My world from my perspective.
I am a balanced mix of outrageous fun and intriguing depth. Authentically meshing those two personas has been a life long adventure – as society brands them mutually exclusive. These are the lessons I’ve learned, epiphanies I’ve discovered, and experiences I’ve lived along the way. This is my world, from my perspective. Enjoy.
I had almost ghosted him after two dates, but then he sent me a video of him in a jean speedo and completely dismantled my plan to write him off.
It all started the weekend of the 2025 NCAA softball regional tournament. I had firmly planted myself at Stadium Pub, eager to catch every pitch while friends trickled in to share drinks, laughs, and cheers. As teams accepted their final fate, the crew decided to extend the evening and galavant through town, staying hydrated at our favorite watering holes. An endeavor I was always excited about. There was just one small problem: I had already committed to a date.
Annoyed but courteous, a woman of my word, I stuck to my plans and met him for a drink. Recognizing the pattern of my typical first dates, I figured I’d be back with my friends within the hour.
Perched on my bar stool with a warm buzz from the day’s festivities, I watched a 5’11 vibing man stride past the restaurant windows. He was everything his pictures had promised he would be, a rare find. Stature deliciously built with strong arms covered in American classic tattoos, a lumberjack-worthy beard, and to top it off, a bald head. That’s My Type by Saweetie blared through the air in the silent soundtrack to my life.
A smile crept across my face as I watched him approach the door and make a comment to a man he passed on his way in. Whatever he said had made them both laugh. A small moment that gave me enough insight to confirm he had the confidence to accompany those good looks. I was in for a treat.
My suspicions were validated when the conversation was instantly comfortable, the laughs came effortlessly, and we found ourselves navigating topics of depth with ease. I may have had to instigate our first kiss, but the connection was strong enough to grant him permission to join me for the remainder of the evening with my friends – a coveted invitation that almost never got extended to first dates.
The evening finished as smoothly as it began. We closed down the bars with no ick in sight. Maybe miracles did happen.
Date two followed quicker than expected and proceeded smoothly. There was a hint of imbalance in interest, but nothing to sound the alarms about… yet.
We continued to chat as the week went on. I casually mentioned I was feeling slightly under the weather and was hoping it wouldn’t turn into more. Determined to beat any potential illness by ignoring the signs, I went about my workday as usual. In my first meeting of the day, I dropped into my Fun Friday flair for the dramatics persona and debriefed our dates to my coworker via Zoom. Obviously focusing on my skepticisms, as I typically only shared dating stories for comedic value, especially with work colleagues.
Mid “vent” session, I heard a knock on the door. I hopped off Zoom to retrieve what I assumed was an Amazon package left on my porch. To my surprise, waiting for me was a container of chicken noodle soup, a carton of sushi, a 12-pack of my favorite soda – Mountain Dew, and a dozen red roses.
Panic immediately flooded my body. All trains of logical thought halted, and I was running on pure fight-or-flight octane. Assuming he was here, and knowing all my windows were wide open, I was sure he had overheard my conversation. Cue the self-deprecating thoughts. Why must I place so much value on being entertaining? He was incredibly handsome, unbelievably kind, and although I had my reservations due to a perceived imbalance in interest, I did like him. But that’s not exactly what I had conveyed. I felt awful.
Breathing through my just ten seconds of insane bravery, mantra, I picked up the phone and called. To my instant relief, he wasn’t here, and he hadn’t heard a word I said. He had door-dashed the order. Phew.
Then the real panic set in. He had sent me red roses. Not just flowers—red roses. My conceited thoughts strangled me with visions of settling down. I could hear the eulogy commemorating my singledom booming over me. We had only gone on two dates, and that gesture screamed he was ready for “more.” The fear rose like a flash flood in my throat.
With a reminder of my casual intentions and expectations, we continued our connection, and I fought my instincts to run for the hills at every turn. We went on a few more dates, texted here and there, but I found myself with walls up, even disassociating when we were together. A common, yet unfortunate, defense that deployed itself when I felt overwhelmed by someone’s interest. My connection with the boy I had dubbed “Mr. Flowers” was coming to an end.
…But then, there he was: poolside in Vegas with his buddies, strutting his stuff in a jean speedo with Sharp Dressed Man by ZZ Top blaring in the background, instructing all the ladies he passed to “keep their eyes up here,” as he pointed two fingers back at his face.
And just like that, signed, sealed, delivered. I was his. Well, he had at least re-sparked my interest. This girl was back in the saddle and ready to see where that trail ride might take her. The video-text he had sent me from that boy’s trip in Vegas spun me on my heels. I couldn’t plan our next date fast enough.
