Glamorous Lifestyle

This morning I crawl out of bed and I'm standing in front of the full length mirror in my bedroom.  As I look at myself I think, "I am more than a mess." My hair is out of control and carelessly styled in the manner of a Scout Finch arriving home from an outdoors adventure.  It is tainted with the aroma of cigarette smoke, spiraled with laughter, and reminiscent of memories from the bar last night. The remnants of black eyeliner are smeared across my face like a raccoon's mask.  I cannot help but to smile.  My cheekbones are beginning to flirt with an impending arrival and the dimple in my left cheek has returned.
I'm wearing my University of Memphis Snuggie backwards as an open robe.  I scan my nearly naked body.  I'm wearing a leopard printed push-up bra and I'm impressed, women pay for what I have naturally.  I'm pleased that my waist is beginning to slim in the center, but I have a long way to go.  I laugh out loud as I am immensely distracted by my giant, purple, thong panties that are at least two sizes too big and are loosely hanging between my legs. My thighs can always use more squats, my legs are begging to be shaved, and my toenails are desperate for a new color.  I can't help but to not take myself seriously.

Recently, I've been facing and questioning the opinions others and I have of myself.  Mostly I've been facing my fears and recouping.  My married friends have been constantly telling me how envious they are of me, of my freedom. Others have told me that I am a party-girl and that I have a wild personality.  Someone has even built me into something of his own creation, to the point he admittedly gets nervous to speak to me.  Although wild personality is definitely a possibility, party-girl is far from the truth.  And I assure you, there is nothing to be nervous about. I should know, after all, I'm my own greatest critic.

Three and a half months ago I was confused, sad, angry, and disappointed.  I was trying to facilitate the best possible way to remove myself from a disaster of a relationship and a broken life of sadness in a house of sour lemons without letting myself be harmed any further and trying to avoid hurting him.  Regardless of his infidelity, abusive tirades, pathological lies, controlling behavior, and neglectful hygiene I once thought I loved Rhine, I know now he was actually a bad habit. I know, I'm hopeless, actually ridiculous to stay for so long against the advice of close friends and second guessing myself.  I thought I could forgive him for his cyber relationships and continued memberships to paid sex websites, but I never could win against his constant reminders of my inadequacies. I was helpless to his "Strength Training," exercises of mental and emotional abuse.  However, I always followed my belief that I know I'm not perfect and I should accept his flaws.  In return, he, who is far from perfect, will accept mine.  I could not have been any more incorrect.  After four and a half years I had no other option but to leave.

Before I left the house on November 18, Rhine threatened me. He said, "You've got another thing coming if you think you are going to leave this house with any of your furniture." After work the next evening I returned to the house. Rhine and his father, our landlord, changed the locks on the house. I had previously removed a very limited amount of belongings and one laundry basket of dirty clothes. My moved wardrobe consisted of 2 pairs of sweatpants, 4 sweatshirts, four camisoles, some panties, a few pairs of socks, one t-shirt, one bra, and one dress. 
Rhine has spent months sending me multiple emails demanding money in return for the personal belongings of mine that he is willing to return to my possession. He has converted my property to his ownership, thus stealing all of my clothing, furniture, and possessions.  He is a thief and has spent months spreading lies about me.  In the middle of November he left me without clothing or even a winter coat.  I'm completely dumbfounded as to why he would want to continue to control me nearly four months after our breakup.
For three and a half months I have been constantly reliving the end of our relationship.  I have been  confused, sad, angry, and disappointed. I was confused because he was still controlling me with mixed messages and promises of fixing our relationship.  I was sad because I believed his lies and yet knew I had to leave.  I was angry at myself for being so weak, for not following up on inconsistencies, and angry that he was not who he promised he was. I was disappointed because I was responsible for wasting my time with a lack-of-potential loser in a dead-end relationship. Dealing with these emotions is a daily issue, an internal battle against myself.

