The 80/20 Experiment

Well, I finally finished my 80/20 Experiment list. I suppose it wasn't very surprising. After all, I've been dating for about 15 years now; I do know what I'm looking for in a man!

But what was surprising was determining which are the non-negotiables and which can be thrown out the window.

In making the list, I separated it into five categories:
1. Looks
2. Personality
3. Values
4. Things He Likes
5. How He Treats Me

I'm not going to share all of the specific line items, as I feel it's personal. (Plus, I don't think it's wise to publish my recipe for a perfect man on the World Wide Web. Any wackadoo could approach me claiming to posess all that falls into the 80-percent category. No thanks!) However, I will say that every item in the "Values" category (i.e. religion, family) fell in the 80th percentile, while most of the items in the "Things He Likes" category (food, music) were labeled as 20-percenters.

I listed 38 things total. Eighty percent of that is roughly 30, and 20 percent is 8. So there were 8 things that I could take or leave. The rest were the non-negotiables. Which is kind of scary. Because 30 is a much higher number than 8. I fear that my 80-percent Man might not actually exist. But it is that belief that causes me to settle, so I need to change that mindset! That is the whole purpose of this exercise!

It feels weird talking about this kind of thing in such mathematical terms. After all, we are talking about human beings here. And I don't plan on consulting this list every time I meet someone new. It's just a good way of identifying what matters and what doesn't. And I'm sure it will at least serve as a reminder from time to time of those traits that I cannot and should not settle for.

Did anyone else make a list? Or have you in the past? How has it worked for you?

Settling? Or Just Plain Picky?

I've been thinking a lot lately about the concept of "settling." It's such an unsettling word, isn't it? In relationships, this word denotes the act of staying with someone who you know is wrong for you, rather than holding out for someone better.

I've done quite a bit of settling in my life, but luckily I've managed to get out of those relationships at some point. And I'm always relieved when I do.

But here is the question... When is it settling, and when is it just being too picky? After all, no one is perfect. You can't have everything, right? But at the same time, you deserve nothing but the best, dangit. (Unless you're a jerk. Because then you deserve someone who is equally jerky. But I am confident that there are no jerks reading this blog.)

I heard the other day that you can be satisfied if you've found someone who fits 80% of what you're looking for in a romantic partner. HOWEVER, the additional 20% (the part that you're "settling for") should be menial stuff. ("We have different tastes in music," "He watches sports a little more than I'd like," etc.) The 20% should NOT consist of major character flaws (i.e. abusiveness) or differences in major life values (i.e. religion).

I think that rule of thumb is pretty right on. So I guess my work here is done.

Not quite. It sounds easy in theory, but when you're in the thick of a relationship—where there are feelings flying all over the place, for all kinds of reasons—the 80/20 ratio can get blurry. And before you know it, you're either settling for someone you shouldn't be, or you're ending a relationship for petty reasons.

So here's what I'm going to do. (And I challenge you single peeps to do this too!) I'm going to make a list of all of the things I wish for in a man. I'm essentially going to draft my perfect man on paper. (Even though I already know it's this guy.) Then I'm going to mark which of those traits should be in the 80th percentile and which should go in the 20th percentile.

I'm doing this because I think sometimes writing things down makes them more concrete when you're in a difficult situation. Not that this list is the Holy Grail that I must follow by the letter, but maybe it will give this fickle head of mine a better idea of what I should be looking for-slash-not settling for.

Ooh, this is going to be fun! I'll consider it my next experiment! We'll call it the 80/20 Experiment.

Stay tuned...

The Holiday Breakup

Aah, the holidays...

I'm already starting to feel the warm fuzzies I always feel at this time of year. There's just something about the sparkling Christmas lights, the feel-good music, and the many gatherings with family and friends, that makes this time of year so outstanding.

Unless you're in a relationship that you need/want to get out of. Then the holidays can be one big sappy nuisance.

I've actually been through three holiday breakups. I've been both the dumper and the dumpee, and neither one is pleasant. (Although the dumpee role is especially biting.) But I survived them. And I had considered postponing one of those breakups for after the holidays, because I didn't want to make the dude sad at Christmastime. But I decided to bite the bullet and end it right away (which was two weeks before Christmas), and I'm glad I did.

Happenmag.com has a great article on how to tactfully and peacefully break up with someone during the holidays. The article contains this great quote about why it's such a difficult thing to do at this time of year...

“Everything about the holidays reminds us of family, love and ritual,” explains Kathleen Hall, CEO of Atlanta’s Stress Institute. “We see emotional movies. We go to the mall and see lovers holding hands. We go to restaurants and see couples kissing and eating together. Holidays are a sensual time of smells, food, music, lights and decorations. It is a time that we naturally want to share with another person.”

And despite that very sensory experience, the article also recommends dumping the person right away instead of prolonging it—agonizing as it may be.

You can read the rest of the article here.

The Age Difference Factor Part 3 (And then I'm done, I swear!)

