I kissed a boy last night…

He put his arms around me and pulled me closer.

He put his arms around me and pulled me closer.

I kissed a boy last night, and it felt good.  I mean real good.  I felt warm and juicy, soft and mushy all at the same time.  I felt fuzzy and jiggly on the inside.  I felt like a kid, like a teenager that had never been kissed before.  I had fireworks and bells ringing in my head, all while trying to remain calm as if this were an everyday occurrence.  But it is not.  I do not kiss boys often, and had not kissed one in quite some time, and yet, last night I kissed a boy.

I smiled and blushed as his lips came closer to mine.  I knew what was coming, we all do at that moment.  There is no loud speaker announcement saying “I am going to kiss you now”, however, I knew when it was going to come.  I felt the electricity that we were creating.  I saw the look in his eye. There is a different vibe in the air, the silence was not out of awkwardness, but crackled with anticipation of what was to come.  There is hope that it won’t be bad, a kiss I want to forget, but that it will be one that I will want to not only remember, but to repeat.

I am 51 years old and I kissed a boy…Ok, he was a man.  A nice, fairly good looking all American He-Man  man.  A man that made my juices run warm.  That hasn’t happened is quite some time.  I was beginning to think that didn’t have any juices left.  I thought I was all dried all up, but there I was, with a squishy feeling inside as I was kissing a man.

Am I allowed to do that?  Can I sit on a couch or in a car, stand on the front stoop and swap spit with someone?  Can I intertwine my tongue in the mouth of another, each of us smelling like the after dinner mint we popped in our mouths so that we would not smell like the garlic chicken we just ate?  Yet, last night, there I was, kissing a man.  I mean a real man, not made up or the dream of one.  An absolute genuine man.  I even pinched myself to be sure, I stifled my “ouch” with his lips.

We were listening to jazz, Four Play to be exact. (How grown up is that???) We debated if Nathan East is the greatest bassist of all time or just in the studio.  We spoke of scatting and the talents of true musicians.  We laughed as the musician’s tickled the keys of the piano, strummed the strings of the lead guitar, thumbed the bass and softly tapped the cymbals of the drum.  He gently nibbled my ears. I hate having my ears nibbled, but I stifled my giggles in his lips.

He put his arms around me and pulled me into him.  He held me. His arms engulfed me and smothered me in and with him.  He spoke low and told me things I dare not repeat for fear it will sound like way too much way too soon.  Let’s just say my, my, my.  As I listened to his words, I nodded my head and gently murmured in agreement.  His hold and his lyrics were powerful, safe and strong, yet gentle and melodic.  He held me as if he needed me deeper than just the meeting his current need.  His arms were muscular, I could feel them through his shirt.  They felt good.  I felt good.  I stifled my sigh with his lips.

His kiss was gentle.  Small bites on the bottom lip, little licks on the top one.  He lightly sucked my lips as I held his hands, my fingers interlaced with his.  He was not aggressive yet filled with the energy of desire.  This was not a kiss filled with sexual tension, but a sensual one.  A kiss that had an urgent sweetness about it.   His hands cupped my face to bring me in even closer to his.  I was so close I could smell him.  He smelled so…hhmmm. Soft lips.  Soft touch.  Soft strength.  He inhaled and took my breath away.  He exhaled and gave me him.  I stifled my surrender with his lips.

I kissed a man last night, and I wanted to.  I longed to. I craved to. This was a grown folk’s kiss that can lead to so much more.  The kind of kiss that can get you into trouble.  The type of kiss that can lead down a road that can take you places that you want to go, but you should not be.  This was an adult kiss.  A kiss that will make you want to do things that you will need much prayer for to repent of the sins you could and would commit.  I kissed a man and it led to two people sitting on a couch,  in each other’s arms, my head on his shoulder, and the two of us…gently snoring because old people should not start kissing after 10:00 at night.  That was way past our bed time.  So he went home, and I went to sleep with memories of a kiss.  I stifled my happiness with my pillow.

Last night I kissed a man.

I am not perfect

“I am full of mistakes and imperfections and therefore I am real.”      S. Hick.

