love at first

she walked slowly, for once. because in Korea anything done slowly was a luxury. the river reflected her mood and elected to recant its incessant babbling that afternoon for a slower, more gentle trickle.

it was a windy spring day, sunny after raining all morning and the moisture and the sun made it too warm for her leather jacket, but the wind made it too cool not to be wearing a scarf.

her mind wandered back to saturday night, back to him, the man she had met and connected with. it was monday afternoon and so she she was stuck in that exquisite place of excitement at meeting someone possibly wonderful, yet anxiety at the fact that he hadn’t followed up with her yet.

she thought of him even as she tried to concentrate on the sounds surrounding her: the stream; her footsteps on the soft path. The sounds of cars and trucks whizzing by on the road above.

It almost worked, except that her mind wandered back to him and how she felt like she could love.

It was too soon to think love, but abroad the rules were different. And anyway, if she could know in an instant, if she could assess someone and immediately know that he was someone she could never love, someone who would never hold her interest, then why couldn’t she know after spending hours with one man that he possessed the credentials and the humor and the energy and the wit–and that between them there was the chemistry–of someone that she could?

Maybe he would not be her First Man,

the one into whose soul she would see. She wanted to learn how to love without feeling the need to possess–a goal that was certainly a long way off from her current nature. And yet she knew enough to want it, and wanting it would lead to pursuing it, which would lead to one day experiencing a love without ultimatums; without restraints.

She pictured his face; heard his voice telling her that there was just something about her, felt herself sleeping soundly beside him.

“I want to love you without possessing you. I want you to love me without possessing me. I want to soar together in freedom,” she said out loud.

It had been an entire Sunday and Monday and she still hadn’t heard from him, and she thought about love and “too soon” and possession. It was true, she did tend to get carried away in these things.

She sighed and continued to walk. Her apartment building was there in the distance.

Maybe my first lesson in learning to love without possession is you, she thought to the man whose name she didn’t even know. Maybe that was to be our only encounter. Maybe I am to love you, but let you go.

And then she thought about the small moments, and how they had the power to permanently change a woman’s life.

Falling for Your “Type”

Get it? Fall for your type? tee hee. But seriously. Check out this video:

How many of y’all (yes I’m from the south) have heard this song? I’m not gonna lie–I dig it. I downloaded it on my phone, and I play it on repeat.

But this morning I was thinking about the lyrics. “I swear I always fall for your type.” I don’t exactly think it was written with sweet intent. Jamie Foxx and Drake are kind of saying “You fool me every time girl.”

And I was thinking…I don’t think it would be a good thing to have a song like this dedicated to me (because in my fantasy world, guys are just running around dedicating songs to me). I wouldn’t want to be anybody’s “type,” for one thing–look at me as an individual, if you please. Plus, who wants to be the “type” that some dude is wrong about every time? That’s not exactly a good thing.

And I was musing about it this morning. The thought of “types.” I want to think I’m not a “type,” and that I don’t have a “type.” But come one. This is how we categorize the world (oops–my M.A. program is showing. Let me cover that up). Everyone is a “type.”

Yesterday was Valentine’s day, and I’m a single woman. And I kind of waffle–sometimes I’m a bitter single woman, but I was determined not to be yesterday. I made a genuine effort to keep my spirits up by showing myself the love that I would feel bitter about not getting from another (see: spa day, cooking and cocktails!), and I also was able to experience some genuine happiness through my interactions with three different “types” of awesome guy: the Grad Student, the Art Nerd and the World Traveler.

Now I just named those labels, but I’m pretty sure you already have a mental picture of these three guys. And I’m not going to dispute that mental picture for now because I’m doing a thing here. Go with it.

I often fall into the trap of categorizing all males as Assholes. And yes, that is a “type.” I interacted with one of those yesterday. But that’s not the only “type.”

As I was driving to work this morning, sipping my tea and trying not to swerve, I thought about the different “types” of guys in my life: The Asshole, the Grad Student, the Entrepreneur, the Art Nerd, the Co-Dependent, etc., etc., etc. and I thought…I do know some really great guys. Really awesome, genuinely cool guys who I appreciate, who I learn from, who I laugh with, who I am fairly certain aren’t out to get my butt.

Yesterday I didn’t get any flowers or candy. No one told me they loved me (romantically) or arranged for me to be picked up outside of work in a stretch limo (that happened for one of my coworkers! I was stuntin’–trying to stand beside it in hopes someone I knew would walk by and see me and associate me with it without me having to lie about it). But I still had a great day. I got to hang out and catch up with the World Traveler, a guy who I hadn’t seen in a year (due to his world traveling), and I was really touched because the Art Nerd sent me a book that he thought I would like (and was totally right about: Stephen King On Writing).

