Love -- (Like (I’m) Over Valentines Entirely)

Raise your hand if you are so very tired of seeing “Every Kiss Begins with Kay” commercials.

Really? You didn’t raise your hand?

Well it’s that time of year again where we are constantly bombarded with reminders that there are the Haves and the Have Nots. (If I have to spell it out for you, you are probably a Haves.)

And it’s not just Kay. How many emails from 1800Flowers and Shari’s Berries have YOU received this week?? (Is it just me?)

Now don’t get me wrong. I am not a hater. I’m sure it’s just sour grapes or sour apples or sour gummi bears. If I were on the receiving end of a pink glitter, satin ribbon wrapped tiny box with a giant K on it, I would probably break out and sing the stupid song myself. If a huge box of chocolate covered anything were delivered to me, I would be delighted. (Except, not at work. I’m really weird about that. Everybody coming up to my desk with a …”Ohhh, who sent YOU those”…like it is shocking to even consider.)  

I mean, sure, being a girl and all I would like to have the full Valentine experience. I have before. I expect to again one day. So I am not bitter or jaded. I truly hope that I don’t sound that way. It is a little disappointing to be single during the ‘love’ season but that disappointment just proves to me that I understand there is something positive to be gained and to strive for. What I do find very sad are the ones who have been so charred and exploited in their relationships that they don’t ever want to try again. Walls high and impenetrable. Not me.

Call me a sucker or call me a romantic, but I LOVE love. That mystical realm where there is one person that can wow all of your senses, light up your world, melt your heart and help with the dishes. While this particular scenario still eludes me, and cynics scoff, I have faith because I know it can and does exist.

I have a dear friend who became a widow a couple of years ago at a fairly young age. I didn’t meet her until afterwards, so I never knew her husband. But I can tell from being around her, the pictures in her home, the expression on her face when she mentions him, THEY had that.  I am sure it wasn’t perfect. I am not delusional just because I use words like mystical realm. I know that hard work is involved. The trick is to have so much fun that it doesn’t feel like work. I am of the opinion they created that level of joy. She has those uplifting memories to help counter the loss. While I am sure Valentines finds her with a mixed bag of emotions, I believe her heart smiles at the ones they did share together through the years.

Then there is divorce. That ugly sickening word. Whether you initiated it or not, it still represents the ripping apart of something that was meant to stay cemented. The years together, the shared experiences; it's like they didn’t exist, but they did. A piece of paper doesn't erase them. You remember them. So there are hard times for awhile. No doubt. And the bombardment from social media and even well intending friends only highlight that void. I am truly sorry if someone reading this is struggling with these emotions this weekend. Remember that flowers, candy and a folded piece of cardboard do not necessarily represent happiness. Everyone’s story is unique. Stay the course. Be fabulous. You are stronger than you think.

And see, being single for over twenty years now, those are both situations that I can only relate to in theory. I talk to my sister about such things. (I bet there are times she wishes I would leave her alone.) She has suggested that my single status is not exactly what bothers me. No, she believes I simply occasionally mourn the ‘loss’ of the life that I planned to have.  (A companion for milestone achievements, those fancy anniversary plates, etc.)  This actually makes sense to me. They say you can’t miss what you never had. I do not know if that is necessarily true.

Of course, I have been in relationships throughout the years, but never again took that BIG step. I’m at peace with that for now. I have a great life with amazing friends and family. I have never regretted settling for someone just to change my Facebook status. (Well…., there was this one guy…..some regrets there. But clock rewinding is not a skill I possess.)

There isn’t a competition for heartache. Divorce is tough. Losing a loving partner is awful. Never having those memories to cherish, well that’s kind of sad too. There are opportunities all around for being dismal. But we have to resist that urge and fight it back. (Boy, I really could use some of those chocolate covered goodies about now.)

I know, I got a little melancholy there for a moment. But sometimes you just do.  

Now .what does a single gal do to celebrate Valentines? Well this gal has a whole host of activities lined up. Going out with friends. Spending time with family. Finding something to cover with chocolate. And while I don’t expect to have a balloon wielding teddy bear presented to me over a candlelit dinner, I’m good. I’m happy. I’m safe. And I am loved. By many.