I'm not perfect...but I am real

I’m not perfect…but I am real!

I am not perfect

I have so many issues that they even overwhelm me at times.
I have to have ice in all of my drinks, with the exception of wine. But then I have those fake ice cubes to keep the wine cold, so I guess it is ice in all my drinks. Speaking of drinks, I do not like the smell of milk, and so I have had to drink a glass of milk since I was 8 years old when my Mother tried to make me drink it. I was very thirsty that day, but I prevailed. And no, I don’t drink the milk when eating a bowl of cereal and yes, it has to be whole milk, not 2% or nothing like that.

I love popcorn that is cooked on the stove top smothered with real butter. Microwave popcorn is for those who do not care about really enjoying the taste of the corn. And it has to be Orville Redenbacher because I am a popcorn snob. I also feel it is a sin to Bar-B-Que meat with sauce. You just don’t cook meat with the sauce on it. The sauce will burn not char, and you will just have burnt sugar.

I am quietly stubborn. When I get in my head that is not the way it should be done, I quietly protest with a passive aggression that Freud would be proud of. I complete the mission, assignment or task, but it is at my own pace and speed. I am a team player, and will never let an organization or team fail because of my lack (see below on disappointing people), but I will probably not “play” with that person again.

I will not watch scary movies. I must be the only person on earth who has not seen any of the Halloween, Friday the 13th, or any other movie that has stuff that scare me. My anxiety levels get way to intense, and I can’t watch. I change the channel on TV if I think that it is getting too intense. Heck, I even skip the pages of books for the same reason. I don’t like surprises. People jumping or the unexpected action really bothers me and I do not watch or participate if possible. If forced to I will go to your goofy horror flick, but I will have my eyes closed and have a song in my head the entire time so that I won’t be paying attention.

I have imperfections.

I am overweight, and have always been. This has led to much insecurity about the way I feel about the way I look, and to the many “relationship” mishaps that I have entered into. This has led to bouts of low self-esteem that I suffered through even as I was facilitating classes to women about life choices and feeling great about oneself no matter the situation. And while I am accepting of how I look, there are days, when I look in the mirror and go “What the front door?” Even in my sexiness, there has always been the concern of my weight, and so I make excuses and reasons why I do or don’t do what I do.

I have problems listening. Really, listening in general is an issue for me. This has been a problem for quite a while now. I have been working on this essential skill for many years, especially since most of the jobs I have had require me to listen. My mind wanders when I am bored by what you say. Or, more than likely, what you are saying is just plain stupid, and I want to stop you before you cause irreparable harm to my opinion of you. I am learning, however, to listen to you and to let you be you because it is a part of your journey not mine. But really, some people need to think before they put their words and thoughts out there in the universe to be heard or ignored.

I tend to drop out of sight and disappear when I think I have disappointed people. I don’t like to disappoint others…one of my biggest and most significant flaws. The idea of purposefully hurting someone is just not in my DNA. I try so hard not to do that, and when I think that I have, I beat myself up, run, and hide. It is very hard for me to face someone after I have disappointed them, which it seems that I also tend to fall in and out of friendships rather easily. I don’t stay to see if we can pass the test of adversity. This explains why I have very few people that I consider my friends. Yet, because I don’t want to disappoint, there are very many people who think that I am their friend. Does this make sense?

It has always been difficult for me to accept compliments about most aspects of my life. I am not pretty enough, my work not good enough, my ideas not the brightest, my thoughts not the clearest…I am just not. It is hard for me to ask for help sometimes. I think that it makes me appear weak.

I take betrayal very seriously. When people that I hold high in respect behave in the most human of ways, I have a difficult time seeing them in that perfection again. It taints and colors my relationship with them and in many instances ends them.

I have made mistakes

I have made some really crazy judgment calls in my lifetime. I continue to be in a cycle of crazy, self- destructive and just insane behaviors.

Even with a series of advisers, I am terrible with my own finances, yet I can manage a multi-million dollar social service program budget down to each line item, and never return a dime to the funding source. This has forced some not so happy choices in my life that has left me at times with very limited economic options.

