3...2...1...Action! (T-Minus 402 Days)

There have been a handful of moments in my life the last few years where I have honestly expected to turn around and see a camera crew. Those "WTF? Are you freakin' kidding me? You cannot be serious" moments that would only really be believable in a soap opera or Hallmark Channel movie we all know I have a not-so-guilty penchant for.


Back on a match.com kick in an effort to make it through the never-ending Midwestern winter by finding someone to share my flannel sheets with, I recently had yet another one of those moments. As my fellow online daters know, you can see when someone looks at your profile, so I knew this guy and I had been checking each other out a lot but not doing anything about it. After an adult-style Sunday Funday in Chicago last weekend, I decided to send a "wink."


This elicited an email from said gentleman, which turned into a string of communication that was nothing short of the best email courting I have experienced to date. And then the requisite "what do you do" discussion began. Upon revealing to him how I spend my days, he asked me "so does that mean you know _______."


Also known as Mr. NDNS. Neither defined, nor satisfying. 


I honestly think I heard a director yell "Cut!" somewhere in my psyche. Right before the little gnomes at Disney World starting singing "It's a Small World" and I thought to myself "WTF? Are you freakin' kidding me? You cannot be serious." Turns out the guys used to work together and still have the same circle of friends, though are not themselves BFF. 


Regardless, I have already met many of this guy's friends and, as it turns out, have been to a few of the same parties and apparently never met. 


I'm still not totally sure how I feel about the situation or what the best way to handle it is, but I know I have electronically hit it off with this guy and I am thoroughly looking forward to the first real date ... tonight. Stay tuned for updates, or you can just wait until the movie about my life comes out.


Hmm, now who do I think should play me?!

In Control. (T-Minus 412 Days)

Life seems to be at a bit of an impasse these days. Back in December, I wrote my letter to Santa and outlined the three areas of my life I wanted him to help me figure out – personal, professional and geographical – and have since been trying to gauge which of said area(s) need to be tweaked in order to make the other(s) fall in line.

I began by delving into the dating world, convinced that finding love in [insert Midwestern city] might be the easiest way to happiness. Or at least it would be easier than finding another job after 10 years in my current occupation or picking up and moving to my fourth state in seven years. Alas, we all know that has been less than successful (I realize a few months of brutal online dating and a couple of botched fixups hardly means I am destined to be an old maid, but it has hardly been fulfilling).

Instead, all I have really done in this time is re-discover my kitchen (and how much I hate my old oven/stove) and spent days baking, cooking and having friends over for dinner. While that made my happier than anything has in awhile, it was not the magical fix I am [naively] looking and hoping for.

That fix is going to require putting myself out there and, quite frankly, now is not the best time to do that. Yes, I would like to have the DTR (define the relationship) with NDNS (neither defined nor satisfying), but something always seems to come up/I chicken out. And yes, I would love to look for another job, but the best time to do that isn’t until late spring/early summer and I still haven’t the faintest idea what it should be in. And yes, of course, I would love to pick up my life and move out west, but that’s not entirely practical without either of the other two things as support.

Now I realize this does not sound like the attitude of someone who promised to live boldly in the New Year, but so much of life is about timing and right now, may simply not be the right one.

With that thought weighing on me (TBA pun intended), it should come as little surprise to anyone who really knows me that I had to quickly find something I could control.

And so, about a week and a half ago, I joined Weight Watchers. I have a handful of friends who have had varying degrees of success with making their lives revolve around meetings, points and weekly weigh-ins and I decided to give it a try. Though considered healthy by both society and myself, I still have about 18 pounds between me and my “ideal” weight, whatever that really means.

Contrary to how that may sound, it has been a long time since I have truly cared about that three-digit number. As a former and wannabe future athlete, I have generally been more concerned with my body in terms of functionality and practicality. To a point that is still true; however, as I try to re-achieve athlete status, I am realizing it might be easier to do with a little lighter body. Springier. More compact.

And so, I have become that woman who pre-plans meals and reduces everything consumed to a single digit (or double if splurging). I allot weekly bonus points and collect activity points from early-morning and late-night workouts. I actually question the worth of downing a glass of wine.

