Failure and Forward Movement (T-Minus 77 Days)

Exactly 365 days ago, I wrote about my resolution to be Fearless. I proclaimed I would spend 2011 living boldly, loving myself and turning said self into the woman I wanted to be.

I sit here a year later and accept I have utterly and completely failed in doing every one of those things.

I can say this because I am quite literally sitting in the exact same place I was when I pledged to dive straight into life with freeing abandon.

I am traveling for work and am in the same city, sitting in the same coffee shop across the street from the hotel in roughly the same (only available) seat and quite possibly wearing the same sweatpants and drinking the same coffee. At least I got a chocolate chip cookie today; I think I went scone last year

Regardless of baked good choice, the level of irony is palpable.

Believe in yourself. Embrace your beauty. Discover a new passion.

Hardly.

I may have blindly (and without any real commitment) searched for another job, allowed my heart to feel something for a fleeting moment and read more self help books than a shrink-in-training, but I truly have not done any of the above. Although there were certainly a few high points, for the most part 2011 will go down in the books as a complete time suck of a year.

And that’s just awful.

When I revisited the whole fearlessness idea back in October, I gave myself a hard time about the lack of progress and admitting an intense level of fear of happiness and success, or of getting what I thought I want and realizing it’s not enough. On the cusp of a new year, the year I just so happen to turn 30, I’m calling the above statement poppycock. A cop-out of epic proportions.

Bullocks.

Ever since letting go on the hope of a relationship with Sparks last week, I have found myself systematically bidding adieu to this last year and embracing a different approach to entering this next one. There are 77 days until I turn 30. No matter what has gone down in the last 423 days, I have 77 chances to make my 29th year the best ever and set up No. 30 to be even better.  

I pledge to fear … less … and to make every day count, for the next 77 and beyond.

Some Finite Goals for 2012

* Run a 5K

* Drop an L-bomb, or at least become comfortable using the word

* Go surfing

* Travel, for real.

* Get back on the bike.

* Find a new job, or figure out what it would take to embrace the current one.

 “Remember that wherever your heart is, there you will find your treasure.”

- Paulo Coelho -

Losing Hope (In a Good Way) T-Minus 85 Days

As always, it’s been awhile.

It’s very nearly Christmas and I realize I never even got around to posting what I wrote around Thanksgiving, mostly because it was much of the same drivel as a year ago and I never got around to coming up with something new. I made a crack about it being the blogs and my second Thanksgiving together, meaning it had lasted longer than any of my previous relationships, and then went on to talk about being grateful for the platonic relationships in my life and having the opportunity to build and cultivate them.

I am still quite thankful to have spent the bulk of my post-college life as a single woman; it’s given me the opportunity to be selfish, career-minded … and able to buy multiple pairs of shoes without being judged upon returning home. I have wonderful friendships that are my whole world, but we’ve been through all that and you don’t need to hear about this or this again.

Instead, I am going to beat another subject to death and say I’m quite grateful for Sparks.

This is what I wrote about the topic a week ago (before getting distracted from actually posting, yet again):

It’s been nine months since he became a semi-permanent fixture in my life and even though we have yet to re-consummate the affair that started back then, it’s been one of the happier “relationships” I have had. The long-distance banter and conversation are better than anything I have been able to find locally and the belief our paths will cross again gives me enough hope to be satisfied with the situation.

I’m currently reading this book (shocking, I know) which will inevitable spin me into a complete meltdown upon completion, but is in the meantime, giving me much to daydream and think about. The Lost Girls is a true story about three friends who are feeling the pressure of looming 30th birthdays (sound familiar?) and choose to quit their jobs, leave everything behind and travel the world for a year, covering roughly 60,000 miles and four continents.

I have one continent remaining and have no idea how it will end, but a chapter I read last night struck a chord. Jen, one of the women in the book, met a man in Thailand, another American who was a friend of a friend, and they hit it off over what was supposed to a single drink while passing through town.

She left after three days not knowing when she would see him again, but confident in the faith of being able to nearly instantaneously feel love (and be loved). I can speak from experience in saying that feeling, even veiled by clouds of uncertainty, can do wonders for the soul.

Jen’s recollection of seeing Matt for the first time and the ensuing chemistry made me think back to the moment I first met Sparks.

I have never told anyone this, not even him, but I remember like it was yesterday. It was almost exactly four years ago and I was still at my previous job and Sparks was in town for an event. I was walking down the hall and saw this guy looking over reading material on the table and I felt a flicker of something I had never felt before, and have not felt since. I would never, ever call it love at first sight, but it was an attraction based on the simple feeling this man was supposed to be a part of my life, even before speaking to him.

If one were to stick Sparks in a lineup of men and ask my closest friends to pick out the one I would most likely be attracted to, he would probably not be the winner. He might not even make the Top 3. Despite that, I could never shake the feeling he was supposed to be around, so we established a professional relationship that would continue by email and occasional face time when we would cross paths, until nine months ago when on one cold winter night, a few beers led us to venturing into territory I think we both knew was three-plus years in the making.

From there, you know the story. Or at least what’s out there for public consumption.

And that’s where it ended. Now, a week later, I have a slightly different perspective.

After explaining the previous partial entry to a friend, finally telling the story of Sparks’ and my meeting out loud, she said to me “So you really believe he is the one?” and I was taken aback. I was partially surprised to hear she thought I was that much of a romantic, but I also had to analyze what I really thought about the situation.

I can now unequivocally say I do not believe in “The One,” Sparks or otherwise. I think the most any of us can hope for is the right one at the right time and all too often we find ourselves meeting the right one at the wrong time (or more often the wrong one at the right time or the wrong one at the wrong time).

Even if it makes me a bit of a romantic, I have spent nine months not wanting to accept or believe in the notion Sparks may simply be the right guy at the wrong time. It’s a strange feeling to have been so accurate in our initial meeting, especially because the reality of the connection far outweighed any fantasy, but to know the chances of long-term success is near impossible.

Sometime over the summer I forgot I wasn’t Katherine Heigl in [insert really, really bad rom-com] and latched onto the idea anyone who could make me as happy as Sparks did (and does still, sometimes) was worth just about anything.

Truth is, I’m not willing or able to change my life for someone else right now, no matter how great he may be. I still need to make significant changes for myself – there is no way I can expect someone else to love a version of me I don’t even always like. There doesn’t seem to be a way to halfway commit to someone seven hours or a $400 plane ticket away, so I am accept it is not going to happen. Timing is, after all, about 90 percent of a successful relationship.

And so this Christmas, at a time which is supposed to be full of hope, I am instead of letting go of a piece of it. Outside of the occasional drunk text, I cannot hold onto the hope of Sparks and me as an us. Even though my selfishness is probably at the root of a lot of the “problems” I currently have, I think it’s important to hold onto it a little longer.

With 10 minutes until I board the plane to go see my family for Christmas, I bid that particular piece of hope adieu.