I can sabotage the very things that I say that I want, love, children, friends, and situations. There have been very real opportunities I should have taken, but did not because I decided they were not wrapped up in the pretty package I thought they should be in. I have ruined and eliminated friendships and relationships by my inability to forgive, always remembering, and never learning the lesson until it was too late. I have walked away from challenges simply because they were a challenge, and I did not feel like facing it.

The choices that I have made over the years have helped me keep my sanity and have driven me insane all at the same time. I have come close to the line of immorality, but I don’t think that I have crossed it…well with the exception of that one thing, but I am carrying that to my grave…lol. I try to live by the golden rule, and treat others better than I treat myself.

There are things and people I should have stood up for, fought to the death for and even died for. There were also things and people I should have not only walked away from, but run to those hills from which comes all of our help.

But I am real.

Each of these imperfections and mistakes make me who I am. And if I am nothing else, I am real. I laugh, and I cry. I dance, alone and in public. I put on magnificent singing performances in my car when I am driving to work each morning. I eat amazing food without caring about the caloric intake and drink wine, water, and other libations that taste good and make me feel great. I love hard and fast just as I hate slow and long. I smile and love to hug. I am slow to anger and easy to joke with.

I have thrown away the masks that I wore and have become transparent, because living life is more authentic that way. Life is easier when you are real. You are healthier when you are real. You are more relaxed when you are real. You are you when you are real. When you find the power to expose your flaws and imperfections yourself, you don’t live with the stress of if and when they find the real you. The ugly you, the beautiful you, the imperfect perfectly made you.

I see beauty in the ugliest of situations. I love the imperfections of the perfect. I embrace the mistakes of the absolute. I accept the flaws of the faultless. I understand the crazy of the sane. I hear the heart of the heartless. I touch the hardness of the softhearted. I listen to the questions of the unimpeachable. I love the coldness of those that are warm. I like the crabbiness of the kind. I hold then let go of the wickedness in the divinely good.

I am not perfect, and I don’t want to be…I am real.

Sometimes it is not about sex

“It’s not always about sex.  Sometimes the best type of intimacy is where you just lay back, laugh together at the stupidest things, hold each other and enjoy each other’s company.” 

My hands are for more than you can ever imagine.

My hands are for more than you can ever imagine.

We went to the park near the airport to see the planes take off and land.

He was a friend, not really more than that.  The grandson of a friend.  I am not even sure if there was potential for anything else, but he made me laugh.  That has always been a qualification for any friendship of mine.

We were sitting in the car, in the days before 9/11, smoking cigarettes, when he posed the question “what was the most sensitive part of my body”?  I must admit, the question took me back, it seemingly came out of nowhere, or maybe it was the mood, and the conversation led in that direction.  In any case, it caused me to have to think about it.  If he had asked me what did I consider the sexiest part of my body, that answer was easy and obvious….my brain.  (I know some of you were thinking my larger assets, but that is not the most sensitive part of my body…)  At the time, I really did not have much experience of a sexual nature, I mean I faked like I knew, but I thought my experiences, in comparison to my friend was, well lacking.

I continued to think about the question, what was the most sensitive part of my body?  There were the obvious and usual suspects, you know the, breasts, genital area, neck, thighs, you know, those spots that people go to immediately when they smell sex is in the game.  Yet, those did not seem quite to ring true for me.  I never have  and still don’t have much pleasure from crazy unorganized groping and wrestling to move from one uncomfortable position to another.  That has never been for me.

So I pondered, and as I sat in the car, it came to me, and so I answered…my hands.  That answer surprised him, and it surprised me as well, but let me go on to explain.

I use my hands to do so much than to pick up things and put them down.  I talk with my hands.  They wave in excitement.  They point out directions, show locations, and draw attention things I think are important.  They can be wrung in sadness and despair.  I can throw them up in frustration or when I am overwhelmed, and there are times when I sit on them to keep those around me safe from strangulation and other acts of violence.  My hands have a sign language all of their own, and it is not ASL.

