Posts Tagged ‘hindsight’

Mystified

April 15, 2017

And over it.

I have had so many suggestions about dating.

“You have to ask for what you want,” a friend said.

Yes.

I fucking get that and when I do, I still don’t get what I want.

I’m not bitter, but befuddled.

I had a guy friend break down the whole “we should hang out sometime,” as a really weak way of asking a girl out and that it’s quite prevalent in the dating culture.

Well.

Good to know.

So.

When complaining, yes, I do complain, I am not a fucking saint, if I was I wouldn’t need y’all and I still need you, despite my weak protestations, to another friend, I was told, “you have to get clarification.”

Ask the person when do you want to hang out.

So.

I did.

And.

Well.

NOTHING.

I got the intuition, I know you’re interested, I can see it in your eyes, you’ve got some mojo I’ve got some mojo, let’s get together and have some fun.

He gave me his number.

He said, “call me,” in fact, he repeated it twice.

I said I would.

I, in fact did.

No response.

I started to second guess the whole thing in hindsight today, but then I rethought it again, it’s not my issue.

I got clarity.

That’s all.

I called.

I left a message, I said, “let’s nail down a time to have a coffee date,” and truth be told, I probably bumble fucked my way through it.

Not even a text back.

Dude.

Hahahaha.

I just wrote “dud,” before correcting it to dude, but maybe dud was not quite the Freudian slip I thought it was.

Dud.

Drawing a blank, dum dum bullet, faulty switch.

It’s you not me.

I insist.

I know you find me attractive, I’ve known since I first met you and when I saw you yesterday and we slipped right back into the easy, intellectual banter that I have come to hallmark our few conversations, I could feel it.

I gave you my phone.

You put your phone number in it.

Granted.

I had asked for a speaking engagement, it’s not like you were putting your phone number in my phone because we were going to get it on later that evening.

No.

I asked you to do service.

And you said yes.

And I said super.

And that was about it.

Until.

You caught up with me a little later and we conversed, and conversed, and conversed, until the room was empty and everyone was walking out the door.

That’s when you opened the door to the phone call and said, “we should really get together, hang out, talk, call me, really, call me.”

I replied “I would love to hang out.”

Now.

Maybe this is where I fucked it up.

Maybe, the friend who gave the advice about guys motives when they say “hang out” was not an ask for a date and I should have clarified immediately.

But.

I went from the gut, the feeling, the look in your eyes.

Because I’m gullible sometimes.

But.

I’m not stupid.

I also have a lot of experience now seeing when men are attracted to me and nothing happens and then years later I find out they were attracted to me and that I was right.

I’m right.

You’re attracted to me, you weren’t asking for a friend hang out, I know it.

Grr.

I don’t know which one of my guy friends to slap.

And then.

I think.

Ah, fuck it, I killed the fantasy, which in the end is always so super valuable.

He didn’t call back.

No response is a response and it’s about as good and obvious as a flat-out no.

And frankly.

I’m fucking proud of myself for sacking up and calling him.

I didn’t text.

I called.

I left a message.

It may have been awkward, but I did it.

I took action.

I remind myself, that the results are not mine and I have no regrets.

I wouldn’t change the sequence of events to “I wish I hadn’t bothered to call,” because I am so super glad that I did.

I mean.

Good for you, girlfriend, another one out-of-the-way between you and whomever is next.

I’m really ready for next.

I’m not actively searching, no, I’m just ready.

That’s all.

I’m happy about that, that I’m not looking, I’m not trying to get on some new dating app, although the brain flirts with it once in a while, no, I’m just ready, available.

I’m proud of myself.

I keep trying.

That says something.

Sure.

I experience frustration and sure, this is a thing, this thing I keep writing about, but believe that all is not for naught, that there is learning here, that I have to keep changing and growing and loving myself for who I am.

I really am not looking for a completion.

I complete myself and I won’t be complete until I die.

I am excited to keep growing and changing and loving and trying new stuff.

Life is fucking amazing and awesome and I’ve come so far and have so much further to go.

Yet.

