But in my mind I’m havin’ a pretty good time with you

Four Thoughts, Disconnected

1. In my mind, I’m quiet and watchful. Shy and careful about joining a conversation. In reality, I’m a little loud, with a big personality. I laugh boisterously and use my outside voice too much. I talk out of turn and I start conversations with strangers. This last one is new, but it feels right, like the me I’ve always been. Since I’ve lost  weight (ugh, more tk) and gotten the teeth looking right, I’m more willing to smile at strangers, to make a comment about the plums, to rolls my eyes in tandem with the patient bank teller, to giggle with the toddler who’s wearing a tutu that looks like my petticoat. My posture is still horrible, the combination of texting and years of self-consciousness giving my neck a colon’s curve. And my mom has gotten at least half a foot shorter, so there’s that coming at me. But, if I’m looking down these days, it’s not because I don’t want to be seen or to see you. You, I’m always happy to see.
2. I have so much to say, but I’ve been saying it in other ways. Not writing anything personal, not tweeting or fbing or gramming, or whatever new -ing that makes me equally curious and overwhelmed. I’ve been breathing, though, normally, in and out, like the directions say, and finding time to love widely and well. I have so much love in my life. Really. Occasionally, I sit still and feel as if I’m in the center of a deep pool of it. Floating without effort. Suspended. And that’s just friends and family. I have another kind of love too. One that I’ve hoped for and doubted would ever come. He makes me feel safe and although he is by no means a coddler, with him, I am precious and adored. My next lesson is learning how to relax. To let it be and unfurl, as life does. Ours is not a romance novel or a sit com or a horror movie. It’s just two complicated people, finding it easy to love each other. (I hope it lasts. Don’t let me jinx it. Stay away from the black cat. Magical thinking, blah, blah etc)
3. I lost seventy pounds and then I just stopped. Settled into a size 16. Still fat. Getting fitter, not entirely motivated to lose more. Mostly because my body likes this size. A bit more and things will shift in a way that makes me profoundly sad. I don’t want to talk or think about extra skin, but I have to. How it is the badge of accomplishment as well as the scarlet F of weight loss. “I was fatter once. This is the price I paid. I’ll never look ‘normal.’ ” I think it’s half the reason that people put on weight again – the constant sad trombone of past “transgressions.” I’m happier in my skin than I’ve ever been, but I hate it too. I hate that I’ll never get a fresh start. I can’t erase any of it. Maybe I’m harming myself by not losing more. Maybe it’s just denial. Maybe I just don’t have it in me to lose those “last” fifty pounds and have to struggle to love myself again. This is the one body I get. I finally figured out how to love it (not the arms, though. I’ll always respect, not love them) and maybe loving it forever means letting it be?
4. I took apart my kitchen the other day to inventory and organize my baking supplies. I’d noticed a creeping collection. My mother buys Wesson Oil whenever it’s on sale. She has a stash in the basement. I have chocolate. 6 POUNDS of semi-sweet chocolate, many ounces of unsweetened baking chocolate, chips, and bits. And 5 tins of cocoa. And other stuff. Cake flour and matzoh meal in the freezer. Dried cherries with a best used before date of 2010. I cleaned it  all out. Goodbye condensed milk. Adios almond meal. Ciao marzipan. If I need you, I’ll buy you and use you. I don’t need you hanging around, like the ghosts of desserts past. But the chocolate I kept. Expect to see me coming with a pan of brownies or chocolate banana bread or layer cake. I’ll be smiling.

The Summer List, 2015

Lists are short stories when I’m hopeful and memoirs when I’m being productive. My 2014 Summer List was optimistic and brimming with desire. Mostly assuaged.

I found what I was hoping to find. There was sex, blood and tears, and weird food behaviors as I got serious about losing weight. There was love, the best kind for own own sweet self, and the awakening of romantic love. I needed to feel alive again, and I did, sometime between the World Cup in July and a highway in September.