My hands can be gentle like when I hold a small baby speaking love, security and tenderness.  They can wipe the nose of a toddler to get the snot out of the way and let the playing begin.  My hands are conduits of creative foods and drinks, they open cans beans and bottles of wine. My hands can feed you things you have never tasted, or your favorite pizza.  My hands can tickle you and make you laugh so hard that you make that sound that sounds so girly your boys would tease you but only I know about it, I hear it all the time.   My hands write of love, joy, hate and pain…and yet they are so much more.

My hands can be possessive.  They can grab and hold on to you for dear life out of fear, to keep you from harm or danger.  They can hold your dearest possessions and treasures, they can even hold your heart.  They can also be possessive in a public place when they can pick off the invisible lint from your jacket so that the rest of the heifers in the room know that you are mine and to back the “f” off.

My hands can be protective.  My hands can be held in times of safety and in times of danger. They can pull you close so that you can feel me hold you in my arms.  They are ready to pick you up when you fall, and clean your wounds to begin the healing process.  They can hold your face so that you can focus on my eyes to really see what I am saying.  My hands can wipe away your tears or trace them with my fingers as they fall down your cheek, because sometime the tears must fall,   When I put my palms together, I can pray for you, the ultimate form of protection.

My hands can tell you my desire for you.  I can grab your head with my both of hands to let you know the passion that I have for you in when it is just you and I in our private place.  We can be at the opera or museum, and you can feel them in and on places that only you and I know what is going on and what is about to happen.  My hands can touch the small of your back, the nape of your neck, the palm of your hand, and you know instantly what message has been delivered and that it needs to have an immediate response.  My hands can make you lose control, and keep you in control all at the same time…yep I am that bad.

My hands can teach you how I want you to love me.  They can lead you away from the wrong place and lead you the place that will make us both happy and content. They can imitate the way I want you to touch me.  They can show you see me and for me to see you. You can take my hands and teach me too, so that I can know how to love you the way you want to be loved.  Our hands together can create even more than what we can even begin to imagine.

I don’t remember what my friend said, but afterwards, we both lit a cigarette, smoked and sat silently for a bit.  Sometimes it is not about sex, it is about just being…..

(thanks greg)

My Beautiful Mess

“I am learning to embrace the beautiful mess that is me”…

My Beautiful Mess of me!!!

My Beautiful Mess of me!!!

I am not perfect.

I make mistakes.

I have issues.

I make rules to protect myself from pain.

I inflict pain upon myself.

There are some days when I can’t buy myself a tank of gas.  There are many days when I can fill you up.  I am a beautiful mess.  Complicated and simple.  Angered and pained.  Joyful and encouraging.  Clean and nice nasty. I am full and yet I am empty all at the same time.

I am a beautiful mess, but I am not messy.

There are moments when I have enough love to heal your ills, and then I have moments when I wonder who will heal me.  I will always have a smile, and tell you that I am doing great, but my mess and I hide behind that smile, because secretly we are ashamed of the mess that is who we are.  You ask me how I am, and I say that I am fine, but if I really told you the thoughts in my head, you may want to send me somewhere where the rooms are padded.

I have made my life easy, yet have screwed it up more times than I care to count or remember.  I have been blessed to have a life that many want and a few may envy, but you really don’t want the life I have…you are not strong enough.  You can’t handle what I have been through, what I have seen, what I have heard, what I remember, and what I have forgotten.  It is all a part of my beautiful mess.  The part of me that is prickly and dry.  The pieces of me that are unkind and mean.  There may even be a part of me that is evil…but it is all a part of my beautiful mess.

I am alone many times, but never lonely.  I am my own best friend, my best date, my best partner, and my best company.  I have many experiences and adventures alone, just me and my mess.  We have been many places, eaten great meals, drank wonderful wines,  and have done things that most people will never ever admit that they did, let alone claim to have at least thought about doing it…Yep, just me and my beautiful mess.

