bad, or that stressful, or that crazy right now. If I were on the outside looking in, I would probably think that I had it made. I mean, I’ve got a job, I’ve got friends, I’m getting an education… objectively, life is good.

But, being that I am a perfectionist, I am always striving to improve, to be better–to be the best. I am constantly in a state of never feeling good enough, I hold myself to¬†this unrealistic standard, I¬†torture¬†myself¬†into creating the highest quality work I can possibly produce,¬†& although this pushes me to elevevate everything I do to the next level,¬†it¬†is also¬†exhausting.¬†

Which is probably why I will be alone¬†forever…¬†If I can’t meet my own standards, why would some guy even want to try?

Anyway–back to this internship situation: I can’t just settle for any old summer job. I don’t want an internship… I¬†want the internship.

So, the search is on. I’m¬†dusting off my research skills (& begging multiple professors) to see what kind of kick ass internship I can track down… wish me luck, readers!

ps. if anyone out there on the world wide internet is interested in an intern, let me know!

119. Maybe it’s because I’m a perfectionist.

118. Maybe it’s because I can’t write…

I have been having a bit of trouble getting the literary juices flowing lately & it’s driving me¬†insane.¬†I’ve dealt with writer’s block before, but this time… well, this time it’s really getting to me. I’m losing it. I’m exhausted, I’m stressed, I’m forgetful… I forgot to mail my BFF’s birthday card–something that¬†never¬†happens. Ever. I haven’t done laundry in¬†days. My irritation level is off the charts.¬†& all because I just. Can’t. Write.

It’s ruining my life.

I’ve tried all the things you’re supposed to try: writing through it, writing around it; changing my environment, not changing my environment; drinking heavily, et cetera et cetera. Nothing is working. I don’t feel inspired, & this is causing me to produce lacklustre work that feels¬†insincere.¬†There is nothing worse.

Just thinking about it makes me cringe.

Not being able to write is awful–I have never felt so disconnected from myself & my thoughts &/or feelings. I sit down at my desk, or in a coffee shop, or at school, & try to write… it–what I produce–just feels disappointing. I find myself increasingly¬†frustrated with my brain: what is this blockage interrupting my regular tsunami of inspiration?

I am not saying that writing is easy–it’s just never been this hard. I am squeezing out pages & pages of writing where there might only be one sentence worth salvaging. It’s discouraging. It’s… slow. & it’s making me feel bad.

How bad?

…Real bad.

I’ve been thrown into a vicious cycle: I am stressed out because I haven’t written anything, but I can’t write anything because I’m so stressed out.

Sigh. That’s where I’m at this week: I’ve got to produce a personal essay, a publishable piece of writing about Helen Gurley Brown, & find a way not to hate them both–being single is the least of my worries.

How do y’all bust writing block?¬†At this point I’ll try just about anything.

118. Maybe it’s because I can’t write…

117. Maybe it’s because I am a touch overwhelmed at the moment.

This week has just flown by. I am back in the time-warp that is university, & it seems like there aren’t enough days in the week, much less hours in a day to get everything done. I am overwhelmed. I am being pulled in a ton of different directions right now: my work schedule has gotten out of control, school is already taking over my life, & my social calendar is filling up three weeks in advance. I love all my friends, I want to make money, & ¬†I absolutely need to stay on track with school, but I honestly wish I didn’t have to do it all simultaneously.

So, that’s where I’m at right now. Sunday crept up on me this week, as it sometimes does, & I don’t have as much to say as usual¬†because¬†instead of going out & living my life, I’ve been a scatterbrained basket case. I have been rushing around, trying to check everything off my never-ending to do list, & it hasn’t left a heck of a lot of time for dating. Or writing. Or sleeping. Or doing anything that isn’t work/school/homework.