After a week and half, I have lost about two pounds, which is certainly exciting and enough to convince me to keep going for at least a week and a half more. Unlike life and love, this is something I have close to total control over.

There have been two other times in my life, both in the last 11 years or so, I have felt the need to be this in command of something, and neither instance had positive consequences. The second time was about six and a half years ago, right after I graduated college, and is not something I am ready to turn into words on a screen.  

The first, though, began four years earlier after what can only begin to be called a tumultuous year. As a senior in high school, four of my friends passed away – all separate from each other and all in ways that are heartbreaking to conceive of even all these years later. At the same time, I was battling injuries that were about to mark the end of my limited athletic career (at the time, it seemed like another death) and, not surprisingly, I had a hard time dealing with everything.

No one would have known that then as I continued to pour myself into school, extracurricular activities and putting one foot in front of the other. On the inside, however, I was desperate for something to control and that would eventually become my food consumption (or lack thereof). I will spare everyone the entire story, but essentially over the next couple years I battled anorexia, a host of self esteem and body issues and, thanks to the current events around the DC area circa 2000-01, anxiety that would turn into depression when combined with the other factors.

Though few knew what was going on, including my own family, it was not a happy time. But, like everything else, it made me a much stronger person.

I hadn’t thought about that time of my life until recently when I went to dinner with a colleague I had met just twice previously in professional settings. She was in town for a couple days so, trying to be polite, I offered a night out to keep her from being stuck in the hotel. This turned into a five-hour marathon meal during which I had the privilege of getting to know one of the most fascinating women I have ever come in contact with. She told me stories of growing up in a large, impoverished immigrant family and the journey through years of angst, anxiety and turmoil to where she is now.

I felt silly countering with tales of my own semi-privileged upbringing, but felt solace in revealing my own sagas of depression, eating disorders and, at times, nearly crippling apprehension. On a lighter note, I also offered up stories of this 500-day countdown and what I hope to accomplish by the end of it.

Towards end of the night, this woman looked at me and said she could tell I was a survivor and that I was strong. The thoughtfulness behind the words would not hit me until later, but it meant the world to me to hear. True heartbreak and loss can manifest themselves in different ways in different people and I have oft struggled with the way I ended up handling it.

So yes, for the third time in my life, I feel as if I have lost control of it enough to need to single-mindedly command a single part, but for the first time, I am choosing to do so in a positive manner. Regardless of how much weight I may or may not lose over the next couple months, I will not lose myself in the process. This time, it’s all part of my ultimate goal of gaining so much more … including my groove.

Botched Cookies (T-Minus 427 Days)

I may have made more headway in finding my groove in the last few hours than in the last 70-plus days, not that that really says much. I’ll be the first to admit I’ve spent the last two and a half months talking about the same notion of wanting to make change but never actually doing it.

I don’t really know what to say in response, but at least you know I know. And that tonight I tried.

No, I didn’t find a new job, plan an amazing trip or finally profess months of pent-up feelings.

Baby steps.

Tonight, I cooked a meal. And baked some cookies … most of which I ended up ruining.

For those of you that know me, you know how much I loved to have people over and entertain. Or how I could daydream about menus and spend all day creating cookie or cupcake recipes. There were very few things in my life I enjoyed more than being barefoot (or in my Uggs) in the kitchen, jamming out whatever musical genre tickled my fancy for the day.

These simple pleasures are the first things to go when I get busy at work and, for the life of me, I couldn’t remember the last home-cooked meal I had made myself. I ate cereal for dinner, frozen meals, popcorn, soup if I was feeling daring and, of course, I spent a fair amount of money eating out and occasionally collecting dinners from failed match.com suitors.

Starting the second week of November – right around the time I truly lost any and all groove – and lasting for about five months, my life is at its craziest. I spend a lot of time on the road, work crazy hours and generally don’t know which way is up. Among many other things, I have a hard time rationalizing regular trips to the grocery store when I’m not home long enough to use everything.

And so, I just don’t cook.