But then I have my days, and today is one of them.  Days when I just want to talk or share.  Days when I want company just for company’s sake.  Days when I want to be the first thought, not the last resort.  Days when I want to be held, hugged, kissed and loved.  Days when I want to cook for, listen to and be heard.  Days when I want to explain me and my beautiful mess.  And yet, that is a scary proposition for me because if I am very honest with myself, I am terrified of what you will think and do with all this information and knowledge.  If I share what is the real me what would your reaction could be.  Would it be rejection, loss, disbelief, judgement, and disassociation?  What would you do if you saw my beautiful mess?

I have those days when I wish my mess, in all its beauty would just go away.  I wish there days when it would just implode and evaporate.  I pray for the day when I don’t need my mess to block the anguish that comes my way from despair, hurt, anger and beauty of life.

And yet I embrace my beautiful mess, I embrace it all.  I have to because if there is only one lesson that I have learned in life it is that you have to love all of you, the good, the bad, and yes, even the ugly.  I have to love, hug, accept, and protect this beautiful mess.  Yes, even protect it because there are some good things in my mess.  My ability to love comes in spite of and because of my mess.  My understanding that every fight is not my fight comes from my mess.  My empathy towards others comes from the beautifulness that is my mess.  My mess has allowed me to see the positive and good in ugly and horrible situations and people.  My mess has given me wisdom and balance.  Yes, there is beauty in my mess, and I embrace it.

Sometimes what you see on the outside is not what is going on on the inside.  My outside looks beautiful, but my inside is quite messy.  I allow you to see what I want you to see and to only let you get as close to me as it does not cause me pain.

And still I embrace the beauty that is my mess, and my mess alone.  I have lived with this mess for some time now.  And while it is not cluttered or junky.  It is not even messy, it is just my mess.  It is not chaotic, it is well organized, with each issue neatly tied up in box with a bow.  Time has taught me to keep my mess, so that I can put it away or pull it out at a moment’s notice.  My mess is my mess, full of the things that give me comfort and yet can keep people from knowing the real me.  My mess protects me.  It keeps people from looking too close, from exploring my heart and soul, from getting to understand me.

To like me is to like my mess.  To want to know me is to want to know my mess. To need me is to need my mess.   To love me is to love my mess.

I am a mess.  I am dirty and trifling.  I am lazy and full of energy and love.  I am a mess, but I am beautiful.

I wish he would have just hit me

Someday you won't remember this pain you thought would last forever and ever...T.Swift

Someday you won’t remember this pain you thought would last forever and ever…T.Swift

The gift of darkness…

“Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness.  It took me years to understand that this, too, was a gift”

My ex-husband was a mean son of a bitch.  He was abusive and disrespectful.  He was a liar, a cheat and dishonest.  He was not loyal, not kind, not loving, and not nice.  My Ex stole from me, took from me, and robbed me of money, emotion, time, the children I wanted and the life I dreamed we would have.  He was living in a dark place and took me with him most days of the week, and yet, there are still days when I wish he would have just hit me.

I know that sounds crazy, but it is true.  Let me start by saying that I don’t condone people placing their hands in a violent nature on anyone, however, with that being said, I am not sure if I would be in a better place if he had just hit me.

Words hurt.  Actions hurt.  Lack of actions hurt.  They stay with you for a long time.  He kept a calendar of “shame” on the door of the office.  There, each day, he would write down if I had been a “good” wife or a “bad” wife.  This was arbitrary, obtuse and I have since determined that the measurement was not by anything that I did or did not do, but by his own feelings of how he felt about himself each day.  Let’s just say that there were many “bad” wife days.   I think I could forget those days better if I had a scar that is now gone.

There were times when we were out, and he would see old friends of his, and he would introduce me as Wendy.  Not his wife, not even as a friend…just Wendy, and that was if he introduced me at all.  Because I began to realize that was how he felt about me, I was no one special, just the person that met his basic needs of food, clothing and shelter.  Never a gift for Christmas, Birthdays, or Anniversaries.  I could not “buy his love” he said…I knew that also meant that I would never have his love, no matter what I did.  The fingerprints of his slap in the face would be gone by now.

He moved out the bedroom.