So to all my beautiful, fascinating, intelligent, loving and extraordinary single friends of mine out there, here’s to you! Have a great day! Be joyful! Be thankful! Do special for yourself. Then do special for someone else. Laugh out loud (really laugh, not the LOL stuff).

Oh yeah...eat some chocolate!!

 

Hope Out

Most Days I'm The Windshield - Today...I'm The Bug

It happens.  I can admit that today (and yesterday) were not my best days. Don’t worry; nothing bad took place. I am still one very blessed and thankful woman. I have no legitimate reason to be gloomy. (Well, the Panthers did lose the Super Bowl, but to be sure that isn’t it.) And yet I am. Blue. Mopey. Out of sorts.  I debated on whether to share this. TMI! It’s a downer. Who wants to be bummed out, right? Just feed us the cheerful stuff Hope!

And it would be great if every day was a cheery and bubbly day. Some people seem to have them. Those people tend to annoy me, but still. Maybe they know a secret. But for me it seems there are times when, despite our best efforts and bravest fronts, we just don’t quite make it to the top of Happy Mountain. The trail runs cold or the wind is too strong. Maybe we dropped our favorite grappling hook. So we stand there looking up, with our hands to shade our eyes, at what appears to be an unattainable peak. Our focus is where we haven’t yet been. The climb looks steep and we are tired. We rarely stop to look below at the remarkable progress we have already made. Maybe looking back can sometimes be a positive thing. To see how far we have come. How far I have come.

What causes these emotional hiccups? No good answer here. Stress at work. An anniversary of an event you wish you didn’t have to remember. Regret for a decision that backfired. Fatigued at the magic money stretching to cover the bills. Maybe just one too many cutesy Facebook quote put you over the edge. I guess the why doesn’t matter. The whys will invariable come from time to time. It is the navigation through them that highlights our courage and resolve.

Starting this blog has been a blast and surprisingly uplifting for my spirit. The goal was to be light hearted, maybe goofy and sometimes even self-deprecating. Sharing my personal glitches and true stories with the awareness that we are all in this together. It is beneficial to have that reminder. The feedback has been tremendous and for that I am more grateful then I could ever adequately express. And yet today I struggled. Today I didn’t feel like writing. Today I didn’t feel like even leaving the house. (I did. My boss is funny about that sort of thing.) But my emotional well is low. Like that annoying sucking sound your straw makes when you want that very last drop of Chocolate Mocha Caramel Milkshake from Cook Out.  (I’m not sure they actually have that flavor, but they should.)    So is this ok?  To admit when you are weak? When your foundation shakes a little?  Are we really all in this together? Oh yeah we are. We have ALL been there.

There’s a line in a new song I heard on the radio that goes, “Flying feels like flying ‘til you hit the ground.” That line has stuck with me.  The really good days are really good days. We just don’t always know when the ground is going to catch up to us.

So now what? What do I do? I don’t know. Wait it out I guess. Maybe read a book (or a blog). Watch a movie (with Bradley Cooper). Or have a Chocolate Mocha Caramel Milkshake.  It’s not like this is the first time I’ve been depressed. It won’t be the last. I’m not freaking out or anything. Here’s what I DON’T want. I don’t want you guys to feel sorry for me. (I already have that covered, thanks!)  I will be just fine. It will pass. Just one of those little bumps in the road.  In fact, just putting these few words together here is already helping.

I just decided that along with the good vibes and the funny anecdotes, I would also share the less delightful moments. Moments of doubt. Of loneliness. Fear. So on the off chance that anyone else is experiencing these, they will feel less isolated. Maybe this post should serve as a reminder that having a bad day is not a reflection of who we are as individuals, where we are on our journey, or punishment for unknown transgressions. Just simply a notice to take a moment, use the down time and regroup. Sit on the side of that mountain. Enjoy the view. Reflect on the victories.  Take courage that tomorrow will open with the same opportunities as yesterday. One day at a time. That’s all any of us can do.

So if today you’re the bug too, enjoy the cool smoothness of the windshield before taking flight again with me tomorrow!

Hope Out

Reverse Parental Control

I cracked the screen on my cell phone. (I know, the horror of it all). I was on my treadmill, using the phone for music when it bounced off, hit the floor and cracked the screen. (I considered that a mis-guided hint that I should stop walking on that treadmill. Haven’t been on it since.) I carried that cracked screen phone for a very long time. It still worked. All was fine. Then one day my youngest daughter; adult and married, said they had received notice of a special promotion where I could be put on their family cellular plan, get a new phone, cheaper rate…yada yada. So I did.