In fact, the last time I tried to make dinner for friends, I ended up ordering pizza and making brownies from a box because I was stuck at work far later than planned, but couldn’t bring myself to cancel as I hadn’t seen everyone in forever.  In that case, the company made the night, but also it illustrated part of what was missing in my life.

Until tonight.

I started out slow – just some baked chicken and sautéed vegetables, but it was so satisfying to stand around working out exactly how I wanted to season everything and, yes, jamming out – to Rihanna mostly. I made sure to cut up some extra veggies for an omelet in the morning and I cooked some chicken on the stove to pull apart and use in corn chowder Sunday. [Mental note to find the recipe I came up with a few years ago for that.]

Baked chicken consumed, I then apparently got ahead of myself and decided to bake some cookies. I have made these brownie cookies with white chocolate chips and craisins a bajillion times; I used to be able to make them with my eyes closed. Tonight, however, they ended up in the trash.

I honestly don’t remember the last time I botched a baked good bad enough I couldn’t get at least something useable out of it. In this particular instance, it might be the best thing that could have happened though because I am stubborn enough to know I will have to try the cookies again soon with the hopes of a better result.

Yes, I have to work most of the day tomorrow, after an early spin class and some yoga, but I think I am confident in the fact I will find the time to be barefoot in the kitchen for the second day in a row. And hopefully many days after that, within reason.

And that makes me feel happier than I have been in quite awhile.  

Morning Glory (T-Minus 434 Days)

Several weeks ago I went and saw the movie “Morning Glory,” with a couple of the women I work with. We all share a small chick crush on Rachel McAdams and thought that the movie had potential to be entertaining. It, of course, did not disappoint, as I am pretty sure Diane Keaton just gets better with age.

An unexpected bonus, however, was that of Patrick Wilson’s character, Adam Bennett. Other than simply being sexy as hell and rocking the semi-tortured reporter persona I have been known to fall for, there was a single moment in the movie that made me say “I want that.”

Early in their relationship, McAdams’ character, Becky, was on a neurotic, stress-filled rampage and she was treating him like crap, so instead of the typical rom-com sweetness, he just got up and left. He called her on her shit, told her to hers together and he left. And, at that instant, I thought it was the romantic thing in the world.

Granted, it was right around the time Rock Doc crossed the line from cute to creepy, but that movie moment went a long way to making me realize some very basic characteristics I want, and perhaps need, in a mate. Adam pushed Becky – her buttons, her patience and her potential – because he respected the woman she was and the woman he knew she could be. He made her work for it though.

And I think the collective stubbornness and neurosis between the two of them made them better together. It’s obviously not a perfect relationship; I am realistic enough to know those don’t exist, but I think two people that keep each other on their respective toes can go a long way.

What do I know though? I think everyone reading this know I have some issues, even before finding out my idea of a great relationship involves the man getting up and leaving.

So I decided to pose the question to my friends, asking them what movie or television character would be their ideal mate and why. Some of their answers follow:

• Marshall Eriksen - How I Met Your Mother

He values relationship with Lilly, has a steady job, isn’t afraid to act like an ass, values family and friends … plus Jason Segel is sexy as hell.

• Longfellow Deeds – Mr. Deeds

He's just a sweetheart that gives a shitload less about $$ and wants to have a relationship like his parents … and once again - Adam Sandler is sexy as hell

• Albert Brennaman – Hitch

    1. He's shy/nerdy in a way that makes it endearing and despite having funny ways to tell you how he cares, it’s very sweet.

    2. He loves sports.

    3. He obviously isn't afraid to fight for you.

• Adam Braverman – Parenthood or Rob Petrie – Dick Van Dyke Show.

Both caring husbands, good dads. 

• Shawn Spencer  – Psych

• Burton Guster – Psych

• Detective Sergeant Hathaway – Inspector Lewis

Because they are funny, funny, funny and … witty.

This is certainly a work in progress as I wait to hear back from friends who don’t spend their days linked to email, twitter and/or instant messenger. The common threads of loyalty and adoration should hopefully not come as a surprise to anyone though, as I would hope those are a pretty common foundation for successful relationships.