My husband and I made love less than a dozen times during the course of our marriage.  It is quite humiliating to beg the one you love to make love to you.  Once, Basil, the dog, jumped on the bed, and my husband said to me that we could not make love because it would upset the dog.  Really, upset the dog?  I began to question my body, my attractiveness, my sexiness.  If my husband did not want me, and I chose him, then who did?  And while he would be with other women, even with them in our home, I don’t think it was for pleasure, it was for sport.  The sport of causing me pain.

I lived not knowing which one of the many “models” from his “business” would be the one he was loving that night.  Not knowing what was wrong with me, and why couldn’t I be the one he loved, talked to, laughed with, slept with, made love too. I thought, what was I doing that made him react to me this way?  I did all that I could to make myself appealing to him, to no avail.  A deep purple bruise would be gone by now, had I been punched.

 He shoved me once.

He actually did put his hands on me once.  He shoved me when I was going to buy a car I wanted.  I got up enough nerve to call the police, and they came.  But the officer was a friend that he grew up with and so after they had their mini-reunion, the officer said that I really didn’t want that car anyway, it had too many miles.  I felt so totally devastated and alone.  My husband never put his hands on me again, but that just made him meaner and nastier, mentally vicious and an expert in psychological warfare.  If he had pushed me down the stairs, my broken bones would be healed by now.

And yet I stayed.

Why?  I don’t know, but then I do.   How did I end up in that place?  Why did I remain in a place that was filled with sadness and darkness?  What kept me frozen in place, scared to move?  I stayed because I was afraid.  I thought I had no one.  I had been alienated from my family and friends.  Making new friends was out of the question because they may ask too many of the right questions.   I was told and treated as if I were worthless, and I began to feel that way.  I was called a pig, and so I felt like one.  The dog was given more consideration and value than I was.

He kicked my brain in the ass.

Catching an ass whipping in the brain is nothing nice.  It begins with an overkill type of love.  You are the most important thing in his life.  There is nothing that he can do without you, the grocery store, getting your hair done, retail shops, picking up a meal at the drive through are all done together.   You are made to feel that you are important, because maybe you never felt you were important before.  He paid you attention, and no man had paid attention to you before, at least not like that.  He made you feel safe, but later you realize it was a twisted type of safety that was really keeping him safe from his feelings of inadequacy.

“It’s so hard to forget pain, but it’s even harder to remember sweetness.  We have no scar to show for happiness.”

I was mentally beat down, and a shell of the person I knew I was the day before I met him.  I did not remember who I was, where I was from, the experiences that I had.  There were not even memories of the happiness that we shared.  There had to have been good times right?  There had to have been times of laughter and joy in the midst of the anger and hatred.  It could not have been all bad, was it? He filled my mind with so much “stuff” it was hard to tell what was real and what wasn’t.  It was all his plan, total domination of Wendy, and it was working.

People who have scars can tell not only the story of how they got the scar, but can tell and show the healing process.  Those who have seen you broken, and wounded, see you in your new state of healing.    You know you are healed because it, the wound is not there.  The bruise is gone.  The black eye has return to its natural pigment.  The broken arm has been set and is better than new.  You remember the circumstances of the injury, but you are witness and testimony to the healing.

A closed head injury, a wound to your brain, takes longer to heal, and some never heal.  You get better, bad memories begin to fade, you remember the good, and you learn how to love again. But the minute you feel threatened, you revert back to those behaviors that kept you safe and sane.  It sure does make it rough for whoever comes next to try to love me.  I apologize in advance for the hard time I will be giving you.

And so where am I?

How do I know that I have been healed?  What are the signs?  There is no internal wound, just the pain.  There is no scab to fall off, just the pain.  There are no bandages to put on, just the pain.  There are no stiches to be sewn in the fabric of your being, just the pain.  No antiseptic ointments, potions, and gels, just the pain.  The pain of wondering if my selection was so off on this, how can I trust that I won’t make the same mistake again?  How will I know that my next choice is a right choice?  How will I know that I won’t be hurt again?  I guess the answer is that I won’t know, and I will never know until I know until I risk being vulnerable again, open myself up again, and choose to feel again.