I found my voice again. Twitter felt good to me and it was a way into a conversation but, now, it’s become more lonely. I talk into it and it streams by, but I’m not part of it, swimming along. This blog became an outlet for my stray thoughts. But nothing went further than the First Draft. First Drafts are my writing specialty. That’s part of who I am. I like the messy starts. And settling in for the work, the digging in, the everydayness of the thing, is not ever going to be me when it comes to writing. Maybe. I think.

Every year, I reach for something new. This summer, I say, is for Finishing. This is for Achievement. This summer is for Deep Thinking and Having Some Thing to Say, not just saying anything. But it’s like playing whack-a-mole. I learn how to live in my skin, but forget how to work in an office. I learn to let go the need to be a perfect daughter, but forget how to be an avid reader. Maybe I can hold only a few good things. Or maybe the process of folding in something new changes the shape of the old thing. It’s still there, it’s just part of the batter.

I’m too easy on myself and too hard. My most familiar inner voice is disgusted by my faults. I’ve learned to mostly ignore it. It has begun to whither and quiet. The parts of me that I still can’t quite love, the pettiness, the insecurity, the lack of urgency, I’m learning to manage. But, I can be loving whilst critical. Truth is, I’m not doing enough. I have more to accomplish. And I have to work harder to find what that is. None of this living is easy.

But this summer is The No List Summer. Doesn’t mean I’ll drift or wander without goals. I’m going to start scuba certification, get my bathrooms renovated, work towards publishing something, make pies, get the accounting stuff settled, read and entertain, volunteer, get a part-time something, keep on laughing and loving generously and being happy. That’s still a list, I recognize, but I’m not going to check it, not going to make it be the manual for the summer. This summer, I’m just going to do a lot. I’m going to let it be messy. And, when the time comes, and it will, I’ll get to work revising it. Because it’s not always summer. And cakes don’t bake themselves. (Or something. First drafts are messy.)

One of these things is not

I wore a black maxi dress to a Mad Men viewing party on Sunday. It’s fitted and booby, recently tailored and last worn during the early New York City and Michigan fall.

That cool night in late September, we ate at a pubby restaurant in downtown Lansing. I don’t remember the name, but it was wood paneled and warmly loud. A place where people made good memories. I wore well-loved plum suede heels that I suddenly couldn’t walk in and thigh-high stockings that began to roll down my legs the moment the hotel room door closed behind us. I twisted my ankle in the grotty parking lot, just enough to sting a little, to remind me that I was in a strange place. He was attentive, but distant. And he was annoyed, I think, that I was unsteady. We could both tell I was wearing a costume. Trying to be the sex bomb. Feeling, at that point, a little ridiculous. Something I might have joked about, another place, another time, but too fogged by the weight of failure settling on us.

We ordered wine but I didn’t have much, because I wanted a Manhattan, which I had with my steak. I was eating a lot of rich, carby food and my mouth was salty and slick. I don’t remember what we talked about. I don’t remember a lot. Just that he seemed really sad and not at all present.

He’d been reading most of the day, a book he was supposed to be reviewing. But, mostly, he’d been lounging and chatting with his friends. Maybe about me, about the disappointment of my trip. How we were going through the motions, but nothing was right. We couldn’t kiss, we couldn’t walk together, our conversations slacked off into silence, I fell asleep when he was awake, he slept too much. We hadn’t had standard sex because I managed to have the most ill-timed period of my life. But he was grateful that I came. Indulging in a break from his life. A break I thought I was happy to give him.

But that dinner, and part of the drive back to the hotel, until I broke and gave us both permission to admit the truth, was a study in awkward subtext. Me in my favorite dress, in a body that still felt unwanted and unfuckable. Him in a t-shirt and jeans, lonely and wanting an escape. Eating and drinking our way to numb.

When we got back to the hotel, I didn’t have to pretend anymore. He was a guy, never The Guy. And I loved him but I would never Love Him. So, I kicked the shoes off. By then, the stockings were pooled around my ankles, and I stooped and wrestled them off too. One I stuffed into a bag. One I never found again. Pretty sure I left it draped over the hedges at the Holiday Inn, like a Halloween spider web.