Fast forward a few months…my daughter and her husband were talking about how much data was being used and the number of text messages his sister had sent last month. (His teenage sister is also on the family plan.) While we were sitting there railing about teenagers and their text message obsession my daughter pipes up and says, “Don’t worry Mom, you only sent ###”. Wait…...What??     You have access to my phone habits?? Didn't think about that....

There is a slight panic moment when you realize your child can read YOUR text messages. It’s like the recurring stress-induced dream you have where you show up at work in your underwear. Highly exposed. (You’ve never had a recurring dream where you showed up at work in your underwear? Is it just me??) Of course….once the panic settles I understand that being on their family plan would in fact put me in their circle of information.  I’m cool with that. Panic is a strong word. I have nothing to hide. All the same, my extremely readable expressive face must have registered something because she came right back with “But I haven’t read any of them.” Yet……..

So what’s next? Will the ‘Family’ GPS track my whereabouts? I ride the roads a lot. A print out of my travels would look like one of those nostalgic string art kits. (Do any of you remember doing one of those? Wrapping those insanely thin pieces of string around pegs nailed into a board?) Or should I be concerned that I won’t be able to access the next episode of Sons of Anarchy? Will my phone mysteriously cut off at 11 pm? How literally will they now take ‘parental control’?

It used to be all I worried about was what kind of nursing home they were going to put me in.

I have entered into the phase of life where my children are now adults. That’s an oxymoron, right? You can’t be a child AND an adult. Maybe I’m the moron, but this reality is hard to get used to! You spend almost two decades taking care of them and then suddenly, if you have done it right, they move on, out and have their own lives. The world sees these productive, mature, well-adjusted women, but all I see are the little girls stomping through the mud puddles in the back yard or Barbie birthday cakes or one child catching a fish, bringing it home and the other one praying it back to life! (That’s a true story.)       (It IS a true story.)

What ups the difficulty ante is when you are SINGLE with adult children! No one ever plans for that. There isn’t a chapter in “Bringing Your Baby Home” that discusses that particular scenario. Everyone assumes when the grandkids are brought back home there will be two gray haired people sitting in the rocking chairs on the front porch. Not one Miss Clairol MeMe sending text messages or checking in on Facebook driving around in an orange car. (I don’t actually DO those things while I’m driving my orange car.)  I can’t relate to their feelings about this. My parents were married over 60 years. They literally were the two gray haired people sitting on the front porch rocking chairs. It does make me sad sometimes that I cannot offer them what I was afforded. Instead of trading recipes and family heirlooms, we trade relationship stories. And get tattoos together. That sounds messed up, right?  And instead of meet my parents, it is now meet my kids.

It used to concern me a little when I brought a new suitor home to meet my parents. I mean, I wanted them to like him, but it wasn’t exactly mandatory. It’s not quite that simple now. The dynamics are different. It is really important to me that my daughters like and preferably respect the man I invite over for family dinner. While I am smart enough to realize sometimes that doesn’t happen, it is a bumpy road to travel if you set yourself up for holidays, birthdays and family vacations with a partner who clashes with your offspring. Learned that the hard way. Not going there again if I can help it. 

I should just leave the partner picking to them anyway. Both of my daughters are better at cultivating and maintaining relationships than I am.  My youngest daughter has already been married longer than I was. No idea where they got their insight. Certainly wasn’t me. They probably got together late one night as teenagers and said “Whatever Mom does, let’s do the opposite!” Seems to have been a good game plan for them.

But for now all is ok. I think we have settled into this all being adults thing ….finally. You can’t have amazing grandkids until that happens anyway. And hey, it has its benefits. I did get a new cell phone.  Who knows, as the years go by they both may just end up doing more  and more for me. That’s the circle of life, right?

Maybe they will even be kind enough to make sure I don’t go to work in my underwear.

Hope Out

You’re The Reason God Made Oklahoma (It’s A Song, Google It)

This is the story of how I met and married my first husband. It is a personal story and a true story. It is also a family story, because not only did it affect my family it also affected his, plus the marriage produced my oldest daughter.  So while it is my intent to be honest and maybe even thought provoking, I have to be sensitive to the feelings of everyone involved. This will be some of my most intimate revelations to date.

