What d’ya know? There’s light at the end of this here tunnel!

I almost don’t want to write this entry for fear of jinxing myself, but I’mma say it anyway and see if it sticks: I may not be depressed anymore. Cool, right?

Now, I don’t know much about how depression works. Maybe it’s less of a temporary affliction like chicken pox or a broken arm and more of an ongoing condition like bulimia nervosa or a gambling addiction in that one is never really “cured” but rather learns how to control those negative impulses and live life, umm, better (for lack of a more appropriate word; I’m not really sure of the proper vocabulary here.) But the point is—

I feel better, y’all.

Honestly, I’m not really sure how or why this happened. I’m still single. I’m still so broke that I was making awkward “divorce is awesome” jokes at the bank last night when the banker asked if I usually keep more than $1000 in my checking account. And I still have to play horrifying games of “find the anger urine” if I leave the dogs too much during the week. But I’m guess I’m actually okay with it. Finally.

Patience has never been my strong suit. Whenever I’m upset or anxious about something, I want it to be better RIGHT NOW. I want to throw all of my energy into fixing whatever the problem is and just be done with it. I’ve always been a man of action that way. I have to feel like I’m doing something; I can’t just wait-and-see. This is why I load myself up with rules and experiments. If Approach A isn’t working, I need to come up with Tactic 2 quick, fast, and in a hurry. Basically, it boils down to this: being happy is so much easier for me than being unhappy, so I want to get back to that state ASAP. And if I don’t know how to do so, then I usually opt for sheer mind power, even when that method makes absolutely no sense. 

It’s like when you’re trying to fall asleep but you can’t, so you lie there and think, “Okay, I’m going to fall asleep … now! No? Okay, how about now?” Except it was me, staring into my bathroom mirror, saying, “Okay. That’s enough of this bullshit. You’re going to stop whining and start feeling like your old self again.” And, if that didn’t work, I’d conjure up my best Arnold Schwarzenegger: “Do it! Do it now!” Which, while both awful and hilarious, was totally ineffective after the fit of giggles subsided.

It turns out depression isn’t something that can be reasoned away. I couldn’t just buy it an ice cream cone and a new pair of shoes and turn its frown upside down. I couldn’t just power through, no matter how hard I tried. I had to wait for time to do its thang and heal my infuriatingly stubborn wounds.  (Because, really, there’s only so many times a girl can belt, “Jamie is over, and where can I turn? / Covered with scars I did nothing to earn” from The Last 5 Years before her neighbors take up a petition to make her move.)

And maybe I’m not 100% all the way there yet. There are still realizations that can knock me on my ass – but they’re different than they were a few months ago. Like the other day, it suddenly dawned on me that Josh and I will probably never play tennis again. And that really bummed me out. Not because I miss him or want to get back together. But because I really like playing tennis. Progress, ya’ll. Progress.

I can admit that things were dark and twisty for a while there. I’m a proponent of the Tyra Banks adage, “Fake it ‘til you make it” (and I really didn’t want my folks to worry about me even more), so I tried to keep the worst of it to myself. Plus, I’ve found that the things people tell you when you’re depressed because your husband left you and your life consequently went to crap don’t help at all. Like AT ALL. (Sorry, guys, but it’s the truth.) That sage advice of “you’re better off now” when you’re on the verge of tears because you’re alone and irrationally upset because all you want to do in life is watch Psych and you can’t because you’re now too poor to pay for the bigger cable package and, you know, all the rest of your bills, is both ridiculous and incorrect. Just FYI.

But I digress.

Because the way I keep finding myself dancing in my office chair, and in my car, and in my kitchen etc. would suggest that I might have found my way out of that dark cloud of gloom after all.

It’s embarrassing to actually admit this, but I kinda figured I’d remain in Eeyore mode until I landed myself another man. (Yeah, this from the almost-women’s studies major.) I’d talk a big game about figuring out who I am alone and setting goals for myself as an individual, but at the end of the day, I’d look over the pile of dogs who still won’t sleep all the way on d-a-d-d-y’s side and think, “Damn, I need to find me a new husband, like, yesterday.”

But then something interesting happened, and I did post on fbook about this a bit, so forgive me if it’s redundant: I had to dump someone. 

Through ye olde Internet dating, I found a perfectly nice man who was just swell on paper. Sweet. Grown up. Loves dogs. Interested in theater. Ready to settle down (like, right now, actually.).  If I wanted to find another husband in a hurry, this was the guy. The problem was, he wasn’t *my* guy. Now, I hate all people, so it took a few weeks to discern whether the problem was my inherent misanthropy or a lackluster connection between the parties involved. Turns out it was the latter, except it seemed I was the only one who was aware of this problem. And I’ll admit that Depressed Jessica was, ironically, hopeful that a spark might ignite if I kept trying to light the match, but then something magical happened: Strong Jessica popped back up and said to me, “Bitch, please. You know there’s no future here. Why are you making me do this? You’ll have a better time sitting home alone watching Will & Grace than trying to make yourself like this dude. Cut and run already, will you?”

