Posts Tagged ‘expectation’

That Uncomfortable Feeling

August 2, 2016

When a stranger walks into your house.

I was like what the fuck?

Is there actually someone coming into my room?

Ah.

The housemate has a guest.

Apparently a nosey guest.

Not exactly how I wanted to find out.

None the less, pretty much the cap on a long strange day.

I got up early to go to work early to let in the housekeeper, the family is away, but there was still plenty on the list for me to do.

Granted.

It’s a lot easier to get shit done when the family is away.

It’s just hella odd.

I realized as I was changing the bedding in the boys rooms, that I have never done house work for a family when they weren’t there.

Either they were there and I was nannying.

Or they were not there, as in vacationing or out of town and I was not there.

It’s a different dynamic and sometimes I find myself taking it for granted and sometimes, well, it’s just fucking weird.

Today it felt weird.

Then again.

Everything feels a little helter skelter right now.

There is a lot happening.

Mostly in my brain.

My brain is a hotbed of activity right now, it won’t turn off.

I also had odd pockets of time today, that did not help, then again, I suppose they did not hinder either.

I found myself having coffee “on the clock” at Ritual while the laundry was working there was not really anything for me to do until it was finished, so I grabbed a coffee at the cafe and worked on my spending plan for August.

Meaning.

I worked on not being in financial insecurity.

I mean.

There’s fear.

There’s always fear.

And I always walk through it.

Sometimes gracefully, sometimes haltingly and stumbling along like a fucking idiot.

But.

I have never been dropped.

And I won’t now.

And I have the money to do that thing in the desert, even though it’s cost a lot more than I have ever spent on it.

I keep telling myself.

I get to go.

I get to go.

I get to go.

And I get to go a little early so I will actually have four and a half days on playa.

Things are falling together as well.

They are.

I have my tent, my camp chair, I got my old quilt from a girlfriend who had it for a while and whom I haven’t seen in so long, it’s rather stupid.

I have my tent.

I am going to give it a shot at getting set up either tomorrow or Wednesday.

Maybe Thursday.

Oh.

Fuck.

I’m nattering on.

I’m nervous about a lunch date I have tomorrow.

I literally had the thought today that I don’t have the right shoes.

Who is this person?

Fuck.

This guy has seen me around.

For a long time.

Like eleven and a half fucking years, the man knows I wear Converse.

Ack.

My brain, on fire.

Put it out.

I don’t have the right clothes either, fyi, that’s already been decided.

Thanks for sharing brain, really.

I have no idea where we’re going for lunch, but I live in the Outer Sunset, it’s not like we going to some fine dining gig on a Tuesday at noon.

Not that I think we’re going to Mickey D’s either.

I have been on a few dates with said gentleman, a few years ago, before I moved to Paris, and the odds are actually not that unusual that he would take me to a nice place.

He’s got good taste.

Chez Spencer before it burned down.

Flour and Water.

Which he was a little abashed to bring me to when he found out I don’t eat flour (or sugar).

I joked it wasn’t like he took me to Vodka and Cocaine.

Heh.

Oh.

Yes.

Also, La Ciccia, which was fantastic.

Plum in Oakland.

Anyway.

So it may be a fancier place, but it doesn’t matter.

I mean.

My brain will try to make it like it does matter.

But really.

All I’m thinking about is.

What will go with the cute sandals I got in New Orleans?

And.

Will he kiss me?

Or is this just a let’s catch up and see how the other person is doing?

But um, Facecrack says he’s single and I’m single and we’ve kissed before and.

Jesus fuck.

I am blushing.

That can stop.

I’ll probably get up and go to yoga so I can calm the fuck down.

Expectations lead to resentment.

I have no expectations.

Yes, some nerves, but really, that’s just that good old mind fuck that says I’m not enough and don’t have the right hair, I mean, um, it’s pink, heh, or the right shoes, I do love my Converse, or the right clothes, I have scads of cute dresses, I just have this idiotic idea that I have to look a certain way for a certain type of guy.

I have too many tattoos.

Actually I have just enough.

Well.