At the age of 19 I was a very restless teenager. I also fancied myself somewhat of a gypsy. I never really believed I fit in the small country town in North Carolina where I lived. Even though we had moved there when I was still young, I basically always felt like an outsider. And I felt poor. I know, that sounds awful. I had a good life. But at the time, that is how I felt. I didn’t have the Aigner purses or the preppy clothes or those Add-A-Bead necklaces. (I really, really wanted one of those necklaces.)  Sounds trite now, but it wasn’t then. Not to me. I just sorta lost my way a bit. Spent about a year with my sister in St Louis right out of high school. Got a taste of the big city. I had planned to go to college. NC State. Design solar panels. But I couldn’t get my act together enough to make that happen. I wanted adventure and experiences. What I got was a waitressing job back in that small town in North Carolina.

I worked every day at this little diner called Kathy’s. I didn’t have a plan, but I knew it was only temporary. I was looking to get away again. Did not see myself settling there. The world was too big.  I knew, because I had been outside those confining rural walls. It was only a matter of time before something or someone happened. That someone was a construction worker from Oklahoma named Larry. My life story changed the day he and his crew walked in and sat down at my counter.  And the events that followed; both good and bad I would not change with any amount of Magic Do Over Dust one could buy.

Larry and his band of buddies built water towers. (You know, the ones made famous in country songs?) They were in town for six weeks and would be in the restaurant every day of those six weeks. Three decades ago there was no other place nearby for them to eat.  He was 30 years old. In my eyes that made him wiser and experienced and mysterious. Way more mature than the ‘boys’ I had been around. Of course he was ruggedly handsome in that Midwestern Cowboy kinda of way.  He had been married before, even had two children. That insured that my parents would distrust and dislike him immediately; which as a young, restless and rebellious teenage girl just made him all the more irresistible.

He apparently found something desirable about me as well and we started ‘seeing’ each other. It was not an easy romance to cultivate. They were all staying together at a local motel. Our dates consisted of sitting around with everyone watching TV or driving around those back roads in my truck. Some days I would just go to the work site and watch them.  It would amaze and terrify me to see them run and jump back and forth on those scaffolds way up in the air. I was impressed, in awe and head over heels. How intoxicating.

I decided one night to make supper for the entire crew. A homemade meal! They were ecstatic.  I went home after work and cooked a huge pot of spaghetti. As I was walking up to the motel room I dropped the bowl and spaghetti went everywhere all over the sidewalk. I was devastated and embarrassed. But those rough around the edges tough grown men came out to where I was crying over my disaster with forks in hand and started to eat off the ground. I’m not kidding. I know, it sounds weird and disgusting. Quite honestly one of the most bizarre yet sweetest moments of my life. Maybe Larry threatened them if they didn’t. I don’t know. But I know from that point on he was my hero.

The six weeks flew by and they had to leave. I was devastated.

Then one day they came back. I honestly don’t recall if I knew they were coming back or not. I probably did, but I don’t have a recollection of being excited or any anticipation. I just know he came back. This time with an offer. As I mentioned in an earlier post, the first vehicle I bought was a Toyota 4-Wheel Drive Truck. I LOVED that truck. Well, the offer was simple. I could become part of the ‘crew’. I would let them use my truck to haul materials. My “payment” was I could travel all over the country with them and the company would make my truck payment. I would get to live the life of that gypsy. Different town every few months. Living out of motels and greasy spoon restaurants. Glorious! (I WAS only 19 keep in mind.) It was the perfect get out of jail (I mean, town) free card. The next jobs were in Wyoming and Chicago and New Orleans. I could not get home fast enough to pack.

Oh yeah, home. Where my parents were. Not a good scene. My father was having health issues. I was sadly and forever regrettably oblivious. I was hitting the road! Freedom awaited me. But it came with a price. For as long as I live I will never forget my father saying. “I guess I can’t stop you. You’ve made your bed.  Now you have to lay in it.” I will give Larry credit. He came with me to tell them. And help me pack. I mean, it was immediate. One day I lived in North Carolina with a full time job and the next day I was an unemployed drifter.

