Reflections on Starting Over

Starting over in the dating world after a soul-crushing failure is both exhilarating and terrifying. Once you decide to start dating again, there's a sense of newness that excites the most skeptical of hearts. After this new relationship smell fades a a bit, doubts and frustrations surface.

When I first started dating after the wedding that never was, I was excited at the prospect of meeting new guys who represented potential life partners. At this point in my life, I was looking for someone who could be my best friend and partner in life, someone who wouldn't bail out when things got rough. Most of all, I was looking for someone who wouldn't call me a stupid slut in the middle of an argument.

After settling down into the confusing dating world, a world that was foreign to me after six years of monogamy, I was frustrated with the way things were unfolding. I've never been good at being patient, and add a dose of Failed Relationship PTSD to that character flaw... Then you have a recipe for disaster.

Looking back, I realize that most of my frustrations stemmed from the fact that the guys I was dating were not really relationship material and because I expected the next guy I dated pick up right where my big relationship left off. That kind of pressure is both unrealistic and crippling to dating.

The truth is that once you're in a relationship for multiple years for one person, you start forgetting how things were at the beginning, wonderful, but not necessarily deep. If that relationship ends, like it did for me, you miss the depth and the things that made you feel cared for as half of a couple. Expecting someone new to pick up where the other relationship left off is unfair. Depth in a relationship can only be cultivated with spending time together, and actually caring for one another.

For someone who likes to go into life from zero to sixty in three seconds, this process was one of the hardest things to realize. I can now say that after a year in my current relationship, I am in a better place depth-wise than I ever was in my previous relationship. I guess that's the thing I've realized, that you can achieve different levels of depth with each person you date, but it still takes time and willingness to start over with someone new.

I Want Instantaneous Results (Have I Been Watching Too Many Infomercials?)

If my entrance into life is any indication of my personality, it'd be that I'm impatient and I'm in a hurry to get wherever I want to be, regardless readiness or maturity. And you know what? That's absolutely and completely right. I was born two whole months before my mother's due date, possibly because I couldn't wait to face the world outside my mother's uterus.

I don't remember much about that time, but I could imagine I felt bitter disappointment at the mess I was once so eager to embrace. A medium-rare of a baby, I spent a month tubed up in an incubator. If baby pictures are any indication, I looked like a wrinkly rat with patches of hair (a sight only my parents could love; then again, I question this).

There I was, out in the world, tubed up to a machine because I couldn't breathe on my own. Metaphorically, things did not get better. Thankfully, I did not need tubing to breathe for the rest of my life.

I admit that one of my biggest shortcomings is impatience. I want things to happen, and I want them to happen yesterday. When I decide to go after something, I dive into the metaphorical waters with a quick prayer, and once I'm in I start wondering if I can even swim at all.

I don't just want to do any kind of swimming, mind you, I want to be the Michael Phelps/Ryan Lochte type swimmer and just excel at everything I do. Instantly.

Sometimes I get tired of swimming because I can't see the finish line, the shore, or any milestone that lets me know how far I've gotten or how close I am to getting what I want. That's exactly where I am at my current job at the moment. I've been with the company for about a year, am vastly overqualified with my master's degree, and I am struggling to pay the bills on a constant basis (so much so, that I have a second job teaching at the local university).

Though I try to be optimistic every day and go in with a fresh attitude, I am faced with people above me who scoff at me because of my youth and gender. Misogyny is alive and well in this small city of the Southwest.

What's even more impressive than the regressive male attitude at my job is the particular male ability of whining and complaining their way into having people feel sorry for them. I hear, "Oh, poor [insert name of male idiot here], he's so swamped. His job is so tough." I never seem to hear that about a female colleague, no matter how much larger her workload is.

When you combine up this misogynistic attitude, a blatant disregard for innovation (in a technological company, no less), and a distrust for the abilities I went to graduate school to acquire, you get a recipe for impatience. I feel ready to burst out of the metaphorical womb.

However, if there's something that life has taught me, it's crippling self-doubt. What if what I am so desperate to attain is not that great? What if I need help? What if I'm not ready, and it's a repeat of my birth?

Sometimes, the worst enemy is the one in your head.

I'll continue to exercise a semblance of patience for now, but the first chance I get to leap, I'll jump and ask questions later.

Here We Go Again

I was almost married once.

I started planning a wedding once, which means I was thrust into the world of wedding blogs and all their wonderful and sparkly splendor.

And then I wasn't getting married anymore.

