How Will I Know?

In the 80s, Whitney Houston asked us this ponderous question: How will I know if he really loves me? (I say a prayer with ev-ery heart-beat. I fall in love whenever we meee-eeet. I'm askin you, 'cause you know about these things. Love. It.) Here's how you know, Whitney, you ask him. I know. Weird, huh? I just learned that one in the past year. It totally works.

But how do you know if you really love him? Or like him? Or maybe wanna date him? A friend of mine who has been seeing this guy for a couple weeks now is mulling over this very question: How will she know if she really likes him?

I can get all existential (or something--confession, I don't think I know what existential means), and say something like: Do we ever really know anything? But that's kinda silly. I know many things for certain, such as, I don't like eggs, Britney Spears is awesome, tequila makes me crazy, and having a pillow-top mattress has significantly improved my life.

Because I was single for a whole seven months this year, I know a thing or two about knowing. Maybe. I know that if you have to ask yourself, How will I know? or Do I really like this person?, you probably have your answer. If you've been dating a guy and you're not quite sure how you feel about him or the situation, you're probably not that into him (another great question--how do you know if he's just not that into you? Um because you had to ask.) But I digress.

For me, I know right away whether or not I like someone. Of course that doesn't mean I haven't done my fair share of bargaining, contemplating, and convincing myself to feel something for a guy when I really wanted to like him but didn't. I get annoyed with girls who complain about how they want a boyfriend, attracted more to the idea of having one without an actual live man in mind, but I understand wanting to be love--both wanting to love someone and have someone love you back. There are many things in this world that are amazing: cupcakes, iPhones, adrenaline, rainbows, and really, really good steak, to name a few. But I have yet to see poetry about steak.

Love is a whole other beast. In Whitney's song, the back-up singers have some advice for her, as she asks how she will know. They say, "Don't trust a feeling--love can be deceiving." I'm not sure I agree with that. (Unless of course that feeling is actually just an unfounded desire to have sex with someone because that never works out well.) Still, I don't think love--the real kind--is deceiving. I think love makes people crazy and happy and miserable at times, but it doesn't lie. You either love someone or you don't. The complicated part is what happens next...

Love Stinks. Yeahhh...Yeahhh

I got an email from one of my friends yesterday beginning with: You know all those love songs about how horrible it is to be heartbroken? They're TRUE. Naturally, I had the immediate urge to squeeze this person to death, as to hopefully alleviate the pain of love lost, or at least replace it with the crushing force of my roided-out biceps.

Breaking up suuuuucks....

After blasting "I Will Survive" (and pretending to be sooooo over it), there is perhaps nothing more depressingly awesome than being super sad and then finding (and downloading) the saddest possible songs I can think of, making a sad-song-mix CD and then driving around aimlessly, feeling terrifically sorry for myself and crying. I suggest this tactic to anyone wanting to get over (wallow in) heartbreak. (This and shopping.) In case you're not sure what songs should be on this sad-song mix, let me, good-music-aficionado-extraordinaire, assist you:


Step One: Imminent Torture, various artists
First things first. If the person you were with ever made you a mix CD, which you listened to on repeat for a good couple of months and therefore, because of this devoted listening, contains at least 15 songs which remind you exclusively of this person and the best part of your relationship together (the beginning--before the guy made you believe you will never (never!) love anyone else again your whole entire miserable life), you will probably want to pop that into your car's stereo. And, while you're at it, gather any of "your songs," as well as any song you might associate with the dude: the song playing over the credits of that movie you saw, the one playing in the background of the bar the night you were sure he was in love with you, his cell phone ring tone. And alarm jingle. Then, when you think you can't possibly sob anymore, continue to step two!

Step Two: I Don't Want to Live Without Your Love, Nothing Compares to You, I Was Born to Make You Happy, I'm Missing You, I'll Never Get Over You Getting Over Me, etc, etc
After repeated play of the mix CD, which likely spiraled you into a fury where you snapped said CD in half and almost shot a piece of plastic into your own eye (let this be a warning--CDs don't actually break neatly in half, especially when you're mad), gather some much-needed easy-listening, ultra-cheesy stuff. Because when you're depressed, you don't think about how lame these songs seem--in fact, they accurately depict exactly how you feel and you can't believe you ever thought they were lame in the first place. Yes, Sinead O'Connor. Yes.

Step Three: Lady in Red, The Way You Look Tonight, You're the Inspiration, When You Really Love a Woman, I'll Never Break Your Heart, The Power of Love
Next, shift gears and go to songs that have nothing to do with heartbreak, but revolve around true love. True love you are certainly never going to find, so might as well feel even more sorry for yourself. This is typically the deluded stage where you re-imagine the now-disillusioned relationship, as if yours was a love as great as these songs depict. And then you cry sweet tears of remorse, trying to figure out what it was you did to prevent this great love from materializing. Maybe you should have been better about shaving your legs? Or let him pick the restaurant that one time? Damn you, stuffed animal collection. And nail-biting habit. If only, if only, if only...

Step Four: Man in the Mirror, One Moment in Time, The Greatest Love
The final step of this sad-song process requires you to shift gears a little. Instead of love songs about another person, choose love songs...about yourself. I mean, how did you get down this path of pain and destruction in the first place? Why didn't he love you the way you deserved? Because you didn't love...yourself.

I never claimed to be cool. Just F-Y-I.