So I did. It was hella awkward, and I felt so awful doing it. For about a half an hour. And then I felt awesome. Because I realized that the strong version of me was right. I shouldn’t force myself into a relationship because I’m too scared to be alone.

The Saturday after the awkward “break-up” (if you can even call it that, which I’m not sure you can. In fact, I wouldn’t. Three dates does not a break-up demand.) was the first Saturday in six months that I didn’t have any plans, so I did sit at home and watch four discs of Will & Grace all by myself and I was so. freaking. happy. for the first time in a really, really long time. 

And all it took was me. Forget about those assertions of “you’ll be fine on your own.” As I sat there on my couch, with a pint of (full-fat!) Ben & Jerry’s in one hand and my own Ben & Bella on my lap, I finally felt like myself again. And I can’t even begin to describe how incredible that is.   

Yes, I am still actively looking for a Prince Charming of sorts. It’s still a very high priority – and not just because I have FIVE weddings to go to this year. I still believe that I’m the best version of myself when I have someone to care about. But in the meantime, I’ve come to see that I am excellent on my own, too.

I think that’s what they call acceptance. 

That one time I committed perjury.

Okay, so I’m divorced now. Like, legally. How this works (in the great state of Illinois, anyway) is that I had to stand before a judge and swear a thing or two and then the judge waved her magic gavel and erased the last decade of my life. While I am *excellent* at swearing, this type turned out to be a little trickier than usual.

The process began in the typical courtroom fashion of raising our right hands and being asked to swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.  And I must say I still can’t get over the irony of having to stand next to my husband (because he still was at that point) and say “I do” one last time in order to have our marriage legally dissolved.  I mean, really, legal system? That was just uncalled for.

Since Beardy was the petitioner, he had to answer the lion’s share of the questions as I stood next to him with my arms crossed over my chest, wondering for the billionth time exactly how in the name of holy balls I ended up here.  I’ll admit that I phased in and out during this whole process, my focus being mainly on not crying and/or projectile vomiting on the judge.  Though certain questions seized my attention more than others. For instance, I listened and held my tongue as he swore that we were having problems before the separation (Unless he was using the royal form of the pronoun, “we” were absolutely not having problems. Half of that “we” was doing just fine, thankyouverymuch.) You know that part about “the whole truth”? – yeah, that was going to be a problem for me.

Soon it was my turn. The rhetoric of the proceedings was quite, umm, uncomfortable-making. So many of the questions included the words “your husband.” I’ve spent the past six months teaching myself how to not use that word when referring to The Bearded One, or at the very least, slapping an ex- in front of it. But here it was in all of its semantic glory, reminding me of what exactly I’d be losing in a matter of minutes. The first question the judge asked me was, “If I were to ask you the same series of questions I just asked your husband, would your answers be the same?” I said yes, because that’s what I was supposed to say. But my real answer was so much more complicated than that.

When asked if I believe our marriage is irretrievably broken, I said yes (Actually, not really. Oh, and even if I did, I still don’t believe in divorce… #justsaying). When asked if all attempts to reconcile have been unsuccessful, I said yes (Wait. What attempts? Did I take a nap and miss them? Because as far as I know the only attempts he made during our brief “separation” involved trying to get other girls’ phone numbers.). And, then, the big one.

I was asked if I believe that any future attempts at reconciliation would be against our best interests. And that’s when I lied my ass off.

Really, my only option was to say yes. I had already sworn to not contest the divorce, so I had nothing to gain by saying anything else. And since my only options were “yes” and “no,” I suppose I made the right call. But I absolutely do not agree with that statement, and I don’t know that I ever will. Because my real answer is that if he would just pull his head out of his ass and start acting like the man I married again, nothing would be *more* in my best interests than to have my husband back.

The instant the judge asked the question, I flashed back over our entire relationship – you know, like when Bruce Willis pushed the detonator to blow up himself and the asteroid in Armageddon. I remembered *my* Josh, the first boy I ever kissed, the first boy who ever even liked me back, the first man to make me feel like I was the only woman in the world – from the way he loved me at my fattest to the way he supported me as I became the healthy, confident person I am today. I remembered so much passion, and laughter, and joy. I remembered moments like this from Oct. 17, 2006 (Thanks, LiveJournal!):

Me: Let’s play Charmed. extends hand toward messenger bag across the room Bag!
Josh: looks at me like I’m nuts.
Me: You’re the special effects guy. . . . Bag!
Josh: Cut! Gets up and hands me the bag. Action!

