The Peanut Experience

th8ZTBSM74There was a twenty year difference in our ages.

Twenty years.  What can you do with someone who is twenty years younger than you?  Apparently there is plenty!

When men date women much younger than themselves, their envious friends give them a slap on the back, receive the approving eye, and are applauded by old geezers everywhere as still having “it”.  These men are seen as role-models for the male species.  They are seen as pillars of virility and honored for grabbing a most worthy prize.  The assumption is made that not only will they bed this young filly but that she will also appreciate it and all is right with the world.  They will “get that” and a mighty celebration of ginormous proportions will be held with high fives for everyone.

Women who date much younger men, however, are looked upon in a totally different light.  When an older woman walks into a room with a much younger man, it is first assumed that this is a familial relationship of the mother/son or nephew/aunt type.  How sweet, they are going to lunch, the movies, the museum…a bar?  It never crosses anyone’s mind that this could be something different.  They never think that this grown ass woman has what it takes to give this strapping young man the joy ride of his young life.  Maybe this woman wants to be with this young man, and more importantly, he wants to be with her.   It is not until someone notices that he has his hand on the small of her back, he is holding her hand a bit too long or he whispers in her ear and her responsive laugh is not the laugh of an auntie, but one far more intimate in nature.  The glances are not one of joy and celebration, but more of “What the Hell is going on here?”  “She should be ashamed of herself.”

I am not sure what “Peanut’s” pick up line was, (Yes, I call him Peanut), but it was straight forward.  He told me that he found me fascinating and attractive.  He wanted to know more about me.  He caught my eye with his style of dress and we just happened to be at the same place at the same time.  (How fortunate for me.) He pulled up a seat and sat next to me at the bar.  I looked at him and immediately knew he was old enough to be my son.  Not having a poker face, he saw that thought run screaming across my mind and said, “I know I am-too young, but can we just talk?”  It was just a conversation, I thought, what could it hurt.  So we talked.  (After I asked him for his ID…he was 26.)

He was a grad student studying religion.  I know, right?  How ironic is that? We talked about his misguided theology that was book based and not quite yet developed by life experiences.   He told me of his disappointment with organized main line denominations, I told him to just find who he was and the rest would come.   I spoke of old school music like the Isley Brothers and the deeper meaning of “Fight the Power” as he explained to me about a group named Floetry and all I had to do was say yes.  I laughed.  He laughed.  We laughed

Peanut made me laugh

I introduced him to the kitchen and taught him how to make a real meal for when a “real” girl came into his life he would know how to cook at least one thing to impress her.  He taught me about rap and hip hop.  Introducing me to a guy named Kanye and a Tribe called Quest.  I listened.  He listened. We listened.

Peanut listened to me.

Sex with Peanut was OK.  Yes, just OK.  There is something to be said about being the one with the most experience and being able to say what and how you want what you want with someone who wanted to learn and give it to you.  I did not have to call him “Big Daddy”.  I did not have to stroke him, nor stroke his ego to keep it up.  Peanut did not require that.  He was on the up side, not needing the assistance of a little blue pill.  Note to self:  These young guys and their stamina are not for old ladies.  We get tired.

In this area of our “relationship”, he let me be the lead.  And while I did not teach him how to do it, I was able to show him things that if he listened would give his future wife a great sexual experience.

I showed him how to hold a woman so that she felt safe after she has been at her most vulnerable with him.  How to appreciate that vulnerability and if he could not understand the gift he was given, he needed to leave it and her alone until he could.

I shared with him how to whisper in her ear words that make her know that she is most important to him.  To gently let her know that she has nothing to worry about because he would protect her and if he did not mean those words he should not say them.

Peanut was taught that if she gets hers first, he will always get his – always. (Most men seem to forget this, but that is a whole different blog)

Candles- scented earthy tones are good for men to have.  Wine – have one that you love and find out what she likes.  Good sexy music – Old school music, especially 80’s, is some good “Let’s get it on” music.  I shared some good knowledge with Peanut.

Lest you think this was all on sided, Peanut taught me as well.  He taught me that when a real man rubs and feels your folds and curves, it is not a judgement, but an adoration and exploration.  I learned about the world of video games and how some of the features on my cell phone I had no idea about.  I learned to open my mind about the people that I am willing to date.  Peanut taught me that it is appropriate to laugh during sex because it can be funny.