It was like free-falling through a rabbit hole of sorts. Everyone around me turned on their concerned faces and all I wanted to do was run away from my problems.

Then I started dating again. And that was a shitstorm of nothingness. Nothing made sense.

I was Alice in a wonderland of douches. Douches, douches everywhere.

Just when I decided that I didn't want to date again, I started dating my current boyfriend. One year later, when I'm settling into the idea of being in a relationship I still have failed relationship PTSD moments.

Now, I don't know if it's because I'm still arguably going through my quarter-life crisis, or if it's just because I'm so good at wanting to run, but I'm terrified. I'm also, to my surprise, genuinely happy and excited about a future with this man.

We've come to the point of talking about marriage and the big picture kind of future. We're not engaged or planning a wedding at the moment, but we're having deeper and more significant conversations about building a life together. Needless to say, these conversations weren't a part of my past relationship, pre or post engagement.

Are these talks terrifying? Yes, absolutely. However, they're also comforting on a level I'd never expected. So even when these doubts crop up, I feel confident that I am in a partnership that works, instead of two companies trying to merge unsuccessfully.

As a bonus, because these marriage talks are happening, I feel slightly justified in cruising wedding websites again, even if I don't want a wedding (because being educated in this day and age means an insane amount of student loan payments).

I Like Pretty (Wedding) Stuff

I recently received an e-mail from Glamour promising tips on how to look better in pictures. I clicked on it. I mean, who doesn't want to learn tricks to look better in pictures? Right?

Wrong. The article was geared toward the newly engaged. Cue eye-roll.

Here I was, reading an article that just highlighted the facts that:

1. You only have to worry about pictures being taken of you when you have a ring on your finger.
2. I am not currently wearing a ring on my finger (ergo I don't deserve to learn tricks to look better in pictures).

So I read the article even though I have an empty finger, and proceeded to click on a link to other articles and slideshows featuring wedding dresses (and pink... PINK wedding dresses are gorgeous). Cue double eye-roll. I think I may be catching wedding fever (again). 

See, the thing is that I spent so much time repressing my wedding fever in my previous relationship, that when me and my ex got engaged, I no longer had to pretend to not be fascinated by weddings. I could browse through every wedding blog known to man and not be seen as a desperate, clingy chick. 

I never became a bridezilla because my mother and ex soon took control of the wedding planning, but I was still allowed to look at wedding stuff without my internal judge kicking in and saying, "Oh, sweetie, you're not even engaged."

When that sad excuse of a relationship crashed and burned magnificently, I had no desire whatsoever to look at wedding stuff. I didn't even want to deal with my already purchased wedding dress, shoes, and the rest of my attire. I just didn't want the words engagement or wedding to ever come in contact with my vocabulary ever again. Then reality slaps you and brings about emotions you can't quite explain.

You'd think a  failed attempt at walking down the aisle to the wrong man would damper my wedding thoughts. You'd think that, but because my thoughts so often defy logic and rational explanations, you'd be wrong. Oh so wrong.

I find it hard to not judge myself on this one. On the one hand, I understand that there's nothing fundamentally wrong with admiring pretty things. On the other hand, I think it's not classy to be looking at wedding stuff when plans of a wedding are not even a speck in my horizon, if it ever comes to that again.

One of my dearest friends says that it's ok that I look at this stuff because it means I'm happy in the relationship, and at least I'm not secretly pinning it to a Pinterest board (this is why I don't have Pinterest, people). 

So, yes, I'll continue to look, but I also hope to keep myself in check and not devolve into some sad girl who tries to prod her boyfriend to propose. Because that wouldn't be fun for either one of us.

Things You Buy When You're A Slut Like Me

I just spent $18 on a panty. 

Correction: I just spent $18.50 + tax on a sequined, overwhelmingly sparkly panty that my boyfriend is not likely to even notice or care about (not that I bought it for his enjoyment, but barring running down the street in my panty, who else is going to see it but me?). On second thought, I bet he's not even going to be surprised by the sparkle. He's just going to go, "yeah, looks about right," or, "yep, that  fits all I know about you so far." Whatever.

I also followed the aforementioned purchase with a hot pink bra, and then used the coupon I did have for a free panty at Victoria’s Secret and selected a hot pink one. You know, because I hate pink so much.

See, that’s how they get you. The coupons from hell Victoria’s Secret mailed me and I so innocently believed I would just use the free panty one. I went into the store with every intention of grabbing my free panty and leaving unscathed. But then, I saw the light shining off the limited edition sparkly panty, it called out to me, I tried to resist its allure, but we all knew it was a lost cause. It was pretty, sparkly and had a lace back. I didn’t stand a chance. It was too much sparkle... 