I could use another, who am I fooling?

Really in the end, there is nothing wrong.

I’m excited.

I want to look pretty.

And it will be good to catch up.

I am curious to see what his intentions are though.

I won’t lie.

But regardless, I can comport myself with some decorum.

Unless I’m laughing, then all decorum bets off.

Or.

Well.

I’m just not going to pursue that line of thought.

All the other dates I thought might coalesce this week have not confirmed.

I’m going where the water is warm.

Or.

At least interested.

Or.

Just letting me know there’s a date.

The date got confirmed.

That’s a start.

I’m going to have fun.

I am going to dress how I like to dress.

For me.

Wear my hair the way I like it.

Sing my song of myself.

It’s a good song.

Sexy like.

I get to go on a date.

Fun.

This is fun!

Duh.

I get to do this.

Nerves or not.

I’ll look cute and have an adventure.

Promise to tell  you all about it.

Well.

Maybe.

Heh.

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Retail Therapy

January 25, 2015

I got me some.

And now, like a good therapy session, I am all tuckered out from the effort of being present and in my body.

A body that I still don’t always see that well and when I am thinking it’s a fat body, it’s time to stop the shopping.

Size eleven is not fat.

In case you were wondering.

“Why aren’t I a size ten?” My brain started questioning my blue jean choices, and when I go there I can go there quick.

I did pretty well before the blue jeans began to be too much and I had to call it a day.

I actually may have found a pair but I was too tired and starting to second guess myself.  I need to enlist a girl friend to go jean shopping.  I am not good on my own.  In fact, it was suggested to me that I either go future clothes shopping with a friend or enlist a salesperson.

That, helping customers fit into their clothes, is apparently one of their jobs.

Who knew.

I started off the shopping with a bang and a special treat for me.

I went to Chanel on Maiden Lane and bought my signature scent–Egoiste–I have not had it for the last month, having run out around my birthday.

I had some expectation that I might get perfume as a gift from someone, but uh, that didn’t happen.

And like the flowers I eventually bought myself, I bought myself perfume today.

I don’t have to wait for a partner to treat me well, not that my ex didn’t treat me well, he absolutely did, but there were things that I didn’t get myself for a moment when I had expectations around the holidays.

Expectation.

Leads to resentment.

Oh my yes.

And I can expect idiotic things too, I realize this all the time.

Like, oh, this is rich, I should be going to graduate school to get a literature degree or a Masters in Creative Writing.

Despite the fact that all the programs that I have applied to turned me down.

I still have this antiquated idea that I am supposed to be doing this thing where I write, make gang loads of money, and I don’t know do something with the English Literature degree I got as an undergraduate.

As though the benefits of studying have to pay off monetarily.

As if it wasn’t enough that it was through studying TS Eliot and Shakespeare, and yes, Tolkien, that I rediscovered God and went from being an atheist/agnostic, to believing in God.

Something that was very helpful to me when I got sober.

And continues to be helpful to me.

But no, I got that degree with the intention of becoming a writer.

Oh.

Wait.

I am a writer.

But, it doesn’t look like how I think it should look.

Neither do those jeans, but hey, you’re not fat either.

Aside.

Even after nearly five years of maintaining an over 80 pound weight loss, I still gravitate to the plus size clothes section and got excited when I walked into H & M and saw that they now have a plus size section.

Hey lady.

Snap out of it.

I am not a size 26 anymore.

I am a size 11.

Which is not the size 10 I eventually got down to, but wasn’t able to really sustain without restricting more than I should considering my energy levels, body type, and the amount of bicycling I do.

End aside.

I shared these thoughts around graduate school today with someone before heading out into the wilds of San Francisco shopping (which were wild, I had no idea that there was going to be a protest downtown or that the streets were torn up with construction projects).

I told her that I was beating myself up for applying to program that had nothing to do with my writing or my literature degree and that I was still holding out on the idea that I would be making it as a writer.

Famous.

Rich.

Worldly.

As though I am not already.

Famous in my own mind.

Rich in love.

Worldly in my travels and experiences.

