Geography Lesson

My friend, Sharone, called me the other day for moral support. I must confess that Sharone is clearly one of my most sophisticated, pulled together friends. Well, at least on the surface - deep down she is as crazy as the rest of us. On top of it all, no one notices her craziness because she is tall, blond, gorgeous and has legs to die for. The thing I love about Sharone is that she, like me, learns best from experience. We need to take a beating before we realize that we are in pain. We tend to take the longest path to our final destination, but we never forget where we have been. Best of all, each journey is a lesson that stays with us; no matter how hard the struggle or how severe the casualties, the journey becomes a part of our map. Over time we begin to see the paths on our map like wounds on our skin. We have come to love ourselves for the scars that we have - we are good at reminding each other of just that.

Moral support: Sharone calls me from a professional conference to tell me there is an international business conference at the same hotel and she has spotted a tall, dark stranger. I quickly ask, "Is he European?" Sharone and I have weaknesses for European men. She informed me that he was in fact European, but worse, he was Italian.

I received another phone call later in the day from Sharone informing me that she had made contact and there were potential plans to meet him. I wanted to be kept abreast of all developments. She agreed.

I hadn't heard from her in a few days. I was worried. What had happened to Sharone? What had happened with the Italian stranger?

The last day of the conference I received a call from Sharone while she was on frantic route to the airport. She had indeed met the stranger and exchanged flirtatious conversation. He was smitten, she was coy. He propositioned her, she declined. He whisked her into the men's room, she lost her name tag. She was excited, frightened, and astounded by her adventure. As she recounted the tale, I couldn't help but picture her standing outside the Men's room wondering how she was going to get inside to retrieve her name tag.

Over the next few weeks she began to beat herself up about the encounter. I attempted to encourage self compassion. The last I heard of this man was when she sent me a picture of him. The following email string ensued:

Sharone: Now tell me honestly...wouldn't you lower your standards and enter a men's bathroom (if you were a lady) for this...ugh. (note the wedding ring in the first pic, the woman's hair on his shoulder in the second...surely I must win the prize for being tacky and slutty this time).
I could only share this with you love.

Darwin: first, entering a bathroom for sex is not lowering my standards. second, he is a delicious man. third, losing your name tag was a minor casualty for that adventure. :)

Sharone: ...and this is why I love you.

Marian? Is that you?

I was standing on the fourth floor terrace of an early 1900's building on the campus of the University where I work. The season made the air clean and crisp and the view was stunning; a myriad of colors along the horizon. I was looking over the edge of the railing at the students bustling to and from class. For the first time in a long time I was feeling comfortable and calm. I felt adjusted, for a brief moment.

A young woman walked up next to me after a few moments. We stood together in silence until I decided to speak, "It is so peaceful up here. The view is gorgeous."

To which she replied, "You see that tall building over there?"

"Yeah."

"Someone jumped off of that a few years ago and killed himself. It was during the day. Can you imagine that?"

"Well, I can now!!," I thought. I stood there for a few minutes looking at her with a straight face. At first I admired her for saying something utterly bizarre to a complete stranger.

"That is an interesting conversation starter," I said.

"I guess." Her expression was blank and she stared off into the distance. Her appearance was in complete disagreement with the statement she had just expressed. You would expect her to talk about library privileges at the University rather than the suicide statistics. Not knowing her motive for stating such an interesting fact, I grew annoyed. Then I realized I was irritated that she dampened my moment.

As I began to leave I said, "Thank you for making this moment awkward and unpleasant for me."

"You're welcome."

As I walked away, I began to smile. I admired her again for being awkward, uninhibited, and unapologetic. In a matter of moments I went from feeling calm, to being shocked, to being annoyed, to being in awe. That is what makes being alive so exciting for me; you can feel every moment if you allow yourself. I felt alive again. Thanks, weird librarian-like lady.

Call me the Petty Monster

Fall is my favorite season. You get to wear sweaters and sip warm beverages without becoming soaked in sweat. There is a crisp smell in the air. The leaves are falling off the trees and the diversity of color makes the view in every direction beautiful. Usually the season alone brings a smile to my face and a calmness to every moment.