I remembered what it was like to look into his eyes and know that he would love me and play along with my stupid bits forever. No matter what.

But the whole truth of that matter is that guy is long gone, and that question – Do you believe any future attempts at reconciliation would be against your best interest? - left no room for the condition of his unlikely resurrection. No or yes? Still married to a man whom I don’t even recognize anymore, or divorced? Tied to a relationship that may never feel quite right again, or free to find one that does?

There was only one choice to make.

Even though I swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, I lied and chose my freedom.

So help me God.

8 Simple Rules for Dating Me

Anyone who has read any of this blog knows that I love me some rules. Some people are stifled by routines, deadlines, and excessive guidelines – but I thrive with them. Maybe it’s all those years of school or my need for stability. Maybe it’s my “weight loss journey” and my first-hand experience of how a good set of rules can make life *so* much easier. But either way, I always strive to live by some sort of code (with varying degrees of stringency and adaptability), and it works pretty well for me.  So, it only makes sense that I should concoct a list of rules for potential suitors to follow, right?

I’ve been working on this list for a few months now, and I think it’s pretty solid. I, of course, reserve the right to edit this list in future, but since I’ve got a date this weekend that I’m actually kind of excited about, I figure I should go ahead and post it now, even though I’m not due for another blog entry for a month. You know, in case he’s also a secret creeper and Googles me beforehand. (What? Doesn’t everybody do that?) The thing is, I don’t know if it’s the sunshine or the fact that my nail polish du jour is called “Eternal Optimist” but I’m looking forward to this one. Last night, dude made a reference to The 25^th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee, a musical so important to me that I named this blog after it. I’m not saying it’s a sign, but it is a strong indicator of compatibility, yo.

Anyway… without further ado, here be the 8 simple rules for dating me:

1) My dogs come first. This is absolutely nonnegotiable. My dogs – and yes, I know they’re just animals – are the loves of my life. I am their momma and they are my babies, and if you have a problem with that, Ben can show you where the door is. Bella has special needs and barks all the time and will likely try to attack your ankles at some point, but I will still choose her over you 100% of the time. Because they were here before you, and unless you plan on sticking around for the next decade or so, they’ll be here after you. I make no apologies for this. That said, if you make a true effort to bond with them, I’ll totally melt.

2) Don’t seek out information you don’t want to know. I am an open book. Take this blog for instance. I’ve posted some really personal stuff here. Partially because it’s the easiest way to communicate with everyone I know, but mainly because I like to live my life out loud. I don’t do secrets. I don’t hide my emotions. I also have a strong tendency to get stuck in a state I call “Pez Dispenser brain” in which all of my other thoughts get trapped under one specific idea and won’t come out until it is removed and consumed. Most often, that means I have to write through it in order to move on. So, if you don’t want to know about my divorce, don’t read those entries. And don’t ask me about it. The first guy who took me out on a date spent half the night asking about the split and my ex, and I answered all of his questions because he kept asking them – and then he didn’t want to go out with me again because we spent so much of the date talking about it. As far as I’m concerned, that’s on him.

3) Don’t take advantage of my generous heart. Part of being a doggie momma is dealing with a fair amount of shit on a daily basis. It’s annoying, but I’m glad to do it because I believe that when you love someone, you take all of them – not just the good bits. That extends to my personal relationships too. I’m programmed to take care of others. It’s just how I’m built. It’s my instinct to put myself second and focus on the other person. The tricky part of this is that I’ll absolutely let you take advantage of that . . . but I’ll also secretly hold it against you. Relationships are a two-way street, and I already spent the better part of a decade trying to train the “selfish man-child” out of somebody – I can’t do it again. If you let me take care of you, that means you’ll have to take care of me (and my little dogs, too).

4) Don’t be so sensitive. I swear like a drunken sailor. I tease and mock and make too many jokes. But it’s all in the name of fun. To quote Much Ado About Nothing, “I was born to speak all mirth and no matter.” I’ve spent way too much of my life studying language to get caught up in semantics. As far as I’m concerned, language is essentially fluid.  Coming out of my mouth, “asshole” is just as likely to be a term of endearment as a bad name for a bad person.  I’m pretty much incapable of taking anything too seriously. I also have no boundaries or sense of shame, so I’ll make jokes about anything and everything.  Take this little scene as a for instance:

Me: My dead grandmother would be so proud if she could see all of the green things I eat now.

Date: Wait. What? Your dead grandmother?