While I wait for more responses, I’m going to keep looking for a guy that isn’t afraid to call bullshit, or to be on the receiving end of the same declaration.  

Fearless (T-Minus 442 Days)

** Please follow me on Twitter, if you’re of the inclination to tweet - @500daystil30 **

If you have realized one thing by now, it may be I like lists. Pre-30 bucket lists, Christmas appreciation lists, To-Do lists for life; I’ve done them all. Even when there is a distinct lack of forward progress, it at least makes me feel like I am organized and at least making an effort. So it should probably come as no surprise then that I also adore making lists of New Year’s Resolutions.

I try to keep it to a manageable number – fewer than five – and I try my darndest to avoid the cliché lose 20 pounds; though let’s face it, that’s always a goal. Now, as I look back on the promises I made to myself for 2010, I realize I actually did reasonably well at attaining all – or most – of my goals. I competed. I became a frequent visitor to the library. And I cleaned out (some of) the clutter from my life.

Those are all things I certainly hope to continue, but at the risk of being completely overwhelmed by lists, I have opted to make just one Resolution for 2011. There are several levels to it, but it all boils down to one idea (shamelessly stolen from page 24 of the January 2011 edition of Self magazine). 

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.

If I close my eyes and imagine the person I want to be, I see someone strong and independent that exudes style, grace and respect. I see an athlete. A lover. A better sister and friend. I see myself as a traveler, a wanderer and a beacon of hope.

I want to see true, unbridled happiness.

Who knows if that’s realistic, but I think it’s certainly something we all should strive for. I do not want to end this next year saying I wish I had done something different from what I did. I want to take advantage of every single opportunity, whether it is personal, professional, romantic, spiritual or physical, and I think if I can do that, then I can’t help but find my groove along the way.

Sixth Sense (T-Minus 446 Days)

** Please follow me on Twitter, if you’re of the inclination to tweet - @500daystil30 **

The idea of urinating canines didn’t seem very festive, so I decided to hold off on writing about them until I knew everyone would be in a post-holiday funk, sad to be back at work and looking for some sort of distraction. Even if it’s only by me. And even if it created this mental image.

I think we are all painfully aware of the innate sixth sense men have. I know you know the one. It’s the thing that gives a man the ability to at one moment be blissfully ignorant of reciprocating emotion, interpreting silence or simply recognizing interest … and at the next to be so keyed in to our psyche that he knows the very second we find happiness elsewhere. Or at least are prepared to find happiness.

He then feels the need to mark his territory. For all intents and purposes, to pee on our leg.

I wish I could take credit for this analogy, but it was relayed to me by a friend via one of her friends upon their discussion of my latest plight. How I was attempting to fully immerse myself in the dating world; how I had found a prospect (or two) … and how no sooner did I say it aloud that “neither defined nor satisfying” came around to make dinner plans.

I might as well be a fire hydrant. Or a bush in the neighbor’s yard.

Either way, I leave myself wide open as territory to be marked, and you know what … I don’t mind. I act annoyed and frustrated, but let’s face it, you can never truly be upset with an adorably cute dog. And I say this as someone who has come to be a pet lover late in life.

In fact, I would probably be more upset if he didn’t come sniffing around.

Whether women admit it or not, we love this phenomenon. We moan and complain about how we wish they would just leave us alone, but everyone loves to feel wanted and appreciated, even if it’s not necessarily the person we want making us feel that way. And even more so if it is the one person, but he just hasn’t realized it yet and this is the one indication it might at least be on his mind.

I experienced a second dose of this late last week when I got an email from the former Mr. Big, the first attempt at communication in close to probably four months and only the second since about three months before that (not that I’m keeping track). I can unequivocally say I do not want him in my life, but I still got a sick sense of self satisfaction he still thinks of me at the holidays.

You’re probably lying to yourself if you don’t admit to at least partly feeling the same way.

The problem comes in how you choose to handle it; how I have chosen to handle it. Just as dogs need to be trained, men cannot (or at least should not) be allowed to continually piss on whoever’s leg they please without some repercussions, unless you are truly OK with just shaking it off, washing your pants and moving on.

How’s that for an extended metaphor?