This year is different. The wool is making me itch. I am sweating my ass off if I even look at a hot toddy. The air smells like cow shit. The leaves are making chores not joy and everywhere I look the trees are ghastly skeletons. I think I missed the entire change of season this year. Winter is but 3 degrees away.

Now I can't help but find fault in everything that everyone does. I am becoming an increasingly cranky person with nothing better to do than complain at every turn. I am becoming petty. Does it matter if someone forgot to use their turn signal. Or that the woman at the pharmacy really didn't see me in line when she cut. Or that my roommate really does become obsessed with every man he sees. Or that my latte was too hot, or too sweet, or my cappuccino wasn't dry enough. Or that my shirts were light starch instead of medium starch. Or that this picture of Tom Petty makes me want to gouge out my eyes with a rusty spoon.

I have become a petty person. No, a petty monster.

You know you love me

It is getting increasingly more difficult to hide my obsession with the TV show "Gossip Girl." I am only partly embarrassed by the fact that it is complete trash and targeted (arguably) toward a high school audience. The other part: I am embarrassed by the fact that I think that Blair Waldorf is magnificent and I want to be her. She is direct, assertive, competitive, misguided, and honest (well, mostly). She is a total bitch and I love her. She kind of reminds me of me.

When I was a little kid I was polite, cooperative, and obedient. I would even say that I was a model child to the point of self-destruction. After compromising myself for many years, I was done with hurting for the sake of not hurting others. I grew tired of telling people what they wanted to hear because it was the "nice thing to do."

Since then I have been criticized for being a mean person. I always joke that I was an original 'Mean Girl,' which is somewhat true. In college, my closest friends labeled me as "the mean one," while the others were described as "the pretty one," "the funny one," and "the slut." Even in graduate school I was sometimes viewed as judgmental, harsh, bitchy, and abrasive. Although I have stood up for myself with strong defiance, I secretly felt bad about how I "treated" people. I felt bad because I was told by people that I should feel bad about it. I even addressed my "mean-ness" in therapy. Of course, my therapist said, "Our best attributes are sometimes our biggest weakness."

I have started to realize that my intentions are not malicious. I do not set out to hurt other people. I think that there is no better way to treat a person but with honesty and integrity. I can accept that my direct and honest style is not always appreciated or even valued. However, I also know that some people have the utmost respect for my opinions and come to me before anyone else because they know that I will tell them the truth. Granted, the truth is sometimes harsh and hard to hear and most of the time the truth is my opinion.

But it is an opinion and I am entitled to my opinion. I don't want to continue to feel bad about that. I would be denying myself the same values that I hold so high in others if I pretended to be anyone else. I have to be honest about who I am and live up to who I say that I am.

Thanks, Blair.

plagues over my spammy

My blog was flagged as spam and I have strep throat. I mean, what is the world coming to?

First, how this blog was misconstrued as spam is beyond me. I was told that if there are embedded links or long strands of gibberish you can be flagged. I realize that some of what I write could arguably be gibberish, but nonetheless. I think it was part of an anti-gay regime out to stop the perpetration of gay-ness. I am watching too many political debates.

Second, strep throat? What am I twelve? I was relieved that it wasn't mono because I would find it difficult to explain to my current employer that I was 30 and had a middle school kissing disease. However, the possibility that I got strep throat from kissing is highly likely. The question is exactly who gave it to me.