I will forever be grateful to Sparks for helping me realize my heart is capable of feeling something resembling love and I think the sooner I can accept that is probably the extent of his purpose in my life, the better. If you had told me four years ago this is where we would be after our awkward introduction in a crowded hallway, I never would have believed it. But I think it’s probably exactly where we’re supposed to be. For now. 

State of the Groove (T-Minus 135 Days)

It’s hard to believe I started this blog a year ago today. I figured the anniversary was as good a time as any to check myself and see how far I have come and how far I have yet to go. For a refresher on how and why this 500-day countdown began, please check out my first entry: Spinning. 

In short, I had a revelation in spin class one night about how I didn’t remember the last time something had caused my heart to race or make me feel truly alive. After some inner deliberation, I realized I simply felt passionless ... “Grooveless, if you will.”

And so, thus began the quest to find my groove before my 30th birthday (which now is 135 days away, by the way).

Somewhere along the way, I simplified (perhaps too much) the process into three prongs: my professional life, my romantic life and my personal space. I thought if I could find a job that made me as happy as this one did at the beginning, a man I wanted to makeout with for more than a week at a time and a place to call home, I would find the ole groove at the point where all those prongs intersected.

If I analyze the last year based on those things, it appears I am right where I started. I am still in the same job; I still spend the majority of my Friday nights watching DVR-ed TV with wine; and I still live in this topography –less city pining for the West Coast.

But after a moment of self-degradation, I realized I actually have come a long way.

I’m not going to lie, when I started writing about my foray into online dating, I didn’t see things becoming this deep or this level of self actualization coming. For those who were invested in the tales of Mr. NDNS, Rock Doc, The M-P or any others I may have forgotten about, part of me is sorry it got away from that. Even for me, it was way more fun pretending to be Carrie Bradshaw than realizing I want the career success of Miranda, the committed but liberated relationship of Samantha/Smith and the outdoor living of Aiden.

At least I managed to get Mr. Big out of the picture. 

In addition to finally accomplishing that, I also have discovered a lot about myself in the last year and, to be honest, the bulk of it I don’t like. My fears – of change, commitment, failure and even more so, success and happiness – were really frustrating things to realize when I spend the bulk of my time pretending to epitomize the opposite. The time I have wasted in a funk or being angry has mostly been because of the discovery of my own limitations.

Hitting emotional rock bottom (again, not in a dark Girl, Interrupted way, but in a lost yet optimistic way) was the only way to really begin to gain clarity, which I think I have done (or at least have started to).

I now am starting to realize the three prongs may not ever intersect or, if they do, it’s somewhere down the line and not in the way I think they should at this particular moment. Right now, the key is pick one path and see where it goes. In the last week, I have had conversations/offers/discussions with people who could help guide me down any one of them; however, it appears all are mutually exclusive of the others (the possibilities are literally spread across three time zones).

Now I am forced to prioritize my goals and, while I still feel little lost, I am excited for all the possible opportunities. One might say my heart rate has even picked up a bit.  

I’m torn between:

1.  The idea of being a really big deal in my current business, which is something a large part of me wants to check off my life to-do list, even if I know it’s not something I want to continue for the long haul (Eastern time zone)
2. Holding out a few more months, throwing caution to the wind and moving out West with hopes of getting a job at a really, really great company and be the nature-loving granola girl (Pacific)
3. Coming up with a way to give things with Sparks a legitimate chance because it’s not from seven hours away with both of us working 24/7 six months out of the year (Central)

If I choose 1, then I will be able to dabble with 3 but the status of things will remain what they are now. Through Door 2 is an entirely new life and 3 would mean some compromise, which sounds like a dirty word to a lot of independent women, but I think the key is compromising without conceding. 

All are great options and have the potential to lead to success, but which line of success is the most important? I guess I will just have to follow the signs and find out as I go. I am doing my best to relax and trust in two of my favorite lines from The Alchemist, which is still one of my guidebooks for the next 135 days (and beyond).

“When you want something all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it.”

“Remember that wherever your heart is, there you will find your treasure.”

- Paulo Coelho -

Fearlessness Revisited (T-Minus 146 Days)

On Sunday morning, moments before running the Nike Women’s Marathon, Digital Royalty’s Amy Jo Martin posted a blog entry about being Fearless. In the face of adversity greater than turning 30 and still being single, she writes if we want to be free, we need to fear LESS and how that has epitomized her life over the last few years.

This struck a chord, as some may remember my one and only New Year’s Resolution this year was to Be Fearless and I realized Sunday I have been doing anything but. Directly stolen from Self Magazine, I wrote:

BE FEARLESS.

If you make one resolution this year, let it be to live boldly.
You control this moment: rather than cautiously test the water, 
dive straight into life with freeing abandon.
Imagine the person you want to be and the life you want to live, 
and then simply commit to them.
Believe in yourself. Embrace your beauty. Discover a new passion.
And whatever you do, wherever you go, don’t be afraid to make a splash.

I have spent a lot of time doing the imagining part, but not so much the committing. Or the believing. Or the embracing.

So I started to wonder what exactly it is I am afraid of and I think I got at least a partial answer today.

Once or twice a year I have the inexplicable desire to Facebook/LinkedIn/Google stalk the ex known as The Asshole, or the man who broke me. Some part of me must sense when he is going through major life changes because I have managed to stalk days within his engagement, wedding and now, the birth of his first child.

Something about today was harder to handle than the rest. I never really thought there was a chance of us getting back together, but the presence of a child confirms that. He officially is married to someone who is basically the same person as I and they have a child. There is tiny, miniscule, infinitesimal part of me that wishes it were me.  

I think about the person I was when he and I were together and it’s largely who I would like to be again. Confident, strong and happy. I didn’t sleep through 5 a.m. workouts, spend time at work looking for other jobs or use Friday nights as an excuse to drink wine alone (OK, maybe the latter occasionally).

I knew what I wanted. And I lost my groove.

If the skinn(ier), healthier, happier, more motivated version of me wasn’t enough then, who is to say it will be if I work to find that woman again?

So there you go, it turns out I am scared of success. Or at least still failing in the face of success.

Which is so beyond stupid.

Maybe being Fearless is a little bit too much to take on at once. Maybe it’s more important to heed Amy Jo Martin’s words and just fear a little bit less right now.  To let myself be vulnerable again and be OK with it, instead of making excuses.

Here’s to 5 a.m. workouts again I guess.

Eternal Flame (152 Days)

It’s been awhile since I have mentioned Sparks, though I have to admit it was not for lack of thought on my part. I think about him more than I care to admit, especially late at night after one too many drinks when thoughts tend to turn into drunk texts. Even intoxicated, our banter is pretty sizzling and by the end of the conversation, I will inevitably bring up the idea of us getting together.  To which he will check his schedule and turn me down.

And I will feel silly, but brush it off until the next morning when I think “Did I really do that? Again? He has to think I’m psycho, clueless and pitiful.”