Well, I am certainly going to think twice before I give you folks permission to psychoanalyze me again. Holy moly, was that a humbling experience!

But in many ways, I deserved it. After re-reading yesterday's post, I admit that I was stereotyping, and I also sounded a bit elitist. I was just channeling years' worth of frustration, and remembering all of the things I didn't like about the many younger guys I've dated. Unfortunately, I lumped those things together, alluding to the fact that all young guys act that way all the time and therefore they're, like, sooo beneath me. It was wrong of me to make such generalizations, and I apologize if I offended anyone.

However, I still firmly believe it's neither foolish nor close-minded to think twice about dating someone who is either much younger or much older than you. After all, you are supposed to relate to your partner to some extent. And I don't know if it's an American culture thing or a human nature thing, but in general, we simply relate better to the people in our same age group. Dating someone outside of your age group could naturally cause some discrepancies in lifestyle, and also potential problems with that all-too-important component called communication.

I'm not saying it WILL cause problems but that it COULD.

I'm also not saying that EVERY relationship that has an age discrepancy is a failure. In fact, I know some of you reading this are in a relationship with someone much older or younger than you and it works for you. But it doesn't necessarily work for EVERYONE.

In closing, I absolutely agree with the commenter who said it should be taken on a case-by-case basis. But I also believe that age differences (particularly in an older woman/younger man combo) could potentially cause more problems than you may realize, so you should investigate that case a little more closely.

Okay, I'm done. Onto lighter, happier things tomorrow...

The Age Difference Factor Part 2

So yesterday my friend Seth wrote a great post about why it's not a good idea for a guy to date an older woman.

Now I'm going to write about my struggles being... ahem... the older woman.

I'm 28 years old, and the last time I dated someone older than me was three years ago. I honestly DON'T EVEN REMEMBER the last time I dated someone my own age. When I was in college, I think? Other than that, it's all been younger guys—and primarily guys who are at least two years younger, sometimes more. (Paris was four years younger than me, which I now know played a huge part in why we are no longer together.)

This past Thanksgiving, while visiting my family, my sister and my aunt rather boldly declared/demanded, "Juliet, from now on you can only date men who are AT LEAST five years older than you. Five to ten years older. No more young guys!" Their body language and tone of voice were scary enough for me to comply on the spot. "O-o-o-o-kaaaay!" I stuttered, in fear of a beating if I had replied otherwise.

They were only looking out for my best interests. I have had a pretty long string of bad luck, after all, and the one thing most of my past boyfriends have in common is that they've all been younger than me. There must be a pattern here.

But. Guys my age or older—who are not already married, in a serious relationship, or total weirdos—are IMPOSSIBLE TO FIND. The only reason I keep going out with the young guys is because they're the only ones left! Seriously.

To mimic Seth's list, here are the problems with dating a younger guy (and by younger I mean early to mid twenties). (Disclaimer: I say these things not to make fun, but because they are true. And I know that not all younger guys are like this, but the majority are. I should know.)

1. Priorities.
My priorities: My daughter, my job, and my health.
Young guy's priorities: Himself, getting a job, and his social life.

2. Preferences.
My idea of a good Friday night: Hangin' with a small group of friends at someone's house.
Young guy's idea of a good Friday night: Hangin' with his buddies while attempting to pick up chicks at a noisy bar.

3. Romance.
My idea of a good date: Talking about politics over sushi, followed by a movie in the comfort of one or the other's home.
Young guy's idea of a good date: Dinner at Applebee's, followed by barely audible conversation over seven beers at a noisy bar.

4. And speaking of conversation...
My favorite things to talk about: My family, faith, culture, politics, films, books.
Young guy's favorite things to talk about: Himself, his accomplishments, himself, his friends... and did I mention himself?


Okay, maybe I'm being a little harsh on the young guys, but I'm not too far off-base. However, until I meet someone my age or—to obey the command of my sister and aunt—someone at least five years older than me, this is what I'm left with.

Or am I just being too picky? You have my permission to psychoanalyze me.

Poor Me...

I don't know if it's because of the cold weather or the holidays or what, but I've been in some kind of funk lately. I've been walking around in a big black cloud, a permanent scowl on my face, heart heavy, tears almost always at the brink of forming.

I'm being a big baby, of course. I have no right to complain about anything, because the truth is, I have a good life. Like a really, REALLY good life. Especially compared to the thousands of people all over the country right now who are losing their jobs, their homes and even their families.

But no matter how much I try to put things into perspective, I'm still in the funk. And I can't seem to get out of it.

So I need to write about it.

There are many things for which I have pity on myself, but in keeping with the theme of this blog, I will list here only my love-related gripes.

Just a warning: I'm really baring my soul here. Read at your own risk...

