A lot of fucking hats

"How long have those shelves been there?" Ireland teased me. 

He was referring to the unopened IKEA shelves I thought I'd hidden behind the door. 

"Oh. Uh....I don't know, like 3 weeks," I lied. 

He laughed at me. 

As if to say, silly little messy girl living in all her chaos. 

But he really didn't know the half of it. 

How long had those shelves been there?? Three weeks?! Three months?! Try YEARS.

Like, I don't even know if I was still dating Sheldon when I bought them. 

That was a LONG time ago, my friends. 

And the damn shelves never got put up. 

Ireland asked me about those shelves almost six months ago. 

Even that feels like a lifetime ago. 

And the shelves have been ignored several lifetimes. 

I'm not handy. 

I didn't know how to plunge a toilet when I moved to Rhode Island. 

That was seven years ago. 

I may have many gifts and talents but when it comes to basic living I suck. 

Like if I were a wildabeast I'd be the weak one the hyenas separate from the herd and eat for lunch. 

I would be the one on Survivor that has a mental breakdown & has to have an emergency helicopter rescue me & take me to the looney bin. 

I need help. 

That's just it. 

I need others to help me in the areas I suck it. 

Ireland shouldn't have made fun of me for having my unmounted shelves in the corner. 

He should have helped me put them up. 

And so should have Sheldon. 

But he never did. 

No one did. 

I bought the shelves for the sole purpose of displaying my hats. 

I have lots of things I love but my hats are probably the things I own that make me the most happy. 

(Next to my jewelry & Chanel bags, of course).

And I'd love for them to be beautifully displayed. 

And instead they've been smooshed on top of each other in bags in the corner. 

Unseen and disorganized. 

And I hate it. 

But I never did anything about it because I told you, I suck at things. 

So somehow the topic of my unfinished shelves came up during a girls night with two of my newest & dearest friends. 

"Oh we'll totally come over & help. It's no problem," she reassured me. 

And like most good intentions, I assumed it would never happen because people don't actually come over & put your shelves up for you. 

The men I fucked didn't even do that. 

So you can imagine my surprise when my friend called me a few days later and said, "So what time should we come over tonight?"

I couldn't believe it. 

This is actually happening? This isn't like when you run into an old acquaintance you haven't seen in forever & you're both like, 'we should get together soon' even though neither of you means it. 

So they came over, tools and all. 

And my shelf got put up. 

Well. 

Almost. 

There was some technical difficulties because IKEA is a motherfucker but my Dad came over the next day and finished it. 

Because Dad's always come to the rescue. 

And after all this time, I finally have my favorite hats on display. 

And every time I look at the shelf I feel loved. 

Because for every person who won't help or be what I need, there is someone who will. 

And it's nice to remember that, to remember what that feels like. 

To remember that exists. 

I'm gonna need like, 10 more shelves, now. 

I have a lot of fucking hats. 

Making an Ass of Myself at the Climbing Gym

My climbing buddy and I were sitting on the mats, scanning the room. 

The best part about climbing (other than the climbing itself) was watching people climb. 

Or rather, watching men climb. 

I could go to the gym every day for that alone. 

And then suddenly, I saw him. 

A tall, lanky guy sporting a Batman shirt. 

"Dude," I elbowed my climbing buddy. "Batman is so cute. Look."

He was far enough away that all you could really make out was a silhouette. 

"I can spot them from a mile away, those tall, lanky men are my kryptonite. Come over here, Batman, explore my caves," I said just loud enough for my friend to hear. 

She laughed at me and we continued climbing. 

Later on, I looked up and my heart fluttered all excited like when I find a Tadashi dress on the clearance rack in my size. (Hello $300 dress marked down to $47, you love of my life!)

"Batman's coming this way!" I practically screamed in her ear. "I have to talk to him!!"

So being the super clever, flirtatious goddess that I am, I confidently said to Batman, "I like your shoes."

They were pink.

And I already knew that they were rentals because the gym was having an event that night and there was a whole table of them when you first walked into the gym. 

It was pretty much one of the lamest things I could have said. 

But he humored me and starting talking back and all of a sudden I started to have one of those déjà vu experiences where I'd heard this guys voice before. 

And then as excited as I was that he was talking to me I started to feel a little bizarre because I didn't know why he suddenly felt so familiar. 