The problems started almost immediately. The only place we drifted to was Oklahoma which was theirs and the company’s home base. No Chicago. No Wyoming. No New Orleans. Suddenly without warning, the company dissolved. It appeared to surprise everyone, not the least being me. So I knew right away that Oklahoma was my new home. And while I know there are opulent and meager sections in every region, this area was particularly economically challenged. Gave me a whole new perspective on what I had previously considered poor.  But pride would not allow me to turn back and retreat. Plus I was still in love. Or what I thought was love.  The second problem was living arrangements. Larry had been on the road for so long he had no permanent home. We moved in with his parents. I have since wondered what they must have thought; their 30 year old son bringing home a 19 year old girl from halfway across the country. To their credit, they were welcoming and gracious. Especially his father. He was a dear sweet man. It was his mother who proved to have fortune telling abilities. She was the one who told me I was pregnant even before I had noticed anything to be concerned about. (You know how I mentioned earlier that the marriage produced my oldest daughter. The time line of those events weren’t exactly in that order. If you know what I mean.)

So here I was pregnant at 19. Not married. No job. Basically living with strangers, in a strange place. So why, do you ask, did I not just go home? Because my father was a formidable man. A mean-what-you-say man. And the last thing he said was “you’ve made your bed, you have to lay in it”. My mother told me years later that all I had to do was pick up the phone and they would have done everything necessary to get me home. A comment I didn’t fully appreciate until becoming a mom myself. I am absolutely sure now that would have been the case. Being a scared and stubborn kid back then though, it did not cross my mind as an option.

The details of what followed in the next several months would take pages to tell in full. I found a job at a newspaper. We got married. My boss gave me away. (How many fairy tales have that twist?) We lived in several different places, including a house with his sister and her family. A house with no glass in some of the windows. Just curtains. There were always a variety of creatures and critters to dodge or pretend I didn’t see. I woke up one morning to find a pony in the kitchen. (Of course he didn’t come in through a window. The back door was left open.)

We also lived in a small cabin on a lake. He found a job doing maintenance on a group of rental cabins. One of the perks was they offered us a unit. That is where we spent our first Christmas. I hosted the family Christmas dinner. We had finger foods, a table cloth and matching paper plates and cups. I was embarrassed at our sparse offering; they thought I was Martha Stewart. It was mind blowing and eye opening. I don’t think I had ever consciously stopped to count my blessings before. Didn’t realize that ‘rich’ means more than money. The blinders were coming off.

Through a series of decisions and mistakes I lost my truck and we lost the cabin. We ended up back at his parents. This time with me being very pregnant and pretty much over everything having to do with Oklahoma. (I mean no disrespect to the people or state. It was just the particular position I found myself in.) I had a falling out with his mother and I chose to live in a camper in the back yard. It was in that camper one night that I had my Prodigal Son (Daughter) moment. I concluded that whatever restrictions or conditions were given to me, I would comply if my parents would let me come home. It was with great relief that they did. And the cutest and most precious little red headed baby girl, who would become one of my two proudest accomplishments, was born shortly thereafter safely tucked away back in North Carolina.

Needless to say the marriage did not survive those pressures or obstacles. I hold no hard feelings towards Larry or begrudge those circumstances. Looking back it was a relatively short time span in the grand scheme of my life. However the impact was significant and long standing, and not just because of my daughter. I learned some valuable lessons.

While eating off the ground might be romantic, it does not necessarily make for a good life partner.

Consider your blessings. Appreciate what you have. There will always be those who have more and those who have less.

Never be too proud to ask for forgiveness.

Family, especially the love of a mother, is priceless and unconditional.

Even with all the above said….be prepared to lay in the bed you make; even if it is in Oklahoma.

 

Hope Out

Damsel In A Dress (Distress Is For Furniture)

**The sound of a dark and calamitous saloon piano plays in the background** A woman is tied to the railroad tracks in an old silent movie with a nefarious villain rubbing his hands gleefully at his handiwork. She is helpless and frantic. When along comes the hero, her hero, who rushes in, unties her just before the train arrives. He rescues her and puts an end to the villain’s evil plot…. BAM, the blueprint for the Damsel in Distress is born. Ok. I get it. I don’t like it, but I get it.  If it is an inherent female trait, it skipped me. If it is learned or taught behavior, I failed the class. I totally understand the concept. I completely, if albeit grudgingly, acquiesce to the fact that the concept exists. I just can’t manage to pull it off. I know these distressed damsels exist. I have met one or two. It is with curiosity and sometimes a twinge of jealousy that I watch them operate. But it’s not for me.  Honestly I am proud to say that most of the amazing single women I know today it also does not work for them.  