From there, we went on several dates, one of which even included the speedo that had lured me back in. What could I say? It was my kryptonite.
These days his confidence in our connection still makes me clutch my pearls every now and then, but I’m doing my best to enjoy our journey and let things unfold without overanalyzing every interaction. I don’t know if it’s a summer fling, a plot twist, or the start of something real, but if it involves speedos, sushi, and someone who sees through my skepticism, I’m game – for now.
Turns out, red roses aren’t always red flags.
Mr. Flowers, Bathing-Suit Boy, Mr. Speedo, or Get-on-the-Bag Brandon, lives to date me another day.
Are we all so desperate for love that this is what we do? In one swoop, we wipe clean our histories so our potential future has a chance to soar. We dismiss all the intricacies that made us unique to unveil a past that is easily explainable, easily accepted, smooth, and devoid of all depth. We shave away the complexities, and imperfections to leave a manufactured sheen. We shed the people and the facets that held our hands through the darkness and are the only reason we are standing in the light.
It appears we deeply lack the lens of vulnerability to make eye contact with the question; why does this threaten me? We lack the courage to notice the fictitious personal narrative we’ve tied to someone else’s novel. We are too blinded to ask, what nonexistent chapter do I have my nose in?
The expectation that this insecurity would end in our youth is now so obviously a false lead. Conscious effort, direction, and resilience are needed to be evolved; to grow to understand two truths can co-exist peacefully. With age I assumed we’d be secure enough to explore the past of our other half and admire their rise to power. After all, isn’t that where your power lies, within you? The power to stand in your own security and appreciate the road which delivered them to you. You’re only crumbling the foundation you’re meant to stand beside them on. You’re eroding the pillars of their soul.
Then again, maybe we are meant to shed our skin; after all, you’ve made it to the light. Maybe that’s an armor no longer suited for this battle. Maybe I’m just an armor no longer suitable for your battle.
Gestures deemed romantic are some of my favorite simple pleasures. Candle lit dinners. Roses for no reason. Holding hands. A slow dance to the perfect song. Moments typically reserved for an intimate pair. Moments I covet, but have shied away from because I’m not tied to a special someone.
Recently I was treated to an incredibly romantic dinner. It was a scrumptious home cooked meal accompanied by my choice of perfectly paired wine. The ambiance was soft and warm; crisp neutral tones were subdued by flickering candle light. White tinkle lights graced the branches of a simple, yet elegant Christmas tree. A delicate perfume aroma danced through the air perfectly accented by a hint of pine. Dinner was shared stretched across the couch, toe to toe, wine in hand sharing any thought that drifted through our conscious. The evening stretched on, snuggled on the couch sharing in the enjoyment of finding a new show to devour together. It ended with heartfelt hugs and warm hearts. An evening dripping in the definition of romantic. An evening I happened to share with one of my closest girlfriends. An evening that reminded me of a decision I had let fall by the wayside.
A few years ago, I had made an intentional decision to stop waiting for romance. I decided to let myself experience it whenever I was in the mood. I can’t quite remember what triggered the deliberate decision, but it hit me with instant clarity. I had a change of heart, a change in definition, and a change in perspective. What if I just started to do those sweet romantic gestures for friends? What if I began to plan the romantic outings I had always fantasized about and just invited the people I already cared for the most? What if instead of hoping to find a man to hold my hand, I just reached for a friends?
So I did. It brought me so much joy to make the people I love feel special and cared for. It was almost better than sharing it with a romantic interest. There’s certainty in the connections you share with friends. It’s a bond that won’t fade. They are memories that could last a lifetime without heartbreak hanging in the horizon.
For as long as I can recall, it’s always brought me joy to know the simple pleasures my friends hold. I remember moving into my first apartment with my teammates as roommates many years ago. I found so much joy in learning their Starbucks orders and randomly bringing them home as a surprise. I took pride in knowing that it was courteous to open the mirrored closet door when I went to bed so it wouldn’t reflect the morning sun into their eyes. My heart was full knowing the simplest things that added comfort and heart warming smiles to their lives. To this day I adore knowing how my friends receive love; I love having the key to an authentic smile.
Society may not deem these small gestures or candle lit dinners with friends romantic, but aren’t they? Can’t they excite feelings of “mystery and excitement associated with love”? Can’t they be classified as a “feeling of remoteness from everyday life”? Romance is something I’ve fantasized about since my youngest years. Growing up on Disney movies no doubt playing a heavy roll. I’ve always been able to get lost in my thoughts, gallivanting from candle lit dinners, to grand proposals. Even now, I day dream about the intimate gestures I could give and receive if I had a certain someone to call my own. It’s time to act on those fantasies and get back to the promise I made myself years ago. It’s time to steer my energy back towards loving those who are already in my life instead of waiting for prince charming to waltz in. Here’s to designing the life I want to live, even if it differs slightly from the fantasies that once filled my head. Cheers.