The perspective is just different.

She laughed at me when it all finally came out, and pointed out to me how important words are to a therapist, the words behind the words, the language that is being spoken, the things that people say when they aren’t actually saying anything, how important that communication is and understanding of language are to a good therapist.

Well duh.

I had not seen it that way and I was astounded by how spot on she was.

Of course!

My gift for language will be used and used better than any of the silly fatuous fantasy I have of what it means to be a writer.

She also pointed out that I am not actually great at being isolated and that perhaps I don’t want to have a career that is so focused on being alone without distractions.

Another great point.

And then, the ringer, how much I can be of service.

She told me things that I don’t see often in myself because I have this idea of who I am that does not always match up to who I am.

I’m getting better at it.

I am.

And I was able to leave Tart to Tart with a smile on my face and be ready to tackle the shopping.

Which I did with gleeful abandon until I was done.

I actually did really well.

Two pairs of shoes, one pair of black leggings, new earrings, new makeup, new hair clips, a new skirt, a new sweater, a new bra, a tank top, a baseball jersey, and a new jean jacket.

Plus the perfume.

In total I shopped and bought at nine different stores and went into at least another six or seven others.

I went to Chanel, Macy’s, Nordstrom’s, Nordstrom Rack, H & M, Urban Outfitters, the Westfield Mall, Zara, Banana Republic, Gap, Anthropology, Claire’s, and Beauty Lands.

No wonder I am tuckered out.

I don’t do this very often and next time I do have to go with a girlfriend for some body perspective, but I can give myself a pat on the back for doing the deal and taking care of myself.

Even if I didn’t find the perfect jeans.

I still found what I need.

The metaphor for my life.

I may not get what I want.

But what I am given is always.

ALWAYS.

Beyond my wildest dreams.

 

Wide Awake

November 1, 2014

I knew I was going into dangerous territory and I did it anyway.

I had an energy drink.

I cannot recall the last time I had one, granted it was sugar-free, I am still rocking that no sugar thing, but it was highly caffeinated.

More so than I have been in some time and I should be in bed, should be sleeping, should be making out, should be doing something.

However, I have been dropped off and left to my own devices.

Which is fine.

Strange.

Not exactly how I thought tonight would end, but not uncomfortable, just curious.

Things don’t have to go the way I think they should or might for them to be exactly perfect.

Tonight was exactly perfect.

Meaning everything happened for a reason.

Everything didn’t happen for a reason.

There was some awkwardness tonight on the date, and it could have been any number of reasons, being out in a large group of people, it’s Halloween, we are seeing each other for the third time in one week, expectations, who knows.

There was a lack of connection, a wall went up, and I wondered, what did I do wrong?

Then I realized, what ever is happening, or again, not quite happening, almost, but the reservation, the distraction, it wasn’t something I was doing, it was just what it was.

Life.

Dating.

Humanity.

It was quiet.

It was restrained.

There was a space, and better, better described, there was a space between, although, again, the drawing in, that weakening at times.

I actually wished we were alone to just keep being around one another.

I felt awkward and I realize that a lot of that had to do with the venue, a big dance party with a lot of people is challenging, and we are new at being around one another.

I also recognized something tonight that I was already doing without realizing it, not taking action around dating in general, more than one person, I was told to get out there with a bunch of guys.

Not mess around so much, but date more than one person.

It’s been a one person week.

And maybe that’s too much focus on one man.

Although I cannot fathom kissing anyone else.

Riding home tonight there was a lot of silence.

I didn’t feel uncomfortable with it, curious, but not so much so that I felt I needed to plumb some psychological depths, not my place, not my desire.

Quiet time, a quiet moment, can be just as loud as a brisk conversation, much can be said.

I felt finally drawn in as we drifted down Lincoln Ave, hand in hand, my head on his shoulder, watching the sky flash by, the tree tops, the bottoms of the clouds glazed with light from the street lamps, a scrap of cloud, the moon smothered behind low clouds dropping into the horizon.

There is a magnetism I feel with this man, and also a push a way, a step back, a pausing that I was standing still for, waiting to see what would happen.