I am sure that there are those who have felt the pain of physical abuse who will strongly disagree with me, and that is their right.  I can only speak to my experience and my life.  There are those who know me now and never guess that my life sings songs of sorrow and pain, but it has and it does.  And now the darkness that was given to me, was really a gift.  A gift of life, joy and happiness.  A gift of strength and power.  I made it through, I got out.  I found myself and reclaimed me and all that I am and will be.  And still there are moments that I feel that pain and become afraid that I am crawling back into the nightmare that was my life…and I think, I wish he would have just hit me.

The best date I ever had was with…Me

Discovering new things by yourself can be a great experience

Discovering new things by yourself can be a great experience

The weekend has come. It is Friday night and all of your friends have plans. They are doing something that you are not a part of. You had depended on them to have some fun. They were going with you to the show, to the mall, to the club, or to the restaurant. You looked forward to spending time laughing and talking about something that may not be important, and in some circle could be considered shallow but entertaining none the less. So what are you to do? Well, you could sit at home, watch TV, eat ice cream, get on Facebook and Twitter and tell the world how bored you are on a Friday. Or you could go out on a date with the best person that you know…You.

Many of us don’t spend time with ourselves. We are always with someone or surrounded by a group. We are always hanging out with friends. Being with Family. Going out with co-workers after hours. Catching up with the girls. Girls night out. Boys night out. Football with the Boys. Mother/daughter. Father/son. Time with brothers and sisters. It is endless the combinations that can be made up when we are spending time with anyone other than ourselves.

It is like the idea of having to be or do something with just ourselves is a punishment. Oh my goodness…I am bored, I have no one to go out with. It is just me, I am by myself. I can’t go by myself. It is almost as if we are saying that we afraid to spend time alone, with ourselves. Spending time with our thoughts, our ideas, our own opinions, can be a scary situation for some of us. It forces us to actually face the reality of what our life is, not the fantasy that is easily lived in because we are so preoccupied with being with others.

We claim that we want someone to be with, but the truth is, how can we expect others to spend time with us when we can’t stand to be alone with ourselves.

Frequently, I go out on a date with myself. I mean a real date. I get dressed up, make up and all. Put on heels, make sure the hair is right, and go out by myself. I go out to eat, not mickey d’s, but somewhere that I have to sit down and be served. Somewhere they serve the meals and drinks on plates and in glasses. I don’t bring a book or newspaper, I keep the phone in the purse, unless it is to take pictures of the wonderful meal that I am about to eat. The goal of this exercise is to see just how I am comfortable being alone in a public place.

There is not to be any reading, texting, phoning, Facebooking, none of that. Just to be alone with yourself. No one or nothing to distract you from what you may be thinking. If you must bring anything, bring a journal and write about your feelings, your thoughts, your meal. How did it feel to say table for one? Did you think people were looking at you differently because you were by yourself? Did you feel self-conscience being with just you?

Some of my best dates have been with just me. Finding new restaurants, and bars is a wonderful time to discover new foods and drinks. I have found one of my favorite martini spots on a date with myself. I have bought outfits that I never would have tried on these solo adventures. I found out that I will try new activities when I am alone. I mean, once you get past the fear, you can really act crazy and no one will know who you are, unless you liked acting crazy and want to go back for more fun. Doing Karaoke, walking a 5K, going to a sports bar and cheering the loudest for the opposing team are all things that were great adventures that I experienced for the first time by myself.

Take yourself to a concert? Did the music sound differently because you were by yourself? Now, do the unthinkable – try a new experience by yourself. Experience a new restaurant, an art museum, a play, or a trip to the park. We often don’t try new things because we don’t have anyone to go with us. That is limiting our life. There is always some degree of fear when we try something new. And the fear is heightened when we are alone, but take that energy and turn it into a new memory that is yours and yours alone.