It’s always the same with him. The weeks of primping, getting myself in shape, and searching for the perfect outfit. My blonde hair is curled, which I know he doesn’t like, but for some reason this morning it made me feel sexy. I know he’s drawn to the more natural look on women, so I left the lashes at home and opted for a little eyeliner and mascara. It’s been a while since he’s seen me, and I can’t wait to watch his reaction when his eyes find my legs in skin tight black leggings. I’ve paired them with my sophisticated brown knee high boots, and a flowy deep green top. He has a love for motorcycles, so I’ve convinced myself he’s attracted to women in leather. For a little added confidence I’ve topped my outfit off with my favorite leather jacket and a white scarf.
Gosh, I can barely breathe. He makes me feel so desired and I haven’t even seen him yet. It’s been almost a year since we’ve been together. The anticipation has my heart racing, my palms sweating, and my cheeks stinging at the edges of a painfully big grin.
I see him. Finally. Our eyes are locked, a smile arising on his face. A big smile, his I adore you smile that makes his blue eyes light up. The tension within our stare is too strong; I have to break it and bashfully smile at my shoes for a moment.
As I look back up my walk turns into a trot, and soon enough I’m running into his arms. Learning my lesson from last time, I drop my bags before throwing my arms around him. A familiar feeling consumes me, my favorite feeling. His arms are wrapped around me and he’s pulling me closer every second. His hands are firm around my waist complimenting his soft breath against my neck. The world disappears and I am at home in his embrace.
After a few moments his hands slide to my hips and he gently pushes me away just enough so he can look me up and down.
“mmm-mmm-mmm” he smiles, like he just can’t get enough of what he’s seeing.
My cheeks turn a bashful pink and I giggle. Mostly because I am unable to contain the fireworks of excitement which are exploding inside me, but partially because I can’t fathom why he desires me so intensely.
His eyes find my lips and he leans in like he’s done so many times before. This is the moment I’ve been fantasizing about for months. I can’t believe it’s happening so soon. He usually lets the tension build for hours and then finally releases me. This is a delightful surprise.
He leans in slowly. His hand slides up my side making its way to my neck. My breath quickens in anticipation. We are almost nose to nose, and I can’t take my eyes off his lips. He looks up into my eyes, saying everything I’ve wanted to hear without ever uttering a word. He slyly bites his bottom lip, and I know he can’t resist me for much longer.
His thumb cradles my jaw, and he pulls my lips to his. It’s a simple soft, I adore you kiss. We relish in the moment for a few seconds. But it’s not enough, we are both at the brink, and need more. He dives in, kissing me harder, pulling me against him with the hand that has been gently resting on my hip until now. I’m a mess of emotion, my sudden need for his connection is overwhelming. His passion for me is overpowering. I’m finding it hard to keep my knees from buckling underneath me. As if he can read my mind, his hand swoops around my back, and I’m all his. His other hand moves to the nape of my neck, allowing his fingers to gently tug on my hair to pull me closer. Simultaneously he softly bites my bottom lip. He pulls away from me, letting his teeth linger on my lip, slowly pulling it towards him. You can hear our breath in the air. The small space between us is too much to bare, and his lips are quickly on mine once more. Our lips are entwined, emotions running wild, craving each other, completely lost in our own world. We’ve forgotten our surroundings and everyone who must be staring. Lost in passion, he’s all I need. In that moment, he’s my everything, and it’s ecstasy to have him back.
As we walk to the car, I know we won’t get very far before the need to kiss consumes us again.
At nineteen I moved away to college with a heavier load in my car than my parents could have ever imagined. My 05′ Nissan Altima backed out of their driveway piled high with my belongings, and an all consuming unspeakable truth; I was pregnant.
I was finally driving towards the dream I had been chasing for the previous eleven years. In a few short days, I would be stepping on the field in a Chico State Uniform as a collegiate athlete. A vision I had been curating in my head since I was nine years old. The euphoria was palpable. I just had one rather large hurdle standing in my way.
The decision to terminate the pregnancy was immediate. Prior to being intimate with one another, my partner and I had many conversations about what our intentions were and how we would handle the potential consequences that come with engaging in sexual activity. We weren’t in a serious or exclusive relationship, but we respected the potential risks enough to discuss them with open and honest communication. Throughout our relationship, we took the proper measures to prevent pregnancy, as our goal was to experience pleasure and deepen our connection, not to conceive. So, when we found out I was pregnant, the decision was a fairly straightforward one. We still took the time to consider our emotions as this was now a reality not a mere conversation of what ifs. We discussed our options, the roles we would play, and how they would affect our futures. Ultimately, any other course of action would’ve derailed my trajectory and that simply wasn’t an option for me. I had worked far too hard to let anything keep me from becoming a collegiate athlete, especially when I was so close to attaining it. Despite the access I had to support and resources, my mind was made. With the support of my partner, I had all the clarity I needed.