Being the completely not-self-absorbed person I am, when I hear about someone breaking up, I think about myself. Being the pessimist I am, I think about how shitty it would be to break up anyway, even when I'm super-happy. Because someday, I probably won't be. (Great attitude, huh?) I mean, sure, I have a pretty tried-and-true game plan, but wouldn't it be nice to never have that gaping-hole-in-your-chest-that's-never-going-to-end feeling again?

Okay I Lied.

About two months ago, I proclaimed that I hadn't been single in ten years. This is not true.

At the time I wrote said statement I wholeheartedly believed it. After all, in the past ten years I've been involved with guys pretty much fluidly, in that one flowed right into the other. The part that's a stretch was my state-of-singledom.

Single to me months ago meant "un-occupied." (Now, it means, more correctly, "without boyfriend.") Sure, I've been "occupied" for the past ten years. I always had some kind of crush (or, let's be honest, obsession). But does that mean I wasn't single? Surely not. Does the idea of not being single for ten years sound like an interesting narrative to tell about myself? Of course.

One of Julie's friends came to L.A. a couple weeks ago and taught me something I will never forget. She said that I can change my narrative after the fact. That sometimes, when someone asks her about an ex (or just a guy she dated), she will downplay the whole thing if that guy wasn't someone she was exactly proud to have spent so much time with.

So, while I've just confessed to stretching the truth, I'm going to also confess in advance that I am (from now on) going to shrink it instead. I suppose it's not really lying, it's more being honest about what really was instead of trying to have a good story to tell.

Here's the new narrative: In the past ten years I've had two boyfriends. One in high school. One in college. The other guys were just lapses in judgment along the way. They certainly weren't partners. Nor boyfriends. Merely the tangible signs of my insecurity and immaturity. Discounting them, I've been single for four and a half out of ten years.

However, and this may seem odd considering how ecstatic I've been about being single (and for the first time ever!), I am single no more. In the sense of my more recent definition of the word. They say that when you aren't looking someone amazing comes along and, well, he has. Perhaps he is partly to blame for my new outlook on the guys with whom I formerly occupied myself. Because, in comparison, they totally suck balls.

Maybe it's just me...

...but watching Sex and the City makes me hate men. A little. Not actually hate but strongly dislike. And distrust.

I was watching the episode where Carrie catches Big on a date with another woman (she thought they were dating exclusively...she thought wrong). After that happens, they go to a party together and one of his friends calls Carrie the wrong name--one which belongs to another woman Big's been dating (no, not the one she saw him on a date with, a different one). So she gets all pissed and ends up hanging out with another guy instead and then pathetically calls Big and pretty much begs him to meet her at 3 a.m. in a park.

No one wants to date that guy. And no one wants to be that girl because of him.

Of course, I don't know if Carrie and Big had had "the talk" at that point in the show. For the record, I hate "the talk." I hate wondering when "the talk" might occur. I hate the fact that I am (as the woman) not supposed to initiate "the talk," however the guy typically won't do so unless he is pressed into it, which puts me in a really bad spot because, and I hate this too, "the talk" is necessary for my mental sanity and relationship-self-esteem.

Anyway. Big sucks. I think I must have been the only girl on earth not happy watching the SATC series finale. Aiden was a much, much better choice.

Good Morning

I had a fleeting memory the other day of someone, I presumed an ex-boyfriend, who once told me that I look cute in the morning. (For the record, I do not look cute in the morning. It takes a good hour for my eyes to fully open, I usually have pillow indentations etching my cheeks, and don't even get me started on the typically-ridiculous state of my hair.)

Anyway, the point of me writing about this is because I could not for the life of me remember which guy had said this to me (a comment which stuck because it made me feel far less self-conscious about looking like an unlovable goon when I wake up). And then I realized, it wasn't a guy at all.

It was my roommate, Meagan.

I know I said I had a point here, and truth be told, I am not quite sure what it is exactly--if there is anything significant in thinking such a memorable compliment came from a guy I was sleeping with when it was in fact bestowed by my female partner-in-crime. I guess, for someone like me who runs on male attention, there is something valuable and different in relishing positive reinforcement from Meagan. Especially because now when I wake up in the morning, I do feel a little cuter, thanks to her.

Just Sayin...

I haven't had a boyfriend (or a life-sucking pseudo-relationship) for 10 weeks now. And I feel fucking great. :)

I Want Your Smart-Ass

Because my book project centers on my previous relationships, I've been analyzing who I am in that context. And what kind of guys I am attracted to. So, while I'm sure ya'll are sick to death of my posts deconstructing my ghosts of boyfriends past, hopefully my postulations are relateable enough to be interesting.

Thus far, I haven't been able to nail down a decent guy and I finally figured out what my freakin' problem is. (Was.) Well, someone else figured it out for me, and, in an effort to protect her identity, I will just say that this person is about twenty-years older than me, knows my dating history, and has been a wonderful mentor to me. Thankfully, this person not only figured out my problem, but was kind enough to share her findings with me.

Ready for it? I have never dated a guy who was as smart as me.

Sure I dated a guy who got better SAT scores than me and went to a boarding school that was much more prestigious than my high school. I dated guys who went to college with me, so one could assume that, if we all got in, we must be on the same field. Not to be arrogant, but, no, we were not.