Dating yourself allows you to be able to expand your experiences and open yourself up for more adventures. It also allows you to share your new experiences with someone else. It takes your conversations to another lever of interesting. People find you more attractive and want to spend time with a person that always seems to be off on some grand adventure. Then you can share your new “spot” with your friends or with someone you may take a liking to. You now can share with somebody a small piece of your world, your mind, your reality.

By dating yourself, you are really laying the groundwork to dating someone else. You are preparing the entrance for someone to come in and share. It also allows you have a better understanding of who you are. What do you like? What you can’t stand? What type of places you like to go for gaining balance? Where do you go to re-energize and to unwind?

Spending time with yourself, somewhere new, gives you the opportunity to celebrate you. Who you are, what you are, how you are…And once you begin to understand that…you can then really be open to the many different dating possibilities that are all around you.

We can’t escape the giggles….

I know it's sad, but we all giggle...

I know it’s sad, but we all giggle…

We have all done it before. No matter how much of a feminist we are. Even if we have called ourselves a liberated, self-aware modern woman, at some point in life we have found ourselves becoming the woman that we swore we would never become. No matter the age, race, or ideology, we all become that giggly girl on the phone when we enter a new relationship.

You know that woman, the ones that we hate to see, on the phone, obviously in the infant stages of a relationship, giggling. You know the one, she wears a wide toothy smile, eyelashes batting, face flushed as she looks around her surroundings as if she has a secret that only she and the object of this embarrassing activity know about. It is just sickening. You can always spot her in a crowd, she has a glow about her as if she was the subject of a Renascence painting of the Madonna with a golden halo about her head. And that is just the response to seeing his name pop up on her phone. She then lowers her voice, it becomes softer, kinder, gentler, even genteel as she says hello.

Giggles start in the middle of the throat. There is a little tingle that starts where the nape of the neck meets the shoulders. The more you talk to your intended, the more this sensation slowly crawls, and as it does, it grows with intensity. As it moves up, it hits the back of your throat, there is an automatic reflex to open your mouth, and then it happens. The giggle. You look around to see if anyone has caught you performing this childhood activity, but you feel little girl, complete with pig tails and ribbons.

This is what we are reduced because of some man? Ok, he is a cute man. Well, he does make us laugh and he tells us we are beautiful. He cares about us, and makes us feel special. These clandestine phone calls are what get me through the day. He belongs to me. No one else’s, just mine and mine alone. I won’t share him; we are not that far in our “relationship” yet. I don’t any of my friends to ruin it. (And yes, those unhappy heifers will try to ruin it.) I want to live in this fantasy world that is only real in my head. It is not based on reality, it is not based on a time table, and it is not based on the matching his and hers towel set that I have imagined in our perfect bathroom, located in our perfect house, with our perfect kids…you get the picture.

The giggle actually begins when we see his face on the caller ID. Heaven forbid if we give him some “special” ring tone. (Sexual Healing by Marvin Gaye always was a good one for me…lol.) We look at his picture on our smart phone, take a deep breath, and then say hello. This hello is airy because, of course, he always takes your breath away. Then you do it…you throw your head back, slowly bat your eyes, and that giggle comes out of nowhere. And he hasn’t said anything but “hello”.

Just the thought of it makes me ill. I mean come on, we are educated professional women. We have worked hard to be taken seriously in our careers, to be seen as surpassing all measurements of excellence by our peers. And we giggle? A girly giggle at that. It is like you have become a totally different personality when you talk to him on the phone. Like an airheaded nit-wit. Everything he says is hilarious, and you just laugh and laugh, but in a breathy sort of way. (Doesn’t that give you a headache missing all that oxygen?) You listen with baited breath; you call him by a special nickname. (I always use Sunshine, it just works when you say it in a special, always surprised and elated to hear your voice sort of way…lol.) Your personality changes, your demeanor changes, heck, even your posture changes, back straight, shoulders back, chest out, you know the drill.

Women of all ages, races, ethnicity, and economic status do it. Giggle.

Wait, was that my phone? Ah yes, Marvin Gaye singing that sweet song. As I gaze at his face on the phone and smile, I can feel it begin, from the bottom of my throat, coming right to the top of my neck…

Damn,

Giggle….

Hey Babe…