I went in for the procedure on a Friday morning. An experience I would describe as hellish. It was scary, emotionally uncomfortable, and incredibly painful. It’s a unique awkwardness to sit in the same waiting room with hopeful parents as you prepare for an abortion in your hometown. They allowed my partner to remain with me for most of the procedure, but instructed him to step out for the most graphic and painful part. It will always baffle me that they protected him from a potentially triggering visual, but forced me endure it alone without his support. The lengths they went to in an attempt to shield him instead of making my well-being the priority is quite honestly disgusting.
I spent the rest of the afternoon and following day gritting my teeth through almost unbearable cramps. Pain I was confident would result in my internal organs suctioning their way out of my body via my vagina. Despite the intense pain and orders from my doctor to avoid any strenuous activity, I was back to my scheduled programming within 48 hours. I was on a mission and I didn’t have time for a scenic detour. Sunday I drove back to college and by Tuesday I was on the field competing for a spot on the Chico State Softball team. I understood the risks, could feel the pain, but forged forward none the less. Nothing was more important to me than attaining my goal.
Carrying my pregnancy to term would have stolen eleven years worth of perseverance, hard work, and identity from me. It’s terrifying to think about the situation I would have been up against had I not had access to safe termination options. I was dead set on carrying out the life I had planned for myself. I would have gone to any length to keep that dream intact. I would have chosen abortion, legal or not. The emotional and physical trauma I would have had to endure without trusted options would have been crippling, and possibly deadly.
I’m proud of the decision I made for myself at that point in time. I’m impressed by my dedication, and the tunnel vision I had acquired to become a collegiate athlete. I see so much strength, intelligence, and self-awareness in how I moved through the entire process. I knew exactly who I was and what I wanted. Now, I’m 33, single and have no children. For all I know, my terminated pregnancy could end up being the only chance I get at motherhood. Still, If I could go back in time, I would make the same decision, over and over again.
I share this story as a child of adoption. I was put up for adoption by my birth mother when I was five days old and adopted into the family I now call my own. My existence would have never occurred if my birth mother had made the same decision I did. Even with that reality, I still full heartedly support her right to choose, and every other woman’s to do so.
Since the leak, my veins, my heart, and my mind have been racing with an array of fervid emotions. It has taken an immense amount of emotional strength to write this piece with clarity. I have intense opinions and vehement words surrounding this overturn. However, my purpose for this piece was to remind you that you love somebody who has had an abortion. In fact, you most likely admire, look up to, and respect someone who has had an abortion. I think it’s imperative to put an identity to the people these changes could impact. As humans, we tend to act with more empathy and understanding the closer the issue is to our personal reality.
“This (topic) comes with a million flavors of heaviness for a million different women in ways others can’t possibly imagine.” – Amanda Armstrong. (@amandaontherise, Instagram, May 6, 2022).
Disclaimer: Abortion is a type of healthcare and it should be normalized as so. I don’t believe anyone should have to explain their choice in order to make it more palatable, even though I chose to do so. This is my story, and my truth. I am not ashamed of it. I will not debate it or receive any negative commentary.
It’s been 8 years since I’ve been in a serious relationship. Eight years of first dates, exclusive relationships lasting a few months, and failed second chances. Eight years of feeling like no one is up to par, and rarely engaging enough to break my 9:00pm curfew. Eight years of feeling like I’ve been lenient enough in my standards to give people a real chance but simultaneously upholding my needs because I know my worth. Eight years of taking the blame because my standards are “too high”.
It’s also been eight years of standing in my own worth. Eight years of putting myself first and learning to love the uniqueness of my facets. Eights years of making my own plans and living on my own schedule. Eight years of taking care of all my own needs; independently developing the tools to self-sooth, regulate, and process the hardships that come with living. Eight years of tucking myself in, leaving the party solo, making the long drive alone, holding back my own hair, and autonomously managing all adult responsibilities. Eight years of turning to myself in the mirror to celebrate victories and to wipe away the tears. Eight years of leading the charge to create the life that keeps me fulfilled.
It’s hard to fathom how I can want something so desperately and be so content without it at the same time.