From the day I met Peanut, I knew it was not something that would be permanent, and that was perfectly fine.  We knew that it was an experience for experience sake.  It was a wonderful time, a brief moment in time, and a memorable time.  Why memorable?  Because I dared to date someone that I would have written off just for being “too young”.  I enjoyed myself, and I hope he did too.   Peanut is married now.  He is a husband, father and a very successful man.  Every now and then he will call and see how this old lady is doing.  That makes me smile.  He tells me about Jay-Z and I explain to him the Dr. Spock is a pediatrician not on Star Trek.

My Peanut experience…damn it was good.


To be broken is to be beautiful

To be human is to be broken and brokenness is its own kind of beautiful – R.M. Drake

thTTCMHMKFWhen I was a little girl my favorite toy was a stuffed dog named floppy.  I loved that dog and while I never carried him around with me all the time, there was a sense of security in knowing he was there.  He was tan in color, and had no “bones” in him, therefore he just flopped.  He never sat up, he just flopped.  I must have gotten Floppy when we were living in South Carolina.  He was just a constant in my life until one day, my sister pulled one of Floppy’s ears off, and I never saw him the same again.  My mother stitched him up, but I could always see the little scare around his ears.  He wasn’t my Floppy anymore.  He was broken and damaged.  I did not play with him anymore.  I miss him to this day.

Some of us are broken and we think we are damaged beyond repair.  We think that no one will want someone who is not in perfect and pristine condition.  The everyday wear and tear of life has left us a little less than when we were new out the box.  Like Floppy, we have been dragged on the ground, pulled, tossed, and thrown away in boxes and toy chests, put in the washing machine and hung out to dry.

Or maybe we were a delicate tea cup made of porcelain or of the finest bone china.  Through the years we have discovered nicks and chips, cracks or stains, but we are still functional. Many times, however, a person we trusted to come and drink from us or pour into us, drops and shatter us.  Sometimes by accident but many times we are dropped on purpose, smashed to the ground because they wanted to.

We are broken. We don’t work like we used to.  We have lost pieces and parts of ourselves.

Our brokenness reminds us of the failure in failing instead of the success in trying and taking the risk.

Our brokenness reminds us of times in our lives things did not go the way we intended them to go.  Be the way we want it to be.  Or even look the way we wanted it to look.

When we were shattered into those many pieces, some were never found again.  No matter how hard we look for them, those pieces are gone.  How will we get back to ourselves without those missing pieces?  How will we ever be able to hold the tea in our cup again?  If we are not a tea cup, then what is our purpose?

In our brokenness we lose sight of healing that can take place, piece by piece or stitch by stitch.

Sometimes we are blessed to have replacement parts given to us.  These replacement parts take the place of what was defective and missing, weak or worn out to make us stronger.  The replacement parts can make us that delicate tea cup again, ready to hold and contain the hot beverage we were first placed on earth to be.  But what if that is not what we were meant to be?

What if we thought we were tea cups because that is all that we saw around us, soft, dainty tea cups.  What if we were supposed to hold dirt?  We are to be the vessel that would hold dirt and in that dirt would be a seed, which would grow into a plant that can feed the world.  Would we even know that was an option for us if we were not broken?

There are times in our lives when we must take just the broken pieces that we have and create something new. There are days when we don’t want to gather those pieces.  Sometimes those pieces become shards so small that we can’t see them, but we can feel them when we walk over them with our bare feet.  We may have to use tape, glue, cement, to reconstruct our form.  We may have to let it set for a moment so that the adhesives can set and dry.  What is made may be close to what to how we originally looked, but we may also be changed into a different vessel.

Our brokenness can be used to make us into a new creation.  To change us into the person we are supposed to be.  In order for us to be who we are, we  at times have to be broken of who we once were.  Being broken doesn’t not put a stain on your character or a blemish to your reputation it is life avowing and soul affirming.

To be broken is to be restored

To be broken is to discover what is really inside

To be broken is to be refreshed

To be broken is to be renewed

To be broken is to be recreated

To be broken is to be human.

To be broken is to be beautiful.

Carrington Scott Whitehead

baby carringtonEighteen years ago, after 22 weeks of a healthy pregnancy, my water unexpectedly  broke, and that was the beginning of an end that still hurts me to this day.

The only thing I think I have ever wanted to be was, and still is to some extent, is a mother.  To have someone to call me Mommy, Mom or Momma has been a desire since I first took care of my baby doll.  I was born to be this.  My first job was babysitting.  I became a teacher in large part to have the summer off with my 2.5 kids, dog, and husband.  I had names selected, planned and envisioned their lives and my role as their mother.   President of the PTA, bake sales, sports mom, choir rehearsals all were on the calendar of life.  I could not wait to purchase the first little green and white outfit so that a YPD’er would be in the house.