As for the party-girl stereotype, my life is far from glamorous.  I constantly make bad decisions and huge mistakes.  I regret something I say at least once daily.  I do the absolutely wrong things and yet I want so badly to be perfect and appear put-together.  I am struggling with this obsession with perfection.  I am not anyone to be nervous around, I'm probably more nervous than you.  That's why I find it so hard to find the right words; I don't want to say the wrong thing to scare anyone away.  I rarely go on dates. In fact, I just let myself be kissed for the first time since Rhine.  Let me tell you, nice guys aren't supposed to kiss like that.  Most of the time I get stood-up, dates are cancelled, plans are changed, and men lose interest in me.  Last week a potential date got too high and decided he'd rather sit at home watching Jeopardy.  Yes, it happened.  Yes, he admitted it. I don't blame them for losing interest; right now I'm an emotional mess.  Many days I find it difficult to even pull myself out of bed.  I cry without even knowing I'm doing it.  Most days I convince myself that ordinary reasons of everyday life are occasions to celebrate just so I can make it through the day. 
I'm the only one that lives my life every day.  I shower. I go to work. I do my laundry. I pay my bills. As much as I hate to do it, I pump my own gas. I go to the grocery store. I eat by myself at restaurants. I go to the movies by myself.  I visit my family on a regular basis, I love them. Without knowing he's done so, my six year old nephew has made me feel worthy of love.  I spend a lot of time alone.  I'm the only person that knows I'm happiest when I am exercising; it's the only thing I find complete comfort in.  I'm the only one that knows when I sit down to eat cereal I end up with tears in my milk.  I'm the only one that knows that I go to the nail salon because I miss human interaction and the sensation of being touched.  I crave hugs like I'm gasping for air.  I have anxiety attacks. I have nightmares. I rarely sleep. I'm the only one that knows that socializing with friends and going out keeps my mind occupied from myself, my insecurities, and my greatest fears. 

Because of my vantage point I wonder why and what my married friends are so envious of. But, if going out with girlfriends, cracking jokes at my expense, laughing too loudly, saying inappropriate things, dancing, and occasionally having a couple of drinks classifies me as a party-girl, I will gladly accept that label.  After all, I'm the only one that lives me.  Only I know what I'm going through every day.  This is me.  This is the glamorous lifestyle of a single 30-something.

Confessions of a Long-Term Serial Dater

I'm sitting here staring at the blank screen, completely dumbfounded at what to write.  There is so much I want to say.  There is so much I need to tell you.

I'm doing the only thing I know to do. I'm writing this from the chair of a beauty salon.

The cardinal rule a girl must follow upon the break up of a relationship remains to be, "do not touch your hair." I'm throwing caution into the wind and I'm breaking my own rule. I am in desperate need of a change and in the next few weeks change is all I will have to embrace me.

Last week Rhine and I separated. "To save our relationship." Insert eye-rolling. I moved out of our bedroom into my own.  Rhine determined that in order to "save our relationship," we should take time apart. I have been through all of this before; the end is not new to me. It is not like we have been much of a couple anyway.  We fight every time we try have a conversation. Rhine is and has been sleeping downstairs on the sofa for the past month, since we came back from Hot Springs.

On one hand, I want to be with Rhine because we've been together for four and a half years. Out of habit, I have loved him. On the other hand, our relationship is good only in fleeting, sporadic moments.

This is contrary to what we let the outside world see.  To everyone else we carried on like the ideal couple, devoting ourselves completely to one another, appearing to be happy.  We tried to be one of those "it" couples that would make it together against all odds. Sadly, it was all an act.

I suppose I better start from the beginning.  This time the truth will be told.

upDate: He's Got a Case of the Niceties

For those of you not from Memphis, Beale Street is Memphis' less than equivalent version of New Orleans' Bourbon Street. Bars are open until all hours of the night, non-bottle adult beverages as open containers are permitted and of course we have the famous Beale Street Flippers. The Flippers are young, black kids that rap, dance, and perform acrobats in the middle of the closed off street.  It is a great place to gawk at the jackasses or perhaps to become one yourself.

Whenever JB and I get together to go 'downtown' we always end up with interesting stories.  Like the time JB fell in-love with that J-named fella, while I was stuck listening to his jack-off of a best friend, Adam, allnight, "I'm a private investigator working on a top secret case in Millington."  His story was unlikely and so was mine.  I was a flight attendant who was engaged to a FedEx Pilot, I had the biggest rock ever on my finger, but our drinks were paid for all night.  Or how about the time when JB and I went out on July 7th to celebrate my ‘I'm-Not-Turning-29 Birthday,’ JB ended up with a snaggled-tooth disaster following her all over Silky's.  It is quite a miracle that the only photo she has of him is the one I am in. The photo of the two of them miraculously "did not take."  Our last trip in September is no exception.
  
JB and I decided to go to Beale Street on Saturday, September 22.  She drove us to the top of the Peabody Parking Garage high above Memphis.  It was really only like 5 stories.  We managed to find an open parking space, next to a brand-new, maroon Jeep with the extended cab.  JB and I begrudgingly trekked up to the elevator, only to share it with the owner of the Jeep and his two friend-girls.  The Jeep driver was smoking in the elevator; I was annoyed at his smoking.  I leaned in to JB's ear and whispered, "Who the hell does this guy think he is trying to kill us in the elevator?  He won't stop looking at me!"  The banter in the elevator was pleasant.