I’ve met three or four men who have held my attention for a few months or over several dates, however, that spark just hasn’t ignited. A spark that I don’t necessarily believe in. My days of religiously watching Married at First Sight has made me believe that relationships can take work, and for some couples it’s worth it. I also believe it should be easy, everything should just fall into place with proper communication and similar core values.
Instead of a spark, over time I develop a heavy weight deep in my chest. A feeling urging me to look inside myself and pay attention to my heart. To check in, and discover if I’m genuinely interested in him or simply the idea of him. An urge to ask myself if he truly adds value to my life and my being, or is it just comforting to have someone to cuddle with at night. I’m head over heels in love with the life I’ve created and the person I’ve grown into. Adding to its worth and mine is a tall order, but I full heartedly believe that I shouldn’t be settling for anything less than that.
It’s been eight years and hundreds of dates. At some point, you have to look the other way and ask, could it be me? Is my worth so tied to my independence that I can’t bear to part with even a sliver of it? Have I built my self worth so deeply into not settling that I don’t even allow myself to try? Do I land too far apart on the spectrum for anyone to balance? Is it impossible to give me what I need behind closed doors while allowing me to keep my independent persona in front of others? Are my walls too thick to be penetrated because I’ve been happy on my own for so long? Could it be the fear of settling itself that keeps me from giving anyone a true shot?
but then again…. maybe I just haven’t met you yet. 🙂
Paradox: “A seemingly absurd or self-contradictory statement or proposition that when investigated or explained may prove to be well founded or true”.
The paradox of my personality continues, this time as it relates to my experience with body image.
Do you ever separate your body from your experience? Are you able to experience the world and ignore the constraints of your skin while doing so? As I’ve grown older and wider, I’ve gained this fragile ability to separate my mental body image from the experience I’m having. It can be a shocking awakening when someone snaps a picture to capture the moment and I’m reminded of the vessel I’m experiencing this world through. To some, the idea of body image being so intimately intertwined to experience may be novel, but for most women this is an every day reality.
On the contrary, gathering information from conversations with friends has shown me my body image is opposite of most. Commonly, women tend to force an uglier perspective on their internal picture. With me however, in my head I’m 40 pounds lighter with longer, lighter hair, clear skin and flawless makeup. Catching myself in the mirror on a bathroom run can be a rude awakening. Even with that said, it’s not as morbid as it sounds. I don’t hate the reflection I see in the mirror; it’s simply not the one I have in my head.
Over the years, I’ve been told by mental health professionals that this paradoxical perspective I have is impossible; ashamed and confident can’t exist simultaneously. They probe and insist I need to look farther into the depths of my psyche to find my true emotions. However, this is my reality, both emotions simultaneously.
On the one hand, I’ve always loved the proportions of my body. I adore how womanly my curves are, especially unclad. I’m enamored with the thickness of my thighs and how they give way to slender calves. I’m obsessed with my silhouette, especially when adorned by tousled hair.
The faint morning light illuminates my silhouette as the towel gives way to my curves. The empowering vision ignites an endless internal dialogue of self love. Sexuality. Strength. Pride. Appreciation. Beauty. Tousled hair falls gracefully to caress my shoulders and frame my smile. My eyes twinkle as they catch the energy from my grin validating the self love. Sexuality. Strength. Pride. Appreciation. Beauty.
On the other, I despise the way I look in most styles. The majority of clothing is made for the “ideal body”; it isn’t tailored to accentuate the measurements of my unique curves. The designs tend to cut me off in the wrong places, changing the lines my body is meant to appear with.
As I sit with jeans jarring their way into my adorned belly button I’m plagued with a self-sabotaging internal monologue. Shame. Disgust. Anger. Embarrassment. Hate. My bra, worn from the load it carries, continually gives way sliding down my shoulders towards my elbows. Pressing on to finish the days duties, I can feel my neck crease with rolls, another provoking jab adding kindling to the flame. Shame. Disgust. Anger. Embarrassment. Hate.
I’m also aware that bodies my size aren’t always given the appreciation they deserve. They come with instant judgements of lazy and weak. A snap shot that dismisses the athleticism that allows me to spend my weekends on boards and the greatest memories of my life as a collegiate athlete.
It’s fascinating how much I believe my weight takes up residency in other peoples psyche, like they spend all of our time together repeating the dimensions of my body as we make memories. I logically know how preposterous this is because their body hardly registers in my consciousness. I see their heart, intelligence, humor, interests and our history when I view them. I see them as whole with the highlights of their appearance that I love; their eyes, hearty smile, or dimples.
Naturally, there is the trap of comparison as I notice their dress falling gently over their hips as mine strains not to bust a seem. I notice they can wear shirts with deep v’s and not look scandalous while I’m stuck appearing as if I’m begging for sexual attention… from anyone. I’m envious of their skin tone, and how it compliments playful colors, while I feel constrained to neutrals.
