Urn-Love

It would be nice if things could get better.

I’m all fucked up, too upset to even register the extent of my woes. I feel myself slipping fast into a depression deeper than I’ve known, and I’ve lost faith in something I’ve always held dear; love. 

Here is something that I can agree with:

“I’m selfish, impatient, and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I am out of control and at times hard to handle. But if you can’t handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don’t deserve me at my best.” 
-Marilyn Monroe

It seems so sad that I’m actually identifying with Marilyn Monroe. 

Let’s begin with a statement of incredible negativity, why don’t we?

I hate my job.

With a passion that is usually reserved for people who are allergic to cats. See, I work with children. Not just any sort of child, I mean the ones who have autism.

Here’s where I get “Oh you must have SO much patience” and “God bless you” blah blah blah

These kids bite me, kick me, hit me and cry so often that I often feel like I’m being bullied by three-year-olds.

That’s all I have to say. Woe is me.

I’ve decided that I’m proud of myself.

After ending a very long-term relationship a little over 6 months ago, life has once again contained passion, energy, hope and spontaneity. I found myself stuck on a path that I wasn’t meant to walk, and I somehow found the courage to stop my forward momentum and change my direction. It was solidly the hardest decision I have ever had to make, but has been the wisest. Funny how life works that way. My mother has given me several valuable pieces of advice but only one simple utterance has helped me form my new life:

“When given two choices, the hardest is always the right one.”

This often leads to pain, tears, heartbreak…but only temporarily, it seems. I (quite naively) never thought I could move on from my first love, but I almost have.

Enough sentimental blabbering, here’s the juicy stuff -

I was lucky to have a generous and fun-loving ex, and lingerie was gifted to me on occasion. It’s just a fun time for everyone involved.
These specific items never really left my possession, and have laid unworn in my second dresser drawer next to my bathing suits and socks for the past several months. Until recently. Big mistake. After the afore-insinuated dress up party I laid next to a (very lucky and kind-hearted) man and couldn’t help but feel shame and embarrassment and a whole slew of odd emotions that never would cross my cortex in the aftermath of lovemaking…what was happening?

I realized today (a few days later) that I had just tarnished the intimate memories that were indelibly woven into the lacy fabric. Memories that had only been shared with one single person for the cotton’s whole existence in my world. What had I done? And why was I so attached to a piece of cloth?

And now I’ve come to realize that I have one more hill to climb until I’m fully free of the valley that had been shadowed by his love. I was so brash to think I could do this so easily, be free of everything that reminded me of the one man I have given my heart to. I take my heart back, thank you, but not without you scratching it a little on the surface. I admire this blemish, it gives it character, shows that it’s well traveled, a little bit wiser. And I don’t blame or hold onto all of those negative moments that comprised so much of our time together. I take my heart back a little worse for wear, but with passion and hope.

So there it is. I’m proud that I now can wear my lingerie without inspiring hostile and negative emotions within myself. Lucky, OH so lucky, for Mr. New Guy.

Fickle fickle fickle.

Look, I’m not that interested in you.

I appreciate your warmth, your endless compliments, physical proximity.

But in the end, you’re just a stand in.

Yes. I am only twenty-two years old.

How can I even begin to pretend that I am wise, that I know what’s best for myself? The problem lies in my own pride and stubbornness, it seems that I’m unable to admit that I don’t know everything. On the other hand, I’ve experienced things that may set me apart from the average 22 year old, events that could force any young woman to grow up extremely fast. Yet, here I am, questioning my own maturity.

What’s so wrong with being youthful, silly and spontaneous? I balk at the idea of becoming a stuffy grandmother-type, someone who thrives on feeding cats and knitting personalized sweaters. I gag at the idea of predictability but embrace logic and reason, forcing me into this walking conundrum. I want to be mature, reliable and possibly even wise, but I’m still hanging onto my childhood with sharpened nails.

The question is: should I choose youth or knowledge, or can I find a balance?

There is something wholesome in eating a meal that’s been cooked by your own hands. I would love to think of myself as my own worst critic, but hell, I’m mortified when it comes to cooking for others. I know my palate, what flavors will please me, yet I can’t help but crave to please the little taste-buds of other people. I feel vulnerable when watching a dinner date take the first bite, almost like when I first get naked for said dinner date. Both are a sort of baring of the soul, something that isn’t shared with many, something that is eternally personal yet should be shared without such hesitation.

So where do you draw the line between cooking for yourself and cooking for others?

Would it be considered selfish to cook to your own specifications, or just weak to sacrifice a good meal to make someone else happy?

Or should I just get over myself…

How interesting, how confusing, unpredictable and energizing life is. I am who I have always been, yet somehow I seem to contradict myself wherever I go. I play into the world’s stereotypes yet try to break them, I am sternly feminist yet care deeply for the desires of men. What a joy it’s been to be kicked off my feet for once.

I try to be unapologetic for who I am, solidly standing in who I have become based on the experiences life has pushed upon me. Although I am deeply content with the person I have developed into I feel that there is so much more for me to become. I certainly have a hole in my story. Friends and family seem to define a person, depending on the amount, type, world views, and passion, yet I have never felt defined by someone. I’m not sure if I have seen eye to eye with every one of my close friends, perhaps I have just been floating along the river of youth unaware of the world that has opened up to me…

Now I am praised for who I am, who I have become, yet I see this future of mine taking a drastic turn onto a two way street filled with live music, people dancing in the streets, coffee houses and yummy cocktails. Is this really where my life is heading, or should I put on my blinkers and make a U-turn? I hope that I follow this street, wherever it takes me, because I see in myself things that I haven’t yet accepted or let known to humans. I would love to be relaxed and joyful in gait, intelligent in speech, and sexy beyond belief in the way I move my body to the upbeat music that has been blaring in my head for the past few years.

I have and will continue to melt and meld into a person who is whole in mind and body, a person who is and has always been.

When receiving compliments and the like, is it odd to be flabbergasted?

Having doors opened, meals purchased and kisses delivered makes me giddy inside. Any self-respecting feminist would kick themselves for feeling this way, which is my conundrum. Why can lovers be generous and kind and then get an outrageous amount of gratitude for it?

The reason; I have never had a car door opened for me. I have never had flowers brought that weren’t insinuated, kisses that weren’t initiated. And somehow I find myself in bed, languishing in the softness that is a kiss. Why is this so unexpected and unusual?

Where have all of the gentlemen escaped to? Is it us women who scare them off, or are you of such high commodity that we snatch you up selfishly? I’m used to the crude, sexist, and overtly sexual comments of society’s current “man”…so much that I have come to expect it. A pleasant surprise, you gentlemen are, but one that shouldn’t be so much to kick me in the ass. Such a sorry state of affairs, where storybook romances and undying love is overshadowed by mixed martial (or is it marital?) arts and women with low self esteem.

So now I know that this speciMEN exists, yes. And here begins a new chapter, one where I get that passion that I crave, the undying love that I deserve.

Unless I’m in the mood for a meaningless night…