The theme is repeated over and over again in relationship books and talk shows. (I admit I was an avid watcher of Dr Phil until I stopped buying cable.) Guys like to feel needed. They need to know they have contributed something worthwhile. Performed a service. Helped. Fixed something, anything. It is hard wired into their DNA. I applaud that DNA. Trust me, I am not a feminist. I have no real problem (I can already hear the groans starting) with traditional gender roles. I will cook supper if you cut the grass. The problem I have is ASKING you to cut the grass.

I am not a tomboy, but I have done stuff. Non-girly stuff. I had a rifle and went hunting with my dad. I drove a tractor and helped on our small farm. My first paying job at age 13 was putting in tobacco. If you don’t know what that means, well you just wouldn’t understand. If you DO know what it means, then you DO understand. The first vehicle I bought was a 4-Wheel Drive Toyota Truck. (Ok, looking back, maybe I was somewhat of a tomboy.) But I never considered myself to be one. I was just a country girl. But a girl none the less; with the same sappy, dreamy ideas that most girls have. I had a life size poster of Scott Baio on my wall….yes I did. And the stair steps of my adolescence were meant to lead to college, a career, a husband. With that husband, create a partnership. My parents had a partnership. In the early years of their marriage they owned a restaurant, a gas station, a boarding house. (They did all that cool interesting stuff before I was born.) They worked together, united. When my father went to work at the shipyard, my mother went back to school to get her cosmetologist license. My father turned our garage into a beauty shop. Teamwork. After retirement and the move back to NC, they both worked together to tend a small farm and keep an immaculate yard, flower beds and fruit orchard. They didn’t have a chore chart. They didn’t flip a coin. They just did what had to be done. Worked in conjunction with each other. So it is their fault that I went into adulthood thinking that was the design for a healthy marriage/partnership.

I kept those ideas and thoughts and beliefs….right until the age of 28, when through no fault of my own (Well, that’s not a true statement. I do own some fault); I became a divorced single mother with two daughters.

What do most single mothers do? EVERYTHING! (Now for all the single dads out there, please do not get up in arms. I very much applaud you for also doing EVERYTHING. However for the purpose of this particular train of thought, I am sticking with the female side.)

Financial decisions, discipline decisions, car decisions, school decisions, vacation decisions…. The list is endless. Skinned knees. Science projects. Sibling brawls in the kitchen (and bedroom and front yard). First heartbreak. My obvious point is that being a single mom creates a situation where you have to be in charge. Become strong in areas that you really didn’t want to be strong in. When you are accustomed to those things it is then difficult to turn the tide. We can’t go from being an independent, self-sufficient woman and then fall to fainting on cue. Do we feel like fainting? Yeah. Sometimes we do. Or at least I know I did. I had an amazing support system with my parents, couldn’t have done it without them. But some nights after dinner, homework, and all the little problems are handled, you lock yourself in the bathroom, turn on the shower and cry. And pray. And wonder if there will ever come a time when you will not feel broken, inadequate and exhausted.  

Ok, I know that’s a downer. Where’s the happy blog? Who is in charge today?? I just had to write all those dismal words to point out that we as single women and moms DO have distress. But we don’t LIVE in distress. We live in HOPE and COURAGE and LOVE. And when we meet a guy, those are the attributes we display. We don’t want you to feel sorry for us. We are proud of ourselves. So we can plan dinner, but would LOVE if you did it first. We can take the car to have the oil changed or tires rotated, but it would melt our heart if you offered to handle it. We can pay a plumber to unclog the toilet, but….well maybe we should just pay the plumber. My point is, just because we have risen to the occasion and CAN handle life, doesn’t mean we would not relish the chance to sit back, let go of the reins and let someone else do it from time to time. But some of us (me) just have trouble asking for help.

So for the men who are looking to be needed, resourceful, handy, generous in time and affection, please by all means DON’T LET US STOP YOU! We do not mean to get in our own way. Open the doors, bring the flowers, pick up the milk, make the reservation. Untie us from the railroad tracks. 

Hope Out

Time Lapse Photography - (My Date with His Future Self)

This actually happened to me several years ago but a good friend of mine was telling about a very similar incident she experienced more recently. Who knew both of us would experience time travel.