Me: Yeah. My grandma’s dead.

Date: Okay, but, why call her your “dead grandmother”? – you should say “late grandmother.”

Me: Why? She’s not late for anything. She’s dead.

So if you’re easily offended, shocked, or personally wounded if, say, I make fun of you for ordering a Miller Lite at an Irish pub, we probably won’t be friends. Oh, and this works both ways. Feel free to make fun of me for listening to One Direction or for drawing inspiration from the name printed on a bottle of nail polish. As long as it’s good-natured, teasing won’t offend me.

5) But remember that words do carry meaning. As easy-going as I am regarding language and blurring lines between the literal and the humorous, there are a few things you should never say, well, ever – but especially not around me. If I hear you use the words “gay,” “retarded,” or any varietal thereof in a derogatory fashion, you will automatically be disqualified. You will not pass go. You will not collect $200.

6) Never lie to me. This one is pretty straightforward. I will never lie to you – you know, barring some sort of surprise party situation – so I will not accept lies from you either. As open and accepting as I am, I see no reason why someone would feel the need to lie to me – unless he’s a secret asshole and/or coward who can’t nut up enough to speak the truth. #lifeexperience. The hard part about dating someone who’s trained in language is that I will know when you’re lying. I may try really hard to ignore those instincts and give you the benefit of the doubt for a while (because I’m both a hopeless romantic and a good person), but that shit gets old quick. So, let’s just agree to be honest, okay?

7) Communication is key. I’m a bit of a weirdo, I’ll admit. I don’t do small talk. I can go weeks without saying “hello” to my coworkers or neighbors. If someone asks me how I’m doing, more often than not, I’ll just answer without also adding a “and how are you?” to my response. Such daily pleasantries flat-out do not occur to me. They never have. When my elementary school recommended that I should skip a grade because I was so smart, my mom held me back so that my social skills would develop properly – that didn’t so much work out.  It’s not that I’m antisocial; I just don’t feel the need for superficiality. I don’t do things half-way.  So, if I’m auditioning you as a potential life-mate, which is pretty much how I view dating btw, I’mma want to talk to you. A lot. And about more than just the weather. I’m old school, so I enjoy a real conversation with voices and everything. Texting is fine, I guess, because that’s apparently what the cool kids do these days, but if you do that thing where you start a conversation with me and then start taking longer and longer intervals to respond or, worse, text me all day every day for a week and then disappear without a word, that’s not cool. People get busy, I get it – but a little “hey, I’m busy!” message takes all of four seconds, guys. So, don’t get all bent out of shape if I lose interest in your absence. I’m looking for an everyday relationship – not a once every few weeks hang-out buddy. On a related note, the “good night” and/or “good morning” text is apparently the quickest way to make me like you without too much effort. Just sayin’.

8) Have a life of your own. The hitch with the everyday relationship is that it’s so easy to fall into each other and forget the rest of the world exists. But, now that I’ve realized the dangers of being somebody’s everything, I’m wary about doing that again. So, to paraphrase the Spice Girls, if you wannabe my lover, you’ve got to get some friends. I want my manfriend (because, umm, “boys” need not apply.) to have his own friends and interests and hobbies and aspirations. It’ll be awesome if they align with my own, but I need someone who has his own life so he’s not subsumed by mine. I know that I have a strong personality, so you’ll have to have a strong one too, so that we remain two independent people who are together because we *want* to be, not just because it’s easier than developing our own identities.

Okay, Men of the Internet, there you have it. Oh, and one more thing: “you’re” means “you are;” “your” indicates possession. Learn it. Live it.

Love, me.

Wyrd is the Word

Because I am a giant nerd, I’ve been thinking about semiotics lately. For those of you who have not taken years of linguistics (both in Spanish and English, mind you), semiotics is the study of signs and, you know, the creation and communication of meaning.

As you can imagine, I’ve been spending a lot of time looking for signs lately. Between the Catholic upbringing, my superstitious grandmother, and my obsession with the 1997 film Fools Rush In (which stars my favorite “Friend” and then-celebrity-boyfriend Matthew Perry), I’ve always been a big believer in signs. Part of this fascination comes from my own personal brand of faith. Despite my deep-seated stance that organized religion is utter nonsense, I do believe quite strongly in God/fate/the universe/karma, or if you’re feeling particularly Old English-y, wyrd.

[Aside: This one time, my mom and I were at the store picking out a christening card, and she kept asking me which one I liked. Finally, I admitted that the strong religious bent of the cards made me uncomfortable, so I didn’t actually *like* any of them. To which, my mother lovingly replied, “You know, you are Catholic, you asshole.” (I’m sure she’ll deny this story, but it still cracks me up.)]