To use an extended fire metaphor (you know I love those), I likened the process to me attempting to poke the coals and get the embers to relight, while he was the gust of wind that kept snuffing them out.

After this happened again Thursday evening, I decided Friday morning the fire needed to go out. The sparks needed to be snuffed. And so I sent him a note admitting I knew I was crazy to still hold onto what happened seven months ago and letting him know how foolish I feel for the texts, calls and propositions. I apologized and tried to cover everything up, like a skilled outdoorswoman leaves no trace after putting out a campfire.

To say his response was not what I expected is an understatement.

I’m going to keep the details to myself (well and to two of my BFFs who I immediately shared his email with), but suffice to say, I’m happy with it. I mean, we’re not together and we’re likely not getting together any time soon, but there was apparently no need for me to feel foolish or silly or pitiful and for the first time since it all started, we are clearly on the same page.

In short, the embers have been relit.

As far as Sparks and I are concerned, there is an Eternal Flame.

And because I know it’s been in your head since you read the title:

Update, Anger & Alchemy (T-Minus 160 Days)

Well I guess this is the new definition of “it’s been awhile.” I think this is probably as long as it’s ever been between entries and I would be very pleased to tell you it’s because I have been quite busy having completely salacious sex with a guy I met while crossing the street.

Alas, that could not be further from the truth.

I carried through on my Sept. 11 promise to do something I had been putting off and I wrote a letter full of things I have wanted to tell someone and never could. This opened up the floodgates and I ended up writing three more letters to people in my past who have been instrumental on making me who I am today – both positively and negatively.

Only one of them got sent.

I decided to reconnect with the man formerly referred to as The Badass. Our breakup was not full of animosity; the timing simply wasn’t right and we eventually grew apart. It happens. Hell, it’s supposed to happen.

I wanted to tell him though how much I appreciated him and, years later, how much I respected his desire for adventure and freedom. He began the quarter-life crisis and the normal time, but instead of letting it fester for years, he took care of it then and figured out his life before he forced himself to become settled in the wrong direction.

Right now, he is my hero.

I eased into conveying all that emotion and took the time to get to know him again over the span of a few emails. We caught up on each other’s families and friends and talked about what we were doing now. We never talked about either’s romantic status, but I expect he is still with the woman who he met while getting over me (his words).

It didn’t really matter though; I eventually told him everything I needed to say and I think we’re at peace enough to continue on, not as friends, but as an old love who is a mere email away. And I feel good about it.

The other letters (i.e. emails) remain in various states of scripting. One is half-written, one is done and has been sitting in my drafts for weeks and the final one was deleted as soon as it was completed. I didn’t even re-read it. It said what I needed to get out, but that’s as far as it is going to go. Some things – people – in life just need to be deleted.

I obviously have not spent the entire last month writing letters though. That took a couple days, tops, and the rest of the time I have no other excuse for except I was simply too angry to write.

I have spent much of the last few weeks in a state of anger I am not familiar with, and not a fan of. I literally woke up in the mornings angry and annoyed about the day ahead and, throughout the course of it, the anger just got worse. I was quick[er] to get upset at other people and I spent the bulk of my time at work either bitching to equally frustrated co-workers or listening to Jay-Z through headphones so loud I’m sure my cubicle neighbors knew all about my 99 Problems. Unless I was with someone in my immediate circle, I wanted to be left alone because everyone else, quite frankly, pissed me off.

During this time, I also found myself finding excuses not to work out and not stick to what I knew I should be eating. All in all, it was a really shitty few weeks.

I finally began to snap out of it when I talked it over with a co-worker/BFF – we’ll call her Rudy because if you knew her, you’d know why – and learned she felt exactly the same way. I think it helped us both to admit the anger and how much we didn’t like feeling that way. Since then, she and I have separately made steps to figure out our new direction.

Our guidebook has become The Alchemist, an allegorical novel by Paulo Coelho first written in Portuguese and published in 1988. Rudy read it and came in raving about her newfound clarity. We all know I can’t resist a book that’s supposed to help decipher life, so I’m about 30 pages in and looking forward to reading more once I’m done writing this.

The book follows the journey of Santiago, a shepherd from Andalusia, who follows a prophetic dream about finding treasure amid the Egyptian pyramids (sidenote: are there other pyramids?). He encounters several people along the way, most notably an old king named Melchizedek who teaches about discovering his personal legend and following all the signs to get there.

This is about as far as I have gotten, but I am sucked in. There’s a part near the beginning when Santiago is talking about his irrational anger directed towards his sheep and that’s all it took. Dude, I got you.

So we’ll see where the book goes and how much I over-invest in it as the means to discovering my happiness.  Yep, I am fully aware of my tendency to do that.

In the meantime, I followed a few signs/cosmic hints/twitter invitations of my own.

I emailed a former boss who now is out in the Portland, Ore., area to give him my resume and asked him to keep me in mind if he heard of any opportunities out there. I also asked a colleague who I know is friends with someone who works at a company out there which I would LOVE to work for to “introduce” us formally (you know, by email).

So I’m taking some steps in the direction I want to be going, quite literally this morning as I went on a 5-mile hilly backcountry hike. The park association “tweeted” about the hike yesterday and I talked myself into going – love the outdoors, but self-conscious about trying new things alone – and I am so glad I did. I felt alive and inspired … and happy.

It helps the weather has been positively gorgeous for the last week and the Indian Summer, coupled with a reasonably light work schedule this weekend, may very well be the source of this happiness, but it’s honestly just a relief to not feel angry.

And now I’m going to go read The Alchemist. I have a personal legend to find.

9/11 Reflections (T-Minus 187 Days)

Like the majority of Americans, I have spent much of this week reflecting back of September 11, 2001, and everything that has happened in the past 10 years. In the last decade, I have occasionally thought back to that day, remembering where I was, what I was wearing and how the events unfolded as they pertained to me.

I was in my sophomore year of college, five minutes outside of Washington, D.C., and had missed several calls from my mom while in class. I couldn’t get back to her, but I moved onto French class until I finally gave into the sinking feeling in my stomach something was wrong and walked back to the dorm.

It was then, while walking in grey sweatpants, my favorite Maryland lacrosse tshirt and flip-flops, my phone rang again and my mom asked me if I had seen the news and when I said no, she told me there had been terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. By this point, it was hours after the fact and by the time I got to a television, the towers were gone, the Pentagon had a gaping hole, a field in Pennsylvania was obliterated and all that was left were seemingly apocalyptic images.

From high points on campus, you could see smoke from the fires at the Pentagon and, as my New York/New Jersey/Connecticut friends heard from family members, the tragedy began to hit closer to home. As a journalism major and current affairs junkie, I spent the next few days watching the news with morbid curiosity.  

This would go on for just over a week until a much smaller, but still devastating, event literally hit home. A tornado ripped through the University of Maryland campus, the first in the DC area in nearly a century, knocking out power, taking down buildings, clearing trees and claiming the lives of two. Selfishly, there were suddenly other things I needed to worry about other than the aftermath of Sept. 11.