And it occurred to me that whatever you focus on is what grows in life. I have spent so much time in my life FOCUSING on the Asshole “type” that I end up feeling like he’s the only “type” that exists. Of course he exists, but he is one of many. Maybe if I switched focus; concentrated on the things that led to experiences like opening a package to find a book that only a dude who was paying attention would know to send, or completely geeking out off of reevaluating Disney movies in terms of critical theory perspectives (homosexual undertones in the Jungle Book, anyone?), I would find the Asshole type’s presence shrinking in my mind and life.

Just a thought.

Love, Addiction, Balance and Snow

Last night I had a conversation with one of my friends about being in love and being happy.

It started because she’s taking a sociology class and one of the questions on her final had to do with whether or not she thought being “in love” was a requirement for a marriage. She’s married. I, clearly, am not, and yet we both agreed in our assessments that, no. Marriage has little to do with love.

I listened to her perspective as a married woman who had married for love, and she listened to mine as a single woman who often finds herself most miserable when falling in love and we agreed that being “in love” does not always (or even usually) make for a happy, solid, stable life.

I told her I’d rather marry a man I liked and thought had similar values to mine than one I was in love with because my experiences with being in love are that it is tricky and volatile–sort of like a street drug. You experience these high highs and these low lows and you find your emotional well-being intrinsically linked to whether or not you can get enough of your beloved. And, as with any street drug, depending on what the love is cut with (insecurity, possession, baking soda, etc.) you will experience a variety of highs and lows throughout your addiction (relationship).

No thank you.

I don’t even like being in like.

Yesterday was a day for contemplation of this sort because yesterday it was snowing, and you know how it is with all manner of extreme weather: everyone’s looking for a boo to be trapped and share their rations with (“Me and my booski are snowed in together…hope we can find a way to keep warm” *ACK!*)

And so I found myself thinking of a very short-lived courtship I’d had with a young man I met about 3 weeks ago. When I met him, he’d been exciting and attentive, and he constantly thinking of these really cool dates for us to go on (how many of you all can say you went scuba diving in December? I can)…all the way up until a series of unfortunate events took place that I like to call The Day [names changed to protect the guilty] Called Campus Police On the Guy I was Dating Because That was The Most Sane and Rational Way She Could Think of To Get Me to Care that She Thought He was Crazy, better known as the Ultimate Cockblock.

Since then, naturally and quite sanely, his ardor toward me has cooled, and his attentions have waned. And, I mean, you know, there’s nothing I can do about that. Can’t change his mind and I don’t blame him–I wouldn’t want to deal with anyone whose friend called the police on me, law-abiding and harmless as I am. That’s just way too much drama.

But yesterday, as everyone was preparing to share their limited water supplies and food rations with that special someone, I couldn’t help but to think that if it hadn’t been for the extreme actions of someone I’d mistakenly trusted…I might have been among those with reinforced ranks to defend their humble abodes in the event of anarchy breaking out after the food and water supplies ran low.

…but then an even more compelling thought knocked its way into my brain and I went outside and across the street to take pictures of my neighborhood beaches covered in snow.

It was just incredibly beautiful and soul stirring to see so many opposites working together in nature.

Then I went over to my neighbor’s house and he very graciously fed me breakfast and we talked a little theology (he’s a Mormon preacher). Then I went home and spent some time with my boyfriend Eric (better known as read some of book 8 in the Southern Vampire Mysteries), then I worked a little with my friend K on an event we’re trying to throw, then my friend picked me up and took me to her house and we had dinner and cheesecake and drinks and watched movies and then she took me home.

Poor,

Poor,

Lonely Single Me,

right?

Exactly. Completely and utterly wrong.

And yet, when I got home last night, I thought about the young man again. I was standing up in my kitchen over the stove, absently eating some leftover out of the pot (that’s where I get all of my best thinking done), and I thought, “Well that’s disappointing…but I’m over it.”

Which surprised me and made me feel really good.

At any other point in time in my life, I would be extremely bitter toward this meddling friend for destroying my only chance at happiness with a man who could possibly be my soulmate, yanked cruelly and prematurely from my grasp (and/or clutches, depending on how you view those kinds of things). HOW would I ever live the rest of my life, painfully, dreadfully ALONE, LOST without the ONE PERSON who could have loved me away from my sad small existence and into the only stage of life that actually validates my being born a woman: that of being half of a couple?

I would have held onto this grievous wrong, feeling bitter and alone. I would have tried to use my womanly wiles to try and force him to see how great of a cook I am, how manically I can laugh at his jokes, how well I can ask follow-up questions about stuff he mentioned two days ago–anything to make him love me!

I would have made myself miserable.

But instead…I just kind of shrugged it off. Because I had a nice snow day yesterday, and it didn’t depend on whether or not I was snowed in with some dude. None of my nice days depend on whether or not I have contact with some dude.