Because it's not just about being intelligent, or well-read, both of which I am, thankyouverymuch, it's about drive. I've dated a guy who was writing a book but wasn't sure if he wanted to be a writer. He'd amassed less than 100 pages in a year and a half of working on his project, a feat I could (oh, wait, did) complete in a month. I've dated a guy who would make films but do nothing to promote them, leaving the leg-work to his more business-savvy brother. I've dated a guy who's dad is a famous actor and wanted to break into the biz himself but didn't have the stamina to see it through. The weird thing was, all three of these guys had ample support from their parents/caregivers but, clearly, all the money in the world couldn't buy their determination.

All this time, I kept thinking, geez, what's wrong with these guys, and the problem has always been right here, with me, another point my wise mentor-friend made. I'm the one who is choosing these guys, who have no real gumption or goals, who think things will just happen for them if they wish real hard, an attitude which couldn't be more unlike my own.

This need to date men who are on my mental level makes sense. I mean, I am a sucker for guys who wear glasses. Seriously. Turn-on central. When one of the guys I dated revealed he could translate Greek and Latin I swooned. When another divulged his desire for a Ph.D. I practically proposed. But, alas, that was the extent of their intelligence quotients. They were all talk and no action. Such teases.

From now on, I want to date smart. I'm talking career-obsessed, takes-night-classes, Phi Beta Kappa, Ivy League, grad school, book-by-your-bedside-that-you-actually-read, New York Times-enthusiast types. I'm talking guys who have given up drinking every night so they can rise to the top of their fields. I'm talking guys who are actual men, who can make decisions on their own, and most of all, who don't need "a strong woman" behind them.

Whoa. Seriously Guys.

I would just like to proclaim that I, the incomparable Miss Natasha Burton, have been single for an entire month. I have kissed no boys. I have shown no legit interest in a boy. I have not pined for a boy and, while I would say I have not whined over a boy either, that is a lie, because I have. (If you can't be honest with yourself, who can you be honest with? Oh, that's right. Nobody. Ugh...fine. I pined. A little.)

But! I feel very accomplished. And so to celebrate said singleness, I think you should head over to my friend Carrie's blog and read/watch her post commemorating various tributes to Beyonce's "Single Ladies." (I particularly love The Dan Band's version.)

Because, really guys, if you wanted this, then you shoulda put a ring on it. (Now put your hands up...Oh oh oh...oh oh oh..oh...oh oh)

And, yes, I really do get a kick out of myself over here. Besides, you had your turn and now you're gonna learn what it really feels like to miss me... Can't. Stop. The. Singing.

Three Weeks Single? Hollaaaa!

I must be on drugs or something. Everything--and I do mean everything--is making me smile right now. And not just smile, but laugh. The gulping, can't-breathe, pick-up-my-own-knee-so-I-can-slap it laughter. LOLing, some might call it.

Maybe my look-on-the-bright-side-of-life attitude is some sort of post-dating denial, where things that should hurt my feelings are actually pretty funny. I wouldn't know, considering I've never been single this long (three weeks, I think it is now).

Anyway, I feel great. I may not have felt great last week and I may not feel great tomorrow, but today, life is just freakin' beautiful. Something new happens everyday, whether it's as simple as an unexpected email or as wonderful as realizing I have the most amazing friends in the world.

I was reading Meagan's copy of The Breath of God by Swami Chetanananda this morning, in which he has a chapter on expectations. He says that no matter how badly you want something to happen--or how perfect, great, or wonderful life would be if it did--that desire doesn't mean whatever it is you want will actually become reality. I learned this lesson big time recently. Slowly, I'm finding comfort in the unknown. Life is a ride, man, and I am on it.

Part of being able to find the beauty, or the hilarity, in everything is accepting that life is crazy and doesn't make any sense. And even if it did, we still have no control over anything. Which is kinda exciting. Which is why life totally, TOTALLY, pays off.

I attribute this new outlook of positivity about (and surrender to) life, to the fact that I have been doing yoga five-days-a-week for the past two weeks. So, not only am I on my way to being smokin' hot, but I continually have that sorta-sore--because-I-worked-out-yesterday feeling, which gives me the confidence to eat that chocolate croissant or rice krispie treat at Starbucks without wanting to kill myself.

More than that, though, practicing yoga again has allowed me to look forward to all the things I won't be able to predict or control. I'm happy with right now. Right now rocks. And, hey, it's been three weeks and still no crush on a boy. I feel like I should throw myself a party. This record is a personal best.


**On the yoga note, if you live on the Westside and haven't had the esteemed pleasure to attend Meagan's Anusara-inspired yoga class, she teaches Mondays-Thursdays at 9 a.m., and Saturdays at 8 a.m. at The Hub (on Barrington between Olympic and Santa Monica). So, if you're into getting your ass kicked yoga-style, or just want to stalk me (come on, admit it, it's more than just a healthy blog addiction at this point), you should come hang. First two classes are free of charge.

The Intelligence Curse

Speaking of things I have been noticing, I've discovered (along with my amazing roommate Ms. Meagan McCrary), this: the smarter the girl, the higher chance she will stay single.

Smart girls can spot red flags, even smarter ones know to walk away when they see them. (I am still working on this.) Smart girls know every guy they date is replaceable. It is their (our) curse.

Girls who are in relationships because they feel like they should be, because they are too comfortable, because they are afraid of change, or because they just want to get married--well, we can call them stupid girls, sorry, but it's true. Of course they're going to stay with a guy because they've already put so much time in, of course they're going to put up with bullshit, even when they sometimes know they shouldn't--they aren't smart enough to know better.

And I envy them. As Meagan said last week, in talking about a recent guy situation, "I wish I was the stupid slut you treat me like." Wouldn't life just be so much easier that way?