We actually got pregnant celebrating our first wedding anniversary.  I was ecstatic, beyond joy.  I bought books and had emails that explained and showed me what my little one looked like in my belly.  I joined AOL chat rooms, didn’t everyone back then.  You entered the room with your location and due date.  I craved Taco Bell tacos and cinnamon twists, scrambled eggs and canned pears were for breakfast every day.  My morning sickness lasted into midday and on to the evening.  I lost more than 25 pounds because I couldn’t keep anything down. This child was a very picky eater.

I remember visiting my Dad in Indianapolis and got my usual all day sickness.  The rest of the visit, he followed me around with a little bucket, just in case I got sick again.  And I did.

Then I woke up one Friday morning, 22 weeks pregnant, and my water broke.

I didn’t know what was happening until I was at the hospital and they said to the medical students surrounding my bed “An ultrasound has three things.  What is missing here?”  (Note to self, never ever go to a teaching hospital when you are looking for a bit of bed side manner and you become the lesson for the day.)  What was missing was the amniotic fluid that was supposed to protect my little one.  That was supposed to keep my baby from harm and support his journey into this world.    It was missing.  Gone.

My mind raced a million miles a second.  Can they put fluid in me?  Can I be on bed rest? Can I make more fluid?  What can we do to save the one thing I have always wanted in this world?  There is something that we can do to save my precious one?  Right, there is something?  But there was nothing that could be done.

Tears flowed, and my chest became tight.  I could not breathe.  I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t.  Not a sound came out of my mouth.  I did manage to cuss out a Nurse’s Assistant when she entered the room and asked me about a car seat. I also later apologized to her because it was not her fault; I was in Labor and Delivery. Nothing came out of my mouth when they told me that I would have to deliver my little one.  Nothing came out of my mouth when they induced my labor.  Nothing came out of my mouth when they gave me medication to ease the pain.  But the pain could not be eased.  It never has been eased.  It still hurts.

I delivered a baby boy we had named Carrington Scott Whitehead.  I did not want people to judge and make assumptions about his name when he was older and especially on his resume.  If she were a girl, she would have been Carrington Maurice, same reason.  I can’t remember where I got that name from.  But I loved it, I still do.

I was able to hold Carrington.  This precious little one I desired with all my heart and soul.  This little guy that I wanted to love and to be his Mother with all my strength, hopes and dreams.  They wrapped my little Carrington in a blanket as he was very still and quiet  in my arms as I cried silently.  Just tears, no sound.  The chaplain came and prayed with us, but I could not see Jesus that day.  I did not see God.

There is a scream that has been bottled up in me since that day.  I internally measure all pain I have ever had by the pain of that day.  Nothing since that day has even come close for me to scream about.  Not the loss of my Father, the anger of the end of my marriage, the loss of friends and loved ones, nothing.  The physical pain of illness, the anger of caused from situations, people, myself or any of my problems has not driven a scream from my mouth.  Nothing I have ever been through, or experienced in the 18 years since, measures to the pain of that day.   I have had no pain that can even begin to compare to the pain of that day, February 26, 1999.

I have had great days and moments of joy since then.  I have accomplished much.  I have laughed and cried tears of happiness and celebration.  I have seen life begin, seen it end, and discovered love to maintain me through trials and tribulation.  I have witnessed strength and power and have on occasion summoned those gifts personally to get me through times of desperation.

I have forgiven God.  I did not see it as fair, but I know that it was for the good.

I still have a twinge in my heart each time I see a new born, or I think of what Carrington would be doing now.  He would be getting ready to graduate from High School, and headed off to college with an athletic and academic scholarship.  Attending a Historically Black College or University for undergrad and Ivy league for graduate school.

I would not be truthful or transparent if I did not acknowledge the pain that still sprouts up when Mother’s Day and other holidays come around.  I am sometimes amazed at the things I can write about, sex, money, relationships, politics, and other things that are not important, but this has been the hardest piece that I have ever written.

Maybe this is my scream.

Today is the day

washington-monumentToday we have an opportunity to create a “new” political system.  Yes, today, amidst all the confusion, anger, hurt, and pain, we can create something new.

