Annnnnd, February is finally over.
Jesus fucking Christ.
It was good, all this posting, all this sharing. But now I’m going to retreat into my little cave for a bit. Just be quiet.
Shh. Lemme turn this thing off real quick.
I’m scared of being whole with someone, being my own everything in front of an audience. I tell myself that rejection isn’t actually rejection, it’s just a selection process. We’re a bad match; I am not being turned away.
But it never feels like that. It feels worse than being picked last: it’s not being chosen at all. It’s exactly why dating is so brutal. Every date, every attempt is a layer of skin gone.
In therapy yesterday we ruminated on a new attitude I seem to have about men and dating, this odd, detached air where sometimes I completely forget the existence of whole men for days on days until some random thing jars my memory. Oh riiight. He exists!
And then when he renters my radar I become nervous that he’s forgotten me too. Is it a sign? If it is it can’t be a good one. Who forgets about someone??
I try to let it go, but it unnerves me, this forgetting, because when I remember I also remember how much I long for a person who’d never be able to forget me. Sometimes I think there are glimmers in the men I’m exploring (this time a batch of Steves) but then I’m afraid to even hope such a thing.
I feel twisted and blindfolded, utterly stagnant and vibrating with inertia to move, but move where??
Maybe I should masturbate and let the stars behind my lids whisper the Universe’s secrets about love and connection. Maybe I should just be brave and let the crush happen.
Phone calls and long conversations
British lilt from a brutish man with thick rugby thighs and a big slab of meat
What’s your favorite word?
Psychopathy, I say. And apothecary, galactic, turpitude. What’s yours?
Luminescence. And reciprocity.
Sea salt and black pepper crackers in my ears after a long drunken day with his friends
Six Nations rugby match in Ireland, an extended brunch and many, many beers
I couldn’t wait to call you again.
I’m glad. Leave yourself a note for tomorrow about how witty and charming I was on the phone.
I won’t have to do that. You’re different. Beautiful and intelligent.
And he’s 5000 miles away
Except in 4 weeks he will be a table top away, an arm’s length
Which is why I will still be looking
Well, the Week from Hell seems to be about over. My sister and her kids leave for California today and Peyton gets yet another day off from school (I love it when kids wish they’re sick so they can skip school, but then realize the awfulness of reality).
I just work up coughing and realized at 5 am that I’d forgotten to set this post up last night, so here I am. Good news is that yesterday and last night is the first time in over a week I haven’t used a -Quil – which doesn’t explain my dream of driving a 1985 Mazda 300Z in England and needing to stop and top off its fluids. Anyway, I digress…
This is the last Boobday of February Photo Fest. It’s flown and crawled by and I’m looking forward to the break in March… and Eroticon!
Have a great weekend, everyone!!
Full Boobday Guidelines here.
One of two ways to participate:
1) either submit a pic to me via email (firstname.lastname@example.org) OR
2) submit a link below to your own blog post for Boobday.
Also, just as a reminder:
If you send me a pic, be sure to tell me if you want to be anonymous or not and what your pseudonym is (if you have one or I gave you one)
Tell me why you chose the photo you sent
And don’t forget to comment on everyone’s posts! This is all about spreading the love!
NOT my tits:
It was a beautiful weekend morning!!::
As a little girl I wore white tights under black patten leather Mary Janes and flouncy dresses. I imagined I was grown up like my mother who clad her oh so long legs in sheer tan hosiery for special occasions.
The way the stretchy fabric clung to my legs like a super suit transformed me from plain 7.year old into a little ageless sophisticate.
Fast forward 35 years and I still feel like a new woman as I roll hosiery up my shapely legs. I sashay, cross and uncross my legs. Saunter with my patterned calves and thighs. I know men look as I sit. I dig it.
I’ve had to work while recovering from the flu and Peyton came down with a fever last night and threw up this morning. I’m driving all over town shuttling my baby between home and my parents since my ex would rather not get sick and he’ll be traveling Wednesday through Friday and I refuse to let his awful wife play nurse to my baby.
So… it’s up to me to dig in – along with my mom, stepdad, sister (who is recovering from strep) and her three kids (some of whom who are also recovering from various ailments such as strep and a staff infection).
But how blessed am I that when they realized it was either have Pey stay with them all day while I worked or have her play nurse they both said, “OH GOD NO. PEY STAYS WITH US.”
Mom did the doctor visit today, stepdad did the pharmacy run, and they had a quarantined section of the house just for their little patient replete with a TV, vibrating bed and ice chips.
I’ll be back in the morning bright and early. Dear God, is this week over yet??
I didn’t do a picture yesterday; the flu had me laid out and I couldn’t bear to figure out how to get my pics off the cloud to my email to my phone to the watermark app to the blog, etc., etc., etc.
In fact, I don’t think I’m even going to watermark this one today. I just don’t have it in me.
My throat is raw from coughing all night and my face packed with congestion. I have to be at work soon and it’s a long night before I get Pey from my parents. Thankfully it’s a school holiday and my baby stayed the night with them so I could get extra rest.
Wish me luck I make it through the day.