I long for someone to walk along with, carrying a conversation with, have fun with, connect with.

It is natural to want to partner up, it doesn’t mean I know how to do it, or am upset with myself for being single nor am I in self-pity.

My life is good and my growth, astounding.

I just find myself a bit bewildered.

It is my growing edge.

The not knowing.

And also the ok with the not knowing.

I like to say I like surprises.

But that’s a fucking lie.

I do like anticipation.

But not surprises.

Perhaps this is God’s way of getting me ready for a surprise I will really cotton to.

Who knows.

I obviously don’t.

Getting down with the unknown.

Throwing my own dance party to a soundtrack that is in another language.

God’s time.

God’s will.

Not mine.

Sigh.

Ha.

Oh, resignation, look at you.

Or shall I say instead.

Surrender.

Over and over and over again.

Powerless over it all.

Fucking all of it.

Help me God.

Seriously.

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Roll With It

June 8, 2016

I mean.

It was a weird day.

Not a bad day.

No.

Not at all.

But hella weird.

Wacky.

Occasionally wonderful.

A bit on the oddball side.

I got things that I was afraid I wasn’t going to get.

I got asked out.

I was called beautiful and spiritual.

Which, oh, not a Tinder date, fyi, who does that anyway on Tinder?

I am swiping yes because I find you spiritually compelling!

I was quite flattered by the ask and now we have a coffee date for this Saturday.

I actually remember meeting this person years ago and thinking, hmm, I think he finds me attractive and wondering if he was going to ask me out then.

It’s been awhile since I have seen him, but apparently he did not forget and reached out today and that, well, that was nice.

I also got my replacement permit!

I actually did not believe I was going to get it.

I went into the SFMTA pretty much, like, ok, just be prepared, it probably ain’t going to fly, but I’m going to try anyway.

And.

It was amazing.

It was a completely different experience.

There was no line to get into the line.

The area was 3/4s less full then when I went last week.

The woman who helped me was sweet and friendly and we chatted and the next thing you know, after she casually flipped through all the paper work, hands me the new permit.

Here you go.

And I’m on my way.

TWENTY MINTUES LATER!

I got to work early.

Parked and cleaned off my fender.

I peeled the sticker and made sure it was stuck.

In fact, a little later in the day when I was making one of my many runs around the neighborhood, this time just to the corner market, I went back to my scooter with clear packing tape and taped the fucking permit down to the bumper.

No more falling off.

Because I don’t want to do that show at the SFMTA ever, ever, ever again.

The boys were with the mom a lot today and so I spent the majority of my time taking care of food prep and cooking–butter lettuce wraps with ginger chicken and hoisin sauce, green onions, celery, water chestnuts and brown rice.  Plus, tomorrow there’s an errand we need to run in the morning, so I packed up a big picnic lunch to take to the beach for the boys and the mom.

I’m actually not sure what I will do for myself tomorrow since my little sea food stew makes better being heated up.

I’ll figure it out, I don’t feel like doing it right now.

I feel like just letting the day lose itself off my skin.

I really did roll with things well today.

Even when I got the un-expected amends.

Please people, just a reminder, more to myself than anyone else, it’s not really an amends if you’re doing it to make yourself feel better.

I got a loopy apology from someone this evening that was so distinctly uncomfortable to hear that I am surprised, in hindsight, to see how calm I was and that I was able to say thank you and I’m glad you feel better.

Because the apology, for behavior in the past that was not much different than the behavior manifested every other time I have engaged with the person, was more for them to feel better than me and I realized.

This person is desperate to feel better and who am I to get in the way of that.

Hasn’t he had enough sorrow in his life already?

I can accept.

I didn’t need the apology and for a minute I was rather hot with a touch of annoyance, but it faded off quickly as I scootered off into the fog.

Karl the fog.

My how you creep.

My how much like having an expensive dermabrasion whilst riding my scooter home.

I chuckled, really it’s like getting free aqua therapy for my pores as my face was blasted with fog, I should get a face cover, I don’t think the fog is going to let up any time soon.

Sorry.

I digress.

Anyway.