So, it’s always made sense to me that, if there’s some grand force at work that’s guiding our lives, there’s got to be breadcrumbs for us to follow so we end up in the right place. The tricky part with such signage is that meaning is totally in the eye of the beholder. And when this beholder wants something badly enough, everything she sees points her in that direction.

For a while now, there has been one specific thing that I’ve wanted, probably a little too much. Pardon the vagueness, por favor. I haven’t posted about it, nor have I even talked about it with many people, because it was weird and confusing and, despite some incredible (#semanticsjoke) potential, never quite got off the ground. Literally every day for the past month or so, I’ve seen signs that seem to indicate that I shouldn’t give up on this thing that I want – but whether that’s what the universe is trying to tell me (Oh, and for the sake of argument, we’re suspending our collective sense of disbelief and accepting that signs are a real thing, okay?) or whether that’s because it’s what I *want* the signs to mean is aggravatingly unclear. Meanwhile, there are other, less ambiguous, signs – like, oh, I dunno, the fact that dude’s had my phone number for over two months and hasn’t freakin’ used it – that I just can’t willfully ignore anymore. So, to borrow the words of the great oracle Kenny Rogers, you’ve got to know when to hold ‘em and know when to fold ‘em. Ugh. Unfortunate.

I’ve also been thinking of signs in a more literal sense. Specially, I’ve been thinking about the semantic difference between the homophones “whole” and “hole”. The letter “w” doesn’t have any particular meaning on its own, but what a difference it makes in the meaning of those two words. And it makes me wonder if my strong desire to identify and correctly interpret metaphysical signs stems from my own oscillating sense of w/hole-ness. Do I seek out signs because I need something to fill the holes I’m finding within myself, or does my innate wholeness lead me to signs that confirm what I already know to be true?

As with everything else, I suppose only time will tell whether or not such a superstitious belief will pan out. But I’m keeping my fingers crossed, y’all. Just in case.

Thoughts Approaching D-Day, or We Are Never, Ever, Ever Getting Back Together

Tomorrow is D-Day. “D” as in d-i-v-o-r-c-e. It’s a day I never imagined would come – certainly not any time before October of last year, and hardly even in the past five months. As hard as I’ve worked to accept this whole curveball as a part of life’s ever-changing trajectory, a small part of me still can’t believe this is happening. A teeny tiny voice still pops up every once in awhile and says, “You know what, where’s my husband? Like, really? Where did he go?” And the fact that I still don’t have an answer to that question – and probably never will – still hurts more than I’d care to admit. At least it does today.

Part of what’s bumming me out today is the finality of the whole “filing for divorce” thing. Putting aside the fact that I truly don’t want to be married to this bearded stranger anymore, I don’t want to be “divorced.” I hate that the marriage I cherished so much for so long has been reduced to a statistic. I hate that the world might now perceive me as just another person who got married too young. I hate that future suitors may view me as “damaged goods” (for lack of a better term) because of it. But most of all, I hate that, on darker days, I sometimes feel that way about myself.  (You know what’s awesome about depression? Nothing! Okay, the ice cream is pretty sweet, but other than that, it kind of sucks.)

But the other thing that’s dragging me down has nothing to do with me. This past weekend, I spent some time with Josh for the first time in months. He took care of the dogs while I attended a bridesmaids slumber party, and I was so tired from the festivities (and, you know, daylight savings time) that I ended up asking him to stay and help me put together my second new dresser since putting the first one together myself proved to be way more difficult than I anticipated. We didn’t chat much, just a little bit of catching up before I left him alone with a pile of boards and settled into the couch to catch up on Bones. But by the time he left a couple of hours later, I had come to the realization that he doesn’t seem any happier. In fact, he seemed worse than the last time we spoke. And even though there are those who would take joy from his pain or say that he deserves some sadness after what he did to me, I am not among them. Truth be told, it breaks my heart that he’s not happy. I mean, if he’s going to throw away a perfectly good wife and rob me of my senses of security and self, the least he could do is be happy about it. Because even though I don’t want to get back together with him, it’s still my instinct to push down my own feelings and support him through this difficult time, despite the fact that this was all his idea.

To quote my good friend Hamlet, there’s the rub. Because I am someone who will always do the right thing, whether or not I want to. I will always put other people’s needs ahead of my own, and I will always push myself to be stronger because I have a hard time letting others catch me when I fall – or even admitting that I’ve fallen at all.

Everyone keeps telling me that I’m going to be fine. And I am. Even though all of this has been really hard, I’m fine right now. But the problem is I want to be so much more than “fine”. I have to earn the grade and win the race and get the blue ribbon. I have to be the best, plain and simple. Fine is not good enough for me. I have to do better. I have to be better. And I’m not going to feel completely like myself again until I am.