The future looks daunting.  We don’t know what is in store, though I can only imagine what an interesting landscape that awaits us, but we have an opportunity.  The challenge is to see our role in it in a way we have not seen before.  We need to see that we can be empowering even when we have no perceived power.  We need to understand that we can be the agent of change, even if that change comes one voice at a time.  We should begin this know that we can be advocates for the right for everyone to be treated with decency and respect, even if we don’t agree.  Can’t we see the value of being diligent while carefully watching what is really happening? Don’t we understand that we must never stand still, but always be moving forward.

We are the army that will bring about a peaceful revolution.

This is the time when we fight the good fight, live a caring life, laugh with compassion and dance with those who can’t even take their first step.  This is our chance to have the community we have always imagined.  The chance to live the dream that our parents hoped for us.  Our chance to fight for those who cannot fight for themselves.  Our fight is for us, not a war against anyone.  It is a fight for the good of all.  It is a battle for our very lives, and there will be a victor.

This is the battle that we have been groomed to fight. All the wars on poverty, drugs, the aged, race, gender, human rights, housing, food security, mental health protection, health care, gun control, reproductive freedom, those wars begin today.  At this moment, during this time, today.

Everything prior to today was a scrimmage. Today is war.  Today the revolution begins.  It is the war for the heart of life as we know it and the life of what will become.  It is not going to be a pretty, this war, and at times, while it is not a war that is violent, it will have causalities that we were not prepared to give, but we will not surrender.  We will not give up.  We will not give up.  WE WILL NOT GIVE UP.

Our battle plan is simple.  We will learn the process.  We will understand the process.  We will participate in the process.  We will let those who are in positions of decision making know what we feel through the ballot box, sitting on juries, holding them accountable for actions and behaviors that are not acceptable and detrimental to the good.  We will not be silent.  We will not be silent. WE WILL NOT BE SILENT.

We will write letters and emails.  We will call and text.  We will attend town hall meetings, school board meetings, city council meetings, and participate, speak, learn and listen. We will learn the new “buzz words’ of contention and call out language and challenge the attitudes of those that created those them to cause harm and indifference to those who have no voice.  We will comment on legislation, nominations and policies.  We will read and listen.  We will read and listen.  WE WILL READ AND LISTEN.

We have the opportunity to spend our money with those who support us.  To take our dollars and cents and understand the power that we really have even when we may not seem to have as much as others.  We will understand that many pennies together create millions of choices.  We will save and spend wisely.  We will save and spend wisely.  WE WILL SAVE AND SPEND WISELY.

Today we have the opportunity to fight for what we believe in.  I am willing to work with everyone who says they want what is best for me, but I will also give opportunities to those who may have deep philosophical differences with, but I will be watching.  I will be watching and I will be looking.  I will be watching and speaking.  I will be watching and taking action.  I will be watching and mobilizing.  I will be watching.  I will be watching.  I WILL BE WATCHING.   Just as I expect you to watch me and to call me out on the behaviors I exhibit that are not conducive to what I say I represent.   I expect you to let me know when there is something that I do or say that you may not agree with.  I expect you to tell me how you feel.  We can agree to disagree, but to respect each other and appreciate our unique opinions about how we see our future.

Today is that day.  Today is the day that we begin anew.  Today is the day that change begins. This is the day, let’s get started.

No sex for me…really???


I told him that I had not had sex in over 4 years, and that I did not want to have it again until I knew that I was with the person that I was going to be with.  He looked at me, smiled, and said “OK”.

I do not make good decisions when sex is involved, so I took it off the table.  I stay with people longer than I should…good sex.  I end things with people probably before I should…bad sex.  Not good decisions.

Is it possible for a person over the age of 50 to date without sex especially when you have had it before, and liked it?    I don’t know, but I am going to find out, or at least I am going to try. (If I fall of the wagon, oh, well…)

Let me first start off by saying that I am not opposed to sex.  Actually, it is pretty great thing, a wonderful gift from God that once you receive it, you are eternally grateful.   Very grateful.  I have recognized that there are times, when moving forward in a relationship, at least if sex is involved, my decision-making process becomes warped and in many cases just plain unexplainable.  It is also explains James (both of them), Michael, Joe, and especially Terry…lol.

There is something to be said for the theory that you leave a bit of yourself when you are involved in physical intimacy with someone.  Sex takes your “relationship” to a different level, with a set of different expectations, and many times we are not ready for the next step.  We confuse having sex with someone as being in a relationship with them, and that is not the case.  It just means that she accidently  got wet, he got a hard on, they met in the middle, and then it was over.  Hell, most of us don’t even know what good sex is, because we have never taken the time to find out what really turns us on, or we become too scared to say for fear of them not understanding you and your body.  And if we are too afraid to tell our partner what makes us filled with desire and passion, what makes us wet and our nipples hard, are you really ready to be in a relationship with them?

