a magician?

You know how sometimes when you're trying to empty a container and, because you can't see the contents, it seems like the package is holding an impossibly greater amount that there is physical space available.  Ya know, like Mary Poppins' purse?

If her purse were, in fact, the mode of transport for my recent abundance of bad luck, I'd venture to guess that we'd just have pulled out the kitchen sink.

For reals.

Seriously, I should learn magic or something.  Really.  I'm learning humility.

It seems that while I cannot pull a rabbit from a hat, I am becoming quite talented in the art of sending men into a black hole.  So maybe my afore fondly spoken of potential suitor has not completely taken the plunge, but he certainly has sunk behind the curtain.

*sigh*

God bless her, my mama is now sending me articles about dating in my thirties.  Because, ya know, every other instructional manual has been helpful and stuff.

It's a good thing I'm getting better at learning from my experiences.  That I'm getting my crazy under control.  That I'm becoming a happier, more resilient person. Because I sure was havin' a little bit of a fantasy sequence about telling Prince Charming a little about a couple of things.

But.  I stopped myself from making a complete and utter fool of myself any kind of contact.  And.  I leaned a little into the discomfort of the dark and ominous realization that I had been stood up.  for the second time.  And I found just a tiny piece of power hanging out way down deep in my gut.  And I clung to it.

For so long, I have hid behind my words to find a sense of power.  Specifically, my angry words.  Words that are meant to cut.  A little act of revenge for putting me in a situation where I felt powerless.

Today, again I stopped myself from mentioning it, even as he went about his daily interactions with me in a disturbingly normal fashion..

And why?  Why should a strong, independent woman not speak up for herself when she has been overlooked?

Because real power does not come from bringing someone else down.  If I can choose, and I can, I don't want to be her anymore.

Maybe he'll persist.  Maybe he'll climb out of the black hole.  Maybe he'll sink in.  It sucks to be overlooked and not be granted the simple respect of an explanation.  But really, what else is a girl to do?

Source: den10studio.blogspot.com via Laura on Pinterest

Toodleloo,

big-girl panties

I cried in school for the first and last time in the first or second grade.  I was in gym class and I was the last person to be chosen for a relay-race team.  So, I cried.  I mean, I was already the worst relay team pick, being a crybaby about it wasn't going to score me the points that having me on the team would lose.  I don't think I cried much, but I was embarrassed enough to determine never to do it again in public. 

And I didn't.

Even the day at recess in the third grade when, while practicing my less than mediocre baton-twirling skills for the upcoming talent show (hey, I had dreams y'all, a bit far-fetched, but dreams!), I managed to catch the baton with my eye socket.  The only black eye I've ever had.

And.  I didn't cry the day I nose dived through the asphalt recess area that year and got the huge scab that ran from the tip of my nose to the top of my lip, either.

And.  I also didn't cry when the bully-est girl in the first row of my first class on my first day of teaching told me that her sole intention, until I was otherwise notified, was to make me cry in front of the class.  For the record, I was never notified otherwise.

Nope, that gym class made me a tough cookie.

Ok, so I may have taken it a bit to the extreme and attempted to swear off crying as a whole.  At some point I convinced myself that much like the fact that there is no crying in baseball, there should be no crying in life either; that crying was useless; and that, probably because it's what my dad always used to tell me, it was just gonna make me sick.

My mantra: Pull up your big-girl panties, Laura, and suck it up.

Until yesterday.  When my mantra couldn't quell the emotional overload.  When I cried a little in the after-school privacy of my classroom, and then more on my way home, and then a whole lot more when I talked to my mama early in the evening.

Until yesterday, when I truly realized that I have been successful in beginning to build real relationships with my ABs where I am ok letting them see me in a truly vulnerable position, as opposed to the ones I craft in order to have something to kick up a fuss about.

I've learned that sometimes, most of the time, a person simply cannot do it all all on her own and keep a straight face.

Sometimes it's the only real initial response to a whole truck load of emotionally overwhelming nonsense being dropped off at your front door for you to deal with immediately at your own expense is a big, fat, ugly, mascara-running-down-your-face cry.  possibly while attempting some sort of consolation in a bubble bath.  Eh.  It happens.

Sometimes, it is times like these when a person, especially one who takes pride in taking care of the people she loves, such as myself, gives her loved ones the gift of letting them be there for her.

This morning, I'm focusing on pulling up my big-girl panties and getting through the whole. entire.  truckload. one issue at a time.  But I know now, more than ever, that it's okay to cry a little sometimes and that I have amazing people cheering me on.

Bring on that truck,

pear-shaped madness

Ya wanna know which fictitious character I feel most like today?  Veruca Salt.  You know the bratty little girl who's daddy schemed a golden ticket for her, the one who hooted and hollered every time she saw something she just knew she had to have, the one who befell her demise chasing after a golden egg.  Yeah.  Her.

Photo Credit: FanPop

My mini me has been screaming, "I want it NOW!" in the back of my head for the last day or so.  I wish it was simply a golden goose egg (or a specially trained squirrel apparently, if you've read the book) that would satiate the Miss-Salt-like squawking.

Of course, let's be real here.  The egg wouldn't have satisfied her in the movie and what I think I want right now ain't gonna fix a thing either.  Well.  Maybe just a little bit.  For now, anyway.

What I want right now, really truly, is to be able to trust that this super handsome potential suitor I've been seeing is for real.  And.  Here's the thing.  There's no real reason, except my own insecurities, preventing me from doing it.  Because you see, we're at just the right point in this budding relationship that my crazy should start acting up, terrified of what one. more. disappearing act is gonna do to my faith in the male gender.  Turns out that I'm in the midst of a supremely vicious cycle that happens to have everything a little pear-shaped right now.  

My mama has always told me that hind sight was 20/20.  It's easy to look back and see all of the things I've done wrong and even to imagine how I could've done them better.  It's really really really hard, in the midst of pear-shaped madness to remember those lessons, much less find the serenity I had before the crazy came back to visit.

They say that good things come to those who wait, but waitin' is so dang hard.  And waiting with any sense of integrity can be plain old agonizing.  Right now, waiting is making me want to stomp my feet, throw a fit, and chase that stupid golden egg to my own inevitable demise.  Or just burrow into my bed for a couple of days.

Oh.  Wait a minute.  I've done that.

And it repeatedly gets me.... that's right, you've guessed it!  NO WHERE.

You know how the saying goes, if you always do what you've always done, you'll always get what you've always got.  A self-fulfilling prophecy, if you will.

But, I'm not gonna do it this time.  Nope.

One of things I remember most from the good ol'days of The Oprah Show, was Oprah quoting Maya Angelou,  "when you know better, you do better."  I believe I finally know better enough to understand how to do it better.  This time, even if it doesn't work out or he falls off the face of the earth, I will know that I did better.  I will know that I was not a victim.  And, I will not be angry at him for failing to read my mind or for being flawed enough to *gasp* have more purpose in life than to simply please me.

So, this is where I change my course, scrape together all of my remaining composure, and let myself be a little more vulnerable than I'm comfortable with.  It's okay to feel uneasy.  It's okay to be scared strait out of my new Jessica Simpson heels.  It's even okay to let this so-far great guy off of the hook that he probably doesn't even know exists.

Wish me luck, 'cause instead of diving in after that golden egg, I'm gonna sit tight, stay sweet, invest some time in learning about him, and trust that I'm gonna be okay.  no. matter. what.

Cheers to moving forward,