When I first started online dating I was fairly naïve. (I would like to think that coincided with me being fairly young.) I do have a basic trusting nature and want to believe the best about everyone. I assumed that what I saw and read on those profiles was the truth. I have since been relieved of those notions. I also was the type of online dater that wanted to give everyone a fair shake. (Naïve, again.) Sometimes it just doesn’t go well. So there was this guy. Let’s call him…..(seriously, I really don’t remember his name.) Ben. Let’s call him Ben.

I was living and working full time in NC. Single mom with two young daughters. Online dating wasn’t as popular as it is now, but I was going to give it a try. I read and reviewed the options. No rash decisions.  Ben had a great profile. Nice looking. Good job. Lived in the next town over. Hey, I could do this! So after a few emails, we talked on the phone. Still good vibes going out. (As a side note, I won’t meet anyone who will not talk to me on the phone first. There is a wealth of information you can learn simply in a short ten minute conversation. Does he have a potty mouth? Are there more than three letter words in his vocabulary? Can he actually carry on a conversation? Vital tidbits to help determine if a first date is actually a desired next step.) Ben and I had good phone repoire, so we then set up a day/time to meet for dinner. We were going immediately after work on a specific day. Now this was the time before constant communication via text message, Facebook, etc. We made a date and then waited. (Instant access to everyone has eliminated the process of anticipation. I’m not sure that is entirely a good thing. I, for one, am a very impatient person. The art of anticipation is typically lost on me anyway. But as a general rule, I believe it can play an important role in the wistful, expectancy of an event.) 

Sometime after lunch on the day of our first date, I started to get very ill. It was bad. While I knew I did not feel like meeting anyone and certainly did not look my best, I did not want to cancel. I was sure if I backed out on the premise of being sick, he would not have believed me and I would not have gotten a second chance. So I made the decision that since it was right after work, I would go, meet him, let him see how pitiful I was and then send me on my way with a second date scheduled.

I get to the restaurant first and settle in my chair. I don’t order anything at all because I am sure nothing will stay down. I am just waiting for the quickest meet and greet of all time. Now let me just say that in all my years; before or after this incident, I have never been approached in a restaurant (or public) by a guy. No one sending me drinks from across the room. No one ramming their grocery cart into mine. Nothing. But this day, while I’m waiting for Ben to show up, here comes this old, paunchy guy up to my table. He proceeds to start talking and ask how I’m doing. I try to ignore him. But he isn’t deterred. In fact he sits down. I become frustrated. Ben cannot see me talking to another guy on ‘our’ first date. That would just not look right. Then somehow through the nauseous haze I hear him say my name and how nice it is to finally meet me. I try very hard to focus on him and then it hits me.  This IS Ben. Not the Ben in the handsome photographs on the dating site. Not the Ben who is 33 (remember, this was many years ago) who likes to stay active and take care of himself. Not the Ben who talked to me on the phone and not once mention that he was sending his FATHER to have dinner with me!

I rallied. Pulled myself and thoughts together. Put on a smile and said all the ‘proper’ things one would say when meeting someone for the first time. I wish I had a ‘call you out’ gene. The DNA strand that gives you permission to look someone in the eye and call them out on whatever they have obviously tried to swindle you on. Something like, “Hello Ben. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you standing there. Your pictures must have been from at least ten years ago. Those years were not kind. It is sad that you felt the need to be dishonest in order to meet me. I will not continue our dinner and please do not contact me again.” No. I didn’t say those things. I wish I had. They would have been more honest. As weird as it sounds, at that moment I was GLAD I was sick. It was my most obvious and reasonable exit strategy.

No. I never heard from Ben again. No idea what his thoughts were about my reactions or the meeting itself. But in case you are reading this Ben, here are MY thoughts.

I understand the bottom line of an online dating profile is a picture and a headline. Both sides of the gender aisle. Is it right? No. Is it fair? Not by a long shot. But it is never a good idea to misrepresent yourself. Age. Weight. Missing Limbs. Be honest! I know it is scary. We all want to be appreciated for our personality. Our kindness. Sense of Humor. But a sense of humor does not include the joke’s on me because your phone’s camera has a photoshop app that turns Archie Bunker into Bradley Cooper. (My apologies to Archie Bunker fans.)