Not until this 10-year anniversary, however, did I realize just how much I missed.

I am not ashamed to admit I have been mildly addicted to much of the commemorative programming this week. I have been sucked into shows on National Geographic, History Channel and CNN. I have wept over commercials, musical performances and the national anthem. I don’t even dare listen to “Proud to be an American” or else I will be down for the count.

Anyway, through watching all these shows, I realize how much must have come out during the time I was otherwise occupied. The pieced together timelines, first-hand accounts and sobering realizations as sense began to be made were all new to me. I also was reminded of the patriotism that ensued in the weeks and even years following; a blissful phenomenon all but erased by the economic meltdown and overwhelmingly partisan politics we currently live with.

We are constantly told to never take days for granted and to always tell people who you love how you feel because you never know when you will no longer have the chance. There could be no greater reminder of that than watching the events of Sept. 11 unfold and hearing all the surrounding stories. And so I woke up today, not with grandiose ideas of proclaiming affection or living dangerously, but of simply doing something, anything, I had been putting off.

Because you never know when you will no longer have the chance.

I ended up working the majority of the day, but with just over an hour remaining in the day, I have a letter to write. And tomorrow, a boy to ask out. 

Baby Steps (T-Minus 191 Days)

It was around this time a year ago I learned something very important about myself.

I had been stuck in the weirdly undefined pseudo-relationship with Mr. NDNS (Neither Defined Nor Satisfying if you’re late to this party) for over a year and was pretty much at a loss as to what to do about it. Other than, you know, define it and lose the pseudo, but that would have made too much sense. Anyway, he had apparently had enough of it as well and I heard through the grapevine he had articulated to a mutual friend his realization we needed to talk about the state of our relationship.

So what did I do? I panicked and I slept with someone else.

I had recently reconnected with an old friend who was headed through the area on a road trip and wanted to know if I had any interest in getting together for the night (yes … as in the biblical sense). I had very little intention of saying yes, at least until I was faced with the alternative of actually figuring out my life, and so I found myself agreeing to a late-night Labor Day rendez-vous in a seedy airport hotel.

I had a bit of drive for the booty call, and I passed the time talking to an old friend, trying to explain the thought process behind making the decision to sleep with someone other than the man I had been saying could be The One for months. To be honest, I wish I had recorded it because I’d really like to recall how I made sense of that one.

My friend told me I was being a completely self-destructive idiot and to turn the car around. To go home, go to sleep and wake up the next day ready to face my future. I, however, opted to keep driving and have seedy hotel sex. And then ignore NDNF’s phone call and voicemail the following morning.

I would regret it later, but I deleted the message without even listening. It might have been something completely innocuous, but on the off chance he actually was ready to talk, I guess I just wasn’t ready to hear what he had to say.

As you know, neither one of us would bring it up again. And, after the high of my illicit night died down, I would spend many more months wondering what might have been.

So what is this important lesson?

It is something you have probably inferred by now, but it was the moment I realized I am completely jacked up emotionally. The friend on the phone, who will get his own entry one of these days, told me I have the most severe “daddy issues” of anyone with a completely normal father and family he has ever met.

It’s really easy to disguise commitment-phobia when you have a steady string of men in your life (not always in the biblical sense; I’m not a hussy). I wrote, at some length, about my proclivity for the unattainable back in the July 4 entry on a Declaration of Desired Dependence. It was in this moment a year ago I began exploring and trying to understand the phenomenon and my penchant for the geographically undesirable, selfishly unworthy, romantically unavailable, professionally unethical, aesthetically unachievable and/or unabashedly uninterested.

It's been a long road since.

The jury is still out on whether I found someone that breaks this cycle. Things are still very much undefined and I have to fight my inclination to keep them that way. For now though, I am enjoying the process and have no intention of self-destructing and ruining it with a spontaneous stupid decision.

Baby steps.

Taming the Phlegm. (T-Minus 199 Days)

Warning: This is not a fun post. I still don’t name the new prospect and I use the word phlegm at least three times. Read at your own risk.

I was prepared to make at least one of three grand, sweeping changes when I started this whole groove-finding journey. I fully expected to change states or jobs or form a romantic attachment (or five) during the 500 days, but as of 301 days in, there has not been definitive progress on any of those.

There are, however, a myriad of smaller changes that have been made and even more so that need to be. Among them, tweaking my diet after entirely too many months of ignoring signs and symptoms of a potentially larger problem.

I am honestly not sure the last time I ate a sandwich or bowl of pasta and didn’t go into into a coughing fit immediately after. Or feel pressure in my chest after a meal out or sudden trip through the drive-thru. And, more times than not, when all was said and done I was left with a gross, phlegmy (I really hate that word; it even sounds nasty) feeling after meals.

After analyzing all of this, as of a week and a half ago, I decided to give up gluten. At first I thought it wouldn’t be that big of a deal to go without bread, pasta or even beer, as much as I absolutely, positively love, adore and cherish it. The more research I do, however, the more places I learn it has the tendency to hide out. In addition to binding together grains like wheat, barley and rye, gluten often is used as a stabilizing agent in stuff like salad dressing, ice cream and ketchup, especially in the low-fat varieties I generally opted to buy. It can even be found in toothpaste.

Overwhelming, much?! I mean, I can’t tell you how many times I Google “Is ________ gluten free” a day or look over the list of ingredients in seemingly innocuous foods to find something like “wheat protein” listed. (I’m looking at you, Ben & Jerry’s).

Fortunately, there is a wealth of information out there and, thanks to the library, I have a pile of books on my coffee table like “Gluten-Free Girl” and “The G-Free Diet.”

I feel markedly better in just the last several days, but it has been, and will remain, a process. I think everyone would notice a positive difference if they started eating only vegetables, lean meat, fresh fruit and natural/unprocessed foods. Gone are the low-fat or reduced sugar varieties because I figure if my carbs are limited, I’m going all out on stuff like cheese and dressing and strawberry jam. And it’s so freakin’ good.

I am, quite honestly, not sure giving up all gluten is the solution or that there isn’t something else that still needs to get cut out from my diet. There are still times I get phlegmy (there it is again; sorry) after a meal and I can’t put my finger on what might have set it off. I am 90 percent sure everything I ate for dinner was g-free, but here I am still clearing my throat two hours later.

Giving up gluten just seemed like the trendy thing to do.

If I have learned anything from these books though is the right diet can literally change your life. These women were miserable for years because they ignored what their bodies were trying to tell them and/or didn’t have the resources to interpret what they were saying.

I was shocked at how many side effects of food allergies I exhibit and haven’t been able to figure out the source. If changing the way I eat alleviates the respiratory stuff, eases some of the joint pain, gives some psychological relief and improves the overall quality of life, I would rank it right on up there with forming a romantic attachment (or five).

Until then, I am going to crack open a g-free beer.