Remember that scene in Sex & the City when Samantha is having sex with this guy who blurts out, "pull my hair" and she's all, "Wait, I've slept with you before." But completely forgot until he was inside her again. 

I asked Batman, "Did you go to Portland State?"

No, he hadn't. 

College always feels like a safe place to start when figuring out how I know someone. 

Next is Starbucks since I worked there for 49 years. 

But my brain was drawing a blank. 

"You look really familiar. What's your name?"

"Bruce."

My brain started to figure out what file he could be in. 

Bruce. Bruce. Bruce. 

Guys I've worked with. 

No. 

Guys I've slept with. 

No. 

Guys I've crushed on. 

Wait. 

I was slowly making the connection even as I asked the question. 

"Have you ever been to Wayne Company?"

He had just started climbing, stopped and looked right at me. "Is your name Teresa?"

OHMYGODHeRememberedMyName!!

I'm fucking famous. 

Well, it didn't hurt that I sold him his tux for his wedding. 

We continued talking and he admitted, "I always thought it was weird how much you remembered about me."

And I could feel his eyes looking into mine asking, 'Seriously, what the fuck was that about?'

"Well, actually," I paused for dramatic effect. "I can say this now since we're here and it's been two years, but--I had a HUGE crush on you. Like ridiculous crush."

And then, dear lord in heaven, it was like removing the cork that had held back the entirety of the ocean and suddenly word vomit just poured out of me, I couldn't stop it. 

"I just thought you were so cute, you're totally my type I have a weakness for tall, lanky nerds, especially climbers--"

'She really does totally have a type, it's true,' my buddy interjected. 

And I just wouldn't shut up. 

I'm not even sure how he was even responding because I was so caught up in all the sentences falling out of my mouth but I think he just laughed and was amused. Or possibly totally creeped out & too polite to say anything. 

Though my friend later said she thought he was flattered. 

How could he not?

And then as the exclamation point to all the word vomit, as I realized I might run into her now too, I practically shouted, "Don't tell your wife, I'll be so embarrassed!!!"

And it was then that the pragmatic part of my brain finally started to kick in and I slowly started to back away, "I'll let you climb now" and I felt such a strange sensation of excitement at seeing him again & sheer embarrassment at melting into a giddy school girl I wanted to both run away & ask him to take a selfie with me. 

I'd already known Batman. 

And Batman climbs at my gym. 

How fucking fantastic is that?!?

Champagne & Khakis

Feeling sorry for myself comes easily. 

Especially being the attention seeking immature little girl I really am. 

It's easy to act sassy & tough when most of the time I really just wish someone would give me a hug & tell me I'm their favorite. 

I did something this week I needed to, that I know is ultimately what's best for me but I feel like such an asshole about it. 

I think as a woman most of the time we do anything that puts our own needs first we feel like assholes. 

That's not very selfless & loving of us. 

How dare we. 

But it is loving.

It's loving ourselves. 

Why do we think it's more important to find someone to love us than to work on loving ourselves?

I've had a gloom over me for the past 48 hours. 

I feel so guilty. 

I feel like a terrible person. 

But I also hope they leave me alone. 

There are some doors that need to stay closed. 

So I'm sitting at home sipping my pink champagne feeling sorry for myself because I set a boundary & lost a "friend" who made me feel lonely when I was around him & then I see on my Facebook feed that some girl I barely know has lost her mother. And had her boyfriend leave her. 

And I feel like such an even bigger asshole. 

Why do we pout in our tiny little bubbles when there's a world around us filled with people who would love to hug us & be our favorite?

I went to Target to charge myself a little happy & watched an employee walking in front of me. 

Bright red polo. Pressed khakis. 

Things could always be worse. 

I could work at Target & have to wear khakis every day. 

I fucking hate khakis. 

I know it's just a dip in the ebb & flow but I hate feeling bummed out. 

I'm not even on my bitchy red week or my pre bitchy red week I have no hormonal excuse. 

Sometimes life just epically sucks. 

And then sometimes you find a pink sweater with ivory lace sleeves at the store & the world starts to look a little brighter. 

At least I get to choose my costume. 

And the fellow actors in my play. 

A recasting will take some getting used to but will be for the best. 

Time to learn my lines. 

Act II. 

However Improbable

Guys think that girls don't talk about sex as much as they do. 

But we do.

We talk about how tiny their dicks are or what positions they tried. 

In fact we probably talk about sex MORE than guys. 