I keep on going back to this dinner, this night, this trip. I want to give it justice. Tell a story that is as funny and painful as reality. But I can’t, yet. It still comes out hurt and angry. Even though I’m not anymore.

The dress feels different on my body. I’m with someone now. With him, I’d joke about the stockings. “I’m 40% sex bomb, 60% clumsy goofball.” I’d take them off in the rest room and slip one in his pocket when I got back to the table. Or I’d just wear jeans and a sweater because it was a casual night. The dress is the same dress. But this thing is not like the other thing.

Our hearts are strong and our, our hearts are kind

Four Thoughts, Disconnected

1.) In case you’re worried, I did finish the 10 days of dresses, although imperfectly, as I do most things. I had to skip one day because I needed to climb in and out of ambulances with my Dad. And I repeated a dress, although I did not intend to do so. I just adore how this outfit makes me twirly and playful. Skater dress from ReDressNYC, petticoat from Domino Dollhouse and sweater from Heart of Haute. Duck face from 50’s Bad Girl Realness.

And this one, which is Grown Up GothLite. I had trouble with the bodice of the dress, which gaped open. But after a few hours, I surrendered and enjoyed the view. At least I wore a cute purple bra. The petticoat is my one true love. Except for the sweaters, which are my Sister Wives.

All in all, it was a fun little experiment. I wore clothes I loved. I felt feminine and sexy, and people smiled at me all the time. But that’s maybe because I was happy. The clothes made me happy, but so did life, mostly. Dresses help me feel in love with the world, and the world responds. Not so much of a surprise. But good to know for the dark days.

2.)  I’m obsessed with the 50’s silhouette of fitted bust, narrow waist, full skirt. It suits me. In my head, I am Sophia Loren. Warmth, sensuality, confidence, womanliness. In my head, that is all I want to be. Even as I stumble around, in my slightly goofy way, awkward and sarcastic. Loud and shy in the same amounts. Maybe Sophia isn’t always Sophia either, but that’s not true and you know it. I’m experimenting, I think. But, truth is, I’m a woman in her forties. This is how I dress; this is who I am. Part Sophia, part Emily Dickinson, part unnamed Italian peasant. My Mom has never had long hair. She has no interest in fashion. She never buys herself anything. Most of what she wears are hand me downs from Yolanda (super weird) and me (weird.) She’s 75, but she was a dish when she was younger. I hope I never get that practical. That I’m the old lady in the fun clothes, hoisting up my boobs, checking my ass in the mirror. And thinking like Sophia.

3.) Home Depot is designed by a near-sighted monkey on a mescaline high. I hate it. The displays stink. Nothing is ever where you want it to me, and you end up with a smoking Fitbit by the time you leave. The bathroom vanities were on a high shelf, where I couldn’t touch or feel. And would never buy. Men blocked the aisles with their big pieces of wood. I almost got into a fight, and ended up with my most sarcastic, “Thanks for your thoughtfulness. Have a good fucking day.” Or, maybe that was my fantasy version. How does this store do well? It makes me depressed. Feels like a place couples visit before they give up and get that divorce they’ve been fantasizing about. Also, why do we need 20 different toilets? We’re too damned spoiled.

4.) In the great wide world of petty issues, why don’t nail polish brushes reach the bottom of the bottle? And why don’t pump bottles get every drop of expensive creams and elixirs? Why do we pretend that we’re paying for more than we’re getting?

I’ve been waiting for oh so long now

Four Thoughts, Disconnected

1) Late to spring cleaning, but going at it right now. Starts with my bedroom, where I agonize over clothes that are too big. The dresses, a few with tags on them, are especially tragic. They were bought in a fit of bravado when I was feeling unworthy of love, a spark of life that had no kindling. I kept them. A lace dress from Kiyonna. A magenta wrap dress from Eliza Parker. A faux lace silky kimono from Lane Bryant. Lovely. Proud. Feminine. But now they’re too loose, especially in the chest and shoulder areas. They can be belted. I can wear a jacket or a sweater. Play with proportion. So I’ll keep them for another season. The jeans though…I tried on pair, and they fell straight down. I don’t feel that much smaller, but I am. Five sizes.