1. I'm sad that I could have been married right now, if Paris hadn't gone and been an idiot.
2. I'm sad that all of the dates I've gone on lately have been fun, yes, but they all leave me feeling like something's missing.
3. I'm sad that I'm still a single mom. I thought I'd have help by now but I don't, and I'm exhausted.
4. I'm sad that this is my first Christmas having divorced parents.
5. I'm sad that it seems everywhere I go, I see couples who are happy and lovey and kissy and huggy...

There. I let it out.

I know that I need to stop reflecting on these things and instead just live my life. But that's easier said than done. I know I'll be fine, though. This isn't the first funk I've been in, and historically it doesn't take me long to recover.

But for now, the funk ain't fun.

Honesty is the Best Policy? Part 2

I've been thinking about my honesty post all day, and I have some more things I want to talk about regarding this subject.

But first, one of the commenters on yesterday's post gave some very wise insight, along with this statement:

99% of the time telling the truth makes things easier... This number would be 100% if women avoided trap questions like "Does this dress make me look fat?" "Do I look fat" and making other comments about being fat or unattractive. Not that we're lying all the time, it's just a lot of pressure to put on a guy, you have to make sure you answer the question with the correct tone, timing, and eye contact.

The reason I call this out is because I have to ask... Ladies... are you really still asking the question "Does this make me look fat?" Because if you are, please stop. First of all, as the commenter noted, you're putting your man in a trap, whether you mean it or not. Even if his response to that question is a resounding "No," you're still going to wonder if he just said that to be nice or because it's the truth. So what's the point in even asking? Also, you know better than anyone else what really looks best on you. If you look in the mirror and are not happy with what you see, then change your clothes. And if you're happy and confident with how a particular outfit looks on you, then wear it with happiness and confidence! Give your man a break and stop asking him that question. Your intuition is much smarter than he is. (Sorry guys, but you know it's true.)

Okay, I'm off of my soapbox now. Kinda...

I now want to talk about dishonesty. Today at Julietta's cheerleading class I was chatting with one of the other cheerleading moms. This woman was young, fun and gregarious, but her eyes had the wear and tear of a rough life. I could tell just by looking at her that she's been through things I didn't even know were possible.

Sure enough, I was right.

We ended up talking about her ex-boyfriend, who happens to be the father of her child (who's in the same cheerleading class as Julietta. Ya follow?). The woman said that she was with this man for nine years—from age 19 to 28—and she didn't find out until the very end that the dude was MARRIED THE ENTIRE TIME. Not only was he married, but he had three other kids! And... AND!!!... he was living with her most of those years, and still managed to hide this secret from her!!

Now, since we're being honest, I will say that the inner cynic in me wondered if she was even telling the truth. This story just seems too bizarre to be real. I also wonder if she knew all along if something was fishy but was in denial or something. But let's just say that the story is true and she really had no clue. I wish I could meet the guy. Because, after giving him a good beating (kidding), I'd ask him about a million questions. Like how on earth did he keep that secret from her, of course. But also, is it really worth all of the hiding and sneaking to have a double life? For NINE YEARS??

I've never, ever understood the concept behind cheating. Not just cheating, but having a full-out affair while still staying in the original relationship. If a person is so unhappy that they're looking elsewhere, shouldn't they just end the first relationship? Is it really possible to love two people? Or is it all about having your cake and eating it too?

I've never cheated on anyone and I've never been cheated on (that I know of, anyway.) But I've seen some very dear friends get their lives torn apart by a cheating spouse, and I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy. And I'm still confounded on how cheating even happens. I'm not trying to be self-righteous, I'm just saying that the concept of cheating is one that I simply cannot wrap my mind around. But maybe I'm being naive.

I'm not asking for feedback this time, unless you're willing to offer it. I just wanted to vent, in the aftermath of that poor woman's story. And while I have the platform, if any of you may be cheating or thinking about cheating... like I said to the women who are asking their men if they look fat... please, just stop.

Honesty is the Best Policy?

I've had a busy few days, so it's been a while since I've been able to really dig into the good ol' metaphysical type of discussion that makes me tick. But now I'm poised and ready to pick your brains, about something that's always been a rather conflicting subject for me.

First, the premise... Last week I wrote about my awesome sister Stella, and I mentioned that she gives advice that is straight and to-the-point. One time, a few years ago, I was complaining to her about my then-boyfriend. You see, for some stupid reason, the thing that bugged me most about this boyfriend was that he took the long way to get to my house, instead of the short-cut I preferred. I have no idea now why this bothered me so much. Apparently bad navigational skills was a deal-breaker for me? Forget that the guy was sweet, attractive and romantic... he took AN EXTRA FIVE MINUTES TO GET TO MY HOUSE. Gosh. What a loser.

When I complained about this to Stella, she said, as if talking about the weather: "Why don't you just tell him that it bothers you?"

To which I eloquently replied: "Um. What?"

"Just tell him," Stella said. "I'm sure he doesn't know that it bothers you, so once you tell him, he'll probably stop going the long way."

And then she looked out the window and hummed to the music on the radio, while I thought about how unfair it was that my sister got the common sense gene from my parents. I apparently got the make-everything-complicated gene.