I want more.

I need more time.

Time to sit.

Time to hold hands.

I already know I want to sleep with him, that I don’t feel is the question, it’s the space between.

The languor in my skin and the tightening of muscles in my arms, the electric pull, where there are no thoughts or doubts, just connection.

And if there is not space for that, then there shouldn’t be space for anything further.

I should pause.

Let the room breathe, let myself breathe, move easy, thick, honey slow, open up, see what is unfolding, make no judgements or myself, my process, of the learning that is happening.

“You go on dates to learn,” he told me. “Not about him, but about you.”

What have I learned?

That this thing is hard.

That being drawn to someone is real and illusive all at the same time.

Raw and intimate.

And then distant and distracted.

I cannot know another’s thoughts or desires and I am learning what mine are.

I want to be wanted.

I can see that.

I want to be beautiful and desired.

What woman does not?

I want to be with a partner.

I don’t want to write that.

It feels like a jinx.

But that’s what I went into the bathroom to pray for, direction, guidance, how to show up for him and be of service to the situation.

I wasn’t sure I even needed to pee when I went to the bathroom, but I felt confused and needed to just take a moment and breathe and sit quietly and ask for direction.

How do I show up and be myself and not push for something more than is available?

How do I bring without taking or expecting.

I surrender.

I had a wonderful date.

It really was good.

Don’t let me fool you into thinking that I didn’t have an awesome time.

It was just different from I expected and that’s ok.

I don’t need to figure it out.

I danced.

I laughed.

I had some wonderful food and saw friends that I don’t get to see very often.

I held hands and kissed a man I am deeply attracted to.

There was more silence than I expected, but that doesn’t mean things weren’t communicated.

Things were.

I understand.

And there is nowhere to go, no conclusion to have, no outcome to be forced.

I spent time with someone I like, at the end of the day, at the end of the song when there is just the final note fading off, a reverberation of feeling, my head on his shoulder, holding hands, driving down Lincoln Avenue with the wash of deep indigo sky and the ragged black of eucalyptus trees swaying in the air blowing by.

There was intimacy.

Touch.

Contact.

And that is rare.

Uncommon.

Fine.

I don’t need to ask for more than that.

Even when I wanted more kisses at the end of the night.

There is something to be said for leaving wanting more.

And I have a feeling.

More will be revealed.

It usually is.

 

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October 27, 2014

Butterflies in my stomach.

I just got off the phone with the gentleman I was supposed to have coffee with today.

He had to retract the offer, it turned out to not be a good day for meeting up.

That’s two Sunday’s in a row now I have been cancelled on.  However, I don’t believe I will get stood up tomorrow, we rescheduled.

I wasn’t also stood up, it was more like, we should do coffee soon and we tried to make today work on short notice.

So tomorrow we will meet up for real, no coffee, but tea.

You know when you like a guy?

Or, excuse me, I, you know when I like a guy?

When I wash my hair.

Yeah, crazy that.

But no really.

My hair is kind of a big deal, literally–I have a lot of it, and it’s a hassle to deal with, although I love it greatly and don’t mind when the occasion calls for it to do something special.

In preparation for what I thought would be our first coffee date, I washed my hair, which means I shampoo’ed it, now I do that about once a week or so, maybe every week and a half, shampooing it is a huge pain and it wreaks havoc with it.

But.

Oh.

It’s so soft when I do.

And I took the time to air dry it.

That’s when I know I like a guy, when I air dry my hair.

It means I want him to touch it, because I take the time to let it dry naturally, which takes about oh, two hours to get it fully dry.  Two hours from wash to dry.  That’s a commitment, plus I pampered the fuck out of it–coconut hair mousse while it was starting to dry and finished with French Aragon hair oil.

This means nothing to you.

Unless you plunge your hands in the hair.

I looked like a wonton siren today roaming the beach as the wind blew my hair this way and that, it was windy down there, but my, the hair felt so good.

Ha.

Even though said date was unable to make today work, I don’t feel like the effort was wasted.