Falling into Me (T-Minus 204 Days)

About two weeks ago, I fell off my bike. And just like when I was a little kid, I pretended it didn’t faze me and I jumped right back up, got back on and pedaled my way home with blood gushing down my arm.

Unlike a 5-year old on her first two-wheeler though, I was going 16 mph around a tight turn, snapped into my pedals and firmly attached to a bike worth almost half a month’s salary. I went down hard. And it hurt. I was fortunate to have been alone and therefore not a hazard to drivers or other cyclists and even luckier not have sustained any serious injury.

Adrenaline got me home, but once I had time to examine, I realized I had busted up an elbow, scraped up one knee and somehow managed to bash the opposite inner thigh into black and blue oblivion. More than anything, however, the fall hurt my pride. And my confidence.

Plus, the timing of it couldn’t have been worse. A day earlier, I had dominated a 48-mile training ride and was flying high on how good I felt and how prepared I thought I was for the century ride coming up in six days. I had been training for five months and finally felt ready. I just had to get through one last short ride before a blissful few days of tapering off before the race.

In an instant, however, it all changed.

I am still not sure why I crashed, despite replaying it over and over in my head. Part of me hopes at least partial blame lies with debris on the path or an unexpected patch of wetness, but in the back of my mind I know I probably screwed up by being overly confident, spacing out or braking too hard, too late.

This self-questioning led to a lot of uncertainty over the next few days and I admittedly debated calling it quits altogether. I was so worried about being too hurt or too scared to finish 102 miles that I almost convinced myself it was better to just not even start. With a little help from some friends and the realization I couldn’t ignore the ~ing, my competitive spirit eventually won out and I decided to get after it.

I really wish this is where I told you I conquered the entire ride in record time, laughed in the face of endless hill climbs and made those 102 miles my bitch ... Alas, I did none of the above.

The first 25 miles were spent in relative ease, talking to riders around me and taking deep breaths around each turn, gaining more confidence with each successful (i.e. not wiping out) curve. The next 40, however, were absolute agony. While the hill climbs were physically demanding and, at times, led to the majority of cyclists getting off their bikes and walking, the downhill descents were what crippled me with anxiety.

I literally spent 40 miles – probably close to three hours – having panic attacks. This led to me braking on downhills, convinced I was going to lose control and crash, which not only pissed off everyone around me, but killed my momentum for the next climb and any mental toughness I had left. At the 65-mile mark, I sat on the side of the road for 10 minutes trying to get my breathing under control and not to break down and cry.

Passing cyclists made sure I was OK and one woman convinced me to get up and keep going, promising me we would leg it out together to the next water stop about seven miles later.

It was there my day ended.

I wanted to keep going and after 15 minutes of rest, I almost did. I wanted to finish because I told myself at the beginning I wouldn’t let fear get in the way. After talking with one of the first aid volunteers about how I hypothetically would get home if I hypothetically called it a day, I realized I was doing just that. It wasn’t the fear of not succeeding I was scared of, because I had already finished this event once before, it was the fear of disappointing those who donated money in support of the ride and of letting down the people who had backed me during the process.

And that particular fear is stupid if it means endangering yourself in the process. Even though the most difficult part of the route was over, I knew I was too emotionally-spent to go on, so I turned in my rider number, voiced my decision to the volunteer and began the call/text/twitter updates to friends and concerned parties.

I was embarrassed, apologetic, sad and pissed, emotions that were only slightly eased as the replies of concern and understanding came through my phone. In the midst of the barrage, however, there was one text conversation that meant more to me than anything else.

* If for some reason you’re still reading this, here comes your reward. *

A few weeks ago, I met and started hanging out with a man I have yet to come up with a blog-appropriate nickname for. It was, and still is, very early in the whole process and I wasn’t sure how I felt about letting him in to the emotional rawness of the day, but he responded with exactly what I didn’t know I was waiting to hear.

He told me I was amazing. That I had done amazing. That I fought through the fear and got exponentially farther than the starting line. That he couldn’t have done what I had done.

That he was proud of me.  

And it was in that moment, I decided to let him in.

Over the last few days, we have since shared many good conversations – together over drinks, on the phone while traveling and by text/email during the monotony of the work day. He is someone I want to get to know slowly and surely … and quite possibly completely. I think there is a mutual level of respect and inspiration there that has the potential for wonderful things.

Now I don’t want to say the busted elbow was worth it, but who’s to say I would be where I am without falling off my bike, finding the confidence to get back on and realizing the strength it would take to get back off.

Next entry: Why this one was written in complete absence of wheat and with the help of gluten-free beer.

Want You to Want Me (T-Minus 213 Days)

I have written so many blogs in my head the last couple weeks, it somehow escaped me that I never actually typed and posted them. Here’s a quick update on that job I was pondering the last time I wrote:

It seems the company’s convictions were about as strong as mine. They went back and forth with promises until ultimately, I got two automatically-generated emails from the HR department basically telling me thanks, but no thanks. It turns out I wasn’t supposed to get those emails and I was supposed to be told by phone they had decided to hire someone else, someone who was desperate enough for the job to take it for $15,000 less than I even would have considered.

In retrospect, I am glad they never made an official offer and put me in a position to have to turn it down because it was an intriguing job. At the time, however, I was hurt and kind of felt like I had been dumped.

Awhile back I mentioned going out on a lame date in an attempt to get over Sparks. I didn’t elaborate on it because it left me with a similar feeling of feeling hurt and dumped, even though I had little interest in the alternative. I met this guy at an all-you-can drink fundraiser for cancer research (a no-fail recipe for good stories) and I admired his use of a wingman to open conversation and then facilitate the meeting. He seemed interesting enough, so I gave him my number at the end of the night and agreed to a date when he called the next day.

It ended up being a perfectly innocuous evening between two new acquaintances. We had the default discussion of backgrounds, college majors and number of siblings, but the whole thing felt like an obligation and did not have any of that … zest … when you meet someone who you genuinely want to know everything about.

Even though I wasn’t really feeling anything, I agreed to a second date because he seemed all about it and I figured maybe round two would loosen us up a little more. Well round two never happened because he never called, and I was bitter I wasn’t the one who got to make that decision.

I realize it sounds selfish, but I wanted to be wanted and to be the one who got to say no. And it was the same thing with this job. They played it up like I was the first and only choice and said they would do everything to find the money for the right person, but after the first interview, they just never called.

And I was once again left rocking out to Cheap Trick in my head.

French Fries & Lack of Conviction (T-Minus 227 Days)

After returning from a week-long road trip to see friends and family last night, I set out for the grocery store in a quest to get vegetables, lean meat and all the fixings for a healthy dinner. After six hours in the car for the day and 1,200 total miles of driving, it seemed like the way to go. My plan, however, was quickly thwarted when I discovered the neighborhood store had closed for renovations while I was gone and, before I could think twice about it, I pulled a U and went through the McDonald’s drive-thru instead.

I could have gotten any number of their semi-healthy options, but I instead quickly ordered the Angus burger and fries … although I did get an extra side salad off the dollar menu and a Diet Coke which has to count for something. Right?!