Balls to the Walls

Awkward, just plain dumb, or super freakin' brave, you decide: Last night (the particularly unscheduled Sunday kind of quiet evening), I decided to email/message certain males from my past to clear the air, make some requests, and ask some lingering questions that prevent me from enjoying normal brain activity. And, no, I have not been drinking. Really? Yep. Really. Huh. Wow.

I've spent too much of my life tiptoeing around boys, putting what I believe to be their feelings, wants, or expectations before my own, and worrying about being too needy, too demanding, too whatever. Well, dear readers, that era is over.

Naturally, I still believe in being a normal human being, as I have illustrated before on this blog, I'm merely addressing another facet of my kaleidoscopic personality.

Here's my problem: I've either been in relationships in which the guy has selected me, instead of me selecting him, flattering my ego so much that I just go out with him without thinking if he is what I truly want, or I've been so infatuated with the guy I'm dating that I am terrified of messing things up or doing anything that will make him question his decision to be with me, which pretty much paralyzes me into an awkward version of myself where I barely talk and become totally lame. Super fun times, all around.

No more, I say. I'm done walking on the proverbial eggshells. Not just because that's totally unattractive (and who wants to be with a girl who just wants to please her man and be everything he wants her to be anyway), but because it's selling myself short. Sure, if I show who I really am, I risk having my real self rejected. That's really scary.

But, better to be with someone who loves me for who I am, and not morph into some diluted or specially-tailored version of me every time I date a new guy. Am I right, ladies? We've all been there. No? Just me. Oh. (And now I'm stealing material from David Sedaris, awesome.)

This new plan (or life track, if you will) transcends romantic relationships into the ones I have with friends and family. Instead of worrying about other people and putting myself second, or last, however the case may be, I am going to take care of me. We'll see how it goes.

So, there you have it folks. Tiptoeing is so April 2009. I've got my tap shoes on now.

Done.

For the first time in, ooh, about 10 years I have a crush on nobody. (This estimate doesn't include the slew of middle school/summer camp heartthrobs. Really, if I were to be completely honest, the last time I for sure did not have a crush on some dumb kid was the summer between second and third grade. Unless I went to camp that summer too...)

Anyway, the point is: For the first time, pretty much ever, I've got no one. No guy. No prospects. No drama. No one to wear dresses for. No one to impress.

I'm sad about this. Not about the lack of someone, but the lack of a very specific someone. The details of what happened are not important, but I will say that this decision was not mine. Was I dumped? Not exactly. You can't be dumped if you weren't someone's girlfriend to begin with (and no, apparently daily contact, flowers on your birthday, candlelit home-cooked dinners, really really good sex, and random funny texts are not signs you are in a real relationship. Lesson learned.)

But I digress. I'm not bitter, and I hope I don't come off that way. Sad, yes. Confused a little, yes. Feeling like a complete idiot for thinking I was in love, most definitely. Still hoping he'll change his mind, of course.

That's the whole problem. I can't help but wonder how much of this relationship was created in my head because of what I wanted it to be. Now, I'm left to wonder what assupmtions I made to convince myself of what exactly we were (aside from the above list).

I just finished reading a philosophy book called The Four Agreements and one of the tenets is to not make assumptions (where this book was five months ago, I would like to know). The author, Don Miguel Ruiz, says we need assumptions because, many of us, me certainly, are too afraid to ask questions: "It is not important if [the answer you seek] is correct; just the answer itself makes us feel safe." When others don't tell us something (or we don't ask), we "make assumptions to fulfill our need to know and to replace the need to communicate."

Over the last few months, questions ran loop in my head. Is this guy my boyfriend? How does he feel about me? So terrified was I that he didn't feel the way I did, yet so hopeful that he could, I was paralyzed. I literally could not bring myself to ask. Though, I guess I can find some comfort in that fact that when I did pose these questions, after he said he couldn't do this anymore (and we were no longer "whatever"), his answer was: "I don't know."

First, to address the glaring issue with this response: I know I cannot be with someone who doesn't know how they feel about me. So as much as I am hurting, I have more respect for myself than to accept that kind of indifference. Love me! Hate me! Something!

Yet, maybe it was better to enjoy the fantasy, that maybe, just maybe, this could be love, for a couple months, than to have known right away that someone who seemed to love me certainly did not. Kidding oneself is bliss.

My new guru DMR had another nugget of wisdom that resonated with me over the past few days: "If someone is not treating you with love and respect, it is a gift if they walk away. Then you choose what you really want. You will find that you don't need to trust others as much as you need to trust yourself to make the right choices."

So, here it is, my choice. No more guys. No more putting myself in a position where I don't know where I stand. No more putting my needs aside so I can make someone else feel good.

Maybe it's about time I fall in love with myself for a change.

Changes

The nature of ex-boyfriends, I've found, is that they always become the men you wished they were when you were together after you've broken up. This theory is scientific in that I have witnessed this transformative phenomenon in two of my exes. (And from talking to Krissy last night, she has as well, so that's three.)

Being the idiot I am, I decided to look at a recent photo of my ex on Facebook. We actually talked for the first time in about four months yesterday, which was oddly amazing to the extent that I neither hated him nor wanted to get back together with him over the course of our 50 minute chat. Because we'd been together for so long, it's almost impossible to not enjoy talking to him. There are probably six people in the world who know me best and he is one of them. Plus, I had so many things to tell him. Did he see that movie I saw? Did he like it too? What did he think about John Madden retiring? And so on...