Of course, I had never once thought to TELL my boyfriend that I didn't like his route of choice. Why would I do that? After all, that could hurt his feelings. And I would much rather have gone on brooding about this (which would have reared its ugly head eventually) than to outright hurt his feelings in one fell swoop.

Looking back, it sounds just as ridiculous to me now as Stella probably thought it sounded then.

This isn't the only instance where I haven't communicated my conflicts with a partner. And I'm sure I'm not alone.

Why do we do this? Why are we so afraid to be honest with our boyfriend/girlfriend/spouse about what's bugging us? (Even if it's something as simple as road choice?) Why can't we see that a resolution might come simply by opening our mouth and telling the truth?

On the other side of the coin, how honest is too honest? What should remain unsaid?

Discuss. And be nice this time. (You know who you are, peeps.)

Baggage Unpacked?

It's been a while since I've written a new installment to my Baggage series. And I can honestly say it's because I simply ran out of things to write about. I've told you the whole story, and that basically leads me to this point right here.

However, I do want to talk a little bit about the transitional period between my break-up with Paris and this point right here.

Shortly after it officially ended, I became a "scoper." I was constantly scoping my workplace, my church, the grocery store, the alleyway... you name it, all in search of my next boyfriend. I found myself looking at guys I'd never been attracted to and thinking, "He might work for me." During this time, I probably would have justified that a serial killer was worthy of my attention.

The problem with this was (well, there were many problems, but...) these guys who were all wrong for me were beginning to notice that I was scoping them. Maybe because of my whole Free Square thing, I don't know. But it put me into an awkward position, and I felt a bit trapped.

One day it all seemed to be spiraling out of control, and I did not like that one bit. So I stepped back and looked at myself from an outsider's perspective. At that moment, my outsider body was saying to my real body, "Tsk, tsk, Juliet. If you keep this up, you're going to make the same mistakes all over again. You're not looking for a man to love, you're looking for attention—and from any Joe Schmo who will give it to you. Just take a chill pill and STOP LOOKING, for heaven's sake."

If any of my friends had given me this constructive criticism (and some of them did try to), I would have brushed them off, insisting that I was completely composed and knew what I was doing. But when it was myself knocking some sense into me? This time it stuck.

So instead of thinking about my next potential date, I started focusing on the amazing life I already had. I poured into Julietta, spending as much free time with her as I could. My relationship with her grew exponentially. I took on a more active role at work, I started making new friends, I began exercising again. I also began smiling again. A lot.

I finally learned, for perhaps the first time in my life, how to find fulfillment in something other than a man. And as a result I was—and still am—experiencing a joy that I never knew existed.

Of course, as I've discussed before, everyone wants to be loved. And I'm sure it's obvious by my writings on this blog that I still desire a relationship with a good man. But it's different this time. First of all, the interests I have developed in the past couple of months have come naturally—not because I was seeking them out. (BTW, this sort of explains why I'm so hesitant about the online dating thing.) And also, I refuse to let myself fall for the same crap that I fell for in the past. I am not going to settle. Ever. Again. I'm stating that here so that you can all hold me accountable to it. Because settling for less is a lot easier than holding out for more.

But holding out for more sounds like a lot more fun.

Thanks again for letting me unpack my baggage in this format. It feels so good to get all of that junk out of its crammed suitcase. Here's to an open slate, and enjoying life at this point right here.

The Almighty Set-Up

There's this woman at work who's always trying to set me up with someone. Whenever I walk by her desk, which is often, she'll say something like, "You know who would be perfect for you? My cousin's neighbor's best friend's brother." Or worse, "What about that guy in advertising?" It's okay when she's talking about some stranger twice removed, but when she brings it in-house it just gets awkward.

For years, people have been trying to set me up with some great guy they know. And I have mixed feelings about that. First of all, it rarely turns into anything. And when it doesn't work out, my friendship with the matchmaker inevitably becomes a little strained.

One time, a few years ago, a different co-worker tried to set me up with her best guy friend. We went on a date, and it just wasn't flowin' for me. And to make things worse, he gave me this really cheesy line. Actually, it would have been a pretty cool line, except I happened to know that it was quoted directly from an episode of The Cosby Show circa 1990. I wanted so badly to say, "Dude, that line sooo isn't yours.... oh, and The Cosby Show? Really? I mean I love that show but if you're gonna steal a line, shouldn't it be from something studly and sexy like Jerry Maguire or a Prince song or something?" At least he was somewhat original, in that he is probably the only man on the planet who got a good love line from Bill Cosby.

After that date, I had to break the news to my friend the matchmaker that I wasn't interested in her friend. And it felt like I was breaking up with her. She looked totally bummed. And I can see why. After all, I was basically telling her that her judgment was off, that her taste was not as great as she thought it was.

But I think the main reason why set-ups rarely work is because it's so forced. The two people get together knowing they're only there based on the opinion of a mutual friend, which automatically takes away that glorious experience of Random Chance Encounter. (Kind of like online dating—ha!)

