Toothbrushes

Something happens as  I look at the two toothbrushes now inhabiting the pewtered-colored tumbler in my bathroom sink. By something happening, I mean that I am overcome with incredible happiness, dread, and anxiety.

It goes like this: I smile and think this is a good step forward, then I dread that this could ever come to an end, and then I get anxious about… well, about everything.
  

I’m transported to a place and time in which someone took the time to make space for me in his life, space that was signified by a drawer and a clear, plastic toothbrush of my very own at his place. Back then I was in love; back then I thought I had it all.  

The clear toothbrush and drawer signified clear progressions of our relationship --one that went up in flames as tragically as Lindsay Lohan’s face (seriously, she’s supposed to be 26, not 62). While memories of toothbrushes and drawers from a past relationship are complicated in their bittersweetness, I have a hard time separating the positive from the negative events that culminated in that one phone call that ended what I once thought would be forever.

Then start the comparisons, bringing the past to the present and hoping that I will be able to find the one loophole that will help me avoid the catastrophe of a failed relationship once again. Is there a way for me to go from here to happily ever after and avoid the mess? It would be too easy, I know.

Of course, I can’t really compare the feelings I once felt to the ones I am currently experiencing and  am aware that each relationship is unique --I’ve watched Sex and the City after all (I’m kidding, mostly). The differences between the two men, the one in my past and the one in my present, are monumental and key to the dynamic of each relationship.

While what I had in the past is what I needed then, yet we both outgrew each other and in different directions; what I have now is fantastic, but who am I to say it will last forever? That’s the crux of my anxiety, the fact that there are no guarantees or shortcuts. Yet, if the volume of dating books being continuously sold and published is any indication, we still want to search for those guarantees and shortcuts.

The truth of the matter is that these two toothbrushes are not a shorthand for guarantees or proven shortcuts, but they are proof that for the first time in my life I’m taking the risk of making space in my life for someone else.

For now, that’ll have to do.

The Bed that Broke Me

Building my bed broke me –or, should I say, my futile attempts at building my bed by myself broke me.

Like countless of single girls before me, I ventured upon the uncharted territory of living alone as a necessary step in my transition from graduate student into full-fledged adult. The time could not be better; fresh off graduation with highest honors, a new full-time office job, and a new apartment close enough to work determined my new fate. I had always shared living space with people. That I’m good at. As it turns out, I’m just not so good at living alone.   

You’d think it’d be easier. I mean, when you live with people you have to be mindful of their quirks and their presence, you stand higher chances of drama, of cleaning up after them, and you stand higher chances of being disrupted at all hours in the day. Growing up in my particular household, I never had a chance to be uninterrupted. Whatever I was doing, my mother would interrupt with a request to do this or that, no matter if I was penning important words. With roommates, I’ve had my fair share of good friends, and rambunctious dwellers.

But this silence in my new place… It’s just something to get used to. I resort to employing the company of chick flicks to distract myself from the silence. It was during the middle of one of these In Her Shoes, if you need the details, that I had the bright (if by bright you mean dangerously stupid) idea to build my new bed.

I don’t know what prompted the waterworks, but something inside me broke as I glanced back and forth between the panels, bolts and pieces that were supposed to compose my new bed and the instructions. It could have been the scene in the movie that was playing in the background –a sad one to be sure, the overpowering feeling of being alone, the assembly instructions telling me I’d need two people to assemble the bed, or a noxious combination of these factors. All I know is that if I’d walked in on myself I would have slapped myself silly because I must have looked like a sad, sad version of the woman I’m supposed to be as 

I was sobbing on the floor amidst the debris that would be my bed.

The fact that I was a sad spectacle to behold did not escape me at that moment, but that didn’t stop the pity party. This particular pity party lasted a whole ten minutes, playing my most-loved hits, such as “This is all my fault,” “This is why I’ll never get married,” “I’m all alone because I’m a horrible human being,” “What did I do wrong to end up building this lovely bed by myself?,” and “No one will ever love me enough to commit to this amount of crazy.”

Then, I realized I might never be over my broken engagement because that’s just something I have to learn to live with. That’s the thing about broken hearts, you think they’re fine, but then you realize that the heartbreak was deeper than you previously thought. I loved someone for six years. He said he loved me for six years. That’s a long time.  They weren’t always wonderful; in fact, I’m convinced that it was an unhealthy relationship for many reasons. But if I can commit my heart for someone that wasn't that good to begin with for six years, that means I have the capacity to make it work in a good marriage when the time comes. Most importantly, that means I can commit to myself and make this living alone thing work. Because I’m damn wonderful.