Anyway, I found out during our phone call yesterday that things have been going great for him professionally, which was one of the issues we'd had (he was lazy/I was sick of him complaining his career wasn't going anywhere). He revealed that, now, he doesn't typically leave work til 10 p.m. and I am genuinely proud of him for getting his butt in gear. I truly believe this would not have happened if we'd stayed together. (Or at least, I can tell myself this to feel better about breaking up with him.)

But, while he also mentioned he was running daily and eating right, the ex neglected to mention that he is now the possessor of what some may call a pretty hot bod. I mean, like pectorals and abs hot bod. Like biceps. Of course, he is/was always a good looking guy, but never that cut. And not that I'm a huge fan of muscular guys. But I certainly would not have been complaining if he'd looked like that when we were together.

It's not like I'm regretting breaking up or anything, I just think it's an odd quality of breaking up that pushes men to become what you wanted them to be in the first place. In this case, successful and muscular. My high school boyfriend kinda did the same thing. We used to fight about me joining a sorority and drinking in college, which sparked our demise because the issues could not be resolved (he was adamantly against the Greek system and didn't drink). Sure enough, three months after we were kaput he joined a frat and perpetually got wasted with his new 'bros.'

I'm sure I've changed too, in fact I know I have. I don't nag anymore. I don't need constant reassurance that I can actually write. I don't complain as much about stuff that doesn't matter. I'm less uptight. Maybe it just takes getting out of a situation that's too comfortable or no longer symbiotic to push us into being the people we truly want to be, or just simply better people. Not that my ex and I were bad for each other, but I do think we were holding each other back, at least in some ways.

Now we get to be who we want ourselves to be, without lingering expectations. I know I am much happier post-break-up, and I am pretty sure he is too. Which is extremely comforting. And makes me feel a whole heck of a lot less guilty.

What's Complicated?

***I wrote this a couple weeks ago and forgot to post, so it's a little outdated (my life is bit less complicated now, thankfully), but still interesting? I hope?

I've decided to not have a "relationship status" up on my Facebook profile, since ending my epically long relationship, opting to completely erase that little one-line nugget of information from my page completely. This is highly due to the fact that I don't know my relationship status. (Can relationships be quantified anyway? What is a relationship status? Is it like an ETA? Or is it TMI? These questions help distract me from the fact that I have no idea if I am someone's girlfriend or what.)

Anyway. I was thinking, if I were to put up a relationship status, I could put "It's complicated," since there isn't an "I don't know" option. But I don't think those two statements are commensurate. While on the elliptical machine some weeks ago (after I saw the guy I'm engaged in some kind of relationship-y thing with through the window and hid my face, only to have him totally see me anyway and me look and feel like a total spaz), I started thinking about what the complicated option really means.

It's complicated isn't really complicated. It just feels complicated. It's complicated because you're too afraid to ask questions. Or to define whatever it is you have going, because taking that leap feels so permanent and scary. Asking if someone wants to take that leap is more terrifying. Plus, whenever I've seen "it's complicated" up on someone's profile (save my best friend Jenn's because she and her boyfriend have it up as a joke) I take it to mean that you're involved with a guy wants to sleep with you but not actually make you his girlfriend.

Which you think is great at first, because, hey, you've got needs too, until you have no idea what the fuck is going on emotionally and find yourself thinking way too much about him even though sometimes you're not even sure if you really like him that much or if you're just lusting after some ideal version of him because you've built him up so much in your head that he verges on the brink of deity. Then, as soon as you've calmed down and convinced yourself you're okay with the non-definition of your relationship, you see him and he looks really, REALLY attractive (an unshaven face, a tan, and hair on the verge of desperately needing a haircut are my weaknesses) and then you want to jump him in broad daylight.

But who knows? Maybe all relationships, save the boring ones (you know who you are), are complicated. People are complicated. Or maybe all of the relationships I will have will be inherently complicated, because I am. To tell you the truth, I kinda like being complicated. Life is much more interesting without a safety net. But, when I need one, I'll ask for it.

Oh, Life...

In honor of my 25th birthday this week, I felt it might be apt to jot down 25 things I have learned over the course of my quarter-century on earth, if only to assure myself that, yes, I am a functioning, maturing human being, not merely the totally awkward spaz I feel like 99% of the time. Enjoy...

1. No one could ever embarrass me more than I continually humiliate myself. Also, if I ever want to stop embarrassing myself, I need to abstain from alcoholic beverages of all kinds.

2. If you want a guy to buy you a drink, proclaim you have never tried one of the following: an Irish Car Bomb, a Jager Bomb, a Flaming Dr. Pepper (careful with this one), or a Red Headed Slut. Or find out what his favorite drink is and say you've never tried it. Typically, the guy will be so amazed that you haven't had the drink, he will have to get one for you. It's kinda like taking your virginity, right there in the bar. (Just to note, to the guys who have bought me drinks this way, I'm pretty sure I've always been honest about not having tried something. I hope so, at least.)

3. Certain songs have the ability to teleport me back to a certain time and place, no matter how many times I have heard them, not matter the change in context.

4. I love giving blood. And I feel like it's my duty to do it as often as I can because I don't have issues with needles and/or blood-letting, even if I have to lie and say that I weigh enough. (Plus, its so worth the Famous Amos cookies you get when you're done.)