We're women. 

Talking is like breathing to us. 

So when I went to a girls night the other night the stories were flying. 

"Do you wanna see a picture of him?"

'Of course!'

I scrolled through my phone & then showed her. 

'Wait. I know him. Is that James? You hooked up with JAMES??!?'

I nodded, growing a little concerned. 

"How do YOU know James?" I asked. 

'I've know him for years! His mother shot my brothers wedding photos!'

Holy small fucking world, Batman. 

At least I didn't inadvertently score sloppy seconds from one of my Bestie's. 

They were someone's sloppy seconds, to be certain, and fifths and twenty-sixes, but at least those were some other girls. 

Not ones I would be tagging in selfies later that night. 

The week had been a surprising one. 

I cut all my hair off, a cropped curly bob, which makes me undeniably "cute."

Which is curious because if there's one thing a girl hates being categorized as it's being cute. 

We want to be beautiful, to be sexy, gorgeous, stunning. 

Being cute is like being Miss Congeniality. 

Nobody worships that. 

Regardless, shedding nine inches of hair made me feel like a new woman. 

I felt empowered. 

Changed. 

Maybe because my hair hadn't been that short for five years. 

Maybe it's because I remembered the kind of girl I was five years ago. 

All I know is the day I cut my hair I went on a date. 

And when that was a dud I found myself another date. 

And that one was a pinch more fun. 

You see as much as people want to pretend looks don't matter, they do. 

And how we feel is often influenced by how we look. 

And change brings more change. 

And thank fucking god. 

Because the man drought of the holidays was an epic bore. 

The new year has already surprised me. 

And oh, how I do love surprises. 

Saying Hello Again to our Secrets

There are few people who rattle me.

Proper douche bags.
People telling me to my face to Fuck off.
And people from my past who know my dirty little secrets.

She stood there, a mere few feet away from where I stood.
She didn't even recognize me.
I suppose I've changed my look a lot.
I was blonde when she knew me.

Hair color is like lipstick.
Lots of fun trying lots of shades but eventually you find your favorite and are too lazy to change it anymore.
Red.
And Red.
Always.

I don't know why I was so rattled seeing her standing there.
It was years since I last saw her and that part of my life was so long ago I feel like a different person now.
I am, really.
I was Resa then.
Nobody calls me that anymore.

The thing I found so odd about my reaction was that I was both startled and glad seeing her standing there.
You'd have thought we were long lost lovers the way I was so flummoxed.
I actually debated with myself over whether or not to say hello.

Hello there.
Remember me.
I'm the scandalous little barista you used to work with.

Good heavens.
No thank you.
What on earth would I even say to her?

But the thing was.
She was the only person who was nice to me when all the drama unfolded.
She'd even written me a kind letter, which stood out, even after all these years.

I think whenever anybody does anything especially kind it haunts you.
Rarity does that.

And then when I thought my chance to speak to her had passed her eyes finally met mine.
And the chapter of my story fell across her eyes and she nearly gasped an, "Oh! Hello. I thought I recognized you from somewhere but I couldn't figure out how."

She remembered.

We made small talk and ran out of things to say more quickly than I expected. 

But I was able to say, "You were always really nice to me. And I really appreciated it."

'Oh, well, it was nothing--'

"Really."

Being reminded of how awful so many people were to me back then made me really thankful for where I was now. 

And what I was free from. 

And who I was free to be. 

Shade: Unknown. 

The Spinster

I'm finding that the longer I'm on Tinder the more I feel it's an absolute waste of time.

Which shouldn't be my perspective at all. 

The Vegan, The Comedian, Ireland, The Aussie. All came to be because of the wonderful world of Tinder.

But you see they all seem to be so altogether predictable. 

The gentlemen. 

Or boys, rather. 

It has become monotonous instead of stimulating and I find I no longer look forward to reading my messages anymore. 

They're either gonna be crude or it's gonna turn out they live out of state.

Whine. Whine.

Boo Fucking Hoo.

Men are pigs. 

What news is this?

Well the news is that in spite of our social niceties in assuming it's perfectly acceptable for a woman to be single, it's mostly horseshit. 

The world still expects us to find a proper husband as though I were living in Downton Abbey. 

It's less obvious. 

And most people aren't honest enough to say it outright but there is an unspoken understanding that if you have a uterus it is your job to find someone to marry. 

And the potential suitors are often less than desirable. 