I hope you all understand that life got a little bit away from me this week, & the¬†pressure to do everything I have to do has stayed my creativity (as it does),¬†& as much as I¬†hate¬†to do it… I’m going to have to play the “Time got away from me & I’m too stressed to think” card. My apologies readers. I’m sorry that when life gets crazy, this is the project that suffers…. I promise to do better next week.

117. Maybe it’s because I am a touch overwhelmed at the moment.

116. Maybe it’s because I’m an over-sharer?

People¬†love¬†to talk about themselves–I know I do anyway. I mean, I’ve got an entire website dedicated to the inner workings of my life… I’m pretty much obsessed with sharing every little thing about me. I have no qualms discussing my sexual exploits, bowel movements, or the great deal I got on a pair of shoeties last spring.

I like telling stories–I’m a writer, it’s what I¬†do.¬†& if they happen to be about¬†me¬†&¬†my life–ha! Even better.

I think¬†I have¬†a pretty good handle on this sharing thing: I am¬†almost¬†too¬†good at it.¬†My conversations are ripe with overly-detailed stories of hilarious sexual encounters, embarrassing drunken escapades, & perfectly-formed post-fibre poops. I share–a lot. At least, I thought I did.

In an intense conversation with a friend (my new BFF, according to unreliable sources) discussing disclosure, she pointed out to me that I am not as share-y as I seem to think. Yeah, I’ll talk about the little stuff: sex, school, work, the blog. I’ll even throw some¬†medium stuff in for good measure, on occasion: my body issues, my fear of unsuccess (& even success, sometimes, too), my inability to gain & maintain a serious relationship. But when it comes to the big things, the really¬†real¬†stuff, the issues I keep deep down in the crevices of my brain… those I’m not too keen on bringing up.

I am perfectly fine with “surface-sharing”, it’s¬†the nitty gritty things, the game-changing, relationship-changing, impossible-to-get-back-once-they-are-out-there pieces of information¬†that¬†I tend to keep to myself.

My sharing (or lack-thereof) is most obvious¬†in interactions with the opposite sex. Thinking back, it is particularly apparent¬†at that crossroads in a new relationship–we all know the one: you go down one road & the friendship is taken from a friendship to a “friendship” (wink wink, nudge nudge) & if you go down the other, the one riddled with full disclosure… that’s where you begin to build an unbreakable emotional bond with some real romantic potential.

I am more than okay with physical intimacy–I actually prefer it to the scary emotional disclosure that comes with a full-blown romantic connection, & that’s a problem.

Full disclosure, combined with a physical connection, is what elevates a relationship; it gives it meaning beyond that of a normal friendship or a fuck buddy.

I guess if I want to get into a healthy relationship, I’m just going to have to learn how to share.

 

116. Maybe it’s because I’m an over-sharer?

115. Maybe it’s because I don’t know what I want.

Lately, I’ve been dipping my toes in the dating pool on a more-than-regular basis–I’ve been on a few dates, talked to a few guys. It’s been… thought-provoking. My, um, recent exploits: a man-boy who told me his mother was his BFF, a dude that sent me pictures of various dildos he used (uses?) on himself, & the latest manpiece asked me to buy him women’s underwear. They have been particularly interesting… to say the least.

I’m¬†a little bit baffled.¬†Is¬†this normal, & do I just have to find a way to adapt? Or should I keep searching for the¬†(apparently)¬†rare individual who isn’t a kinky masochist with a mild case of an Oedipus complex? I realize that I may have just had a run of bad luck, & I am probably catastrophising a tad,¬†but it hasn’t kept me from being seriously worried: is it me, or are there no normal men left in this city?

I think (I hope) the answer is no. The reason being, what is normal anyway? What I consider normal versus what everyone else does may be completely different, after all.  I need to figure out what I want in a man; what do I want in a relationship? I need to discover what normal means to me.

As weird as my latest experiences with the opposite sex have been, they have also been helpful.¬†They’ve really emphasized what I¬†don’t¬†want, & that brings me a little bit closer to finding out what I¬†do.¬†

 

115. Maybe it’s because I don’t know what I want.

Happy New Year!!

