I’m a hot mess and that’s fucking ok.

Hy laying down

WARNING: Post-break-up, bullshit post ahead.

Look up “hot mess” and you’ll find a picture of me next to it.

First the good news:  I canceled my date last night with the nice man who liked to climb rocks from a couple of Fridays ago.  He was totally cool with it like a normal person would be.  We may or may not hang out again in the future.  That’s entirely up to me.  Instead I folded laundry and made different bad decisions on my Wednesday night.

Now, the bad news: I solidified my plans with The Lawyer for Friday, so he’s definitely coming down, I texted The Neighbor, and I texted the Bad Texter.

*sigh*

Hot mess.

Yesterday felt like I’d been holding my breath and I needed to break the surface for air.  Not contacting men felt foreign and weird.  I’m the contacter in all my relationships, romantic or otherwise.  I’m the planner, the follow-upper.  I don’t know if I attract people who don’t give a shit, or if my threshold for not knowing what the fuck is going on is much lower than everyone else’s.  I’m not sure what that’s all about.

It’d been a week since I’d heard from The Lawyer, since the 4th with TN, and the 9th since the Bad Texter who had promised to text me when he got back to town after a 9 day trip.  Yesterday was the 15th.

The Lawyer had left me alone, which I appreciated, and the last things we’d said to each other was to set up our second date.  I pinged him with my first sip of vino verde last night and we firmed up our plans.  He said he’s excited to see me.  It’s foreign to hear and know it’s genuine.  I feel like I’m cheating on TN.

Next, I texted TN.  I was two glasses into my favorite summer tongue-tickling drink.  “Hey” was all I sent.  We texted for a hot minute before my phone was lighting up with his caller id.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Hyacinth!” he chirped on the other end.  It felt amazing to hear his voice.

We talked for an hour and as each minute passed I sunk deeper into a strange mix of sadness, light and tension.  We laughed, we questioned, we answered, we joked.  Each time he told me about some new amazing thing he’s doing now, some thing that I wished so badly he’d have done with me, I heard my voice change.  “Oh.  You do that now?” I’d squeak.

“Uh, yeah,” was his flat answer.

Before we ended the call I went for self-flagellating-broke:

“I was wondering how long it’d be since you called me.  It’s been two weeks.  You know, you can call me.  It’d be nice.  I don’t have Peyton right now; I can hang out.”  Gasoline, Fire.  Fire, Gasoline. 

I don’t know how he responded because I was silently berating myself for the desperation that dripped from every word.

We hung up and I lit my last cigarette and sat on the balcony in the warm night awash with regret and shame.  Bits of our chat came back to me.

Hy laying down with one breast out

“Why didn’t you invite me?” he’d asked when I’d told him my friends (formerly categorized as “our friends”) had come over to the pool on Sunday.

“I didn’t think you’d want to,” I’d said.

“Of course I would!  I haven’t seen Amy in two months!”

“It’s been six months since you’ve seen Amy,” I replied matter-of-factly.  “Since we broke up.”

“Oh, right.”

“And don’t you tell me ‘of course’.  I had no idea you’d be interested in anything like that.”

“Well, I am.”

I wish I’d told him I had thought of inviting him and then decided against it.  He doesn’t get to hang out with me and my friends anymore, right?  Right.

I finished the bottle of vino verde and watched more of season 5 of Seinfeld.  At 10:30 I decided to bring it back around to the last remaining man on my radar: the Bad Texter, the fat guy ginger who intrigued me so.

I never told him anything about my feelings and I never saw him after our bacon date.  He shined me on, gave me excuse after excuse, never took the conversation further, and now was clearly not texting me when he had promised he would.  I wanted to have the last word, as stupid as that sounds, so I simply told him, “I still don’t hate you,” and then, “Take care, tiger.”

He’d worried multiple times that his bad texting and busy schedule was making me hate him.  It would’ve been easier if I had.

Naturally, I haven’t heard from him.

So now I’m filled with anxiety each time my phone chimes with a text.  I worry it’s the Bad Texter and that this stupid thing isn’t actually dead like I hope.   Also, I worry it’s not the Bad Texter and that this stupid thing is actually dead like I hope.  You read that right.

Then I’m fearful that TN will discover The Lawyer at my house tomorrow, in my bed, and that I will then have lost him forever.  That idiotic, hopeful part of me just won’t die though I beat her and torture her in nearly every way I can imagine again and again and again.  I am the definition of a sad, delusional, heartbroken woman. 

I’m worried that I won’t be able to get The Lawyer out of my bed fast enough Saturday morning.  Hy laying down with two breasts out

I’m embarrassed that I’m a hot mess, but I’m also not all that surprised.  I’m also pretty comfortable with it.  I’m a firm believer in that wonderful cognitive zen-y thing that we do that whatever it is that I do is exactly what I should be doing.  I’ll figure out the whys later.

I’m not looking for advice on how to not feel this way; I’m not looking for sympathy.  I’m just sharing because it’s one of the things that I do best: I share myself, I bare myself.  It keeps me fucking honest and seeing it on the page helps me understand it.  Like, for instance, I know I need to chill the fuck out.

I understand that this isn’t fun to read about — it’s not all that fun to live — but I want to explore solutions.  I don’t know how to fix all of this.  All I know is what feels right to me and sometimes it looks like Hot and sometimes it looks like Mess.

Hello, my name is Hy and I’m a hot mess.

Images were taken by me while thinking, “I used to send these to TN, but now I have no one to send these to.”

A 40-something single mother who writes honestly about sex, body image, D/s, relationships, her nervous tics, and how much she loves to fucking fuck. She also likes to show you her tits.

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6 thoughts on “I’m a hot mess and that’s fucking ok.
  1. Oh i feel the same way sister :(
    Except thankfully (?!) or unfortunately I have no one to pine over. No one to miss. Sometimes I wish I did. Sigh. I wish I missed someone, I wish someone missed me.
    I’m delusional in thinking I will one day get a text from one of th men I’ve fucked in the last few months… And it doesn’t happen. Lol of courrsse it won’t. *hugs* to you. Cheers *clink*

  2. Thank you for sharing and baring yourself. It is hard…not fun to write or read, but helpful for you and many of us. I would write more about my emotional pain and troubles, but my main fuck buddy reads/has read my blog and I am too chicken shit to put it out there. Thank you for including us on your journey, darling.

  3. Emotions don’t have a time limit and they always seem to swing us in directions we might not have seen coming, but not feeling isn’t a good alternative. As for ‘hot mess’, well you’ve always been hot and there comes a time when some ‘messes’ are worth the effort to clean up.

    You can send to me any time… j/k I know there are many that do care what happens with you, I’m just included.
    Charles Townsend recently posted…What Do You DoMy Profile

  4. You know, I kinda think “hot messiness” becomes you right about now. For the past 2 years you were so sure of so many things so often. Some doubt to water down the certainty can sometimes be a good recipe to recharge depleted souls I think.

    Mike

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