shakin' in the rain

I fear social failure.

Not because I can't hold my own in social events, because I've been told that I can be quite charming once I get warmed up.

But because no matter how old I get or how many successful social experiences I have, walking into a room of strangers, especially women, takes me back to the awkward, overweight, out-of-her-social-league college freshman on her first attempt at sorority rush.

That's right, I said first attempt.

Because I did it twice.

As it turned out, it would take a summer of a make shift Mommy-Daughter Fat Camp and the help of some good 'ol point counting to help me wrap my chubby little arms around my inner diva.  I lost 15 pounds, started running {albeit slowly}, and was able to feel that I was physically similar to my new sisters.

{a side note here: in hindsight, the tragedy of my overweight story was not the weight itself, but the already unique outfits I put together, made more, um, special by my inability to choose appropriate sizes}

Flash forward to Tuesday evening when I coaxed that insecure girl into a Junior League meeting across town filled with strangers.  True, it didn't help that I was ten minutes late or that I had dropped a ketchup-covered pickle down my cardigan and onto my grey pants while trying to gobble down my quarter pounder and navigate against Siri's best directions to my foreign destination in a thunderstorm.  But.  I sucked up my courage, signed myself in, found a seat, and made a b-line to grab a glass of complimentary wine.

You know, I was okay!

I was once told that sometimes you just have to fake it until you can make it.  It's true that I have a sometimes paralyzing fear of strangers, although most people don't believe me.  At one point in my life, I had learned to master that fear.  Then I got comfortable.  Now, I must once again, learn to push past the fear of not being good enough and master it.

And.

I'm off to a good start.  I left my meeting with a business card, a little spring in my step, and a little less fear.

Happy fear fighting, y'all,

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,

remission

Two days ago I contacted a potential suitor after a brief, hmmm, hiatus, shall we say.  I don't know why I did it; and even though I'm glad I did, I don't really know how I feel about breaking my leave-the-boy-alone rule either.  But I did it.  And I learned something about myself in the process.  

So,  you should know first that I have a history of being ditched by potential suitors.  In hind sight, most of them were doing me a favor.  I'd like to think that they are all just intimidated by my awesomeness, but let's be real.  My crazy probably drove them away.  Not to worry though, y'all, my crazy is in rehab.  I'm certain after my little relapse that all is well in the anti-crazy kingdom.  

At any rate, this PS did the ceremonial disappearing act after a fantastic conversation where he complimented my beautiful smile, made tentative plans for a future date, and called me sugar.  Swoon for real.  It is so hard to remember the rules of crazy rehab when a boy is telling me such sweet things, ugh!    However, upon constantly reanalyzing reflection of the situation, I have determined that my crazy was well in check during our entire, however brief, get-to-know-each-other period.  

And so he disappeared.  No explanation, ok, well sort of, but determining when an explanation is just that and when it's an excuse is a whole other discussion.  The not-so-gradual fade-away.  We're well acquainted.  This is where the first piece of proof that crazy boot camp is working: I didn't text or call or anything.  No twitter.  Nothing.  Just this deserves me a trophy!

But then the relapse.  

It was just a little text.  I was actually surprised that he responded, truth be told.  At first, I caught myself having fantasy sequences about how he missed me so much and how he was going to realize my amazingness.  He simply responded, acted like it hadn't even been three weeks, and didn't even make an apology.  Abort fantasy sequence.  But this post isn't about how he should have acted or what he should have said, hell, it's not even about him.  It's about me and my journey and about how this little incident marked all new territory for me.  Because the remarkable part of this whole interaction was that, despite the pitter-patter that he made my heart go during that conversation before the fade-away,  I was able to see him for who he was, hear what he was really saying, and deduce that regardless of his choices, I AM FINE!  HA!  

Who knows what will happen with this guy, maybe he'll prove to be someone different than he has recently come across and maybe not.  What I do know is that whatever he decides, I have entries to write, miles to run, an iPad cover to decorate, and other PS's to date :)

Pretty soon, I'll be able to say that my crazy is in remission. 

i don't wanna wear pants

When I was a kid, my mom consistently fought with me over two pieces of clothing.  Turtlenecks and dresses.  Eventually, she gave up both fights.

Flash forward thirty odd years.

I've been back at work now for a whole nine days, and I've determined that I'm over pants.  I'm sure they have their place and that I'll love them again someday.  But even my good 'ol worn-in jeans are just not doing it for me right now, it doesn't even seem to matter how high the heels or how cute the shirt.  The world just seems better in a skirt.

Currently these are the reasons why I hate pants:

Wearing pants means going back to work.

Going to work means that my leisurely mornings and morning runs have been deduced to being haphazardly fit in.

It's so hard to feel fun and flirty in a pair of pants.  At least it is for me currently.

Driving my car is not nearly as much fun in pants.  I don't know why, I know this is an odd one, but there's something powerful about wearing a cutie sun dress while driving a muscle car with windows down, hair up, and the music loud.   I'm also aware that this makes me a boarder-line train-wreck.  I'm not at all bothered by this.  possibly proud.  

It is still hot outside and I really do sweat more in those things.  eew.

I'm pretty sure that I am not as sweet or patient in pants.  This is a big deal.  I need all the help that I can get.

My mom thinks this is hilarious, by the way.  I'm glad she does.  Really.  Really, I am.  As I drive my car to work in the morning, constricted at the waist, all business like (I know that's what I'm supposed to look like, ugh, I know) and ish.  She's laughing.  