I've never been a matchmaker myself. Which is why I actually really admire those people who do take great joy in pairing people up. What an unselfish thing to do, ya know? The fact that my current co-worker thought of me when she met her cousin's neighbor's best friend's brother is solid proof that she is others-focused. Which is another reason why I don't want to hurt her feelings if any of her suggestions don't work out. It was so nice of her to think of me in the first place—how could I possibly let her down?

I have had one successful relationship as a result of a set-up (from yet another co-worker, I just realized; I'm sensing a pattern here...). Well, it was successful in that it lasted for five months, which isn't all that long but it's a lot longer than one date.

Are any of you in a relationship now that is the product of some good matchmakin'? Tell me about it.

Black and white and gray all over

Tonight I had baked potatoes for dinner, which is always a rather frustrating experience for me. I can't CUT the stupid things. When my dad cuts a potato, he cuts it as crisply and precisely as possible. When I cut one, it crumbles all over the place, and no two pieces look the same.

It's like when I was 15 years old and I worked at Dairy Queen. I'm pretty sure I was the worst Dairy Queen employee on earth. I could not make those bumps in the ice cream that are, like, DQ's trademark. And the little curly-cue on the top? Forget about it. Every time I made a cone or a sundae, it would come out lopsided, with one big blob on the top. After awhile, my boss and co-workers gave up on trying to teach me the right way to shape the ice cream, and instead they shoved me off to Blizzard duty. After all, Blizzards were supposed to be messy.

I like to think that my inability to form foods to their appointed molds translates to how I view life. That may seem like a stretch, but hear me out...

I don't see life in black and white. There are some things that are crystal clear to me, of course. But when it comes to people, and especially when it comes to relationships (romantic or otherwise), there is no black and white. I believe that, like Blizzards, people are just supposed to be messy.

When I was with Paris, this concept was—in my opinion—the root of our problem. He was cut-and-dry, yes-or-no, black-and-white, while I was all willy nilly and preferred the color gray. He believed that people make mistakes and there are clearly defined reasons for those mistakes and the person must be held accountable to their actions. Whereas I believed that there are millions of tiny (and some not-so-tiny) complexities that lead up to the mistakes that a person makes. I was a little too forgiving, and Paris wasn't forgiving at all. Which resulted in a vicious cycle that never saw resolution.

In my next relationship, my goal is to find a healthy middle ground. I have to develop a thicker skin so that, if my mate gets angry with me for a justifiable reason, I will take responsibility for my actions. But I also hope that he gets angry with me only for justifiable reasons, and will let me off the hook for some of the other stupid things I do or have done in my past. I have hope that this kind of balance is achievable.

Now the potatoes and ice cream cones? No hope there. I am and always will be incurably messy.

Bill, Bobby, and that other B word

Because in my last post I was all braggin' about my aura, I am now going to indulge in a giant slice of Humble Pie. 

I mentioned in that post that my middle school years were rather awkward. And I've already told the story of the jerky track star who said I look funny when I run. That's just one of the many horror stories from my adolescent attempts at love. 

But the one I'm about to tell takes the cake.

When I was in 7th grade, my friend Tara was "going with" a boy named Bill. (Which reminds me, did anyone else call it "going with"? It seems the more people I talk to, the more I find that that term might have been unique to my particular school at that particular time. It also sounds like something my grandmother would say.)

Anyway, one day Tara and Bill came up with a brilliant idea to set me up with their friend Bobby. This is how that "set-up" transpired...

Tara [on the phone with Bill] to me: Hey, do you want to go with Bobby?

Me: Who's Bobby?

Tara: Bill's friend.

Me: Oh. Yeah, sure.

Tara [to Bill]: She said she'll go with him.

Tara then handed me the phone so I could talk to my new boyfriend for the first time in my life.

Later that week, the four of us went to the movies, where Bobby and I finally met in person. About 10 minutes into the movie, Bobby got out of his seat. I assumed that he was going to the bathroom, but nearly a half hour passed and he was still gone. I leaned over and asked Bill to go check on Bobby and make sure he was okay. I was such a good girlfriend.

A few minutes later Bill came back, without Bobby. 

"So is he okay?" I asked.

"Huh?," Bill said. "Oh yeah, he's fine."

"Then what's he doing?" I asked.

"Oh, he doesn't wanna go with you no more. He thinks you're butt ugly."

That's right... Butt. Ugly. Not just ugly! No, Bill couldn't spare me the agony of hearing that other word, which is a word I happen to hate with a passion, and which at that moment was a word being used to describe ME!

As you can imagine, the damage from that experience lingered for a long time. I became obsessed with dropping the "butt" and working my way up to just "ugly." And maybe someday even "pretty," but I didn't really think that was possible, considering the horrible insult I'd received. 