5. My expectations of myself are high, but I don't always arrange my life to meet them. I am scared of failure, but also terrified of success.

6. Just as parenthood shouldn't be measured by biology, friendship shouldn't be measured solely by how long you have known a person. These relationships need nurturing and, like trust and respect, are earned, not given.

7. My intuition should always be trusted.

8. While I am pretty open, adventurous, etc, there are certain things I refuse to do and no one's gonna make me.

9. Say what you need to say. My uncle Ken, who has cancer, says that the one thing he has learned from living with a terminal illness is to be free with his emotions--basically, don't hold back. If you knew you would die tomorrow, what would you say to the person you love, someone you had a falling out with, etc? Why not just say it anyway?

10. Never put files on someone else's hard drive.

11. Dirt. Don't. Hurt.

12. Lying to my mom is the worst idea ever. Especially because she is the one person I know I can always depend on, anytime, anywhere. She's is, without doubt, my best friend.

13. It's possible to have a heart-pounding crush after the age of thirteen. (In fact, having a crush on someone when you're older is better because there is an added potential for sex.)

14. Thank God I didn't peak in high school. It's way better to be the nerdy, bra-stuffing awkward kid in elementary/middle/high school and then get to be at least semi-okay for the rest of your life.

15. I have accepted that I will always have a little stomach pooch, that my inner thighs will always touch, and that puberty did not (and will not) leave it's womanly mark on my body. Also, giving up carbs is impossible and regular candy consumption is necessary.

16. My 818 cell phone area code rocks.

17. The prospect of death doesn't get less scary, or more real, as I've aged.

18. I'm gullible, which can be both good and bad, but not always trusting.

19. I'm easily disappointed by men--they are often never as wonderful as I hope they are. But, maybe the problem is me? I hope for too much? If I learn to communicate what I want or expect in a relationship--focus on my needs instead of being a people-pleaser--I can perhaps shield myself from disappointment. I hope.

20. I'm not ready to get married, have kids, or really believe I am an adult. But I really wish I was. I wish sometimes I could be one of those girls who wants the huge, fluffy wedding and can breeze through life not thinking too much about it. (This is probably because I used to be one of those girls.)

21. Getting my belly button pierced was totally cool, in 2001, but I'm glad I let it close up.

22. I never have anything to wear. Which is convenient because buying clothes makes me happy.

23. Relationships are not easy. But. Don't stay in a relationship thinking the other person will change, or that two years of pretty consistent fighting/unhappiness is simply a "rough patch." Life is too short to be with the wrong person. Life is way too short to live without passion.

24. Guacamole is delicious. (On that note, the act of trying new foods, such as the guac, often yields no negative effects. However, if someone wants me to try ranch dressing or cream cheese, forget it. At 25, I have decided I will never eat either of those. I don't care how good people say they are.)

25. Life makes no sense sometimes. But, like art, it can pay off in its weird, wonderful way.

When Harry Met Sally

God I love this movie.

I have to watch movies on fast-forward for Janet's class (to understand the rhythm and variation of scenes) but I knew if I put this one on I would actually watch it and I'm glad I did.

Interestingly, I never thought my state of relationship would affect the way I watch romantic comedies. I don't think I've seen this movie without having a serious boyfriend or being in an officially-determined relationship. Watching it this morning made me both deliriously happy and sad simultaneously.

Harry and Sally fall in love over a period of a decade, which sounds like a lifetime to me, but this aspect of their courtship actually fills me with complete and utter hope. I like the idea of taking my time. Conversely, on the way there, both characters go through moments of despair, embarrassment, and confusion, reinforcing what I already know, that interacting with the opposite sex is full of those difficult moments, hard-to-read signals, game-playing, withheld feelings, lies, fights, and other completely awful things. I mean, Harry compares Sally to a dog at one point.

In a relationship, those not-so-fun aspects of love are dealt with together. You can, for example, easily call your boyfriend and find out exactly what he meant by some comment he made. He's obligated to listen. When one of you hangs up on the other person, you don't feel weird calling back. You, presumably, love each other. You have a safety net.

In the purgatorial waters of dating, that security doesn't exist. Watching the movie, I saw Sally going to her girlfriends for dissection and interpretation (which is almost always a bad idea, I've discovered). She's scared. And so am I. Scared of getting hurt, saying or doing the wrong thing, completely embarrassing myself (which I've learned at this point in my life is unavoidable so I just have to live with the fact that, yes, I will live in a perpetual state of mild humiliation).

Anyway, it was cathartic to watch the characters suffer and struggle. And it was purely delightful to get to the end and see Harry and Sally finally happy with themselves and each other. Life doesn't work so perfectly, of course, but I can't help but wish for the day when a man I love says to me something along the lines of that speech Billy Crystal delivers towards the end of the film:

I've been doing a lot of thinking and the thing is...I love you...I love that you get cold when it's 71 degrees out. I love that it takes you an hour and a half to order a sandwich. I love that you get a little crinkle above your nose when you're looking at me like I'm nuts. I love that after I spend the day with you, I can still smell your perfume on my clothes. And I love that you are the last person I want to talk to before I go to sleep at night. And it's not because I'm lonely, and it's not because it's New Year's Eve. I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.

*Sigh*

Now that's worth waiting ten years for, in my opinion.

V-DAY.

Of course I have to do a post on Valentine's Day, as a young woman navigating new territory in life and love (how brave and adventuresome of me). So, here it goes.