When all is said and done, we singles live in a precarious, ever shifting landscape. It is hard to maintain our balance. We know we have options. We know we ARE options. But we have to be real. We do not live in the computer or on a phone screen. We have to be careful to present ourselves as the best and most honest selves that we can. So don’t hide in yesterday. 

Make TODAY the very best version of yourself.

Hope Out

Yes, I’m Really Wearing This -- Part 2 - Here’s What You Can Do With Your Approval Rating

Let me just start by saying that I am fully aware my fashion sense sometimes borders on gaudy with a first cousin to “hmm, that’s not what I would choose”. Most days I am completely OK with that. I don’t always dress age appropriate. I don’t always dress to mimic current styles. I almost NEVER dress solely for comfort. I do try to dress so when I walked out of my house I am unique. I appreciate a well-planned out, organized, color coordinated ensemble. I blame this on my mother. Not ‘blame’ in a bad way, I loved my mother beyond measure. And not ‘blame’ in the sense that I am trying to emulate her. No, I blame her because she chose to dress me like we were living in the Great Depression when in fact we lived on Rich Road in Virginia in the early 70s. (That’s not a metaphor. That’s just the name of the road we lived on when I was a young girl.)

My parents actually WERE raised in the Great Depression. (If you read “Heritage” than you are already up to speed.) It was an extremely difficult time for them and the take away for my mother was that store bought clothes were expensive and handmade ones worked just fine. A bolt of cloth and a working sewing machine kept my youthful closet interesting. Now I know the term ‘homemade’ nowadays conjures up posts on Pinterest or Etsy. There are even websites where you can BUY tags that say “Home Made by…” (Does anyone else see the irony of buying a label to proclaim something homemade?) Let me assure you however, that what I am referring to would not make it to an Etsy site.

Please don’t find me ungrateful. My mother was a good seamstress. As a toddler, I had some very cute outfits. As a young child I didn’t even notice that my clothes were not the ‘same’ as the other kids in school. But then the day dawned where all that changed.

We moved from Rich Road in Virginia to a little farm in rural eastern North Carolina. (My parents wanted to move back to where they called ‘home’).  I was 11. We moved sometime during the winter, so it was an already established school year. So picture this, on my first day of school in this new town at a very sensitive and awkward age I walked in wearing homemade purple plaid polyester elastic waist pants. Yes, they were that bad. I know. I just cringed a little myself thinking about it again. What I didn’t know at the time was as I was walking in to be introduced, some of the kids thought I was a new teacher! That’s not exactly the impression a pre-teen at a new school is hoping for. I would like to say as life events go, it wasn’t that traumatic, yet here I am 40 years later talking about it.

Shortly thereafter I started to have a little more input concerning my wardrobe. I still didn’t own my first pair of store bought blue jeans until I was 13, but my closet had less and less contributions from the sewing room. I worked hard to develop my own personal style. Sure, maybe over the years I have gone a little overboard at times. I don’t intentionally set out to look distracting, but I have probably done it from time to time. I know it has cost me dates. Some guys just don’t get me. Truth be told I very much envy the women who pull off a very simple, classic look. It’s timeless and chic. And it escapes me.

Well meaning counsel might even suggest that I use bright colors, textures and layers to distract from or hide the ‘real’ me. That boots and scarves and dangling earrings provide an emotional camouflage. That is an interesting concept and has actually crossed my mind before. A painful self-realization that I will leave as fodder for another day.

Part 1 of this ‘series’ was how we often stress about the opinions of others. And look for ways to measure those opinions. While I am often guilty of doing just that, I have chosen to frequently rebel against the conventional. My line in the sand of individuality is my fashion statement. Where is your line? What is so YOU? Make sure there is something distinct in your life that no one can come through and erase or diminish it. Maybe it is a sport. Or an artistic talent. Even your career. Maybe you can finish every crossword puzzle you come across. (More power to you on that one. I am awful at them.) Whatever it is that makes you unique, celebrate it! Be magnificent at it! In this one area tell the world what they can do with their approval rating system. Because you own it!

So while I admit that I still want you to like me, I am ok if you occasionally shake your head at my outfit du jour. Maybe there are times when I look more like that 11 year old in purple polyester than I should. But for me, it makes me joyful. Plus I can never get lost in a crowd.

Hope Out