Could this paradox be the result of growing up with catholic values, a household where sexuality and pleasure weren’t celebrated, to say the least? Do I bring that shame into the depiction of myself? Secretly loving my voluptuous build, but associating it with aspects of a person that aren’t valued. Is it the toxic media I grew up with as a teen, depicting personally unattainable body ideals in popular fashions? Is it the disgusting obsession of our society that places a women’s appearance as their most important asset? Is it the commonly shared view point that voluptuous and classy are conflicting ideas, subconsciously teaching me to love my body behind closed doors, but loathe what it portrays in clothing?
It’s a whirlwind of thought.
Maybe, I truly do love my body and all it allows me to do, but the constant fighting of societal ideals sometimes erodes my confidence leaving a trace of doubt in its wake.
As my 33rd birthday inches closer, I’m reminded to reflect on how much I’ve grown and where that’s led me to. The most coveted part about growing older is the depths my relationships have taken on over the years. They are dynamic and sometimes difficult, but ultimately beautiful.
Those who know me well, understand and accept that on a typical scale I register on the needy end. A word that in the past made me cringe. A trait I tried so desperately to hide through my twenties. A mere shell of the “gooey” human I am today. It’s true though, and I can now stand in its power. I need a lot of validation from my relationships. I need it from my friendships, family relationships, and intimate relationships. Connection is a core value in my soul and a pillar to my happiness. It’s what makes my life worth living.
I adore the way those I’m close to fill my emotional tank with love. A day rarely passes without a random “I miss you” or “I love you” message scrolling onto my home screen. My heart explodes knowing I have an open invitation to the occasion no matter what’s on the agenda. A reminder that I am always welcome and escalate the experience for those around me. I cherish spontaneous Venmo’s for $10 with instructions to treat myself to a coffee. My heart swells, spending quality time filled with meaningful conversations, our phones tucked away, out of sight. It’s the, “just checking in” phone call to ensure I’m making it through okay. The simple response to a message, even if it’s days later. It’s reaching out to me for help, unknowingly validating my strengths. It’s a 10 minute transition warning followed by an “I made it home” text.
In reflection, I can see why this need developed so strongly over the years. I grew up traveling the state and country playing competitive softball with the one day dream of becoming a collegiate athlete. I had dozens of people surrounding me taking stake in my potential. My self-worth was consistently validated as I was needed as a player, a teammate, and a friend. I had coaches, teammates, and parents doting on my every move; supporting me, challenging me, and pushing me towards my goals. I was taking part in something bigger than myself that counted on me. As I got older this reliance only intensified, not only was I a teammate socially and competitively but we grew into family. We lived together. We spent most of our waking minutes together chasing the same dream we had as kids. There were dozens of tiny moments each day that validated my worth. Seeing my name in the starting line up, hearing an “I believe in you” from a teammate, getting a “Job well done” from a coach, helping a teammate study for an upcoming test, and having a designated “throwing partner”. The list goes on. I was surrounded by people who understood my worth and valued it. They relied on it. They relied on me; I relied on them.
These relationships were unique; relationships without a fitting word to describe their depth. Our worlds were so intertwined. We shared so many roles in each other’s lives which allowed us to see and value a variety of characteristics. We got to see each other frustrated, on the brink of failure. We got to see the vulnerable moments when we missed home, but pushed forward anyway. We got to watch each other push through physical limits to reach a goal. We showed up for each other first thing in the morning and we stayed together long into the night. We saw each other at the tipping point, stressed and cramming for a final. We saw each other fail. We saw each other in pain. We also got to celebrate together when we finally tasted victory. We had the opportunity to see each other’s intelligence on full display in the classroom. We watched each other pursue laughs and love. We saw each other in the best of times, the worst of times, and all the times in between. The vastness in this perspective paired with a common goal gave way to an indescribable bond that further validated my self worth.
In my experience as an adult it’s rare to have worlds that are so intertwined. My life is now more segregated. My colleagues have the opportunity to see my demeanor with children, intelligence, and ability to collaborate. My friends hear of these things, but don’t get to witness it first hand. They see the social instigator, the fearless adventurer, and the caring friend. My worlds don’t seamlessly collide like they used to, therefore it takes conscious effort to create deep connections. I feel so incredibly lucky and proud to have found and created the support system I have. The “You’re doing great sweetie” and “Just a reminder that I’m not mad at you” texts will forever fill my soul. They are a reminder of the conscious decision we make to have the hard conversations and ensure our relationships are meeting both needs. Thank you for loving me so endlessly. The grass really is greener where you water it; my little patch is thriving.