When we base our feelings on literally how we feel when our yahoo is fingered, touched or rubbed, then we forget what we are left with when the rubbing stops.  When the rubbing stops, he still smacks his food, doesn’t clean up behind himself, still hasn’t introduced you to his family or friends…that is what happens when the rubbing stops.  When he finds someone younger, prettier, tighter than you.  When someone easier comes along, that does not question or nag,  what happen to us?  We don’t quite remember that while we were “easy” there is always someone easier, and do we want someone who goes for or is that easy?  Life is hard, why should I be easy?.

I want someone who will jump through hoops for me.  I want someone who will wait until it is right for us, whenever right is and however right comes.  I want to know someone intimately in a spiritual way.  I want to share the intimacy of laughing, the orgasm of sharing joy and shedding tears, the penetration of my mind, caressing of my heart and the joining of one with my soul.

That type of relationship does not come with easy, that comes with work, hard work. That kind of relationship does not come with sex.  It comes with being safe and open to being vulnerable.  That type of relationship is founded on friendship, understanding and misunderstanding.  It is birthed in faith in each other, and knowing that at his core, he is who he is.  This relationship has a foundation of trust, love, commonalities, differences, knowledge and exploration.  It does not happen overnight, but over time. It comes with communication.

That comes with you not trying to talk my panties off nor me whispering in your ear to make your dick hard.  No, I want the real next level.  I want you to go deeper than your penis ever could.

2016 -Painful Growth

2016-peel-backI can sum up 2016 in a few words…a year of painful growth.

I have learned many lessons.  Some pleasant that left me laughing and filled with joy.  Those lessons taught me that there is still good in people regardless of what you may see.   Lessons of faith that flowed during times when I was not sure of where to go or where to turn.

I was taught lessons from some of life’s most unusual teachers.  A six-year-old who taught me the value of telling your story no matter what others may think about it.  It is my story and I own it.  A co-worker who taught me the lesson of quiet patience because as with every change comes opportunities sometimes we just have to wait on them.  A homeless neighbor taught me that I had more than I thought I had, even when I thought I had nothing.  Just jump in and do it was a lesson I gained from my business partner, and she was right, as usual.

This year I learned how to speak power when I felt powerless, to find joy in times of sorrow, how to create my own happiness and that there is renewal in fellowship.  My lessons topics included life, romance, love, family, friendships, relationships, and my spiritual growth.  Waiters, children, co-workers, friends, family, strangers, those I loved and those I disliked have been my teachers this year, and I appreciate each of them for pouring into me that thing that only they could give.

I also had some very difficult lessons that left me in on my knees, in tears, silently screaming to the top of my lung why.  Still, I am grateful to those lessons too, because even then, I learned.  I learned from death many tortured lessons that sucker-gut-punched me and reached me in places I had not touched in many years, but I learned that I would survive.  Illness taught me that there are ups and downs and thing I can and cannot control, but if I do what I am to do, I will be healthier.  Money taught me that there are lean times and fat times, I can make the changes economically that I need to that allows me to keep a roof over my head, food on the table, and that is really all that matters. Love taught me that I was not sure what that word was, and I am not quite sure if I know how to receive and/or how to give it.  But love also showed me how it shows up in experiences that literally nothing else can survive.

There were many disappointments in 2016, many that were shocking, confusing, and frustrating.  2016 also brought moments of surprise and awe.  I guess that is how life goes.  How you react and live in those moments is what tells the most about you.  For me it was a painful growing season.

But when you think about it, most growth happens from pain.  The pain of loss and being uncomfortable in that loss.  The pain of gaining something or someone and being comfortable in that gain.  Maybe it was the amount of growth opportunities that came in 2016 that made it what seems to be one of the most incredibly difficult years I have lived through.

Ahh…but I lived through it.  I made it to this day, the last day of this year.  I have survived.  I have scars, bruises, scabs, broken hearts, fractured minds, and wounded egos, but I am still standing, and for that, I am eternally grateful. For every lesson and every teacher that came my way, taught me something new, and created an environment that allowed me to grow I am thankful.

So, I have sharpened my pencils, have new notebooks, and have charged up the laptop to take notes and learn the lessons in store in 2017.