So, as I have done in difficult times past, I’m putting my faith in faith that all will turn out as it’s supposed to. I’m clinging tightly onto my belief that everything happens for a reason, and I’m focusing on building a better Jessica so that I’ll be ready for something real when it comes along. As easy as it is to get swept up in (to quote my other good friend Meg Ryan in You’ve Got Mail) “the idea of someone else,” I know I need to take care of me first. It’s a strange and difficult job, but I have to do it.

Because the absolute truth of the matter is we are never, ever, ever getting back together, and the only person who can turn that fact from something awful that’s happened *to* me into something that grants me the freedom to finally go after what *I* really want… is me.

Chutes and Ladders

I’ve always had terrible luck. This is not news. I always bet on the wrong horse and lose at “rock, paper, scissors.” Heck, I’m pretty sure I’ve never even won a coin toss. Everything I touch either breaks or falls apart for no reason. I spill on new shirts, and I’ve torn holes in every pair of pantyhose I’ve ever attempted to put on. If I like a new product or television show, there’s a good chance it’ll be discontinued, postponed, or flat-out canceled. I don’t win at raffles or lotto tickets. Most of my electronic devices mysteriously stop working, and I once ran over my favorite umbrella with my car. This is why I’m the only one in my immediate family who hates gambling. Because for me, anything requiring luck isn’t a gamble – it’s a guaranteed loss.

Given my abysmal luck, it should come as to surprise that, as a child, I friggin’ hated the game Chutes and Ladders. I never wanted to play because, no matter how well you play the game, one unlucky roll of the dice could send you all the way back to the beginning. And it did for me. Every. Damn. Time.

So the fact that I’ve been living in a real-life version of this scenario for the past month (okay, months), has been, umm, difficult, to say the least.

Here’s my big problem – and yes, I do realize that actually saying this out loud makes me seem like an asshole – I’m used to being good at stuff. And if we’re being really honest, when I say “good,” I mean “the best.” I’ve always been a bit of an overachiever. As supportive as I can be of other people’s struggles, I have ungodly high expectations for myself (which, given the title of this blog, might not exactly be a shocker, either). So, when stuff around me starts to suck, I take it extremely personally, even if there’s nothing I could have done to stop it. I thought I got over this feeling when I ran screaming from Ph.D. school, but it turns out, not so much.

To deal with this little problem, I decided to take the month of February off. I dropped my own expectations completely and allowed myself to make mistakes. Remember this guy from Scrubs (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=or8UhztOSH4)? He was singing in my ear a lot this month, but I hit the mute button and kept on goin’ anyway. I ate so much I shouldn’t have eaten (Fatuary, anyone?). I bought stuff I shouldn’t have bought. And I may have done another stupid thing or two I probably wouldn’t have done under any other circumstances.

As the month winds down (Thank God!), I’m hoping I got all that self-indulgent nonsense out of my system because I think it’s time for me to start my real life again. And with that shift comes, of course, a new set of life rules for me to follow.

1. Plan for the future.  This month has been all about living in the moment. And even though Jonathan Larson would say, “There’s only now / There’s only here,” and the characters from Avenue Q would echo “Everything in life is only for now,” there’s a whole big future out there that’s going to happen whether I’m prepared for it or not, so I should probably start thinking about it. I can’t get too far ahead of myself because I’ll drive myself nuts, say, planning for my future condo when I can barely cover my current expenses. But I need to start paying closer attention to the immediate future and the ramifications of the, perhaps questionable, decisions I’ve been making. In the past month, for example, I had to borrow $300 from my savings to cover the bills, I gained three pounds – presumably all beer and cheese – and I blew off at least three runs for a variety of totally self-indulgent reasons. So, by the law of threes, my sub-rules for this category are quite obvious: a) stop spending money unnecessarily, b) don’t put stuff in my body that I know is bad for me (okay, unless I really, really want it or it’s only available for a short-period of time, like Girl Scout Cookies), and c) get thee to a treadmill. My health (both physical and mental) may rely on this last one.