Just joining me? Be sure to read part 1 of this blog here: Being an Extrovert in the COVID19 Nightmare.
4.20.2020 Relying on False Hope: It’s amazing how much our experience in the present is dependent on our view of the future. Sometimes I find myself, dare I say it, enjoying the lull of quarantine. Reciting mantras of this being temporary, recognizing the uniqueness of the experience, and dreaming about the festive reunions that are to come are my buoyancy. Blindly fantasizing about summer outings and a classroom filled with children in the fall makes room for gratitude in these still days. Fogging the awareness of reality with false hope supplies me the resources to cope. I have the tools to emotionally tackle one month of quarantine at a time. Trying to process the possibility of this being reality for months, or dare I say a year, is too bleak. I’ve found comfort in false hope. The teacher in me is praising this thoughtful use of the chunking strategy.
4.25.2020 Mourning Butter and Eggs: You should be here. We should have fresh manicures, and even a slight hangover from the excitement of our reunion last night. I should be neck deep in self-tanner and mimosa’s, panicking about the outfit I’ve had set aside for the last month. We should be blaring music through the backroads on the way to my parents house, giddy with anticipation for the days festivities. We should be playing 3 flies up with champagne corks and competing in slosh ball before we make the trek to the epicenter of the parade. There should be pictures, and smiles, and priceless father-daughter laughs. About this time we should be melting in a beer garden, inviting strangers into our circle for the days adventures. We should be galavanting around the city exchanging high fives, hugs, and greetings as we search of our next refreshment.
The weight of what could have been is heavy today. It’s created an uneasy rhythm that I can’t find the beat to. Nothing I do seems to fit my mood; I’m wading through conversations and activities only to find myself unfulfilled.
5.2.2020 SIP extended. Sonoma County residents may walk or bike from home to nearby parks for walking, hiking, jogging, and biking. You must stay 6 feet away from people who are not members of your household and must wear a facial covering when you cannot keep that distance. 122 active cases, 2 deaths, 128 recovered in Sonoma county.
5.5.2009 Taco-pocolypse: I simply wanted to document the hilarity of the instant change in alcohol delivery laws due to SIP. In the 1920’s alcohol was prohibited, in 2020, alcohol is considered an essential need during a pandemic. (No complaints here.) Need margaritas for Cinco de Mayo? No problem, they’ll be at your door in 25-30 minutes. Well, except when celebrating Cinco de Mayo during quarantine. The holiday created what local foodies called, a “tacopocolypse”. It seems that everyone was looking for a reason to have a fiesta. Local restaurants were slammed with curbside and delivery orders; two hour waits for every Mexican restaurant in town!
5.7.2020 122 active cases, 4 deaths, 167 recovered in Sonoma county.
5.9.2020 Quaran-dating Welp, I hopped back into the dating pool. I fired up my Bumble account and went hunting. I stumbled upon a handsome gentlemen with similar interests who was willing to abide by the shelter in place orders as we got to know each other. (A rare gem). Our first two FaceTime dates lasted hours. The conversation was endless; we could have talked long into the evening. Our conversation found depth quickly; we found ourselves solely focused on one another with the void of a bustling restaurant. We found connections on levels one wouldn’t expect to divulge on a first date. It was a refreshing remix to the banter that typically ensues on a first encounter. Another silver lining to the ways of life in quarantine.
5.11.2020 Walking the town: My favorite perk of quarantine is the extra time I have to go on long morning walks with my coworker. We spend hours touring the town, seeking out new neighbors to walk through, and ally ways to explore. We zig zag through block after block of homes, analyzing the decor and making hypothetical changes. It’s incredible the new things you notice on each house even after you’ve passed it everyday for two months.
On one of our weekend walks we came across a house with beautiful woodworkings laid across the front lawn. Tables, chairs, stools, benches, and corn hole sets all intricately handmade from pieces of wine barrels. A sign proudly declared it was a quarantine project and everything was for sale. I instantly fell in love with the corn hole set. It had such character with the spout hole from the original barrel in the center of the board. He even installed lights underneath the scoring hole so games could be enjoyed at night. They now happily live in my backyard underneath our new string lights. If we can’t go to The Block for beer, we decided to bring The Block to us.
5.15.2020 Physically distanced dating: The ease of conversation lead us to meet up for an appropriately distanced date. We walked to town for a curbside cocktail, meandered back and enjoyed a few games of corn hole in the backyard. To my surprise, the virtual chemistry we curated didn’t carry over to our in person rendezvous. It’s hard to decipher what the cause for lack of chemistry was. Could it be we created a false intimacy via FaceTime and weren’t able to match it with any physical intimacy due to the circumstances? Could the physical distancing simply be weighing on me psychologically? Logically I understand the distance, but emotionally I think it might subconsciously cause me to be less interested. Maybe it’s simply the stresses of quarantine that make me less available to a romantic interest. The lack of chemistry isn’t exactly a deal breaker, I’m game to try again, but the stark contrast between our connections was unexpected.
