Not So, Monotony.

I planned for a monotonous, chill day today. I planned to sleep in, lie around in my jammies, drink coffee, then drink Jack (maybe), make some candles to fill a few orders, and maybe finally organize my new pad.

I drugged myself to sleep at 8 p.m. last night - though the body needed rest, the mind wasn't willing. Sigh. An old friend called his mind "the hampster on the wheel" and mine has been more and more like that lately. Hence, NyQuil. And the mixed berry flavor was delightful as well :)

I woke up, feeling as though I had slept the day away at 9:30 a.m. Nine-fucking-thirty. I used to sail right through that hour, and sleep until noon, but not the case now - and to be honest, I dig it. I like the morning, and its simplicitous beauty.

Moving forward, I coffeed, I candled, I chilled. I felt like I accomplished nothing. I was bored. I watched some t.v. Made some more candles. Made lunch, such as it was, and still felt the burning need to get up and do something. My thought was, how did I do this all day? The act of nothing.

The truth is: I worked on my small business website; I filled a couple of orders from paying customers, who may tell their friends about me. I did some laundry, which goes a long way in seeing the floor of my apartment. I started some grad school applications, and considered my alma mater as well. I experiemented with scent and color, all in a shapely glass palette with my name on it. I thought of a business venture between my sister and myself, and mentally laid out some plans. In my jammies. On the couch. But whatever :)

I've realized that monotony like this is, in the end, very profitable - if not monetarily, then spiritually and mentally. It was a quiet day, but I did a lot. The fact that this is what I call boredom or monotony is a fact worth looking into and exploring. In short, retrospect has made me very accomplished today, even if I was accomplished in my jammies.

The thing about me is I'm resilient. A dear family friend says that I'm the most resilient person she's ever known. And I didn't believe her until . . . right about now. And there's even some self-doubt still, but I'm starting to believe that.

I don't know why I let this guy hurt me so much, and there will come a point when I'll stop to think about it; to learn from it. And the next experience will be better. God I hope the next experience will be better.

See, the problem is that I know what I want. And for a short time, he gave it to me, no strings attached. Should I have been leery? I don't know. I don't want to be one of those people who never lets anything in for fear of being hurt. I've been that person, and I don't want to go back.

My ex (who is still a wonderful friend) told me just to let the pain in, and work itself back out again. The thing about heart pain like that, is that even though it hurts while it's happening, it leaves smears of wisdom and care that you take with you to the next experience.

What have I learned so far? I will never just leave a person hanging, wondering what happened. I'll have the decency to tell them it's not working. And I'll do my best to be up front. In short, I won't be the asshole Bob turned out to be. It's just baffling how well he hid it.

Oh well, I have a date tonight. ;) And while I have exactly ZERO expectations, it'll be nice just to have a drink, a drink at face value.

In the interest of my sanity

I went out for drinks last night. After I left work (90 minutes after quitting time), I decided to take Foster for a walk down Congress Avenue, to enjoy the night, and of course do some people watching. Watching all the life flicker around myself and my beloved pup, I realized people weave in and out. And just when I needed it the most, the warm presence of an old friend wove its way back in.

I thought to myself, what am I going to do to occupy my time after this? And like a lame ass, I tossed all my grand plans aside and snuggled with Foster. The top of his sleek, furry head has been a little too damp with my tears lately, and though I wanted to give him a break, I wanted the comfort.

Like I said, this is an unusual situation for me. Foster is not used to watching his mommy cry, and I'm sure as hell not used to this. Yuck! Normally, I'm a dating prizefighter with one of those big, gaudy "gold" belts. I'm the fucking dating champion! Never been knocked out. Until now.

Regardless, I found myself doing the WORST thing I could do, and I'll now divulge today's crazy: I re-read his texts. At first, looking for signs of trouble, then basking in the bittersweet glow of how it was.

LOL, I know! I know! LAME. I want to shake myself! I can laugh at it today, and I was fully aware of my complete lameness as it was happening. The only thing I can say is that most of us have been there before, and I have finally been dragged into joining the melodramatic ranks. Sigh.