Actual closeup of the panty. How could I resist this?

Now every time I wear my sparkly panty, my v-area (vagina included, of course) is going to resemble a disco ball. Well played, Victoria’s Secret, well played.

Slut-o-ween

I'm a slut. You know it (possibly because of the blog's title). I know it. My ex-fiancé made sure everyone knows it. So, yes, at least we're all on the same page on that matter.

Enter: Halloween. Yes, halloween, the one time a year where all of us sluts (and by all of us I mean everyone who has ovaries, obviously) are free to let our slut flag fly by dressing in costumes that usually have the word "sexy" or "sassy" in front of them for marketing purposes (let's be real, slutty is all they mean by those two qualifiers; that or, "hey, I can almost see your vag and nipples, thanks!").

I've found myself completely and utterly excited for this Halloween. Chalk it up to not having a proper childhood (the fact that my mother thought springing for costumes was a waste of money) or being with someone who didn't like going out (at all) or dressing for Halloween for six years. I'm an adult, and I'm excited about Halloween, end of story.

My quest to find this year's costumes (yes, there is more than one) began in July. If you have ovaries and are above a certain age (usually ten), you can sympathize with my conundrum: I've seen more modest attire in Victoria's Secret. And, because I'm a slut, and because I think Halloween is all about dressing up as someone that you are not, being a slutty [insert any costume here, really, ANY] just didn't appeal to me.

I briefly considered going as the eleventh doctor (God bless Matt Smith) from Dr. Who, but I didn't want to spend all night explaining to people who I was supposed to be, and why I am a woman dressing as a male character. It's too confusing for people. It's just not my place to make their brain hurt. I'm nice that way.

For the sake of anonymity, and covering most of my bases, I'm not about to disclose my three costume choices (you can't be too careful on the internet), but I will say that although one of them is very skintight, it covers every inch of my body. So that's a win in my book. The other two are harmless. While I could have a free slut pass for Halloween, I choose not to use it because it perpetuates a double-standard for women.

"Hey women, you have ovaries, you can dress like sluts for Halloween, we boys like it when you do that, but remember, you can't actually act like sluts. And days where it's not halloween, go back to not dressing like sluts and not being sluts."

But, hey, in a world where Mitt Romney is a candidate for president, we have to count the small victories, right?

Wanting, Needing

I consider myself a smart, independent woman. I know that I can be alone, and that I can be perfectly happy doing so. The older I get, however, I become more accepting of vulnerability and want the trappings of a life shared with someone else. Perhaps this is a byproduct of being so close to getting married to the person I thought was the One, an occurrence in which I allowed myself to be caught up in the idea of it all and finally relaxed enough to contemplate a real, honest to God future with another human being.

The fact that this ended going up in flames in a spectacular fashion apparently doesn't faze this part of my psyche. I still want to share my life with the right person, someone who will be there day in and day out for me. I need and want someone whose arms I can just collapse to after a rough day at work, someone who will take care of me while I'm sick, and someone who'll understand my need to see my friends. I want someone who'll be a good father to our children, who won't flinch at the thought of helping me change diapers, taking them to school, or grocery shopping. I want someone who I can trust, someone who I can give my everything to and not wonder what they did with it all because he's as committed to us as I am. I don't want perfection, but I want a real partnership.

This needing and wanting scares the living daylights out of me because sometimes it seems like I want too much and am asking too much of another human being. I look at my parents, who've been married for almost 40 years and I think that it's a rare occurrence, a lottery of sorts. I look at them and I want that, and I'm scared that I will never get it because I don't deserve it.

I know life has a weird way of working itself out. I see the potential my now boyfriend has to be the person that I want. He fits most of my wants almost to a T, even if sometimes I wonder if that's true or if it's something that I want to see. Then I think about how independent he is, something I truly adore about him, but something that makes me worry that he'll never be able to fully share his life with me. I need someone to be there, with me, committed to the household day after day because it not only was his choice, but it feels like he should be there. I worry he won't choose me, just like my ex ended up taking back his word.

Days like today, where I'm plagued by the good memories of a previous relationship, memories of him taking care of me when I was sick, like I am today, and I find myself alone in my room typing because my boyfriend is out of town; I worry that I'm not strong enough to be the woman I believe myself to be. The woman I think I am and the woman who feels the need to type this are two completely different people, one is an ideal and the other one is broken.

Today I seek the strength to mend myself. Tomorrow I may get it.