There’s nothing quite so satisfying as feeling sexy for oneself and I took care of that too, ahem.

I’m kind of like a guy that way, I figured better satisfying the itch before the fellow and I meet, I don’t need to dry hump his leg the first time we hang out.

Perhaps I am being a bit over the top here, but I did acknowledged to him while we were talking on the phone this evening that I might have pounced on him last night.

Not that he was complaining.

I saw him on campus and a mutual friend of ours introduced us, there was some spark immediately.  I probably spent too much time last night trying to look like I wasn’t looking.

But I was.

After an hour had passed and some hand holding, not with him, I might have fallen over, I now think, I thought to myself, you are making a move, lady pants, get on it.

Plus, I felt obliged as I outed myself and my intentions to have a date a week lined up–when I make a commitment I want to stick with it.

Not to find the one.

There is no One.

I am the one, but to date, to get out there, to not hide my light under a bushel, to share myself with another, to go out, leap, fly, blindly perhaps, but leaping knowing I will be caught.

Because that’s what I am realizing more and more, I am good at, taking risks, leaping, living.

I have developed faith.

So I leapt.

Well.

Let me be honest.

I was rather dragged, I don’t know that leaping is the right adjective for the feeling.

I have not felt this kind of pull before.

I went to the bathroom to collect myself and pee, because, well, frankly I didn’t want to be distracted by my bladder when I made my move.

I didn’t spend time hiding in the loo, though, I did the business, washed the paws and got out there.

Where’d he go.

I scanned the room.

I saw our friend.

Then.

I saw him.

Standing alone nibbling on a sugar cookie.

Mind if I nibble on you?

I strode across the floor.

It felt, in hindsight, like I was being pulled, that’s the best way I can put it, it felt like a magnet drawing me.

I don’t remember exactly what I said, I was a little distracted by the blue eyes, a lot, but it went something like this: “I have to say this before I lose my nerve, I find your really attractive and,” I think I laughed here, “I don’t even know if you’re single, but if you are and you want to hang out sometime, I would love to get a coffee with you.”

“Yes, I am and yes, I would, you’re hot,” he said.

I think that’s what he said.

I remember the “you’re hot,” part.

What girl doesn’t want to hear that?

“I’ve noticed you around before and I have to say that you’re yourself, you’re authentic, and that’s super sexy.” He said to me when we talked this evening.

Wait.

Say that again.

Ah.

Actually, you don’t need to.

I know that I am my best self when I am being myself and that when the time was right the time would be right.

The time is right.

“I have to say this and I’m probably jumping the gun, but, let’s go slow,” he said.

Yes.

I actually do know what you mean and I agree.

There’s nowhere I need to be immediately, I don’t have plans for you.

Well.

Ok.

I lie a little.

I really do want to kiss you.

But.

We both know that.

“I don’t know how long it’s been since I have felt that,” I said to him, acknowledging the very powerful and immediate chemistry we both owned up to.

He sent me a text re that.

And that’s private for me only folks, I get to keep some of this to myself.

I am like a greedy girl with secret treasure hoarding it all to myself.

But it was a snap, a spark, an electric pop, blue lighting, blue like his eyes.

“I felt zapped,” I said.

And I did.

Zoom zip and I wake up, zoooooom zip.

Hit by lighting and left a bit light-headed and light-hearted.

And unlike my date who forgot we had a date last week, said gentleman, Mister Blue Eyes, did not forget and we rescheduled.

For somewhere safe and public.

For tea tomorrow after I get done with work.

I won’t have time to rewash the hair.

But you know, I venture it will still be lively.

I expect it to stand on end when I see him.

God only knows what it will do if he kisses me.

Hair updates to follow.

Ha!

 

 

 

Get Messy

January 5, 2014

She told me today.

Stop trying to be perfect.

Work on acceptance, read this one story here.

Write about what I want other people to think of me.

What?

No.

I don’t want to write about that.

Then write about what I want to get from them, what I want them to do, how do I want to look and what is my idea of who I am.

I tell you what, none of these are my idea of fun.

Fuck me.

However, I am ever willing to do the work.