Anyway, as I took it all home and geared up for a night catching up on bad DVR-ed television, I looked down at the mountain of food and laughed. I literally LOL-ed at the startling illustration of my complete lack of conviction. Talk about an epic fail on my part.

There are two more of the same grocery chain within a couple miles of my house and another store even closer, but in a moment of weakness, the glimmer of French fries was enough to completely throw me off track. And I quickly realized this penchant for switcheroos is far from limited to my food choices.

In addition to clearly not having iron-clad convictions for things like working out … or blogging … I have spent the last few weeks toiling back and forth with the prospect of a new job. Not just some light-hearted pondering, but from the single-minded approach of zero interest to the sudden 180 of looking for an apartment and outlining salary requirements and now, equally suddenly, to the emphatic belief it would be the wrong move for me.

I spent the last portion of my vacation on a friend’s 120-acre farm in the rolling hills of Western Maryland and this became the site for my latest professional reversal. For as much as I love nature, I am not a farm girl, but something struck me as we fed the horses at night and even more so in the morning, when I awoke to the most beautiful sunrise I can remember.

And it inspired me. If I didn’t have to drive so far back to return to reality, I could have stayed there all day and been moved to write for hours by that view. I wanted to create in the kitchen, sleep under the stars and get lost in what was around me. These things clearly are not enough to build a life off of, but I think I felt a flicker of passion and, dare I say, groove.

I’m not saying I want to pack up my things and go milk cows for the rest of my life, but I do know I want to be somewhere that makes me feel inspired … which has not been here and I am fairly certain is not the city where this new professional opportunity resides.

But hey, I’ll probably change my mind tomorrow once I remember all the convincing arguments I had for the other side. Or maybe not. There is still a big part of the story I’m not telling you … yet.

Lessons from Wonder Woman (T-Minus 233 Days)

I have a profound affinity for Wonder Woman.

I’m not entirely sure when it started, but over the years, it went from being a quirky appreciation to, when asked in a job interview the person I most admire, a deep-rooted respect. At a bit of a loss for an answer, with little hesitation I told the interviewer Wonder Woman, rationalizing it with her tagline "beautiful as Aphrodite, wise as Athena, stronger than Hercules and swifter than Mercury."

How can you possibly find fault in that? Even though I decided not to take the job, in many ways that was a profound moment as she became the strong, independent female role model I was searching for, as crazy as it may sound. Driven by the potent combination of love and strength, Wonder Woman’s powers include superhuman strength, flight, speed, stamina and agility. And not to mention, sexiness.

In addition to the respect, many tokens of the quirky appreciation remain. I have collected a WW mug, watch, bracelet and, yes, underwear and bra, in the last few years and confidently rock all of them on a regular basis. I also have a WW business card holder, which until recently had been misplaced for a few years, hidden in a seldom-used bag.

It was the re-discovery of this item that got me thinking about my idol and everything I have learned from her, the highlights of which I will now share with you … without even having to use the Lasso of Truth.

 FIVE THINGS I LEARNED FROM WONDER WOMAN (because I love lists so much)

1. Own your convictions.

There are causes I care about deeply, but sometimes it’s not enough to just care. You have to actually do something about it. Day in and day out, superheroes fight for what they believe in, rarely wavering. WW’s character was created during World War II and designed to give some female muscle in the fight against the Axis military forces and a variety of other supervillains. Though her origin and foes changed with the times and different authors, a tireless dedication to being a “distinctly feminist role model whose mission was to bring the Amazon ideals of love, peace, and sexual equality to a world torn by the hatred of men," at least according to a 2007 article by Philip Charles Crawford "The Legacy of Wonder Woman.”

2. Beauty through muscle.

In a 1943 issue of The American Scholar, William Moulton Marston, the creator of Wonder Woman, wrote: “Not even girls want to be girls so long as our feminine archetype lacks force, strength, and power. Not wanting to be girls, they don't want to be tender, submissive, peace-loving as good women are. Women's strong qualities have become despised because of their weakness. The obvious remedy is to create a feminine character with all the strength of Superman plus all the allure of a good and beautiful woman.”

To that, I say, Amen.

3. Stay level-headed.

In a crisis, it doesn’t do anyone any good to freak out. My mind constantly wanders and is completely over-active when it comes to mental “what if…” situations. While this can be annoying, the times those “if” situations happen, I know what to do because I have already thought through all possible avenues. Wonder Woman knows what to do without all the prior planning, which is easy when you have bullet-blocking bracelets and an invisible airplane to fall back on. Regardless, she is one calm woman under pressure.

4. Challenge yourself.

It’s never good to rest on your laurels. I think complacency is my biggest fear in the world and I know Wonder Woman would never let herself enter such a state. She continually evolved and, even though she was graced with the metahuman abilities of six Olympian gods and goddesses, she never stopped training and dominated in several forms of combat. In fact, at one point, Wonder Woman surrendered her powers and her alter ego Diana Prince had to start from scratch and tirelessly trained in martial arts and weapons skills and learned everything from espionage to mythology.

5. Be a vixen.

Sparks once told me the minute I sucked him in was the first time he saw me in full-on business suit with impractical high heels and a “don’t give me bullshit” expression on my face. To be honest, this is probably when I feel sexiness because I know I at least appear to be confident and in control. There is something to be said, however, for what goes on underneath the buttoned up daytime persona of Diana Prince. Panties with stars and knee-high red boots, for example.

Rediscovering My ~ing (T-Minus 240 Days)

You all saw the pile of books best described as self-help manuals after I cleaned out my bookcase last week. For the record, I kept them all.

Yep, every last one of them.

Because even though I am kind of embarrassed to admit I own so money, they all make some really valid points and I believe are worth holding on to for the occasional reminder. The latest to be added to the collection is Gabrielle Bernstein’s “Add More ~ing to Your Life: A Hip Guide to Happiness,” given to me by the recently wedded off friend on our way to Las Vegas for the bachelorette weekend.

Described on the back of the book cover, Bernstein’s work is said to have been “designed to bulldoze negative thought patterns and create personal change through positive affirmations, physical activity, and visualization meditations, Gabrielle guides the reader to happiness in 30 days through her dynamic ~ing, a proven method of sharpening one s intuitive senses and activating untapped inspirations.”

All of this may be true, but I will admit I only made it about two-thirds of the way through the book. If that. Partly because it’s really too much to absorb at once, but also because I got lost in some of the discussion of meditation and affirmations. The thought of actually completing some of her exercises made me giggle. I’m just not that in touch with my emotions.

I did, however, take a lot from the first few chapters. The ~ing directly translates to “inner guidance,” or as I imagine the mental cheerleader in the back of your mind … only instead of it being an actual cheerleader, it’s a mini Hope Solo urging you to be the best version of yourself. There are lots of great psychological applications of ~ing, but I took the most meaning from concentrating on the literal verb use.