JB and I headed to the Flying Saucer as the people from the elevator went elsewhere.  Many beverages later, and after my bad judgment of giving the wrong guy my REAL phone number and after having been booty-groped by the same wrong guy, a real AssHat, at the Double Deuce, JB and I escaped to Alfred's.
JB and I danced our asses off to the Madonna cover bad playing"Material Girl" and "Like a Virgin."  We were both sweaty or should I say delightfully glowing.  Naw! I was sweaty and I have the photos to prove it.  We were heading to the bar to purchase another beverage when I ran into the guy from the elevator.  He was a nice change from the five text messages and three voice mails left by the"I can't believe I'm going to be hittin' that ass later, tagging that shit tomorrow" AssHat.

Yes, can you believe the boldness of AssHat?  I just met him and as far as he could think I was his property and apparently we were going to be 'knocking boots' quite quickly. Even eight weeks after I gave him my phone number I'm still receiving drunken voice mail messages at 4:30am and random text messages from AssHat. I have never returned one call or text to him and yet he still insists on contacting me.
The elevator guy bought JB and I drinks.  The conversation was going so well that I sat down to talk, JB went to dance.  He and I were in the middle of a conversation when he "had to tell me asecret," apparently the secret involved his tongue being halfway down my throat because not only was I kissing him, but I was blatantly making out with a complete stranger in a crowded bar surrounded by his friends.

At the moment I was "that girl," again. You know who I am talking about, that drunk girl that gets a little tipsy and all of her friends have to babysit her because if she steps away you won't know which corner of the bar she will be in making out with a complete stranger.  Yes, I admit, that was me and I have a habit of kiss strangers.

Did I mention before that one of his friend girl's had professed her undying-love to elevator man?  No?  That is because I didn't know either until after we sucked face.  We parted like the Red Sea and I turned to see if JB had returned from the dance floor.
As I glanced to the other side of the table there she was, glaring. I was blushing.  JB had one hand on her hip and the other strangling her beer bottle.  Her eyes were piercing me and bulging out of her head. Her nostrils flared and her lips were securely pressed in disappointed shock.  It was priceless! She looked at me and I knew exactly what she was thinking.  Her glaring eyes were screaming, "Whatthe eff are you doing?  You have a boyfriend you live with at home!" But she said, "Gather together so I can take your picture."  Oh... her sweet revenge.

When I came clean to one of my roommates, Edward, and showed him the photo of us he said, "You must have been wearing beer-noculars."  In the drunken moment, I don't remember anything other than the guy at the bar I was kissing had dark pools for eyes that I fell into.  I was tempted to threaten that I would not be drinking in public anymore, but we all know that is not possible. Besides, I find Elevator Man attractive.
   
The rest of the evening, alright it was early morning because we didn't leave Beale Street until 4:30am; the girl with the undying-love was shooting daggers directly into my face.  I smiled.  I could see that she was imagining a slow and painful death for me. To retaliate I did what any other girl would do.  I smiled and made sure to kiss him while she was glaring directly at me. And I was so nice to her.  She knew what I was doing and he just saw me being nice to her.  It was a win-win!
JB, Elevator Man, his friend-girls, and I all walked back to the cars together.  Elevator man and I stopped at the vehicles to say goodbye or to give each other strep tests, I really don't know which.  In the background I could hear the girl with the undying-love bitching about me. Apparently, I learned later, that she bitched about me their entire drive home, "Oh, so you have something for Miss Blue Eyes, Long-hair, Big-Titties...don't you?"

Isn't my new nickname perfect?  I just love it!

     
JB lectured me all the way home about already having a boyfriend. Reminding me I would ruin my relationship if Rhine found out about ElevatorMan.  She didn't know that Rhine refuses to claim me as a girlfriend.  She doesn't know that earlier that day he declared that after unofficially dating for well over a year he has decided that he is holding me back and I should date other men.  That is just the tip of the iceberg.

True to fashion and as he promised, Elevator Man called me four days later.  I waited five weeks before I returned a text message; some things are just worth waiting for.  But the truth is I had to work up the courage to return a message, I was nervous and second guessing myself.  He immediately called me, as I picked up the phone he said,"I knew you wouldn't forget me," I could hear him smiling on the other side.  "I want to take you out, how about Monday?"
We decided on Tuesday because it was more convenient to me.  He texted me on Monday afternoon to reschedule for Thursday November 8, which was fine I had other things I could be doing.  On Thursday he texted to confirm our date for that evening.  All of this it was very new to me; it was all nice, gentlemanly even.