I have spent significant time complaining about this holiday. That it's too commercialized. That it's the commodification of love and romance. Come on, gooey chocolates and red roses don't symbolize love. Neither do diamonds. We don't profit, the chocolate, rose, and diamond companies do. So do the ones that make those too-squishy teddy bears with red bows sold at places like WalMart and RiteAid. In fact, on a more sociological level, the holiday's only purpose is to encourage women to create high expectations and for men to feel obligated to reach them. Poor men, I would say, who are burdened with not knowing how much they should do (or not) for the women in their lives. So terrible that they have to put themselves out there and define their relationships by purchasing the aforementioned goodies. Forget the whole thing. Too much pressure.

But these lamentations are lies, all lies. The truth is, I love Valentine's Day. Not as much as my birthday, or Halloween, but I think it's great. The truth is (and this may be getting a little personal, therapy-session-y, but oh well), that I am too scared a guy won't do anything for me that I've either learned to expect nothing or asked to not celebrate at all. Or requested that I do something for him instead. Because there is nothing worse than hoping for something and being disappointed. Especially when everyone will inevitably ask you the next day what your boyfriend/guy-in-your-life-who-could-be-your-boyfriend-but-you-aren't-really-sure did for you. Better to say, "Oh, I decorated his apartment," or "We decided not to celebrate this year," than be faced with the potential alternative of, "Nothing."

I recently realized how I've been hardened, pessimistic-ized. It likely stems from past disappointment. I haven't dated since mid-college so I'm used to that minimal effort, frat guy behavior. I've resorted to trashing the one holiday I'm supposed to let a guy show his true feelings for me, because, frankly, I'm too scared he doesn't really have any. How's that for completely warped? What does it mean? That I don't expect guys to treat me nicely? Or I don't think I'm lovable? This mid-twenties time of learning new awesome facts about myself is certainly enlightening.

Now that Valentine's Day is getting closer (less than two weeks!), women without definitive plans are poking their heads around looking for reinforcement. Like eels emerging from craggy rocks, we slowly peer at each other hoping we won't have to spend that day alone. We'll gather in groups, reserve each other. If anyone asks, we've got plans, thankyouverymuch. We're excited to spend the day/night with "just the gals."

More lies. It's a known fact that no girl wants to spend Valentine's Day with her girlfriends. I've done it. I know. Sure, it was fun to go to the tapas place with Jordann, Jules, and Doreen for V-Day 2003, but I would have preferred the company of the guy I was maybe-sorta-dating at the time (who, by the way, might have been the catalyst for the heart-hardening since he decide to pretend Valentine's Day didn't exist even though we had gone to each others respective frat/sorority dances that month). But, hello...no one really wants to spend the night trashing men. No one really hates flowers and candy. No one really wants to single-handedly polish off a two-pound box of See's Candy purchased by Mom (oh, V-DAY 2003, good times).

Because, if you do get a date, you are fully entitled to blow off your friends. That goes without saying. The friends are a placeholder. A just in case. A safety net. Sure, we'd feel sorry for the friends we leave behind, but not that bad. If given a chance, we'll take the prix fix meal, the roses, a Whitman Sampler, or even simply one of those perforated cardboard cards. We'll take anything.

I, for one, have just been too terrified to admit it.

No Means No. Ok? OK?!

Some guys don't understand the simplest concepts. It's not due to stupidity, just plain old-fashioned stubbornness. Selfishness might be closer.

Take the guy who asked a girl out consistently for five or so years, to whom the girl never said yes. This only heightened this guy's incessant AIM messages bearing the random "hey," his proddings of "we should hang out sometime." Despite her consistent no's, he persisted. Red flag, much?

We're taught that guys are supposed to chase us, to basically pester us and wear us down until we finally give in and say yes. We're told that this is merely playing hard to get. That our behavior in fact lures men to us. Because men like challenges.

What I now see from the aforementioned scenario wasn't some kind of chivalrous persistence. The dude was simply not listening. She said no. She doesn't want to go out with you. Back the fuck off.

I'm a little frustrated today, hence the swearing, which I try not to do in my writing and in conversation. But I just got a seemingly well-intentioned voicemail from the person with whom I agreed to not speak, see, etc for three months. He was thinking of me and wants to go grab a cup of coffee.

Thinking of me? Really? Seems more like, as was the case with a guy who doesn't understand the word no, he is just thinking of himself. He wants to see me. He wants to get together. But what about what I want? What I need? What I asked for?

And perhaps I shouldn't be frustrated. Instead, I should be grateful. After all, the reason I am not speaking to this person is because I'd discovered our relationship was (surprise, surprise!) pretty much all about what he wanted. So, in a way, his proposition to break our three-month break only validates my decision for instigating one in the first place. I guess what I should say to him, if anything, since there is no way in hell I'm calling him back, is merely this: Thank you.

Because I've made a promise to myself: I'm done dating people who pretend to care about my needs but really only do so when our needs are compatible. If I'm going to be in a long-term relationship with anybody, I'm not going to settle for, say, being expected to treat my boyfriend as the most important aspect of my life, but then get placed as 4th or 5th on his totem pole of priorities. I'm not some trophy girlfriend, someone who'll hang onto your arm and your every word. If I'm going to give up my newfound freedom, it sure as hell better be worth it.

Apple Picking

Good news--I am finally moving out of my parents' house. It's been roughly a year and a half since I left New York City and resolved to save money by living with my mom and stepdad and, in packing up, I am finding scraps of the past that continue to amuse/amaze me.