Tomorrow, I'm going to Macy's.  Toodles.

marriage and a baby carriage

Source: simplydiamonds.com.au via Doloritas on Pinterest

I go to a good job every day.  I have a master's degree.  I own my own home and drive a nice car.  I pay my bills on time and have a decent credit score as a reflection of that effort.  I have a strong resume and two generally well-behaved dogs.  I am healthy, active, and happy.  I am absolutely blessed without a doubt, and am thankful for every aspect of my life.

That doesn't mean that there are not things that could enhance it.  I pray every night for someone with whom to share all of these blessings.  I pray for children to awaken my home with laughter.  I pray for the opportuntiy to wake up every morning next to the man I love most.  I pray for the job title of mom, wife,  homemaker, and superwoman.

Maybe it's because I've gotten all of my ambitions out of the way; maybe it's because I know I'm going to be okay, regardless of what the future holds; maybe it's because I can honestly say that I don't need my neighbor to come and cut up the big 'ol tree branch that fell on my house last weekend because I can confidently and successfully do it myself; but honestly, I want to be cared for.

When I wanted to become a teacher, there was a plan in place for that.  When I wanted to buy a house, I followed all of the steps.  Every time I have purchased a car, there has been a familiar routine to follow.  I pay my bills according to the rules and followed a template to write my resume.  The dogs, eh, well, it's a process.  There is no guideline, rule book, or template to meeting my future partner in crime.

Oh.  Wait a minute.  There are plenty.  If I haven't read them all, I've read most of them.

Source: d30opm7hsgivgh.cloudfront.net via Jonesy on Pinterest

Maybe I'll set the plight of feminists back a couple hundred of years, but I've decided that just because I can do the work of a man does not mean that I do not deserve to be treated like a lady.  Fair and equal are not the same things.  And so, I will: paint my nails, write thank you notes on pretty cards, allow a man to pay for my meal and open my door, wear dresses, and get a little teary during sentimental commercials.  I will not apologize for being a woman and I will relish the man who appreciates it.

Sure, I'm super appreciative for all that women in history have done to pave the way for all of the amazing things and experiences that I have been granted or able to earn.  I revel in the knowledge that I have not felt the pressure to settle for less than I deserve on any front.  But I wonder sometimes if I have learned to be too independent, too self-sufficient, too outspoken.  I don't want to be dumb, defenseless, or mute; but I also don't want to be treated like a man, like I'm easy, or like I'm disposable.

where have all the flowers gone?

The hardest part about being a 30-something single woman is that most pretty much all of my Anonymous Beloveds have significant others, signifiant children, significant obligations ... ugh, you get the point.  

Don't get me wrong, I'm kind of loving this part of my life where I get to explore the world without feeling awkward and insecure.  I can list so many things that are cool about where my life is at right now: 

I can try on different identities because most people think I'm crazy anyway;

I can pick up and move to another state, city, house without having to worry about uprooting anyone and ruining their lives;

despite my age, people still occasionally card me when I buy vodka at the grocery store;

I am not ashamed to say that vodka occasionally makes it on to my grocery list (or that I regularly make a grocery list with, gasp, coupons);

I can go to bed at 8:30 and no one calls me old, and if they do, I'm too old to care :)

But, not every road is paved with butterflies and roses ALL of the time.  Today I just seemed to have stubbed my big toe on a big fat tree stump in the middle of my rosy nature walk.  I hate that.  So, my stupid proverbial toe hurts, my ego is a little bruised, and I kind of want to cry -- all because I wanted a little piece of undivided attention.  I am not too old to stomp my feet and throw a little fit; but old enough to absolutely know how to do it right!  Ugh!  

Ok.  Well, now that I've gotten that out my system, its time to quit whining and pull up my big girl panties and keep moving until I find those butterflies and roses again.  

Happy moving forward, ya'll!

Girl Power!

I just devoured an intriguing little book that seemed to unearth itself right before my pretty little eyes as I scoured the library for help on planning a work event (more about that later, I'm sure): Seducing the Boys Club by Nina DiSesa.  I really hoped it would help me learn to refine those flirting skills I've been working so hard on...  I'm not sure that I can say that it was a page turner or that it was all I had hoped it would be; but I can attest that it offered a bit of hope for those of us professional women who do not ever hope to become men nor want to be confused as one.  Not to say that I don't love men.  Oh, I do.  I just don't anyone to forget that I'm a woman.  Then, I want them to remember my name.  And finally, how well I put all of that together!

So at any rate, I got some reaffirmation that there is no reason to feel bad about embracing my female-ness (selling myself up, not out; really, I'm far too blunt to dumb myself down) to get what I want.  But I really want to know what to do about this woman who seems to have possibly forgotten that underneath her pants, we both have the same parts.

I'm still dealing with the woman I spoke about in my last entry and some things keep presenting themselves to me: the "charminacity" does seem to be working (as I have worked diligently to be charming towards EVERYONE I have dealt with in regards to the situation, in person and in print) and as I have climbed the bureaucratic ladder with my complaint, the higher the position of female I have encountered, the more coldly she has presented herself.  It makes me wonder, and I shudder to say this aloud, if ... this would have already been resolved ... if the person ... in ... charge ... wouldhavebeenaman.  ugh.

It seems to be a strange happenstance that I should have found this particular book at the crux of this particular battle between two powerful women: one who, as DiSesa puts it, may have gotten "drunk with power" and one who is willing to pour the wine.  I'll keep you posted on my progress :)

Cheers!