By the time I was on the Pan Handle I had let it go and forgot and I don’t need to be right, I don’t have to tell anyone how to do it right or better.

I just get to improve myself.

I can feel the experience and know for my future actions what felt good and what felt bad and go from there.

Act according to how I want to be treated.

The man was miserable, and had apparently been carrying this thing for years, and I felt compassion for him and also a modicum of empathy with his experience, which is far different from sympathy and perhaps, at least in my opinion, more human.

So.

I got to be a human.

I got to take a couple phone call check ins as well when I got home and I don’t know where the words came from, I just shared my experience, my strength, my faith.

Hope sometimes is not the word that best expresses it for me.

Faith is the wheelbarrow that carries hope across the high wire of my desires.

I often don’t get what I want.

This is not a bad thing.

If I got what I wanted I wouldn’t be of service the way that I have been culled for.

I am lucky.

I could be one of those people that I see on the streets wrapped up in old sleeping bags, there but for the grace of God, go I.

I could be the girl smoking crack on Capp Street.

I could be the woman bent over searching, searching, searching for that crumb on the street.

I could so easily have fallen through the cracks.

And the fact that I still get to be here.

To be apologized to awkwardly.

To be given a permit to park where I work.

To be able to accept the compliment of being beautiful in someone’s eyes.

To be considered spiritual.

To get to be this human.

This woman.

This child of God.

I can roll with that.

My life is on and on and on.

A constant source of amazement.

Seriously.

Luckiest girl in the world.

All day long.

 

I Let You Stick Your

October 23, 2013

Dick in my_______?

Fill in the blank.

I mean, use your own imagination as I am already going way too graphic to start the blog, and sex, though a topic I skate around, is not one that I go into details.

Some things are best left in the bedroom.

Or the kitchen.

Or.

Well, what ever room you prefer.

I ran into an ex today after work, I almost did not recognize him, and that was the first thought I had, “I really let you….”

Ahem.

I don’t apologize for my brain, that’s the way it goes, I just do the reporting.

We caught up for a few minutes.

He has not done much.

I have done a fuck load of things.

Just to break down the basic gist of things, in no particular order since I dated him I uh, moved to Paris for six months, went to Burning Man a few times, rode the AidsLife Cycle ride from San Francisco to LA, went to London and Rome, moved around a few places in the city, took French classes, wrote a lot of blogs, finished a book, learned how I prefer to eat persimmons, got a few tattoos, and made a bag load of friends and acquaintances around the world.

“You know, same old, same old, still living in San Bruno, working for Cisco, keeping out of trouble,” he said eyes torn between my messy fog hair and my cleavage.

Stop staring dude.

Most of the time when I run into someone I used to date or sleep with there is no awkwardness.

There are only two men in San Francisco that I run into that are a little uncomfortable and awkward and I wonder who side it is on, mine or theirs, but it is there.

The one thing that the two have in common, aside from they both slept with me, is that they both slept with me around the same time.

“How’s Shadrach’s mom,” he said, “do you still spend Christmas with his family?”

He remembered.

“I haven’t in a while, but I am still in contact with his family, spoke with his mom fairly recently, she’s retired from teaching, his brother has a two boys now, his dad’s good,” I paused.

“Memory like an elephant,” he said, “nothing escaping this.”

I shivered.

REALLY?

I slept with you.

Nothing physically unattractive, in fact, he’s a very handsome man.

A little heavier set then I recall and a lot more grey hair, and I noted how he compulsively shoved four pieced of gum in his mouth during the conversation which led me to believe he was trying to quit smoking for the umpteenth time.

Just, not really a personality match.

I have a lot.

Him, well, not so much.

There’s nothing wrong with this, we just were not a match and it is really interesting to look at that time and see it right in front of my face at the corner of 7th and Irving.

I hooked up with Mister Gum Popper less than three months after my best friend died.

“Oh, look at you, how cute are you!”  My room-mate at the house said, poking her head into the room, seeing the two of us inclined on the love seat in my room tucked into the huge dormer window of the old Victorian at 23rd and Capp Street.

That was about all the excitement in the relationship.