Oh, and that bed that broke me? Well, I enlisted the help of my new boyfriend to assemble it, and it was quite alright. Sometimes there are things you can’t do by yourself.  

The Price of Vulnerability

Being vulnerable in relationships is something I don’t know how to do, and if I once did I completely lost the ability by the time I turned 19. Well, maybe I lost it during the course of my relationship with my ex and I can’t quite pinpoint the moment it happened. All I know is that there was always trepidation, some emotional safety net, and some fingers clasped around the possibility and what I thought was the inevitability of everything to blow up in my face. Perhaps this has something to do with my high adaptability to new scenarios, which is partly because  I moved around schools so very often and was forced to make what I quickly learned were temporary friendships, the less I rooted down, the easier it was for everyone else. I bet my fickle, transformative nature has something to do with it, as well.

On the surface, this seems like a good defense mechanism, always prepared, always having the upper hand in the relationship. Perhaps because I do not like relinquishing power –which makes me working in groups so FUN (not), just very bossy--, I came to the very painful realization that in order for anything to work out, I have to let go. I have to let go of my fears, I have to let go of my hopes, and I have to let go of how I expect others to act or react. I cannot control every scenario, even though I wish I could.

Proof of my defensive nature rests on how I handled the sudden, inexplicable, phone-induced disintegration of what was, at one point, an engagement and a six-year-long relationship. I had encroached myself in so many protective layers and considered the possibility of heartbreak that once it happened, I was crushed but not broken. During the next few months, I was able to hold on to my graduate career, my friendships, and my sanity –whatever was left of it, anyway—in a manner that surprised those who thought I should be a blubbering mess.

Perhaps this proof is enough to advocate for my method of handling relationships to be the standard, but I have the nagging sensation that if I live always waiting for the other shoe to drop, then it inevitably will. In that relationship, I waxed poetic about being in love; at times, I thought I was very much in love. Now, after months of the breakup being a very real event and after two years of essentially living on my own, I begin to question if I just wanted to be in love or if it was a very real thing. Undoubtedly, I broke down a few times and felt empty. I was lonely, scared and almost anyone would do to fill in some kind or role. I don’t think that was love. That was wanting to fill a void.

I was only able to differentiate this after a long conversation with myself, a grueling one sometime in February.  I cried my fair share, admitted things that I wouldn’t have admitted to anyone (not even to myself), and I realized that if I was able to sustain myself for two years, I would be alright even if the plan had shifted. I then accepted another truth, there’s nothing wrong with needing someone else, and there’s nothing wrong with wanting a future with someone else; that’s when I stopped punishing myself for wanting things and when I started to realize that in order to give myself and someone else a fair shot I would have to be open to vulnerability.

Now, I’m not saying I’m there already, but at least I’m trying to abide by these realizations in my new relationship. In the three months we’ve been together, I’ve had to let go of my defensive nature, trying to predict his next move, and let go of that nagging sensation of wanting to manipulate his reactions with my actions. I’m trying, I’m not saying I’m perfect. There are times where I’ll become a bit panicked and tense myself up once I realize I feel safe and relaxed once I’m in his arms. This panicked feeling also comes and washes up on me when I realize I’d come to need him, not just want him there. I become cautious at that time, wanting to give him as much space as I can spare, not wanting to overwhelm him, even hoping that there aren’t reasons that he’d want to leave. Laced with those are the realizations of my vulnerability, but that doesn’t make me any less strong. At least I hope not.  

(Semi) Naked Men in a Movie... YES!

Because we all know I'm a slut (thanks to my ex's authority on such matters), it's not surprising that I'm super excited about seeing Magic Mike. 

I'll share my excitement through these user e-cards from some ecards (and through the knowledge that I already purchased tickets for the Friday showing).

Love, a Four Letter Word Vomit

I've decided I shouldn't be allowed to speak anymore. From this point forward, I should only be allowed to communicate via text and sign language. Maybe, just maybe, incidents like this morning won't happen again.

Let's be clear here, this is not the first time my mouth's got me into trouble. This time, I can't take back what I said without looking like more of a fool.

You see, this morning I told my boyfriend I loved him before getting out of his car after he drove me to work. This is the same boyfriend I've been dating for almost three months. Just three months. Three little months. God help me.

The words just came out of my mouth as I said goodbye and then were followed by an awkward I'm sorry and a quick exit (well, as swift of an exit as my mortification would let me).

Side note: I almost face-palmed in front of him after my impromptu declaration. Now that would have made the experience way more awesome, agreed? What is wrong with me?!?

So here I sit at work, vowing to never talk again in his presence. Apparently, my mouth cannot be trusted to follow the strict instructions set by my will of not saying "I love you" to my boyfriend before he says it to me.