I don’t want all my pride and my accomplishment to be about my body. I’m a believer that every body is beautiful. They all have a right to be loved, by the owner and by others. I wasted many years being ashamed of my size, of how much space I took. I tried to disappear. But that was me.

I celebrate the fat ladies who wear color, pattern, trends and wave their confidence like a flag. I honor all shapes and sizes. Except my own. That I love imperfectly and in fits and starts. And I fight my way to confidence.

2.)  I own more than my share of gloves and scarves. 12 pairs of gloves, 15 or more scarves. Quite a few made by my sister, who once hoped she could sell them. They are intricate and delicate, curling into each other like wool snakes.  Pinks, greens, purple, and a cream one made with a painstaking basket weave. I found a set in fuzzy red, almost orange, bright, with touches of silver that look and feel like tinsel. Hat, scarf, gloves in a clear plastic bag. Hers, made for her visits to New York City in winter. I opened the bag, and it hit me, the smell of my sister. Perfume, her, delicate, feminine. HER. I huffed like an addict, and cried/laughed. And she was gone. Probably the last time I’ll smell her. That she’ll feel real.

3.) It’s terrifying to love someone. To want them to b safe and happy. And me too. I want to protect the feeling, the delicacy and the thrill of it. But, sometimes, I’m so afraid that it will go away that I get insecure, uncertain, possessive. That I will sabotage my own happiness to prove my Lonely narrative. I’m fighting, though, and winning.

I read the last page of romance novels first. A guaranteed happy ending that I still have to confirm before proceeding. No guarantees in real life though. And I can’t skip to the end. Lord help me.

4.) I had a breakthrough this weekend. But I still need to write it. Write it. Write it.

Five Days of Dresses

I went years without wearing dresses. Not having the desire or energy to deal with tights, with the underpinnings, the shoes, the potential for thigh chafing (sorry, real talk.) But, also, I was hiding my femininity, my joy, my sensuality under brown bag clothing (occasional flash of cleavage allowed.) One of the signs that I’m fully inhabiting my life is that I’m being playful, fun, and sexy with my clothes. I like being hard and soft. I like texture and lace. And now that I’ve discovered teggings, I’m free to wear whatever dress I want, whenever I want.

I’m a fan of setting small challenges, and, last week, I was a little bored, and in a rut, style-wise, so I vowed to wear dresses for the next ten days. I’m on Day 6 today. Going with my silliest outfit. But, for now, here are my First Five. (My photos are not good! I know. I’m sory.)

Day One: I’ve owned this black/grey colorblocked Igigi dress about four years. It’s much too big to wear on its own, so I cinched it with a belt and added black teggings and boots. I bought it when I started thinking about dresses as a way to be brave. But unworn because I wasn’t ready. It’s a serious dress. Something to wear to a meeting or a presentation, but I wore it on an average Monday. Felt great. Confident. Dad liked it alot.

Day Two: Teal flocked skater dress from Rue 21. Bought it because of this photo on Girl With Curves. Styled with black teggings and flats. I’d worn it a few times before. Love the color, but think it’s a little too short and poufy on my hips. But, in the photo, I just see incandescent happiness.  My guy had just been over, and it was a day that I want to draw hearts and flowers around.

Day Three: Black dress and moon print leggings (sold out) from Domino Dollhouse. The leggings give me a boost because they’re silly and nerdy. The dress is loose and silky feeling. Easy to throw on, but needs a belt. I belt almost everything now, at this transitional weight.

Day Four: Photo is from the fall since I had a selfie fail on Friday. Pink, retro from Rue 21 again. (Got some great purchases in the fall.) Teggings and boots. Belt. Easy and feminine.