Do any of you guys understand how freeing that is? How relieving? I would love to be in love right now, but only if it’s with someone who I love loving and like liking. And I can afford to let these dudes come in my life and go out of it while I wait for that one because I’m not looking for anyone to save me from my single self. I like my single life; I don’t think I’ve ever been so not worried about who texts me and how long it’s been since they last replied.

…and anyway, he dropped me off at my car one day and didn’t wait for me to get in and get it started before taking off. I think that says a lot about a person.

When Repression Is the Best Solution

DISCLAIMER: This is one of those girl-talk posts you may want to think twice about reading in its entirety. There is a chance you may walk away thinking “..huh. I would have rather not known that about her.”

I’ve been thinking and talking a lot about repression lately.

I think it’s the healthiest thing a young woman in my position can do, in some cases. Repress. Repress to stay focused.

I don’t know what this says about me, but a lot of young women in my social circle are throwing adult toy parties. And, henceforth, I have been able to successfully avoid them. Because…I just don’t need that on my mind right now, plain and simple.

Here’s the thing about me. You know how they say a man has two brains, and can only think with one at a time?

Well I don’t know if I have elevated testosterone levels or what, but that is most certainly the case for me.

I have a special nickname I give my other brain, the one with the mouth that talks over my thoughts–I call her that b****. That b**** is always trying to get me into trouble. And it has been a real struggle–sometimes I win, sometimes she does. She’s very persuasive, that b****. She’ll convince me of all manner of nonsense to get her way–she’ll tell me I’m in love, that I know him well enough, that he’s a great person, that who are we to cling to society’s arbitrary and gender-biased standards?! That why should we adhere to rules made by patriarchs to tie down women while they run around and enjoy the very same thing they condemn us for without a thought, care or concern about their own hypocrisy?! Yeah! This isn’t about morals, this is about LIBERATION!

YEAH!

Uhh…No.

This isn’t about patriarchs and hypocrisy, this is about making the best choices that will lead me to a state of physical and emotional well-being. And it has definitely been well established that “that” act is just something I’m going to have to sacrifice for now in order to be a more focused and emotionally stable young woman.

You would think every part of me would be on the same page with this mission.

But that b**** has her own selfish agenda, and she pursues it ruthlessly, without a thought about my emotional well-being.

It has been a long, hard battle (no pun intended) to successfully lock that heifer away, but I finally did it at the end of the summer. Stuffed a bit in her mouth (no pun intended!!) and muzzled her–that b**** knows she is not allowed to speak for the rest of my natural life, because I still won’t trust her after I’m in a committed and loving relationship. She’s too reckless.

Yeah that’s right, I repressed the hell outta her and everything she associates herself with. Shoot I don’t even put my body in the same physical area as a male unless there are chairs filled with other females between us. I don’t listen to “that” talk. I don’t watch people kissing on TV anymore (well, I don’t own a TV). I stopped listening to Trey Songz (his music will…woo. Yeah. Can’t go there). I developed a case in my mind about why no woman should listen to Trey Songz (because he is just a typical male who will tell you what he thinks you want to hear so you will let him smash).

When I started this post, I meant to touch only briefly on (no pun intended!) this aspect of my repression and move to how I’m repressing my desire to write for a living because I don’t know how to do it. But clearly that’s just not what that b**** had in mind.

In a way, I’m OK with that. I think this, too, is something that us single, educated young women deal with that maybe doesn’t get addressed in the healthiest of manners. We have this new, extreme “hook-up” culture that is telling us it’s OK to have casual sex and that will totally lead to him falling in love with you and will in no way mess with your physical and emotional well-being…that I know, personally, is not true of me and my molecular structure. And then, because I’m Christian, I have this other cultural perspective that tells me to pray that b**** silent that…almost doesn’t make sense to me. It’s almost par to me praying that God remove in me the need to poop, in my mind at least. I DEFINITELY understand praying for control–believe me, I am praying that He let me remain in control right now, simultaneously as I type this. But I’m not sure it’s being true or fair to my nature or my relationship with God if I pray that He takes that need from me–I’m just not sure that’s how this works.

And then I have the professional, career-minded aspect of me that says that it’s OK to have these conversations, but probably not in a public forum where any employer can Google search bryoneyH and learn all about how that b**** and I are embroiled in a bitter match to the end for the full use of my body.

“…she didn’t list skitzo in the ‘About Me’ portion of her application….”

But somebody’s got to talk about these things, because somebody’s got to facilitate these conversations among young, single, educated women who are consciously trying to make decisions that only contribute to their physical and emotional well-being. Somebody’s got to say that this is a part of being a young woman too and it’s normal and healthy, but for now you might just have to muzzle that b**** so you can stay focused.

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