Anyway, just as the tears were knocking on the door, I got a text from a good friend who I haven't seen in a while. We ended up meeting for drinks, and he's been recently dumped (though in a more genteel way: she actually SAID something to him. How nice!) so we had some common ground. There's something in the way we laughed and talked easily that made me feel much better. No pretense (he knew I was a mess); no attempt on his part to be Rico Suave. It's so nice to hang out with a sexy male friend without fear.

And guess what? After we had drinks, he made me coffee too.

Crazy is on a break.

Shayla, ma'am, I'm writing on this blog first because I know you're going through withdrawals. :)

That said, I'm on a fucking break. I give! I'm throwing my hands into the air, and shaking angry fists at ye gods above! "I defy you, stars!" Somewhat dramatic? Of course. What else would you expect? But all Montague quoting aside, I've come to a painful conclusion.

I'm done dating for a while. Yes, I always have the best stories, and yes they are all (sadly) true. And yes, generally I am the one to dance away, whistling, better off for the experiences, tucking them away for a time when I could use the wisdom and truths again. But times are changing. I'm growing up, learning, coming to learn the pleasure of sharing myself with someone special - someone who takes my breath away. Had I ever had that before? I have come close a couple of times in the past.

This time? Ugh, this time was different.

Jess fell. That shit hurts, and I'm bruised and sore now, sitting on the ground, taking stock of my sore body, rubbing at the bruises and wondering how on earth I got here. I have always kept a pretty tough dating exterior, ensuring that the select few I let in were let go before they could slice and scratch at my heart. Little known fact about the Jess: her heart has had enough pain and trauma in her young life to choke a horse. And though usually entertaining for other people, she runs for sheer protection. I try to keep the Jess's heart wrapped up in a protective cocoon, to save her from situations like this. (I'm sure you see the meta aspect of all this?)

Details! You clamor for details! Ok, fine. It's simple, I guess.

I met a boy. I opened up to said boy; we'll call the boy Bob. Bob's a fine name. I met Bob. I pushed down my personal walls, and opened my whole self to Bob. I fell HARD for Bob. Bob (I thought) fell hard for me. He said so anyway. Bob opened doors; Bob opened his home during one of the toughest two-week spans in recent history, and Bob made me coffee in the morning. He gave me his garage door opener. Bob had book cases full of well-thumbed volumes. You see where I'm going with this?

In an absolutely stunning span of time, I fell like a tree in a hurricane. I'm not ashamed to admit it now; it doesn't ever hurt anything to admit you're human; fallible, and to the point of love-able. Kids, I was right there, standing on the edge of a precipice, peering over the side and thinking (for once) "You know what? I can do this. And I can love it!" I closed my eyes, stepped off, and dove. Fuck it. Just jump Jess.

And just like that, he was gone. No calls, no texts, no nada. So here I am, on the ground, wiping away dirt-smudged tears, taking stock of myself and my bruised heart and mind. And make no mistake, this is a different hurt than I've probably ever felt, though I haven't given myself permission to really delve deeply into my psyche to find out. But it feels different. I'm mourning something that, in its short tenure, was a dream. I had, for a short time, grasped the mirage of my dreams.

And like all mirages, I'm left feeling emptier, clutching at nothing but air and a broken heart.

माय करे

Today has been a really rough day. I'm just emotionally drained, and my head hurts. Thinking is inevitable, though, and I can't stop it. There are too many options to consider, too much stress lying squarely on my shoulders. I need a decision, and I need something to give. I haven't even given myself permission to write, so everything is bottled up and threatening to explode like those stupid (and AWESOME) volcanoes that kids used to perennially enter into science fairs. Hope springs eternal, I guess.

My frustration is . . . overwhelming. What do I want out of life? I'm at the point where I want some stability, and the thought of a plan. An outline. A fucking flow chart. Something that will tell me where to go, and what I shouldn't waste my time on. My endeavours thus far have been worthwhile (to me, anyway). Most people probably think I'm nuts for doing so many different things, and constantly seeking out new experiences. It's not even really a choice.