Day 5:  Lace sleeveless Lane Bryant dress that is too loose. Paired with red vintage-style Domino Dollhouse sweater. One of my favorite outfits. It’s my go to for first dates. Neat and flirty at the same time. Love the red/black combination. And the texture.

Shut up and dance with me

Four Thoughts, Disconnected

1) My Sister Friend demanded an update. She didn’t want the lingering post to be The One About the Guy Who Made Me Sad. So, although it feels like a struggle, water dripping from a rusty old faucet, I’m writing again. Because she’s right. I’m way past that moment. I’m not sad, or sorry, and it’s not February anymore.

2) I went on a dating break, a “manbargo.” Took myself off the dating sites. Stopped responding to texts. Shut down and got quiet. Took stock. Still have two of everything I’m supposed to have two of. Own a lot of underworn lingerie. And pretty shoes. A pink petticoat that makes me giggle and a leather jacket that almost fits again. I have a brain I don’t use enough, an ass I could shake more, and a heart that is full from the life I’ve built. I called someone a Lucky Unlucky Person, and that’s how I feel too sometimes. I’m actually loved quite a bit, not quite the romantic way I long for, but in other ways, that count more, I think. And I’m going to get a dog, I promise.

(So, full disclosure. I went on a dating break. During my break I started chatting with a guy who seemed cool, but I wasn’t going to meet in person, because, well, I wasn’t Casual Girl anymore.  I told him. We met in person anyway, because he was sweet and charming. We liked each other. We still do. The rest is private.)

3) My Dad fell at home and broke his back. Took 22 firefighters and paramedics to get him out of his bedroom, with has 2 tight 90-degree turns. On a cold, snowy morning, I watched these huge men slide down the marble steps with my screaming father in a rescue basket. It got dark a few times. He fought back. He’s our own Miracle Max and he’s getting on his feet. Walking. Complaining about my mother.

Yesterday, he told me that I was difficult. That he didn’t think any relationship could survive my temper. That stung. But, then, I giggled. No one makes me angrier than my parents. My “temper” is exclusive to them. My rage that I’ve had to parent them. That they tried to make me a hostage to their needs. Their lack of understanding when I try to explain myself.

So, my Dad thinks I’m essentially unlovable.  I love you, Dad, but go fuck yourself. (Sorry, my vulgar mouth also makes me unlovable.)

4) I’m pretty goddamned lovable.

in heaven’s name why do you play these games

Four Thoughts, Disconnected

1.)  I have a friend who believes he can make me more confident by pointing out my physical flaws. He wants me to be as confident naked as I’m clothed (which is generally highly self-confident.) Like it’s his mission. We’re coming to the end of one part of our relationship, and we’ll stay friends because we make each other laugh, and we care about each other. Just not That Way. And pointing out my flaws, in that playful way, with the “but I still find you hot” tag line just makes me stabby and sad.

It’s a hostile kind of caring, telling me what I need to improve, what I need to “get over.” At the same time, he’s so proud of me for losing weight, but it somehow ends up feeling conditional, and, of course, his new girlfriend doesn’t look like me. (I’d feel strange if she did. I don’t want to be a fetish.)

Telling me I’m not confident is not helpful. It’s triggering to my old insecurity, my belief that I will never be enough to be loved That Way. Of course, I’m not always confident about my body. I live in this culture. I’m a product of years of being a fat teen, a fat girl, a fat adult. I’m a woman. And I’m aware of my flaws. Don’t list them for me. And give me some new worries. A mole on my back. Pores. Save me from helpful men.

2.)  In other news, we got very drunk and took the 36-Question Challenge that was in last week’s Modern Love column. And, surprising no one, we did not fall in love. In fact, it was clear why we weren’t ever going to fall in love. We know each other, but we are not that INTERESTED in each other. The stakes are low, and they’ll always stay low. But it was fun to do, and I think I’d love it with someone I really was interested in That Way.

3.)  The Woman Who Wasn’t Loved Enough: A Memoir. A little truth that came out of a conversation with Summer Guy. That’s me, working to fill a big hole. One way or another.