The thing I find so curious is that often I feel it bugs others that I'm single more than it bothers me. 

"Oh, I'm sure you'll find someone."

"He's out there, you just haven't met him yet."

"They met climbing, see, there's hope for you yet."

But is all that encouragement for my benefit or theirs?

So they can feel reassured that I'll stop breaking social convention and settle down already in the box reserved for every woman: WIFE.

I've been indulging in season after season of Downton Abbey this past week. 

And the greatest responsibility each of the daughters face is finding a husband. 

And it made me laugh because 100 years later that's still what's on everyone's minds. 

I ran into a girlfriend I hadn't spoken to in ages and do you know what she asked me?

She asked if I was still with my ex and if I was seeing anyone new. 

That's it. 

Nothing about my work. 

Nothing about my interests, my Youtube, my cat. 

She didn't inquire about my family or my friends. 

She wanted to know my relationship status. 

Because just like the world of Facebook that's all anybody cares about. 

And it's beyond infuriating. 

I love men. 

I love love. 

But there is more to me than my relationship status. 

And even if I did have a boyfriend or a husband is that really all anybody wants to hear about?

Because I actually have a lot more to say. 

About a lot of things. 

Which is why I'm so grateful for this blog. 

I can damn well say what I want. 

And if I'm not interested in tying myself to any of the bores I've managed to date as of late, then you'll have to forgive me. 

I'd rather not settle for anything less than extraordinary. 

Beautifully Alone

When I was little I could never go to sleep if I fought with my parents. 

If I tried I always ended up tip toeing down the hall to whisper into their room, "I'm sorry."

I've always wanted conflict resolved. 

And I've always wanted to make up with the people I love. 

But I'm not a little girl anymore. 

I've changed. 

I had a falling out with someone I would have considered to be one of my best friends and instead of feeling sad, I have felt relieved. 

We'd had arguments before. 

We've known each other for years, that's bound to happen. 

Especially when it's someone you've slept with. 

Past lovers know all of your buttons. 

The good and the bad. 

But each time I thought that might be the end of it, the thought of not being in each other's lives was too sad for me to bear. 

I'd always end up apologizing and saying I was wrong, regardless of what had happened. 

Because I wanted things to go back to the way they were. 

And that's just it. 

They haven't been the way they were since I can remember. 

Letting go is easy for some but it paralyzes me. 

I can never seem to do it. 

Do you know he is the only man I've ever loved that I dumped. 

And I still somehow seemed incapable of walking away. 

Isn't it peculiar. 

I never want to believe a thing is over. 

Changed, sure. 

But finished?

Tis unthinkable. 

The fight had us last week, though it had been stirring for weeks, months even. 

I had become so angry and I didn't understand why. 

Resentful. 

Annoyed. 

I've never married but I felt as though I was experiencing what so many married couples must right before divorce. 

That imperceptible transition into sheer disgust with someone you once adored as thoroughly as life itself. 

But whatever love was left seemed put on, feigned, as though we were players in a show. 

For whom, I'm uncertain, though I think we each did it more for ourselves than the other. 

Because nothing in our interactions was ever about putting the others needs first anymore. 

So the fight climaxed. 

And he had his say. 

And I said mine. 

I told him the truth. 

That he was the only person in my life who made me feel ugly. 

That he had for three years. 

And that I would always feel ugly as long as he was in my life. 

And in writing it reads like such melodrama. 

The histrionic actress exaggerates for effect. 

But it's sadly the plain truth. 

No one has made me feel more insecure, more undeserving and unworthy than the man who never told me anything loving. 

I suppose 36 months was my threshold. 

I also always resented feeling like we remained friends solely because of my efforts. 

That if I'd never invited him to the symphony, if I'd never apologized after one of our quarrels I would just never hear from him again. 

I cannot bear that responsibility anymore. 

After I wrote what I did, I saw that he was starting to type a reply. 

But he never sent it. 

And I was surprised that I was glad. 

I didn't want to make up. 

I wanted to be severed. 

I wanted to feel beautiful. 

Alone. 

But beautiful. 

It was the most balanced I'd felt in ages. 

And I hoped, with every fiber of my buried romantic heart, that love would find its way back into my life, however unexpectedly. 

And I would believe again. 

In hope. 

In love. 

In a man who would make me feel beautiful just from the way he looked at me. 

I have forgotten what that feels like.