But no, oh noooo, the moment my brain is slightly turned off and I'm not thinking of anything in particular My mouth decides to blurt "I love you." Jesus Christ. Clearly, I can only be trusted with text and sign language. From now on, the sound of my voice will be a privilege to hear and not a common occurrence --as it is right now because I just LOVE to talk. There is is again, that word. Ugh. I disgust myself. I really do.

To make matters more interesting, le boyfriend is picking me up from work today (as he usually does because he refuses to let me walk four miles each way --see, how could I not l*** him?). I briefly considered walking home in order to avoid the obvious awkwardness (because the scene keeps replaying in my mind to my simultaneously oscillating humor and mortification). A vow of silence seems appropriate at this point so that I don't end up blurting that L word every five seconds.

Honestly, I do feel this way, but I'm mostly upset my mouth ran away with it. It was supposed to be my decision, dammit! My mouth created this mess and didn't give me the tools to solve it.

Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck!

A vow of silence may be the way to go. Seriously.

Grad School's Bitch

The more educated I "get," the more I start to wonder if it's worth it. Of course, an education has been one of the most important things in my life for me, and pursuing a graduate degree in what I love was one of the non-negotiable aspects in life. In fact, you could say I'm now single because I left my home to pursue a master's degree (on that front: best decision ever). However, with graduation looming in the near, near future, the graduate school bubble has burst and I'm left with the following:

• My graduate degree in the humanities will not allow me to make a decent living.
• The more I am in graduate school, the less I feel like I can interact with the non-academia world around me. 
• I've learned to justify every single thing I do with a logical argument.
• The graduate program I am currently in parallels high school a lot more than I would like it to. It's just petty.
• Again, I won't make a decent living after this.

Now, the people I've met in graduate school are between the best and worst I have ever met. There's no grey area (unlike in my recent dating experience, where every damn thing is a grey area). I think that the good outweighs the bad, but sometimes, just sometimes (and by sometimes I mean every time they open their mouth) I want to stick an used sock down some of the worst people's throats --and then duct-tape their mouths shut. Just saying. 

These lovely creatures aside, I think that graduate school has allowed me to grow as an intellectual and to think critically about everything --which just means that I can't just enjoy a movie anymore, I have to theorize about it. Between graduate school and the changes I've undergone in the past few months (hey, I was called a stupid slut) have changed the way I look at the world and the way the world looks at me. The stress of a broken engagement, calling off the wedding, having long white dress that won't be worn any time soon, getting back into the dating scene, having bad dates, teaching, and oh that little thing called graduation looming around the corner have very effectively added more wrinkles on my face than there should be at twenty five. 

Twenty five has not been the best year of my life, and if I were superstitious I would have thought that my horrendous birthday was enough of an omen, given the fact that my family forgot my birthday, got me the wrong cake, and my then fiancé took me to an auto shop so he could fix his car (romantic, no?). Note to self: On second thought, maybe I should become more superstitious. 

Superstitions aside, the truth is that while I'm completely grateful for the experiences graduate school has allowed me to be a part of, the end of this stage of my life brings me back to a place that it didn't prepare me for: the "real" world. I know a lot of people feel like this at this point in their semesters once they reach that one semester they will graduate. I know that I'm not the only one with an existential crisis.

But sometimes... Sometimes I feel like I'm the only one. 

I Heart Assholes (No More)

If you know me, you know I harbor a shameful love of romantic comedies. 

Oh, Kate Hudson... You make me believe love is for real
and always starts with a dare (or bet, or article assignment).

When I think about this shameful love (in times where I am painfully aware of my sad, sad life) I realize it's because romantic comedies are often simple to figure out. 

We (and by we I mean anyone who's seen at least two of these) all know who the protagonist is going to end up with (spoiler alert: It's usually someone she hates at first sight). 

If this were true, I'd end up with one of the many douchebags I know. 

... And I'm not in the mood to deal with that kind of shit. 

However, we all love our Mr. Darcys (thanks, Ms. Austen) and even our Mr. Rochesters (oh, Charlotte Brontë). These two characters, in particular, have created my love for arrogant, self-absorbed, assholes with a seemingly soft spot.

Enter a parade of all the boys I've liked and dated.

Sure, they all had their redeeming qualities, but if they were right, wouldn't have they lasted, or is it that I'm just not leading lady material?

From today on, I hope to stop living like my life is a romantic comedy and being surprised when the assholes in my life don't suddenly convert to the perfect boyfriend. The facade of the "changed man" lasts about three months (or less), in my experience.

When all is said and done, why don't they make more romantic comedies of what happens after the wedding? Or is that just reserved for a tear-jerker?

Ah, the questions of life.