Even when it means re-applying the eye make up and getting vulnerable.

Even when it means showing up to get hurt.

I am going to fail, you are going to fail me, no one is perfect, which means I don’t have to be perfect and if I want to be in an intimate relationship there’s going to be pain.

“I am willing to get hurt,” I said, and something shifted.

Holy shit.

I am willing to get hurt.

I mean I get hurt all the time, I go through pain, things happen, life shows up, people are not who I think they should be, I get expectations, and then something completely weird happens.

I just don’t know that I have been in a place before in my life or my recovery where I was able to vocalize that, I am willing to get hurt.

Most of the time I am working pretty hard to not get hurt, to not connect, to stay safe by playing it safe.

I say I want intimacy, then I run the other way, I get a little, A LOT, scared, then I don’t want to deal with it.

Today, for whatever reason I was able to say it and mean it and it went from head to heart to gut.

Now to get messy.

Not quite certain how that looks, but I feel like it means living and trying and making mistakes and yup doing things differently.

Maybe it’s time to try a new direction with my writing.

For instance.

Get me out of my shell a little.

Writing on one hand connects me with myself, a creative force, and with others, especially when I blog.

Yet, I am completely by myself when I am doing it.

I am alone.

Aside–pet peeve–“Yeah, I know, I read your blog.”

I am not my blog.

It has my voice and there is loads of me here, but I am more than the sum of these words and there are some things I don’t write about, or can’t write about, or frankly don’t care to write about.

I am more than this summation of ideas and images.

Oh, it’s all me, but it’s not all of me.

Social media creates a false idea of connectedness wherein we are all in our rooms peering into the well crafted lives of others on facebook and okcupid and tumbler and twitter and linkedin and whatever else that we do tweeting and poking and posting and liking and commenting.

However, despite knowing what you posted last night on your facebook feed, nice pix of your cat, FYI, I haven’t actually seen you since before I left for Paris, which was over a year ago, and you don’t actually know what’s going on in my life.

Nor I in yours.

Oh, I get a little peek, but I don’t get you and you don’t get me.

What was suggested to me was to check out The Moth, a storytelling event that arose out of New York and is now happening here in San Francisco, where basically you tell true stories out of your life.

I like the idea.

The next event is going to be held at the Rickshaw Stop on January 13th.

Which has some special meaning to me as an important anniversary in my life.

However, I will be in Florida celebrating with family, not in San Francisco.

The events are slams.

I have done slams and I like them.

True, they are nerve-wracking, but I seemed to do well and I believe I am a decent performer and maybe that I could try a little something outside my comfort zone.

Ie my blog.

Which I am not about to give up.

It was also suggested a writers group and or a class on performing.

Had not thought of doing that last one, but why not?

Things that I can do and be a part of a creative community, not just where I am sitting by myself in my room writing.

I am pretty good at sitting by myself in my room writing.

Things to do to get me out there, rather than in here.

Here being my head, my ideas about where, who, what, when, the list of all my shortcomings and I am not enough.

Because I am enough and I am willing to do the work.

I am shocked sometimes at those who are not and devastated to watch what happens when people drift away.

I cannot afford to drift.

I know where I will drift to and it is not a pretty place.

Softening to this way of life, easing into it, allowing myself to be hurt, risking the mess to get to be beautiful, accepting that I am exactly where I am, that I don’t have a good idea of what’s best for me and that it really is ok to accept that people love me and care for me and respect me and what I do.

Who I am.

That I can acknowledge and accept that as well.

Let in the love, so to speak.

So much to keep learning.

And re-learning.

Not even judging that this blog is drifting into self-affirmation, Stuart Smalley land.

So what?

I can be alright with that as well.

Tomorrow I get messy.

I make mistakes.

And I allow the light in.

I will write a story to tell the Moth and go to the website and record my bit.

I will try to do something new and let myself not be good at it.

And be perfect and happy in my silly self willing to get hurt to get love.

The love is the better for the pain.

Richer, deeper, fuller, sweeter.

All things I wish for in my life.

So get ready for messy.


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