We looked cute together.

We talked about doing things.

Rather, after a few weeks, I talked about doing things.

He used to surf and had a board in his garage and lived by the ocean and I wanted to learn how.

“I went out surfing!” I told him, remembering suddenly the numerous times I tried to get him to take me out.

“You did not!  Good for you, I haven’t been, well, I haven’t been in, awhile, I guess.” He frowned trying to figure out the last time he went, “we never went out, did we?”

I smiled and shook my head negative sir.

“You are surfing and you went to Paris, just like you said you would,” he finished.

That startled me.

I don’t remember telling him that.

“You really did it, I knew you would, no doubt in my mind at all.” He shrugged deeper into his coat, “well, uh, nice to see you, you, uh, you look amazing, welcome back to the city.”

“‘Night,” I said and turned toward my destination, steering my bicycle up the small incline of 7th at Irving.

I locked my bicycle up and took off the lights.

“I don’t doubt that you are going to,” my friend said to me the other night over a cup of tea.

He was referring to my taking up of the write a novel in a month challenge.

I said I would.

So I am going to do so.

I don’t know exactly where this stick-to-itness comes from, some times I think it is a characteristic failing of people pleasing, but hey, whatever, it is fucking working.

I am going to do it.

I walked around the Irving area scoping out coffee shops and cafes.

I have an idea where I will be doing a lot of the writing and went there later this evening and had tea with a ladybug and did some reading with her as the fog swirled in from the ocean and the temperature dropped another few degrees.

They have a good tea selection and just the right amount of anonymity, I’ll blend in and be left alone, I think.

My thoughts then went to the other man, the other man I slept with around the same time as my ex-when Shadrach died, he had once lived across the street from Tart to Tart on Irving and as I sat in the window sipping my tea I looked over and realized his apartment, where I first met him, was across the train tracks, directly in my line of sight.

I worked with his room-mate for a while and knew him through her.

I ran into him the Saturday before Shadrach was pulled from the life support.

He came up to me and said, “you look amazing, your hair,” he gestured at my head, “wow.  And you are like the incredible shrinking woman, you are smaller every time I see you.”

News flash, friend, I dropped more weight.

But that is neither here nor there.

He was a bright spot in my week, the only bright spot in a week drowning in tears barely hid beneath the fog I would watch out the window on the third floor; it ceaseleesly billowed over the tops of Twin Peaks and rolled heavy, somnolent, and drear toward General Hospital.

He invited me to a movie with friends and we went to the AMC on Van Ess and watched some stupid comedy and I leaned on his shoulder the whole time.

Afterward he tried to flag me a cab and none would come.

“I would invite you home, but I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said as another taxi with its car full zoomed by.

“I know what you mean, but I could use some not a good idea,” I replied.

I think sometimes had I not slept with him, we might have dated, I sort of blew it.

But I didn’t.

I wanted to be comforted.

I was.

The ex was also a comfort.

All we did was watch movies and lie in bed.

And unfortunately, not have as much sex as I thought we would at first, it petered out.

He was depressed, living at the edge of the ocean, anxious, on Antabuse, not my way to stay sober and I don’t recommend it, heavily smoking, working a job he hated, getting money regularly from his parents, eating out on coupons.

The best he could do to comfort me was wrap up under an old quilt in the basement in-law studio he was living in and sleep with me.

I watched a lot of movies and broke up with him a couple of months later.

“You needed the comfort,” a confidant said when I asked what the hell I was doing.

I suppose I did.

What I have found since, is that action is my comfort.

I like to sleep in, who doesn’t, but I have to do things too.

I have to get out there and be remarkable.

I want to live.

Even if that means walking cold through the streets of Paris lost.

Or riding my bicycle through the heavy wet fog of the Outer Sunset.

I want to do.

And be.

And grow.

Compassionate.

Kind.

Generous.

Sexy.

Abundant.

Travelled.

Well read.

Well written.

And loved.

Yes, that.

Always that, the love thing.

But you know.

Loving can stop your fear.

That’s the true comfort for me now.

 

But it’s not always that clear.


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