Bernstein’s role as the ~ing girl came about after a series of guest appearances on Karen Salmansohn’s radio show “Be Happy, Dammit.” Salmansohn had a segment called “Add More ~ing to Your Life” which followed the idea of “the more experiences you have, the happier you will be.” Through this, Bernstein started out by doing a story on surfing and from there, every possible means of mov(ing) – on the water, on the ground and in the air.

This whole idea is what got me thinking and I began to brainstorm all of the things that make me happiest. And, when I imagine the woman I want to be, the things which personify her.

And they nearly all end with ~ing.

Cycling. Surfing. Climbing. Paddling. Writing. Reading. Baking. Hiking. Lifting. And obviously, the subject that started all of this ... spinning.

~ing.

Not shoes. Or money. Or flowers, diamonds and chocolate. Or even cupcakes.

~ing. The act.

Now that I realize this, it should be a no-brainer to simply start doing all of these things more. After all, I used to do many of them, but somewhere along the way, right around when I lost my groove, I picked up a healthy dose of fear. Of failing and looking like an idiot. Of letting people down. Of simply not being good at what I want to do. Of not wanting to try new things alone.

And so I sometimes still talk a big game, but I find excuses not to follow through. Or not going all the way, stopping just short of truly having to push myself.

My first college boyfriend is the one who got me into surfing and paddling and to some extent climbing. I wasn’t very good at the beginning, but I wasn’t afraid to try and I got better over the two years we dated. He was a surf instructor, wilderness guide, snowboarder, mountain biker and all-around badass, so some level of involvement in his hobbies was necessary if I ever wanted to see him when it was sunny out.

Before you start  thinking we were a match made in heaven and wondering why we broke up, he also was self-centered and arrogant and our relationship was far from perfect. I was 18-20 when we were dating for starters (he was 21-24) and towards the end he decided to enter the Peace Corps and spend two years in Africa. A pretty badass thing to do, but a relationship killer nonetheless.

Plus there were certainly other things – badasses tend to be selfish and conceited people sometimes and think their interests could come before others. I had semi-major surgery during the first year we dated and it took him two days to come visit because the waves were too good to leave behind.

Meanwhile, when he had surgery, I drove two hours from school to be there when he woke up. Again, not a perfect relationship. But I digress.

I have alluded in previous entries to battling depression and an eating disorder in the past. It was during my time with The Badass much of this went down and he shouldered the burden of a lot of tears, anxiety and emotion, a fact I remain forever grateful to him for.

I bring all this up because, despite it being one of the darkest periods of my life, I miss the person I was with him. Not him specifically, but who he gave me the opportunity to be. And I realize now, with the help of Bernstein’s book, it’s because of all the ~ing he brought into my life.

So now it’s time to start liv~ing by my one and only New Year’s Resolution and get over the fear. Continue cycling (one month of training until my second century) and find a way to start climbing, surfing, hiking and otherwise being my own badass. Because that’s the woman I want to be and the woman I think I already am somewhere inside.

From the Bookshelf (T-Minus 242 Days)

I am sitting around waiting for the plumber who was supposed to be here a half-hour ago and figured this was as good of a time as any to write an update. It has, after all, been way too long. In my defense, there has been a fair amount of stuff going on, much of which I need to wait until it settles down in order to make sense of it.

In the meantime, I have tried to conquer smaller tasks to make this potentially impending big one a little easier to deal with, starting with cleaning out my bookshelf last weekend. This may not sound like a big deal to some, especially when I gave up buying books for the year in favor of the local library, but trust me, it was an accomplishment. In my guest room, there stands a six-shelf behemoth storage system filled with books, sometimes in double rows and sometimes stacked in front or on top of existing rows.

I love books. I love reading. I love biographies, sociological studies and reading stories about people who have their lives together or who have lives messier than mine. There is a shelf of chick lit, another of romances hidden behind a row of classic literature and still more on photography, religion, sports and random subjects in between. By the end of it, I took five large fabric bags to the used bookstore and received a whopping $46 for what were probably over 100 books.

I’m trying not to dwell on that. For in the process, I realized a lot about myself. Not only do I buy way too many books, some of which I never read, but this whole quarter/third-life crisis is nothing new or original. There are points to be taken from each book, though certainly some more than others, but truthfully I am embarrassed just how extensive the self-help section is of my personal mini Barnes & Noble.

I’ve been trying to make sense of all this crap for years and, based on the number of books written about it, so has everyone else. This both comforts and frustrates me … and also makes me think I need to be cashing in on the trend.

[Plumber just got here, by the way. About an hour late.]

Some of the books are pictured. Several others, most notably a smaller stack of religious discovery texts, are not. One of the esteemed BFFs called during this book purging process and when I relayed this prevalent genre to her, she was mildly shocked. And probably rightfully so.

As cliché as it sounds, I would probably fall under the “spiritual but not religious” category (or at least that’s what my online dating profile said). I had perfect attendance in Sunday School growing up and sang in the choir, but unless I’m visiting my parents at Christmas, I am not a church-going person. I have no problem with people who are and in fact respect them to know end, I just cannot get into it.

And that bothers me. In times of uncertainty, I occasionally wish I had something larger than everything to fall back on.

So I have explored different religions and have books on Taoism, Buddhism, Judaism, overall spirituality and rediscovering Christianity. The specifics are way too deep to get into here as I would much rather admit perpetual singledom publically than religious ineptitude, but suffice to say I have been an all-around work in progress for a long time.

And perhaps I’m meant to stay that way.  

Declaration of Desired Dependence (T-Minus 257 Days)

Happy Fourth of July to my favorite five readers (i.e. all of you)!

If one were to look through my twitter feed today, you would undoubtedly see the majority of my favorite single ladies and girl power sites spewing thoughts on the importance of liberating ourselves from men and declaring today Independence Day from forming romantic attachments to any of the following: alcoholics, workaholics, sexaholics, commitment-phobics, peeping toms, megalomaniacs, emotional fuckwits, or perverts (still in Bridget Jones mode, clearly).

While I will get to that later, I think I have done a quite OK job of making my independence known for much of the last 29 years of my life. If I needed a guy to get by and settled for the first one who offered me a glimpse at a future, I don’t even want to think about where I would be right now or what I would be doing. Certainly not in my current state, which is appealing to think about on one hand, but I’m sure I would be approaching 30 with a whole other set of issues.

So, instead of further relishing in my independence, I am instead going to commit the cardinal sin of the perpetually strong and single woman and say: I would very much like to be dependent on someone, and to be depended on.

There. I said it.

Relax. I don’t mean financially. Or even emotionally. I don’t want someone to complete me because I think you need to be whole to begin with. I only use the word dependence as a play off of today; I really don’t like the definition much at all, especially when you look at the synonyms of reliance, addiction and habit. Not cool.

I think I really just want to have faith in someone other than me.