I love going through old notebooks (diaries are even better) and now that I am on a new path of self-discovery (new year's resolution, more on this to come later this week), I am patching together memories, past desires, and actions to understand where I am now, and why.

To digress, my writing is shifting to focus a great deal on this new chapter of my life, and I do apologize for the repetition, but besides wondering the next time I will get to eat guacamole or if Chuck and Blair will ever get together, how to navigate (survive) single life is really all I think about.

So, tonight I was going through a notebook from college I must have used during executive board sorority meetings ("Row etiquette: No making out/groping on dance floor, no flashing. ever."). Aside from the sorority stuff, it also contained some musings on my then sorta-single-completely-confusing relationship situation. I was generally obsessed with one guy in particular that year, who I admit I still sometimes think about, which is another issue I am sure will be part of my 2009 "finding myself" plan.

I found a piece of advice I'd jotted down, a "point to consider," as I called it: "Don't let one bad apple spoil your appetite forever--yet--don't allow your appetite to forget what a good apple tastes like." I elaborated that, "just because the next guy is better than the last jerk-off you dated, that doesn't mean he's good--he is just less bad."

Clearly, I was not only disappointed in the aforementioned guy I was infatuated with that year, but I worried that I only fell for the guy I "replaced" him with because he was less of a jerk, not because he was a good guy. (Considering the replacement was a dude I met in a club in Cancun, I think I was onto something.)

My attitude about men and dating was truly dysfunctional. I held on to a guy who was indifferent about me, thinking I could change him. Yet, instead of being mad at myself for being an idiot and not moving on, I labeled the guy a jerk. The problem wasn't all him, it was also my presumption that the guy should change for me. That he even could.

To be completely honest, I didn't even know what I wanted him to change into. I had no idea what I wanted in a man. Except that I wanted to feel butterflies every time I saw him. And given that I didn't meet any men in college--just boys--this was expected I guess. But how could I expect a guy to meet my expectations when I didn't have any? The problem thickens...

Now I've got lists going of the "yes" qualities and "no" qualities of what I want in a man. They range from superficial (Yes: has control over body hair, likes dogs, boxer briefs preferable; No: mandarin collars, man-purses, nose-picking), to more serious (Yes: supportive of writing career, pays own rent, stands up for himself and others; No: criticizing me in public, obsession with celebrity, unpredictable anger). Overall, the lists represent the best (and worst) of the men I have encountered in my life.

They're my lists and I'm sticking to 'em--realistically. I'll take my scrawled advice as a reminder to really recognize when I am taking a bite of a good apple and have the common sense to toss away the rotten ones. Or at least not expect the rotten ones to suddenly regenerate.

I'm doing pretty well so far. I don't expect perfect. Just a good apple.

Getting By with A LOT of Help from my Friends

I just hit the two-weeks-single mark and am continually re-learning my life as I know it. Right now I am particularly grateful to the amazing people in my life who I somehow earned the right to call my friends.

When you are in a long-term relationship, life tends to revolve around your two-some. The number of friends you see regularly dwindles. You have to coordinate with not only these friends' schedules, but also check in with your boyfriend to see when his plans are so you can have date nights, etc. Then, there are other commitments you are expected to be at for him (friends' birthdays, family events) so the number of nights you are free in a given week gets quite limited. And the first thing to get cut is your friends.

I have the type of friends who, even if I don't see them for months, when we do go out, it's like no time has passed. My friends have always been supportive of my relationship and understood that I had little free time. Still, I worried that we could lose touch, that I would be edged out for more available, less boyfriend-heavy pals. One of my biggest fears of being single was that I would realize I had lost my friends to the abyss of coupledom.

Yet, now that my schedule is wide open, and I am in dire need of company, my friends have squelched these fears and are really the driving force in getting me through this confusing, yet empowering, time in my life.

I'm learning a lot about friendship in the process. For one, I now know who my real friends are. I dreaded calling people to let them know what happened. I didn't really want to talk about it (repeating the story over and over still sounds dreadful), so I emailed the news to a group of my college girlfriends as a way of consolidating conversations. Some of these friends have yet to respond. I'm sure I'll get shit-talked for saying this, and maybe my news wasn't that earth-shattering or important, but I tangibly saw first-hand who actually gives a crap about me and who, well, doesn't. Good to know.

Secondly, regarding these friends who did respond to my email (and the others who found out in text-message or just this weekend when I wanted to give the news in person), I was not only reminded who my true friends are, but how truly lucky I am to be able to have the amazing friends I do. As said, I didn't want to tell people. I tried doing the Facebook-relationship-status-update-as-a-means-to-show-I-was-single thing, but it just felt desperate and awkward so I took it down. Plus, I didn't want to be a total downer and make people feel weird, like they had to console me. I hate being that person. I've always felt like the stable, on-the-right-track girl. I've defined myself that way. And now I seriously have no idea.

After reluctantly giving the news, I have gotten nothing but support, reinforcement I made the right decision (crucial), and invites for weekends in New York, San Diego, San Fransisco and Atlanta or nights out in L.A. One friend, who I hadn't spoken to since June, took me out for coffee right away and then preceded to invite me out to keep me busy. Those of you who came out to my reading on Friday, I can't even begin to tell you how much it meant to me to have you there. And then there's the general aura of love and support I've been feeling. No one was annoyed I didn't rush to text or call. No one told me I made a mistake.

Guys, I couldn't do this without you. Thank you. I love you dearly.