Thank you 2016.  I could not have made it this far without you.

Do I know how to love?

do-i-know-how-to-loveHe said that he loved me.

I said “that’s nice”.

I didn’t know what else to say.  I did not know him to love him, or did I?  Even more than that, I was not sure if I even know how to love.  How do you love someone?  What does that mean?  I know that it is more than just the words, there are some behaviors that must go with that.  I know enough to know that love is a verb.  It is an action.  It requires more than just an emotion, while an emotion is there, it demands action.

I know that love is patient and kind.  It never gives up and cares for others.  It cares more for others than it does for itself.  It does not force itself on others, it doesn’t keep score.  Love does not revel when others grovel.  Love takes pleasure in the truth.  I know that love is not puffed up, always looks for the best, and keeps going to the end.  Love is the greatest, that is what my Bible tells me.  I know this in my head, my family, my friends, but not romantically.  Is something wrong with me?

What the Bible does not tell me is how does love protect me from the pain that I am anticipating.  How do I not get hurt when I give my heart and soul to someone?  When I first sense that I have been lied to, and especially when I lose trust, my first instinct is to build my hedge of protection.  How do I pull it down or even better, how do I not feel the need to build it in the first place?  How do I know when to trust, when to give a second chance, what is a second chance?   I don’t know, and what is even sadder, is that I don’t know where to begin.

Why am I anticipating this pain?  Because it always happens, doesn’t it?  People inevitably hurt you.  No, not always on purpose, but how do you tell the difference between inadvertent pain and that which is purposeful?  When that pain happen, regardless of the type, what are you to do?  I know I am to forgive, and I do, but how do I forget?  And since I can’t forget, how do I move on?  And I find myself always moving on.

I know that this is making me sound like a total nut case, but I can’t be the only one, can I?  Somewhere in my life, I never learned that I would survive hurt of pain. And when I have survived, it is because of my self preservation mechanisms. Or maybe it was that I have been hurt so many times, that I just automatically begin to protect myself.

I don’t remember what exactly happened the first time I felt my heart break, but I think I was in nursery school in Georgetown, SC when, while eating a banana, Paul Patterson called me monkey girl.  I liked Paul Patterson.  I liked him very much for a 5 year old, and the fact that I still know his name, after over 50 years, means that it affected me deeply when he called me that name.  (That is also the reason that I don’t eat bananas or banana pudding to this day…lol.)  I just remember the pain of that rejection, and I think that I determined at that moment, at 5-years old, I would never feel hurt like that again.  That I would do whatever it took to protect myself from the angst that I felt that day, at lunch, in nursery school.   To this day, I continue to do the same thing, protect my heart.

When someone says that they love me, I am always looking for the reason.  What is the real motive?  What do they want from me?  Of course, there is something that they want, because, dare I say it, truly they don’t love me for nothing more than it is me.  That they see the value I have brought into their lives.  That they want me to understand that their feelings for me are more than just a casual acquaintance or a football buddy friendship.  That they enjoy my company, and want to spend time with me, talk to me, care for me only because I am me.  I know this is not right thinking, but it seeps into my brain, grabs a cup of tea, sits on the couch and takes up residence in my head space.

I am 52 years old, and I am not sure if I have ever really loved someone.  I have lusted after, deeply cared for, admired, respected, and even liked a lot, but I don’t think that I have ever truly loved.  Oh, I have dreamed of being in love.  Dreamed of having that special person in my life that gets me.  That takes the time to understand the quirkiness that is me.  Gets my sense of humor, my love of my family.  Takes the time to learn of my desire and drive to help others and why I have the friends I do.  I have wanted someone to support me in the adventures I embark on, and to join me in the experiences that I desire to have.  Build a future, grow old together, rub each other feet and our what nots, sit on the front porch, wave at the neighbors walking by and hold hands while we look at the sun set.

Someone who can look past me to really see me.  Am I asking too much?  But then I realize that maybe it is because I don’t have a real genuine love to give someone.  Could it be that in always waiting for the other shoe to fall, and being prepared to protect myself, I have cut myself off from those who are willing to love me.  I don’t know how to be vulnerable.  I have a difficult time asking and accepting help.  I have always done it myself, because I don’t want the disappointment of some else not being able to do, say be…whatever.  And, I have discovered that in doing it myself, I have not allowed others to be a blessing to me, to love me, and to show me how to love them.  Which also means that I have not allowed them to learn how to love me.

And so, he told me that he loved me, and I said “that’s nice”.