This thought occurred to me one day last week while I was out on a bike ride and a storm came rolling in. I was still about nine miles from home when a gust of wind nearly blew me over and a bolt of lightning followed entirely too close for comfort. Rolls of thunder came next and the whole combination started on a continuous loop. I started to rack my brain for who I could call if the weather continued to get worse.

I spent so long obsessing over this and telling myself just to make it to the next overpass or bridge before making a decision, I eventually made it all the way back home. What was supposed to be a leisurely ride turned into a speed workout, so at least some good came out of it.

For the record, I had decided my best bet for rescue was Mr. NDNS, which saddened me a bit.

It was at that point, I realized I would very much like to have someone in my life whose “job” it is to pick me up off the side of the road if I’m stuck in a storm or get a flat I cannot fix. Who would assume responsibility for checking out a new restaurant with me or help me eat the dozen blueberry muffins I baked this morning just to squelch a craving. I realize friends can easily fill those roles, but as I spend yet another holiday alone because those friends all have other interdependent relationships, I need another option.

I don’t want to rack my brain to come up with someone when I need help. It would simply be nice to have a go-to guy.

With that declaration of dependence out of the way, I feel the need to redeem myself to my fellow single ladies and girl power website producers. Weight Watchers tweeted this morning: “Happy Independence Day! What unhealthy habit are you declaring freedom from today?” and while I’m sure they probably meant things like beer, excessive carbs or Paula Deen-worthy amounts of butter, I took it a different way.

I probably have many unhealthy love habits, but the one which is probably the most detrimental is my proclivity for the unattainable. Geographically undesirable, selfishly unworthy, romantically unavailable, professionally unethical, aesthetically unachievable and/or unabashedly uninterested are just a few of my weaknesses. Sometimes all at once.

It doesn’t take Dr. Phil to decipher the pattern of behavior as a special line of commitment-phobia. This way, it is not my fault when a relationship doesn’t work because I ooobviously did what I could. Failure has nothing to do with the fact it was never going to happen – and shouldn’t – from the get-go. You have to admit, this mode of “loving” has its merits as a clean way to go through life – never have to really worry about falling in love, victim role is available when it suits and there’s a ready-made excuse for rejection.

When you look at it that way, why would I ever want to change this destructive behavior [sarcasm]?

Admitting to this shortcoming is not going to miraculously change everything though. It’s not enough to acknowledge the unlikelihood of a relationship with Sparks; I have to accept it. It’s really easy to get caught up in the rom-com ideas that if it’s meant to be, it will be; that love conquers all; that if you like someone enough, nothing else matters … and if you feel sparks, it’s enough to build a fire.

Conversely, it is not always as simple as he or she not being into you if the relationship doesn’t work, despite my masochistic penchant for both the book and the movie.

In reality, any single man or woman of a certain age has learned timing is 90 percent of a successful relationship. Seven-hour differences matter. Incompatible work schedules are detrimental. Diverging life goals mean something. The inability to multi-task can be a deal-breaker. Any relationship built on a “If _______, then _______” foundation is not a healthy one. Maybe if we lived closer, we would be together. Maybe not. It’s a moot point because we don’t.

It’s a sad day when you recognize practicality trumps the idealistic daydream of romance.

[BTW, if you’re still reading, thanks for sticking around. I’ll try to wrap it up.]

If I have managed to decipher my own ramblings, it can be summed up as I want to have a guy around who I have faith in, but not one who lives far away, is in a competing business (or the same one), has issues bigger than mine or is, in some way, emotionally unavailable.

Whew, no problem. No big deal.

Funk-y Admission (T-Minus 264 Days)

There is an old theatre in the city I live which plays an older movie Friday nights during the summer. Last week, two of the girls I work with and I went out to dinner and then to the gorgeously ornate and at one time thriving theatrical venue to see Bridget Jones, a classic chick flick and favorite of the last 10 years. As I dumped Raisinets in my mouth by the handful, however, I was slapped with a bit of reality I had blissfully not seen coming.

The fictional character my friends and I had once mocked and, at 20 years old, seemed like the height of desperation now hit much closer than home. This is, of course, a bit of an exaggeration but as I watched the early “All by Myself” scene, I found myself laughing at myself instead of dear Bridget.

Because it was no longer just the image of a tragic spinster. If you added some ice cream to the booze, it was practically a scene from my typical Friday night.

This realization led me to acknowledge something else I had been doing my best to ignore … I have been in what can best be described as a funk for much of the last several weeks. Though certainly perpetuated by events around me, I have decided it is still a wholly personal issue. And one I have not discovered a tried and true solution for.

To say motivation has, at times, been lacking during said funk would be probably be an understatement. I have found it incredibly difficult to make myself do a lot of things I know I should be doing – like cooking, catching up with friends and training for my upcoming bike race … or blogging about any of it for that matter.

I think it all peaked last week as I scrambled to prepare for one of my dearest friends weddings over the weekend. Just days before two of my favorite people said “I do”, I had not yet booked a hotel room, completed the gift or bought necessary undergarments to complete the dress. Apparently it was just easier to ignore and pretend it wasn’t right around the corner.

This has been my philosophy to a lot of things lately. I have ignored phone calls from old friends, not eager to discuss my latest failed attempt with Sparks, lame date I attempted to replace him with or how I just don’t have a whole lot of anything else to report. It can be exhausting to have the same conversation over and over again when I occasionally feel like some of them are asking to live vicariously and hear stories from their token single friend.

My lameness as a friend came to a head when I finally returned about five missed calls over the last month from my college roommate. While on my drive back from the aforementioned wedding, I learned my former partner in alcohol and Easy Mac-fueled escapades is now expecting her first child with her husband of two and a half years.

I knew this call was going to come sooner or later and I am thrilled about being a long-distance aunt ... again. Apparently the harshness of this last winter led to a lot of indoor activity, as three of my closest girl friends are now due in October, November and December. Coming off the wedding this weekend and walking into the latest mommyhood update is enough to make any girl – even one who breaks into hives at the thought of white dresses and children – examine her life.

And apparently admit to the funk. Now all I have to do is figure out how to get over it.

Sparks Notes (T-Minus 270 Days)

Just a quick update. A Sparks Note (heh heh) if you will.

Instead of having a crazy passionate reunion with Sparks Saturday as previously planned, I spent the night at home in my recliner with bags of ice on both knees and a wine glass in my hand while watching He’s Just Not That Into You. To put it in perspective, I was probably about half a box of wine (yes, box) away from hitting a new low.

OK, maybe not quite, despite it perhaps feeling so at the time.

Our weekend plans were foiled by extenuating circumstances on both sides – though mostly his – and I was admittedly kind of disappointed about the whole thing. Turns out it was probably for the best, timing wise, and we’ve had several good talks in the meantime. Including a couple on possible rescheduled dates.

I think I accepted someone in there this situation is what it is, even if I want it to be something more. He and I are both in weird, transient places in our lives. Neither settled in our careers or current locations – which just happen to already be seven hours away from each other. It’s pretty hard to imagine the future with so much up in the air.

Not to say I won’t keep trying.