4.)  I don’t know if I have much more to say today. I’m not in the wilderness, but I don’t see the road. January feels like this. It gets better.

I guess it’s too early, ’cause I don’t know where I stand

Four Thoughts, Disconnected

1.)  This week was long and sad and emotionally draining. I slept until 10am this morning, something I almost never allow myself to do. But I spoke to a Circadian rhythm specialist who I met on Tinder (yep.) He told me, basically, to let my body decide what it needs to do for a bit. (I’ve been waking up at 3am and wandering the house, like a sad, chilly ghost.) So, last night, I got into bed a bit earlier, full from a too-delicious Mexican meal. And I slept, deeply and solidly. And 10am felt like a blessing.

2.) The night before, I had a long, detailed dream about my sister, Yolanda. She called me, and through the magic of dreams, I was in the room with her. This was pre-cancer Yolanda, with the huge mane of hair and the pleated pants. She was upset that she’d received her first ever negative job review, and I comforted her. We talked about her boss, Kevin, who she adored, but who seemed to have lost faith in her. It was the kind of short-handed, detailed conversation that we used to have all the time. I knew so much about her life. But, then, it sort of turned, and I ended up comforting her, telling her, “Of course, they understand that you’re off your game. Your sister just died!”

Yolanda was my only sister. She is the one who died. And that’s the kind of thing I’ve said to comfort myself so many times. I woke up, confused. Took me a minute to figure out everything that was wrong with the dream. And the heartbreak came because she was gone. Again. It was so detailed, so full, so present, so real. I tried to fall asleep again, to see her again, and I couldn’t. She was gone. The sadness sat with me like a fog, a veil of vaseline between me and the world. Grief will bend me over, have its way, when I think I’m fine. Again. Again.

3.)  I’ve been a superhero I’ll call Casual Girl for the last few months. Running through men like flood water. Cold, fast, powerful. Lots of dead carcasses and tree branches. An occasional car. No, that’s not true. I’ve just been dating a lot. Sometimes even three a day. First and second dates, mostly. I even have a friend with benefits.

After years of being starved of attention and physical affection, it’s been a huge relief, a normalizing force, bringing me back in line with the rest of the world. This is what a first kiss feels like, this is a hand on my back, this is the discovery of someone else, this is walking in the rain with someone I like, this is walking in the rain with someone I’m not sure about, this is a new angle, this I’m still not ready for. This. This.

It’s been kind of a second adolescence. Drunken silly happiness. I had what felt like my first high school boyfriend this summer. It was intense and dizzying, but also thin and guazy. And now we are in the sweet part of friendship. He feels like someone I grew up with, and we both get to move forward with a new anchor in our lives. I like knowing what he thinks; I like not having to worry about what it all means.

After that, I went through my hook-up period. I just wanted to meet everyone, to say yes, to make out, to feel sexy and interesting. Spark, with an occasional fire. But it was the spark I wanted, the knowledge that I could be the flint. And, last week, that phase came to an end. I’m not sure what it was. I had a first date with someone who reminded me of someone else and I started to fantasize about dates, about a relationship, instead of how his body would feel against mine. We had a moment, the next night, it was fun, but it was empty, and I could feel my flee mechanism activate. Someone else who I liked, who I had started to wonder about, what his life was like when we weren’t together, started to slip away. And I was done. Casual Girl was retired.

I announced that I was looking for more, not forever, but just someone who wanted a relationship with me. Someone who made dates, was available, wanted to BE with me, not just be with me. Not surprisingly, not a keeper among them. But I asked. I was honest about my needs. One thing I’ve learned, finally.

Time to re-brand again. To settle into this new, tougher part of my life. Stakes are higher. And I’m afraid. Afraid that my age, my ass, my skin, my family, my anxieties, will get in the way, and no one will find me. I have myself, I have so much. It isn’t enough for me anymore. And I hate having to admit that. I hate that it’s true. What if I don’t get lucky? What if romantic love is another project that I leave unfinished? (Oh, it’s all connected, loves, it’s all connected.)