Man, were those middle school years brutal. Thank goodness I learned how to survive the blows, only to come out stronger in the end. That's why I can now look back and poke fun of those moments. I have plenty more funny/embarrassing stories to tell from that period in my life, so stay tuned.

Free Square

Two years ago I went to a women's health conference that featured a fabulous motivational speaker named Victoria Moran. In her speech, she encouraged us to identify our "free square." The free square, as you know, is the term used in Bingo for that box in the middle on which every player can put a free chip without having to do anything. I've always thought it was nice of Bingo to do that. How many other games offer you a handout before play even begins? Move over billiards, I prefer to hang with the more generous Bingo, thank you very much.

Anyway, in this woman's speech, she metaphorizes (totally made up that word) the "free square" as the one thing that naturally comes easily to people. For instance, Victoria's free square is that she meets famous people all the time—and in random ways, not just because she's a public speaker. I have a friend whose dad wins radio contests on a regular basis. My sister always seems to find the most amazing items at the most incredible discount. (Like, discounts come to her.)

The free square is that odd little quirk that comes easily to an individual, all throughout one's life. Victoria said it was like "the universe's" way of giving you a little extra nudge. And she encouraged us to figure out what our free square is so that we can maximize it to better our lives. 

After hearing the speech, my aforementioned sister and I were trying to identify my free square. After a few minutes, lil' sis perked up, her eyes wide. "I know what it is," she said with conviction.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Men."

 

I thought about that for a minute. And then I remembered that ever since I was young (except for the very awkward middle school years), whenever I liked a guy, he would inevitably end up liking me. It's weird. He might not even know I exist, but once I decide I like him, within a matter of only a few days, he's paying attention to me in some form or another. And I'm not pushy about it or anything. Sometimes I don't even say a word. It just happens.

HUMONGO, GINORMOUS, BEHEMOTHIC DISCLAIMER: 

I realize that I sound extremely conceited to say these things. But I honestly think it has nothing to do with who I am externally. I am not saying that I'm hot to trot nor too cool for school. I really think this is just a natural thing. To borrow Victoria's universe-type terminology, it's the "aura" I give off. And I can't possibly brag about my aura because it didn't show up by my own doing. It's like how cashmere sweaters cost my sister $5.00 when they cost everyone else $500.00. She didn't do anything special to receive that discount; it's just chance. And it makes me sick.

 

The problem is, I don't think I've maximized my free square in the way that Victoria encouraged us to do. Because the whole drawing-men-in thing leads to relationships, and my past few relationships have certainly NOT come as easily to me. So what I need to do is be a little more exclusive about who my free square invites in. I need to push away those Bingo chips that are cracked or missing a portion, and instead I need to accept only the bright and shiny chips.

I love metaphorizing. Sigh.

What's your free square? Figure it out and leave a comment about it, because this fascinates the heck out of me.

Unpacking my Baggage, Part 6

The months following my un-engagement were confusing at best. I'm sure anyone who's been through a major breakup will agree that it's similar to grieving the death of a loved one. For a while you're in shock, then you're angry, then you're just plain numb... 

I experienced all of these feelings and more, which is fine, except that Paris was still pursuing me heavily. In my (many) moments of weakness, I'd cave under his charming nuances, and before I knew it we became that on-again-off-again couple that I've always rolled my eyes at.

He would convince me that he'd changed, and in many ways he really had. I could tell that my leaving him (the first time) really opened his eyes to some of his ridiculousness. But every time we tried to get back together, little red flags would start flying all over my head and heart, and in a panic, I would end it. And then we'd start talking again. And then I'd end it. Again. Each time was more emotional and dramatic than the last. I was a wreck.

All this time, in the back of my mind was a sermon I'd heard a couple of years ago, from a pastor who was preaching on relationships. Two things he said stuck out to me often, in the form of the aforementioned red flags:

1) If you are one of those couples who go through huge ups and downs, are constantly breaking up and getting back together, you should end the relationship for good because that's never going to change.

2) If he makes you cry now, he will make you cry twenty years from now, and every year in between.

These things are so true, and yet it took a million and one times for me to get it through my thick head. In hindsight, I know that there are many reasons why I kept going back to him. The most base reason is because he really was soooo desirable. But also.... ugh, this is the first time I'm admitting this "out loud".... but I was afraid that if I let him go, he would move on with his life and forget all about me. And at the time, that was an unbearable thought.

It was when I finally came to terms with this that I knew I needed to end it. For good. And for real this time. My reasons for wanting him were purely selfish. That wasn't fair to me and it certainly wasn't fair to him. I was leading him on, essentially, out of my own insecure motives.

So finally, on a warm July evening, I told him that that we both needed to cut all ties completely so that the vicious cycle wouldn't continue to repeat itself. I told him that it was over. As in, over over.

And I haven't seen Paris since.

Getting Over It

I received a comment on yesterday's post that raised an interesting topic of discussion for me. The commenter stated that he/she was tired of me unloading my baggage, that I should move on and write instead about my future Romeo. I'm not knocking this person's opinion completely, because I do admit that I tend to be a bit of a Debbie Downer on this blog.