Here is where I am sure most of you are asking, "What about Rhine?"  So? What about him?  There is nothing about him, he is NOT my boyfriend.  Rhine doesn't know any of the above story; I'd like to keep it that way.  And if he did know, he wouldn't care. Yes, I know for a fact, so I just leave him out ofthe loop.

At 4 o'clock Thursday afternoon Rhine called me to ask me for a favor,"Hey, do you have any plans tonight?"

"No, why?"  It wasn't so much a plan as it was a date. It's more of a lie by omission.
 
"When you go home tonight will you clean the crock pot so that I can cook dinner?"
 
"Sure," I said.

At five I race to the house, clean the crock pot, plaster my face with make-up, pin my hair back, tell Edward "You don't know where I am," Edward knows and I rush out the door before Rhine gets home.       

I go on the date with the guy I met on Beale Street; his real name is J-squared.  Yes, he has a real name, reference "Naming the Puppy."  We both work in the vicinity near Cozymel's on Poplar, so we met there after work.  We were supposed to meet at 6pm for drinks and just this once in my life I am actually on time. I climbed atop the benches in my four and half inch, red,stiletto Enzo's, with my fists clenched and yelled in a tribal, guttural,monosyllabic grunts, "I was ON TIME!!!"  I sat there patiently and waited.  J-squared was late.

We go to the bar for drinks, he drinks some sort of beer, and I drink more Diet Coke than I have ever previously had in my life.  Caffeine buzz!  We talk, he is nice.  Like me, he was raised Catholic.  He talks more, he is nice.  When we first met he told me he had two children, apparently he has magical Sea Monkey children because once on the date he has three kids:  14, 9 and 7.  He has full custody,which is nice and tells me a little something about him.

Two women he previously worked with randomly show up.  The one whispers too loudly, "She's pretty; try to keep her.  Good luck!"  He talks more, he is nice and we move to a table to have dinner.
He is a liberal, but he is nice.  He has a full-time job with benefits.  He is 10 months into starting his own company, and he is nice.  He would rather spend $10,000 dollars a year on a social life than going to grad school.  He talks too much.
 
Before we leave he asks me out again for the next night, "I want you to meet my friends.  How about Moffat's for karaoke tomorrow night?"  At first I agreed, but once I got home and asked Edward about what he thinks about J-squared's request to meet his friends. Edward said he thinks he might want to show me off and parade me around, like a girlfriend.  Eeeek! I'm putting on the breaks; he said the word that has me stop in my tracks.  I decide I will be too tired to go out on Friday night.
J-squared boxed up my leftover food, opened the restaurant door,opened my car door and gave me a sweet, soft peck on the lips.  It was cold outside, or maybe I was cold and we were just standing there...and he was still talking. 

Finally, we parted ways at 9:35pm.  I had just over 15 minutes to get home before Rhine and Edward would be coming home from lacrosse practice. 

I rushed home with a few minutes to spare.  When Rhine came upstairs to the bedroom, he told me how hard I am to get ahold of.  I guess you could say that, he called and texted several times while I was on my date.
  

As the gentleman I believe him to be, J-squared called me the next day to tell me how much he enjoyed our date and that he would like to spend more time with me, he also slipped in a compliment, "You are beautiful."  It is very nice.

So when is 'just nice,' nice enough?

I really don't know...it has been so long since I have gone on a date...and he doesn't have any weird quirks, like immediately asking me to marry him or trying to get me into bed, or a third eyeball in the middle of his forehead...the Sea Monkey child was kind of odd, but still he was just nice.

I obviously don't have the answers, and I won't pretend to know them.  On this one, I am just going to take it day by day.  I'm not settling, but nice is enough for a second date. 

Miss Coco Noir and Guest

Apparently it is the height of the Fall Wedding Season, and the view from my mailbox has proven that I am a hot commodity.  With all the invites to showers, bachelorette parties, seasonal parties and weddings I have noticed two little words that cut like a knife to this single girl that does not have a significant other.  The words stare blankly at me.  The words knowingly mock me in an innocent handwritten calligraphic script:  and Guest.  There they are eight simple letters.

When these letters are configured together they are enough to cause a girl that is part of a pair to have heart palpitations at the possibilities of her own wedding vows.  But for the single girl "and Guest" is enough to cause my perfectly mascaraed eyelashes to flutter in distress with the potential of arriving stag.

Do I go? Don't I go?  Do I bring a friend? Will I bring a guy or a girl?  If I bring a guy, friends and family will assume we are dating.  Then the really hurtful questions will begin:  "Who is this?  When will you be getting married?"  All which cause my head to spin.

