The fallen flowers are hula hoops. A finger, come hither.  I should be dancing and swirling within. My hands (and  elation) should be in the air.

Yet, I am leaning against the taupe concrete, simply watching. The gray skies creating goosebumps. I had to come outside. I couldn’t breathe. Hollow. However, I met the death in the air.  There is no reprieve here. I pace. I stare at my reflection. I want to sit. Rest my head within my hands. Want to cry, but there are no tears, there never are.

We finally signed. The deal. The reason I stayed. I pressed forward and drafted my excitement. The to field taunted me. With each name I started to type, I pressed delete to each letter. There was no one.

No constant. No recipient for I already started building my cage. A cage to protect. Others.

But I am left ravenous. Craving a him to my her.  




Halloween- what’s your identity?

F$@! The blanket of depression that was merely hovering on Thursday completely engulfed me last night. Halloween . . .  a costume bought- perhaps, not perfect, friends, fun, dancing, and champagne had no ability to attract me. My night was instead one of tears. Thinking of Samantha’s blowfish analogy, I had become the perfect representation. My face bloated, wrinkled, and red. I cried. Read. And felt so very lonely. This trip to PR has been the first devoid of its magical ability to calm me and provide an effortless balance. My preceding trip to New York was also the first in which I began to find my cadence.

I don’t believe this blanket had one maker—rather a combination of various contributors.  I was missing my newfound companionship in New York with the Journalist and the abrupt stop to promising relationship in its infancy with Dario, the Slavic breathe of fresh air.  Knowing that the relationship could have flourished but was now simply a seedling left without nourishment. While I recognize that it will wait and be there upon my return, entering a world that is empty and leaving one that was fulfilling and promising provides a dramatic contrast that perhaps emphasizes the cons that always existed in PR.

Another contributor to this heaviness is one of my employees’ statements regarding a rumor from a wife that I party too much. This is far from the truth, but with this rumor in circulation, how can I easily portray a carefree party image when I venture out. Ironically, venturing out and having that persona may be the temporary antidote to my emptiness.  

While contemplating this, I also realized some people happily own that party image while it is one I vehemently oppose. I think back to when my brother returned from the war and Bosnia after being gone for ten years- leaving me as a six year-old and coming back to a sixteen year-old, he transferred his teenage years onto me. I was barely a partier—social, but serious, too involved, too studious, too ambitious. The moments of partying were good for me. And I believe they still are. Yet, I can’t release the misguided judgments. Maybe, I simply hate when people perceive me to be something I am not. I wonder what other misperceptions truly affect me. Do judgments affect your actions?

It seems easy to normally act without regard to other’s opinions. Let them think what they will. However, here I am unable to shake it.

I wonder if it’s only misperceptions that challenge those qualities that define us, the ones that our aligned with our highest values . . . our identity.

Regardless, no me gusta Halloween and siento mejor. J I will write more about the Journalist and Dario later. 

The continuing saga of unavailable guys

Someone help. I lie here and there is a deep-seeded longing coupled with a confusion. Wondering what I really want . . . My ex, my bestest friend in the whole world, I, the “love of his life,” wrote to me a month ago, “stop looking and you will find.” I denied my looking. I knew I longed to meet someone, but I also knew I didn’t want to just meet anyone. I wanted to meet someone who really made me tick. I longed for continuity in my life. Someone to share my inner trappings and musings. Someone that was there as I straddled my disparate lives.  Someone that could have my heart, albeit a sometimes missing presence. Someone that I knew I could be utterly devoted to.

Yet, I fail to see anyone that makes me tick. And my seeking thoughts are comprised of only that. Not searching for someone to spend lonely moments with, or that I just thoroughly enjoy, I want someone that could potentially be the one.  However, I am in no rush. No ticking clock. Just a clock that doesn’t know what to do as it passes time.

The time is passing and as I find myself incapable of exploring great men unless they make my heart leap, my relations are short bouts of great men who are emotionally unavailable. With them, I am not concerned about losing feelings for them and being confronted with having to confront them. I don’t press fast-forward on our future to discover a potential ending of me ripping their heart out and breaking it in two. I acknowledge that they will do the heart breaking, however I am much less concerned with them breaking my heart than me breaking someone else’s.  I can venture into waters and risk someone hurting me, yet I can’t venture and risk hurting someone else. (I assure having my heart broken from someone hurts and perhaps more, but I tend to shut off and throw walls up and all sorts of things. I hermit in my misery. It is awful. However, it doesn’t have it’s day until its due. I let it play out, unlike my inability to give a man who truly adores me a chance.)

I may sound like a martyr, but I assure the above dilemma is borne from a selfish place. As I write this, it becomes clear that I have some great pain with confrontation. I recant the moments of feeling trapped and suffocated–unable to confront and thus prolonging my discomfort. Perhaps, I am so scared of confrontation that the discomfort I have endured in the past haunts me.  And so I doubt that I am so concerned about hurting someone, I am concerned about hurting myself, just in a much less obvious way, perhaps. (I can’t tell you if this in fact true or the life behind my obsession with unavailable men, but for this evening, err morning, it is my theory.)

So to the men in pursuit of me: Matt Damon, MiCarino, Navy Seal, Short Beckham, and Rico Suave, I apologize, but you are killing me. Matt Damon, I believe your amazing email about me is the catalyst of my lonely inactive heart starting to audibly ache. A heart that has been alone and a body that has not had regular service for 18 months!

And yes, I hate the way this post reads. But I needed to write this, for these thoughts would turn friends’ ears deaf. I am so sad. So empty. So lonely. The fact I am adored and liked, yet unable to love back when it’s all I want to do makes me feel like an ice-princess. Not cuddly, not loving. Soulmate made me remember that I am . . . yet his presence in all of this now is too much for me to handle.

I am supposed to see him tomorrow. He wanted to come over tonight. Our bodies drawn to each other. I made other plans. Then, he was to come over after. I failed to write back. My thoughts running rampant from my dinner with two recently single women. Feeling as if I couldn’t listen and be there anymore for them. As if I started to resent them for having great relationships even if the guy turned out to be an assclown.  My thought being, if we are all destined to meet someone at a certain time, the time before is better spent in relationships where great memories were created than single indefinitely. Maybe I am having an Attaingingme Pityparty . . . maybe I sound crazy, and I am, I am crazy sad. 

Are you tall, dark and handsome? Can you be my Mr. Unavailable that is Available . . . I am willing to travel 🙂