However, I firmly believe that the only way I can look brightly toward my future is if I deal with what has happened in my past. Paris is not someone that I can just forget about at the snap of my fingers. I was fully prepared to marry the man, after all. He was to be my husband. So the damage that was done had way more of an impact on me than it would have had he been just another jerk boyfriend.

After I broke off my engagement, I began to look at every single relationship around me and doom it to failure. I questioned whether or not people were really happy or if they were hiding behind a front like I had been. When I'd hear that a couple had gotten engaged, I assumed that one or both of them wanted to get out of it. These are not healthy perceptions! And I knew that if I continued thinking that way, then I would never find the nurturing, fulfilling kind of love I've always wanted. And that is why I decided to start writing about it.

I've only had this blog for a few weeks, and already I have grown leaps and bounds in my attitude about love. It's been as therapeutic as professional counseling—and a lot less expensive. Plus, having an audience to cheer me on is an added bonus! 

Writing about my past has brought to the surface some of the vital details I had buried. It's also forced me to really evaluate some of the mistakes I've made. In turn, I am now able to sift through my past, take only the nuggets that will enrich my future, and leave the rest behind. 

And that is where Debbie Downer exits and Suzy Sunshine enters. True love and peace will be in my future, I can feel it. In the meantime, I thank you all for reading my heart on a page. It's helped me more than you know.

Unpacking my Baggage, Part 5

Exactly one year ago today, I got engaged.

We were having a good couple of weeks, Paris and I. Our fighting had diminished, and he romanced me in a way that almost made me forget about all of our previous battles. So when he proposed, I eagerly said yes. In the midst of the celebration, Paris and I exchanged an emotional pact that we would put the hard times behind us and let goodness prevail.

Not three days later, the goodness was gone.

Several people told me that the engagement period can be "challenging." I think those people were referring to the struggles couples face when they want different things for their wedding, or they can't decide on a place to live, or even serious things like how to raise children. I'm sure they weren't talking about full-out character defamation, which was the "challenging" issue I was facing. At first, I desperately transferred my friends' everybody-goes-through-it advice to my own tumultuous relationship with Paris. I repeatedly told myself that this is normal, just a bump in the road—the same things I had been telling myself for the majority of our relationship.

I prefer to keep the specific details private, but I do have a little something to say...

I think that we too often dispense and receive advice that no one's perfect, every couple has problems, don't expect too much of your mate. And I agree with all of these things. I've said them myself. However, if you are in a relationship that makes you ashamed to look at yourself, that makes you cry multiple times a day, where the problems never go away but only build with momentum... a relationship in which the picture of your future is one where you are literally and figuratively silent and huddled up in the corner... GET OUT OF IT. Don't keep making the no one's perfect excuse, don't tell yourself that every couple has problems, don't give him or her the benefit of the doubt. 

Just get out.

I came to that realization pretty late in my relationship with Paris, but not too late. About three weeks into the engagement, I finally came to my senses that this could be dangerous business here. Yet I had so brainwashed myself into believing that maybe it wasn't as big of a deal as I thought, that maybe I was just being a drama queen. In turn, indecisiveness nagged at me like a disapproving mother. 

So I asked God for a sign. Now, I don't normally do that. I think asking God for "a sign" is trite, selfish, and it belittles what God is truly capable of. However, in this case, I got on my knees in complete despair, because I did not know What. To. Do. Essentially, by asking God for a sign I really was asking for help.

And one night, my sign came, clear as crystal. And along with it came an almost apathetic confidence that pushed my indecisiveness aside so that I could DO THIS.

So, in the middle of the night, I scooped up Julietta, and we fled far, far away from Paris.

Unpacking my Baggage, Part 4

So it was when I finally gained some confidence that I met someone with whom a true relationship would form. This was my first real grown-up relationship. It also broke my nine-month record. When that happened I thought it'd be this grand moment for me, but by that point I realized that it didn't really matter as much as I had always thought.

(Note: I will be writing about this particular boyfriend periodically and, for the sake of confidentiality, I'll be referring to him as "Paris." This goes with the whole Romeo & Juliet theme. Paris, if you recall, was the man that Juliet was SUPPOSED to marry. That is, before Romeo came along to sweep her off her pretty little feet. Also, my daughter will heretofore be known as "Julietta." You know, like "little Juliet." Cute, right?)

I had actually known Paris for a long time but didn't know him well. We reunited at a friend's wedding, where the sparks started flying the moment we laid eyes on each other. In the months after we started dating, we would recall that night over and over again, how it was so obvious that fate had brought us together. There were so many signs, so many similarities between our individual thoughts and actions that night. I had never experienced that kind of connection with anyone before, and neither had he.