2. Don’t go out with him if I don’t want to. In my haste to move on and start the next chapter of my life, I may have adopted a “Mount Everest” approach to dating, i.e. because it’s there. This may not have been the healthiest or most productive attitude. But because I’m a) a good, trusting, accommodating person and 2) not super-great at being alone yet, I found myself in some uncomfortable dating situations this month that I really would prefer to forget, such as being invited to “watch a movie” in a hipster’s really disgusting apartment and then having to awkwardly explain that what he thought was going to happen was *so* not going to happen. Or yesterday, when I found myself trapped in my own apartment with someone to whom I definitely should not have given a second chance but who called me up (as opposed to the random, semi-vague texting I’ve been receiving for the past two months) and asked if I wanted to watch the Oscars with him. So, against my better judgment and because I was so stunned by receiving an actual phone call I couldn’t think of an excuse, I let him come over, whereupon he sat down on my couch, asked to borrow my iPhone charger, and then proceeded to spend the next couple of hours ignoring me and playing games on his phone. I still have *no idea* why he even wanted to come over – you know, other than to use my charger. It was SUPER awkward, y’all, and I couldn’t think of a way to politely ask him to get the hell out of my house, so I just sat there like a moron trying to convince Bella not to bite him. My plans for the day had included going for a run (see rule 1.c) and catching up on my DVR. Instead, I got to be uncomfortable in my own house for most of the evening. Not cool, man. In future, I’ll have to remember that it’s okay to quote Nancy Reagan and just say no.

3. Trust, with caution. Given how my marriage ended, I’mma have trust and abandonment issues for a while. This is both unfortunate and, well, unavoidable. A big part of me wants to just dismiss everything every penis-bearer says as a bald-faced lie, but I know that’s not fair – plus, I’m not that bitter (yet). But I also have to beware my own tendency to overcompensate when I’m trying to avoid doing something, which in this case would mean believing everything men say… just ‘cause – which probs isn’t the best idea either. So, I’m on the hunt for the middle ground. Thus far, I’ve kind of been avoiding the issue by leaving my heart out of the equation when I meet new people. For the time being, I carefully packaged my heart in bubble wrap and shipped it to, let’s say, Minnesota, where it can chill in the mounds of snow I love so much until it is fully healed and strong enough to be passed along to a deserving suitor. This is not a great long-term plan for someone who does want to get married again someday. But it might be in my best interest to leave it there a little while longer, at least until I figure out how to do this with intelligence and caution. Because the thing with being an Italian Taurus is that I only know how to love one way: forever.

4. Lighten up, but within reason. In the past month, I did learn that there is something empowering about letting go and embracing new opportunities. But I also learned that emulating Jim Carrey in “Yes Man” isn’t a route I want to take either.  Having fun is good (this just in!), but I don’t need to have activities planned for every night of the week, either. Scheduling fitness classes, art classes, dinners with friends, and dates all back-to-back is exhausting, yo. Last month, I wrote about focusing on the fun of dating, and I’ve been doing that – but there’s this whole thing about substance and making a legitimate connection that I need to start exploring. Yes, it’s good to open up and take chances, but I see no merit in pursing someone with whom I see no future. I heard the choruses of “Who needs Mr. Right when there’s Mr. Right Now?” and “It doesn’t have to lead anywhere; just have fun!” and I tried it for a bit. Turns out, it’s not for me. On the flip side, though, online dating is not the same as Amazon.com. I can’t scope a potential new husband and click “add to cart,” so I do still need to put myself out there and give new people a chance at the same time – but I must remember that I don’t necessarily need to waste my time, energy, and money to do so. Especially when the guy in question is too lazy to type out y-o-u or use any punctuation in text messages. I mean … really, guys?

5. (Have faith) Patience is a virtue. Despite shedding most of my Catholic upbringing in favor of a more secular dogma centered on love and equality, I remain a woman of faith. I have always held firmly onto the belief that everything happens for a reason, even spectacularly shitty stuff like getting your car maimed (twice!) on Valentine’s Day by a dude named Love. A good friend of mine keeps reminding me that it’s only been a few months and that it’s totally unreasonable for me to expect good things (like complete healing, losing these three pounds I just gained, and a fresh start with a grown-up man who loves all of me and wants me to have his babies despite my bad ovaries, sarcastic mouth, and taste in television shows) to happen overnight. This is wisdom that I need to hold onto as well. I need to keep calm, stay centered, and remember the foundational elements that make me who I am – and that includes having faith that one day my path will be clear and that I’ll understand why all of this had to happen. Right now, I have absolutely no clue why everything in my life has been so hard lately. I have no answers regarding why my husband disappeared and was replaced with a bearded pod person. I don’t have the slightest inkling why I have suddenly found myself in a position to identify with every song Taylor Swift has ever written. But I have to have faith that there’s a reason. Because if I lose that, I don’t know how much of me I’ll have left.

6. No more Taylor Swift. For obvious reasons.

As I wrap up this month’s ramblings, it occurs to me that a lot of these new rules are merely echoes my New Year’s Resolutions for 2013. But that’s the thing with Chutes and Ladders – sometimes you have to repeat the same steps several times before any real progress is made, so I’m going to keep rolling the dice and trying to climb higher.