5.22.2020 Stage 2 of re-opening. Restaurants open for outdoor dining. 256 active cases, 4 deaths, 207 recovered in Sonoma county.
5.23.2020 Dare I say thriving?: I recognize my privilege to even utter the thought that I’m thriving in quarantine. I couldn’t be more grateful to still have a job, life’s necessities, and access to those I love. Speaking strictly of my mental health however, I am thriving in quarantine.
I’ve come to love the lull of my new routine. The time I can dedicate to my favorite form of exercise, walking, has exponentially changed my perspective on SIP and life in general. I adore the hours I get to spend chatting with a coworker and meandering the streets of this beautiful town I live in. I have found the time to make the things I need a priority. I have always struggled with balance, for many reasons, but a few those are my addictive personality and my love for being around people. I often get stuck in over indulging in a particular past time because I come at it with so much passion, a typical Aries trait. I crave connections, so when offered an invitation, I almost always say yes, despite my possible need for something more introverted. I hold social connections at such high value that I often neglect my needs and pile my plate with a surfeit of social gatherings. During shelter in place those opportunities cease to exist, so naturally I’ve been filling my tank with the things I love to do. I’ve gotten to spend hours writing without distraction; forming pieces over consecutive days, a luxury I didn’t know pre-Corona. It takes time to acquire the mind space needed to write; I have to consciously leave my daily routine thoughts and drive into an area that is more creative, vulnerable, and still. It has been a treat to have this time without feeling like I’m missing out on something else. I’ve finished three books over the past two months, quite the feat for myself. I’m a distracted reader who tends to bounce from book to book; quarantine gave me the time to sit and read for uninterrupted hours. I even finished an entire book in one day, an experience I should have had on my bucket list. I’m no longer frantically scheduling zoom hangouts to ensure that each moment of my day is filled with connection. In fact, besides my duties at work, I’m only participating in one social zoom hangout a week. (Thank you trivia team! I would not be able to run virtual trivia without your energy. It is SO draining to entertain without you!)
5.29.2020 Privilege: I had every intention of posting this portion of my blog this week. However, with the murder of George Floyd it seems superfluous to be sharing my SIP experiences. This seems like the perfect ending point; it’s time to put my energy towards recognizing my privilege, becoming an anti-racist, and joining the movement for the change. I hope you do the same.
You know what’s exhausting? The sigh filled replies I receive after divulging, “I don’t think I’m interested in seeing him again”. It’s always the same: “Give it more time”, “Give him a break”, or “You’re just too picky”. I know their sentiments mean well, but haven’t I earned the respect to trust my own gut? After all, it is my heart and my future experiences that are on the line in this circumstance; there’s no better judge of whose worthy of those things than myself.
Some may label me as a “serial dater”, however I simply strive to put my best foot forward in finding my other half. Going on weekly dates has been my path of choice to do so; with tools like Bumble at our fingertips it’s fairly easy to connect and test out the waters with potential suitors. I have been single for the past six years. Except for the short lived relationship I explored last summer. A relationship which honestly was driven by the unspoken pressure of those aforementioned sigh filled responses. (Sorry 2.0, if you’re reading this, although the allure was present, you and I both know we were on two opposite ends of a teeter totter without hope of finding level ground). Over those several years I would assume I’ve tallied up around 100 first dates, along with a hand full of seconds and thirds. I’ve done the research, I’ve analyzed the data and sometimes, most of the time, the chemistry just isn’t there. There’s something to be said about trusting your gut. That little voice in your head, the tiny tinge in your stomach that keeps whispering, “this isn’t it”. Once it starts, it only grows louder accumulating evidence.
Could I occasionally use a nudge to overcome a subpar first date? Sure. But contradicting my analysis after every single date is tiresome. It’s more of a judgement on my character than that of the man in question. It’s as if being single for an extended period of time correlates to a flaw in my character. So much so that I’m blamed for my lack of interest. Suggesting I need to give it more time, I need to give him a break, or I’m too picky. I don’t want to give him a break, and I shouldn’t have to. I’m not going to click with every person I date, and every person I date isn’t worthy of my time; it’s just not how it works.
So please, for me, and all the other single and searching girls out there, stop reacting to our disinterest in ways that discredit our worth. Maybe I’m just not that into him and that’s completely okay.
Baring it all 