Will I be the second half of a dubious duo again?  If so, when?  Aghhhh!  It's all too much, especially when all the questions are already answered, only to be revealed in God's time.  Still I am pondering, would it really be the end of my social life if I were to arrive at a wedding alone?

I had a friend, who has since passed away, once ask me, "Have you ever gone to a movie by yourself?  You are the type of girl that has men falling all over her.  I'm sure you have so many open options and invitations. I bet you have never thought of going to the movies or to dinner by yourself, have you?"

At the time I thought Chris was ludicrous in his thinking.  Really? The idea of me going to the movies by myself was ridiculous.  The though sent chills down my spine especially with the thought of being one of those seemingly sad, single, middle aged people in the theater by themselves.  When I see the loner filling one singular seat surrounded by a sea of empty, carcassed, silhouetted chairs I can't help but to wonder, "Who is taking care of their cats while he or she has abandoned them to watch this movie?"

Perhaps the singling has idiosyncrasies like overzealous laughter, "Is that person laughing just a little bit too loudly to fill a void in their life?  Has this person been hurt and thus avoiding human contact?  Is that a cat's head sticking out of their coat?"

But once I rationalized Chris' thought pattern, I understood what he was trying to say.  He was asking me if I was afraid of being alone, deeper yet he was questioning an inability to go against social 'norm' standards in partaking in social activities as an individual.  I took his quizzical nonsense as a challenge.

For the first time I went to movies by myself.  Yes it was different and I was quite nervous about the oddity of being seated alone, I sneaked in after the lights had dimmed. My insecurities were only combined with the inability to discuss plot, character, setting and themes afterwards with someone that shared the same viewing sensations.  Regardless I enjoyed every minute of "Bridget Jone's Diary."  Yes, I took myself to a chick-flick, date movie on a Saturday night and survived.  But that is me, if I'm going to go; I'm going all the way.  Do it and do it right!  Still a movie is not a wedding.

I have had eight months to prepare for the possibility of arriving stag to the social event of the season; still the actuality of the possibility has not begun to sink in until now.  NOW!  Ten days and counting down! Eight months have dwindled down to ten days. 

As I tend to do, I have rationalized and over analyzed the situation.  I am a bridesmaid in this wedding.  The entire reason for my existence is to serve the bride and look pretty.  Which let's face it; I do on a daily basis.  It is not a big deal. 

Would it really be fair to drag a gentleman caller the epitome of social status in Covington, TN, especially where the off chance that said gentleman will know another guest would be slim to none?  Would it be polite to leave a gentleman at a table to fend for himself when I would be required to perform bridesmaid duties all evening? 

All rational questions required the answer of the most disturbing word in the English language, "No."  However I also have validated differing, let's refer to them as 'Devil's advocated' opinions.  Almost any man would be lucky to escort me to the wedding.  If not only for the chance of having a beautiful woman on his arm, I will be all 'done-up' sophisticated-like, insert southern accent here. But also he should be honored to spend time short interrupted spurts of time while I'm not bridesmaiding, with me. 

Honestly, I’m not having any luck at vying for the attention of a gentleman caller and a possible date.  For the most part, single men are weird, sorry boys. And, I'm not into the marrieds, not sorry.  Perhaps, I should begin taking advice from Bridget Jones, "Maybe is true what Smug Marrieds say that only men left single are single because they have massive flaw." Bridget Jones, The Edge of Reason, by Helen Fielding. 

Ehhh, but I'm not willing to give up on all of bachelordom.  Perhaps I should fall in love more easily, as the baroness from The Sound of Music says, "There's nothing a man finds more attractive than a woman who is in love with him." I'm not one for infatuation with the L-word.  Besides, I am not programmed to have to always have a boyfriend just so he can be an adjective to me.  I am just me, as I say, "Please don't perceive me as more or less than I am.  I don't try to live up to my reputation, I just am." 

On my last date, my fortune in my Chinese cookie read, "Don't give up.  The best is yet to come."  God is taking his sweet time and I am willing to wait.  In the meantime, I am strong and stubborn enough to withstand the social 'norm' standards.  These antiquated ideas are a temptation of sorts, an enticement and a challenge.  Who among the single, doctoral or political candidate attendees will not be able to resist a flirty, sideways glance, a raised eyebrow and the sultry, pouty lips of an unattached bridesmaid?  I, for one, am willing to ascertain the situation. 

So, the question remains, "Would attending a wedding as a single be the end of my social life?"  Not a chance.  Besides, if I change my mind I could always carry a large handbag complete with "and Guest,” a newly adopted kitten.  But I'm not one for cats, I much prefer the company of men. 

*Miss Coco Noir is one of my many aliases.