One month later

It’s been a month since I came out of the single lady closet, so I thought I should probably make an effort to post another update. In response to the queries of “How’s it going?”, all I can say is that it’s going. Through the harder days, the easier days, the sneaky residual pains (apparently I can never watch Moulin Rouge again. That was a great surprise.), and the attempts to harness joy anywhere I can find it, it all just keeps going. The sun keeps rising and setting, and the only thing I know to do is to rise and set with it.

Overall, January was pretty successful. I painted a lot, purged the apartment of ex-husband stuff, rearranged the furniture, decided to extend my lease, picked up new projects at work, yoga-ed, meditated, spent time with old friends, made some new ones, and finally started to embrace my singlehood in a real way (more on that in a bit). I also orchestrated the first of what I hope turns out to be a series of monthly family dinners.  As much as it’s a pain in the tuchus to schlep all the way out to the south ‘burbs, spending some regular quality time with the family (for the first time since I left for college, really) far outweighs the inconvenience and cost in gas money. So that’s all good.

And now for the trickier bit.

I started dating.

I’mma let that sink in for a second.

Dating. Something I’ve literally never done before. There was no one before Josh, and the two of us never really dated. Never mind the fact that we were only seventeen when we met, we were fused at the hip right from the start. There were no questions of where things we headed because we both knew within a week. There were no insecurities or debating how long to wait before calling or seeing each other again because not being together just wasn’t an option. Plus, it was so long ago that texting wasn’t even a thing. So, this whole dating thing? Boy, was I unprepared.

I knew it would be hard, but it’s been difficult in ways I didn’t anticipate.  For instance, you know what’s great for the ole self-esteem? Getting ignored/rejected by guys you weren’t really interested in to begin with but messaged anyway because you have to start somewhere. Or instances in which a guy texts you multiple times every day for a week, then suddenly cancels your weekend date without explanation, and doesn’t bother to reschedule. Or, my personal favorite: the really good first date, followed by a month of cancellation, rescheduling, me getting fed up and saying (via text, of course, because that’s how the cool kids do things these days) “j/k nm”, his response of “no, I really do like you!” and ending (?) with silence – So, that’s been … confusing.

It took me a good decade to shake off the insecurities that I developed in high school, and as much as I hate to admit it, they’re coming back in full force. I’m so used to being confident and trusting and being able to articulate every thought and feeling that runs through my head – and the fact that I can’t do that anymore is throwing me off. It’s strange not being entirely myself, and I don’t like it. The hardest part, though, is knowing (pesky divorce aside) I am a damn good wife, but barring some sort of Fiddler-on-the-Roof-type matchmaking scenario, I won’t get to be one again for a very long time (if ever #harshtruth).

That said, there are some positives, too. It’s been fun (and at times, even exciting) to put myself out there, meet new people, and try new things. With every experience, I’m learning a bit more, I think, about myself and this whole scene. There even have been some butterflies. They haven’t really turned into anything, but it’s nice to know that I am still capable of feeling those types of feelings after everything I’ve been through in the past few months. Truth be told, I’m working really hard to pace myself, go with the flow, maintain perspective, and hold on to my core belief that everything happens for a reason.

Focusing on the “joy” of dating might be too tall of an order for me right now, but I can focus on the “fun” in the meantime. Because it is fun getting to know someone and allowing someone get to know me. It’s actually been downright delightful to see some reactions to the crazy jokes that fly out of my mouth (especially since my nearest and dearest are too used to me to be genuinely surprised anymore) and to take in the equally crazy and surprising things that are said in response. I’ve never been great at the “getting to know you” portion of things – I’ve always been too shy or scared to let my walls down – but I’m definitely developing a new appreciation for it.

So, now as we enter, February – a month that used to be my favorite for reasons that no longer apply – my biggest goal is to hang on to that positive attitude. It’s only been four days, and it’s already been a challenge (goddamn Valentine’s Day commercials – to those of you who have been single a lot longer than I have, I’m so sorry! I never realized how unrelenting this fraggin’ holiday is.). But I have an arsenal of joy to help me through – again with the friends (new and old), family, painting, and yoga – but I also have a Mommacation to Milwaukee planned for this upcoming weekend, a party at my newly rearranged apartment the weekend after that, and the most amazing thing of all …

I CAN RUN AGAIN, for the first time since August. I cannot even tell you how major that is. My run this week was short and hard, but I got off that treadmill feeling happier and more like myself than I’ve been in months. It’s just confirmation that wounds do heal and that everything gets better one step at a time.

Until March, my friends. <3