When I was younger, New Year’s was magical. Even once Christmas & Santa Clause had lost their fantastical allure, the last day of¬†the year, & it’s¬†transition into the first, continued to¬†enchant me.¬†Staying up until midnight & drinking Shirley Temples, watching the ball drop in Times Square (on television of course) & fireworks shooting off (also on television, much to my 10-year-old self’s chagrin) as the celebrations down East marked the end of their year, was something I looked forward to more than any other holiday.

When it came time for us to countdown, I relished singing my childlike rendition of Auld Lang Syne & raising my virgin beverage in a toast for a Happy New Year.¬†New Year’s always¬†made me feel like I was part of something bigger–like I belonged.

As an adult, completing one year & being immediately thrust into the next is, well, a bit different. For me, it usually involves a spray tan, rummaging through my closet for something sparkly to wear, & a large bottle of Baby Duck.

It is equal parts exhilarating & sad.

The year winds down–all the trials, tribulations, happiness, laughter, strife, sunsets & cups of coffee–& it comes¬†to a head in a poorly-timed drunken countdown. One second it’s there, the next second it’s gone. The clock striking midnight is a magic trick: something so influential becomes fleeting. Anything that happened in the last 365 days is transformed into something that happened last year; it is¬†solidly defined as the days gone by; it is snugly fit into the compartment of 2014:¬†a single tick of the clock changes everything from present to past.

I like this: sloughing off the past & facing the world with a different perspective. I find having a brand new year ahead of me reassuring–it motivates me to make each minute, hour, & day matter. I’m considering this as I pen my resolutions for 2015: what do¬†I have now? What do I want to have in this coming year? & what do I need to fill in the blanks between the two.

There is just something about New Year’s.¬†The air just feels different January 1: clearer, fresher. New.¬†

& to me, it will still always feel a little magical.

Happy New Year readers! Best wishes for 2015!

 

Happy New Year!!

114. Maybe it’s because I’m comfortable.

My favourite holiday of all time is coming up this week, & I am extra excited this year because I get to spend it with my BFF–to say I’m really looking forward to it would be a serious understatement.

It’s not like we’re doing anything too crazy–just dinner (her boyfriend was thoughtful enough to book us a reservation)¬†& then heading to a friend’s place for a chill & adult celebration. But it is going to be special because we get to spend it together.

I’ve got an entire day of pampering planned: Starbucks, spray tans, getting our hair & nails did…¬†I might even¬†throw in breakfast at Cora’s, if time permits.

& then, off to dinner. He made a reservation for 4 people (he’s an optimist) & it’s left me with bit of¬†a dilemma: who to bring?

My BFF’s BF suggested I bring a dude I’m kind of into… which is a really¬†good idea–in theory. In practice, it means that I have to, um, ask said dude & make myself, oh you know, vulnerable.

Way too scary, if you ask me. On the list of things I am severely uncomfortable doing, asking a boy I like to do something even remotely romantic with me is pretty up there. This got me thinking: am I single because I am uncomfortable being pushed out of my comfort zone?

I’ve been single for what feels like forever, & perhaps¬†I’ve grown too satisfied with my continued solo status. I’m almost afraid to disrupt the careful balance of my lifestyle–like even taking a small step towards a relationship is too much for me to handle.

This brings me back to the metaphorical crossroads: who to bring to New Year’s Eve dinner? The boy I kinda fucking like¬†or¬†my platonic male friend?

Right now, platonic is outweighing romantic: my fear of rejection & my complacency are keeping me¬†way¬†in my comfort zone. I don’t know if I am ready to feel vulnerable, & I don’t want to ruin the perfect NYE by being an absolute basket case.

So, sorry mystery boy who I could easily fall in love with: there’s always next year.

114. Maybe it’s because I’m comfortable.