Our relationship was long-distance at first. We would talk on the phone for three hours a night, easily, and we'd see each other any time we possibly could. He made surprise visits often, which thrilled me. He also made me several mixed CDs with "our songs," and wrote elaborate emails about how much he loved me. He had an unprecedented passion for music, politics, food, adrenaline and me. And he was extremely good-looking. I was IN HEAVEN.

Paris was great with Julietta, and she was crazy about him. She was drawn to his endless supply of energy and enthusiasm. Sometimes I felt left out, watching the two of them have so much fun together. Yet at the same time I was grateful that I had found this seemingly perfect guy who loved my daughter and whom my daughter loved.

All that time that I'd been searching for the right man, I'd foolishly believed that, when it comes to Julietta, the guy just had to be someone who really cared about her. So when Paris had passed that test, I thought the coast was clear. However, I learned the hard way that a person can love my daughter till the day is long, but if he can't accept ALL of the nooks and crannies that come with our unconventional little family, chaos will ensue. 

Before I knew it, Paris and I were fighting almost every night. And they were not you-left-the-toilet-seat-up-again fights. I'm talking hard-core, earth-shattering, heartwrenching fights. The kind that would leave us more confused coming out of it than going in. The kind that never seemed to have a solution, no matter how desperately we tried to find one.

But we still loved each other with a passion, and we still believed that we were meant to be together. I think we were also stubbornly determined to make it work, whatever the cost. We were insistent on fitting that square peg into the round slot. 

So, what did we do?

We got engaged.

Unpacking my Baggage, Part 3

Many people have asked me what dating is like as a single mom, and I never really know what to tell them. In many ways, it doesn't seem to be all that different from regular-person dating. Of course, there are some things I am more aware of. I'm very careful about who I introduce my daughter to. I don't want her to get attached to every Tom, Dick and Harry who so much as looks at me. Also, there isn't a lot of room for spontaneity in my relationships, what with the whole childcare issue and everything. 

But the real question, I think, should be directed at the men who have dated me. I'm still surprised by guys' reactions when they find out that I'm a single mom. When I first had the baby, I guess I expected that men would run far away from me. And some did, of course, but most didn't. Most guys didn't act phased at all that I had a child. Some even thought it was cool. This was such a relief—and a shock—to me.

But usually, a switch would eventually take place. At first everything would be great, but when they learned the truth of what it really means to date a single mom, all hell would break loose.

It didn't help that I transformed from being a cool commitment-phobe to a clingy husband-hunter. Becoming a mother made me want so much more for my life. I learned how to love another human in a way I had never experienced before. And I wanted to transfer that over to my romantic relationships. I was so intent on having the other necessary component for a happy little nuclear family as I knew it, that it made me over-eager. 

Guys aren't all that crazy about the over-eager.

After about three years' worth of rejection and disappointment, I started to get my life together in every other area of my life (i.e. moving up in my career, moving out of my parents' house... you know, independent woman stuff). And in doing so, I finally gained the confidence I had been lacking when I was too busy forcing a cookie-cutter life upon my boyfriends.

It was at this point that I realized I didn't NEED a man, dangit.

And that is precisely when a man showed up.

Unpacking my Baggage, Part 2

I've been boy-crazy since I was, like, four. I don't know why. I guess it's just the way the good Lord made me. But whatever the reason, my affection for boys has dominated my life for pretty much all of my life.

I've had many boyfriends, my first being when I was in 5th grade. Since then, I've dated more guys than I can count. I used to think this was normal, going out with someone for two months or so and then simply moving to the next one. But then I got to college and realized that most of my peers had maybe only one or two boyfriends/girlfriends in their whole lifetime, and these relationships lasted for two, sometimes three, sometimes more years. 

This was a big wake-up call for me. I felt like I was missing out on something big. At that point in my life, I had never known what it was like to be in a relationship for longer than 9 months. So I became obsessed with breaking that record. Because otherwise, I feared, something must be seriously wrong with me. I also became obsessed with the length of other people's relationships. I wanted to know if there was anyone else out there like me, who operated by the "shorter is better" mentality. When I'd meet someone new (girl or guy), I'd ask how long their longest relationship was. Most responses ranged in the one-to-two-year range. Upon hearing that, every time, my disappointment was palpable.

After much soul-searching, I learned that the reason I wasn't experiencing this kind of commitment in my relationships is because all that time, I'd been looking for the "high" that I thought a boy/guy/man could bring me. And as some of you may know, a "high," by nature, always comes down. It never lasts forever. So when one high ended, I'd skip the scene and leave it clean, in search of my next "drug." 

There was one time when I was so in need of something exciting, something to bring me fulfillment, that I became careless. And, well, my carelessness resulted in something that would change my life forever. 

That's right, I got knocked up.

Having a child obviously changed my world. Better yet, it took my world by the feet, turned it upside down and shook it, until all of my preconceived notions about life and love were emptied out. Then, it gently flipped me right side up and slowly began filling my world again, with a whole new consciousness.

That's when my romantic relationships took a turn, and mostly for the worse. Stay tuned...