I'm driven. I am kind of tired of being driven - I'm ready to drive. No, wait, let's take that metaphor a bit further - I'd even go so far as to say I'm ready to be a passenger. There are many times (becoming more frequent) when I'm envious of the people who know their whole lives exactly what they want, and how they'll go about it. I could use a dose of that right now - but Charles reminded me today that I have a lot of really great options from which to choose.

And for those who know me best, I would hope that they know that I'm not as wishy-washy as I seem. I have seen and done a lot, and life is short. I just don't want to miss anything.

But while I'm busy not missing anything, what am I missing? Isn't there something to be said about direction? I want to find out!

And it's already a successful day

I seem to have a hard time learning in a non-traditional environment. One summer when I was working my way through my bachelor's degree, I took 5 summer courses. Three of them were online, and I finished one of them in a few hours. Of course, it was a magazine writing class, and all the professor gave us was a list of topics. I let my imagination fly, and my fingers follow suit, and before I knew it, I had achieved an A in one evening. I'm afraid I've had a jaded view of online learning ever since.

The more I try online courses, however, the more I realize what an anomaly that class was. Or, more appropriately, that the course suited my particular talents. Now I'm in online courses for my Texas real estate license. I'm finding it to be a huge pain in the ass. Sitting down and taking time to read legal terms is frustrating. Frustrating because I like to know exactly what I'm doing and talking about; I hate being anything except at the top of my game. Being the least knowledgeable person at a business table is very low on my priority list! So . . . how is this a successful day?

I've made my own personal list of the things I need to get done, and the things I need to learn in order to feel successful. (And to gain licensure). The thing I've learned over the past few weeks is that success is learning what I need to do in order to be successful, and looking inward to find the tools I need in order to do that.

I'm rambling, but learning how I learn has made today a success. ;)

Nickel For Your Thoughts?

All right, all right, I'm up. It's 7:45, and I've been up for a few minutes, ripping myself awake with the knowledge that some people have been awake for hours. HOURS, I think to myself, while digging down to find the motivation to keep my eyes open and my body erect.

I've got miles to go before I sleep (again) . . . you'll have to forgive me. Robert Frost is my favorite poet, and that's . . . nevermind. I'm trying to wake up my body, so I start making my bed, all the while jamming out to a little music for motivation. But while I make my bed, my mind reverts back to a time when I'm not more than a pipsqueak, trotting after my great grandpa at their smoke-filled, dated Indiana farmhouse house.

Grandpa Joe was my hero - one of those people who shimmer into and out of your life and leave a trail of stardust in your eyes. He gave me direction, gave me love, and made me feel like the light he was to me, and even gave me a pipsqueak-sized set of overalls to match his. I love him purely, and without question - something I find sort of intimidating in my adult life to accomplish. We used to go on these walks in the summertime, back across a plain stone bridge over a creek. I would sit and swing my feet over the creek while he wandered and told me stories, limericks, jokes, whatever came to mind. In general, he wasn't a big talker, so a lot of the time we would just sit side by side in silence, enjoying the day and each other's company. Even as a kiddo, I listened, and I knew this guy was something special. I didn't, of course, realize that those lapses into silence, and some of the wandering away was due to his slow descent into Alzheimer's. Eventually, silence filled his life, and stole the light out of his twinkling, faded blue eyes.

I lived with my great grandparents off and on through my childhood, and got to spend a lot of quality time learning from these two amazing people. (The word 'amazing' is often overused; I flip back through my memories, and feel amazed that I got a chance to really know these people.) Often, in the mornings, Grandpa Joe would ask me in his gruff voice, "Do you want to earn a nickel?" I was, of course, eager.

So, we would stand on opposite sides of his and Grandma's bed, and while she cooked breakfast, he and I would meticulously make up the bed. His gnarled fingers would so tenderly tuck the sheets in beneath the pillows, freshly fluffed, and I would do my best to mimic his moves. By the time we finished, there was one perfect side, and one not so perfect one, but it never mattered. We would have breakfast, and we would go on about our day. Sometimes we would walk; sometimes we would listen to eight-tracks of Elvis. It didn't really matter.

You know, I never saw a nickel of that money. That never mattered either.