4.)  My dad is slipping away. Hard to tell if he plateaus. Settles into a new normal, but the light in him is gone right now. He holds his head up at the kitchen table, stays that way, un-moving, for hours. I wonder, are there movies in his head? Is he reliving his best moments? Or his worst? I’m afraid for him. I know I’m a worry. He wants me to be settled in that old-fashioned way that eludes me. And I wish I could be too, but I pretend that I don’t, so he feels better. (See above.)

I thought the other day of having a pretend wedding, having him walk me down the aisle while he can still shuffle a bit. Maybe I can convince him that it’s okay, that he can be proud of his legacy. That he hasn’t screwed up my ideas of safety, of love, of obligation. But I would have to convince myself first, and I’m a crappy liar.

New Year’s Resolution – to kiss you like I mean it

My final post of 2014 was sad, short, stunted. I had nothing I really wanted to say, and I was too lazy to look for something new to write about. How’s that for critical self talk? Boring, lazy, etc… Go away, critical voice.

2014 was an incredible year. For me, anyway. The world was a mess. (Sidenote: It’s time for me to stand up for my social and political beliefs.) But, personally, it was a magical year of love, of sensuality, of discovery, of friendship, of art, of voice. I’m alive again, with all the roller coaster emotions that this particular condition brings with it. (I was alive before, but in a Walking Dead way.)

And since so much of it was seat of the pants, spontaneous, live-in-the-moment messy goodness, I’m almost afraid to make plans/set goals this year. I didn’t accomplish much of what I wanted last year. The things I did weren’t on the list. I surprised me; my life surprised me.

On the other hand, I finally got the mouth of my dreams. Kicked the “afraid of the dentist” fear. Used it to tell more stories and to kiss more boys. Even a few men. I think I was a good friend and a decent daughter. Although I completely get it if you walked away from a conversation thinking I was a bit shallow. Hope I asked about you, and not just what you thought about me. That hasn’t always been me, and it won’t be me forever. It’s this phase I’m going through.

I like lists, though, and I like checking things off. Makes me feel competent and accomplished, as if I’m keeping a promise to myself. So, I’m laboring over one. Intentions, goals, resolutions. Things to do, that can sometimes obscure and/or reveal how I feel.

Some things are on the list just to remind me that I want them. They are not necessarily in my power.

1. Fall in love with someone else.

2. Have that love returned.

I think I’m ready for the first, maybe even the 2nd. The 2nd has been the challenge, both accepting the possibility and letting it happen. Yet why do I think I need this?

3. Survive having my heart broken.

I still expect that I’ll have to pay for happiness. That there’s a cosmic force that balances the scales. Maybe I’ve taken being a Libra too much to heart. (I’m not a believer in astrology, but I read Susan Miller, looking for signs.) But I want to be prepared. Always prepare for the worst, my own personal good girl motto.

How do I let love happen without getting flinchy? Maria, maybe you just let it happen.

And then there’s the other stuff.

4. Look into getting contacts.

5. Get new glasses. (But I love the ones I have. Some things don’t need to change?)

6. Have 4 dinner parties.

7. Find a regular volunteer gig.

8. Finish Finnegan’s Wake (hahahahaha)

9. Lose xxx pounds. (I’m not telling. But more)

10. Take more burlesque classes.

11.  Perform a story at The Moth

12.  Publish a Modern Love essay.

13.  Publish a short story.

14.  Be even more awesome.

I’m still not sure what I’m supposed to be doing. I mean, my life cannot be all play and fun. I have to get down to work, and I miss it. I’m ready to be ambitious again. I want what I do to matter, so I’m working on this idea of mentoring 7th/8th graders who are the pilot fish for their families. The first to speak English, or to have the real possibility of college. My sister and I were those kids. It’s what I wish I had when I was growing up. Makes sense, no? I’m getting there. I’m on the way.