My roommate and I went to the only gay bar in town last Saturday. In an effort to help him "connect" with a guy he was obsessing over, I invited a small group back to our house for after hour drinks. His guy was barely legal, DRUNK, and reportedly had a boyfriend. After a few drinks we started to wrap things up, which included driving his guy and his guy's friend home. This is when we discovered that my roommate's guy was rudely disinterested in him, but wanted to sleep on the couch. For all of my years of experience, it took me way to long to realize that his guy's friend wanted to stay with me. I missed all of his subtle efforts (apparently). While we were discussing the missed connection, he planted quite an amazing kiss on me. I became weak in the knees for a minute, but before dropping to my knees he uttered my most despised phrase, "Let's just go into your room real quick and then I will leave." Sure. Push past the revolving door, take a number, and I will be with you in a minute. Although I was enjoying kissing him I couldn't shake the perception that he thought he could have me "real quick" and go. So I asked him my name. Fast forward five minutes to the awkward car pool trip to his house. Needless to say he didn't call. I never had a chance to tell him he gave me strep. Maybe.

I met another guy a few weeks ago while I was doing some work at a coffee shop. As reluctant as I have been to "date" anyone, he has succeeded in regular meetings that have a resemblance of dating behavior. The usual: dinner, phone calls, movies, and a Friday night. Since I have been sick for the past few days (and he is concerned that he gave me strep and generally concerned for my health) he has brought me dinner and yesterday brought me a plate of cookies. Although I can honestly say that he is genuinely a nice person, I am minimally impressed by all of his efforts.

I have consulted my best gay from the big city, Zach Morris. Zach claims that I am crazy and I am only interested in men who are disinterested, disturbed, or dicks. I will give him credit for pin pointing the problems with my last four relationships; however, I wanted to whole hearted-ly disagree. Unfortunately, my whole hearted disagreement is not convincing when what I wear on my sleeve is a hardened, black, piece of meat that looks more like a well done steak than a frilly, lacy fourth grade valentine. Perhaps he is right. I tried to argue that his advice was hard to swallow considering he is just as crazy as I am, to which he replied, "That is exactly why I am choosing not to date anyone. I am crazy and need to figure it out."

I have eight days left of antibiotics. Let's hope in addition to curing me of strep, it can do something about my heart. Even if only to send me a message that it might be time to invest more in myself.

Damn, baby! Whad'ya do to yo' hair?

I woke up late. Cursed the sun. And rolled over.

That's right, I decided not to get out of bed yesterday. Not for the entire day, just long enough to consider the possibility that I could lay there for eternity, gain 500 pounds, and be interviewed via satellite by Tyra Banks in five years. Maximum time wasted: 30 minutes. My anxiety about being on a second-class talk show and becoming a lazy piece of shit forced me to put my feet on the cold hardwood floor and face the day. Being cold first thing in the morning is such a horrible feeling. Yesterday, the cold floor didn't seem to affect me as much as it normally would because I was feeling unusually cold inside already.

I decided to "work from home." At first I did begin doing work, but then slowly began checking my email, then surfing the Internet, browsing the latest BR items, and then landed on my default coping skill. Spending money. Considering my small financial crisis I had to choose something justifiable. In the end all of my spending is somehow justifiable, but you know what I mean. After tossing a number of ideas around I landed on getting a haircut.

I considered returning to the salon I had been previously, but remembered how awful I felt upon leaving. Reeling in the consequence of running into someone who was the result of an unknown number of Miller Lites and an equally unknown number of shots. It was not the engagement in adventures of lowered inhibitions that spun me, but finding out this certain someone was married and had shared our adventures with other stylists at the salon. I had reservations about making an appointment under the name, "Tawdry Whore."

I made an appointment at the training institute of an upscale salon hoping that I could get an appointment last minute and that I would not lose an ear in the process. In the end, I saved money and got a fantastic haircut from an equally fantastic 19-year-old stylist with hopes and dreams of making it huge in the Big City. She was adorable; mostly she was endearing because she had no judgements about me or the likelihood that I would drink like fish and screw her boyfriend when she wasn't looking.

I felt better. I felt renewed. I felt lighter. I felt foolish.

I guess it is called retail therapy for a reason; paying someone to help you feel better. Perhaps next time I should skip the middle man and just pay people to tell me my hair looks great. Or I could keep the money, get out of bed, go to work, allow myself to feel like shit, and quit sleeping with people's husbands.

Bottom line: my hair looks great. It is the head that it is attached to that needs work.