Lost and Found/10 Things (T-Minus 453 Days)

Ever since writing my letter to Santa and admitting that I have no idea where I lost my groove, I started to think maybe I should figure that part out before I worry so much about finding it. I have to confess though, the more I psycho-analyze myself, the more I find I really don’t like.

Almost two years ago, prior to the 27^th birthday, I made a list of 10 things I wanted to do before I turned 30 (there’s that number again). I remember being inspired by yet another Lifetime movie; one cleverly titled “7 Things to do Before I’m 30” and decided to three-up it in creating my list.

At that point, I came up with two handfuls of things that I thought would make me a more complete person.

And so, I got a tattoo, my No. 1 (a ladybug) and made out with a stranger (it wasn’t on purpose, I did not realize until after that I never knew his name), thus fulfilling No. 3. I also willed my prematurely arthritic knees to start running and cycling again and followed through on No. 6 and the promise to compete in something. My first cycling century filled a void and left me wanting to do more. My first triathlon, as well as the 2011 Warrior Dash is on tap for this summer.

Then came No. 7 – I started to volunteer.

Little by little, I checked things off.

As time went on though, I realized there is one thing on the list I am fairly certain I will never check off, and that it may be better in the long run. And yet another that I find myself having to do again and again …

No. 4: Let it go.

In other words, stop recycling relationships. Stop holding on to the past and start recognizing that exes are exes for a reason and cut them out of my life. I used to pride myself on my “inordinate capacity for forgiveness,” a trait I gave myself to rationalize my tendency to keep schmucks in my life based on the five seconds they once showed that they were worthy.

Most single women our age have that one guy that they have held on to the idea of what might have been. I, however, had a list.

I thought I could accomplish this purging process with a bottle of wine, some tissues and a ceremonial dumping of cell phone numbers. About a year and a half ago, I even went so far as to change mine and give the new one out on a case-by-case basis. (Basically, if I had ever made out with you, then you were left out of the phone.)

Instead, I felt the need to talk it out with each of them. Discuss what was right and what was wrong and mutually make a decision about the future that did not include booty calls, sneaking around or guilty consciences.

So, after seven years, I officially ended the relationship with the former college boyfriend turned man affectionately known as “Mr. Big,” despite the fact that we kept coming back to each other time after time and I couldn’t imagine my life without him. And the minor detail he is half the reason I moved to Ohio. That inability to let go had to mean something, so I held on.

Just like part of me held on to the minor league baseball player that I befriended when I was 19 and used to have long talks with while he was on the road because, clearly, his desire to open up to me meant that there was something there. Even eight years later.

And the hot doctor who doubled as my guilty pleasure.

Until now.

I surreptitiously said farewell to all the men that represented the best sex, cutest story and the strongest hug after finally remembering the selfishness, cheating hearts and lack of chemistry that caused me to say goodbye to them in the first place. Suddenly the days of obsessing over late nights, long chats and butterfly kisses were gone.

And I was cleansed. Almost.

For there was one other man that I thought I needed to cut out of my life for good, even though he had already taken himself out of it months earlier. He represented one of the only post-college, adult life relationships that actually meant something. He was the only one that I had truly fallen head over heels for and, subsequently, the only one to truly break my heart.

And only now, do I realize he also took the biggest chunk of my groove to date.

It should be a no-brainer. I should not have any desire to talk to the man that I never should have entered in to a unethical “relationship” with, only to do so and then have him decide after a few months to get back together with his ex-girlfriend and go to the Bahamas for a week with her – without telling me and leaving me to find out from a cohort.

What could there possibly be left to hold onto?

Yet, after nearly a year of not speaking, but continually and inwardly obsessing, I found myself wanting to tell him about the journey of self discovery that I was on, and to ask his opinion on everything from what I was writing to what he thought of my tattoo. I knew, out of everyone in my life, he would appreciate this story the most.

Because long before the reasonable facsimile of a relationship ended, I fell for him for his ability to see straight through me. To get me. To push me to want to be a better person.

Two years ago, I started to think why I would ever want to let that go.

For it is very easy to get caught up in the circumstances around why someone leaves your life, but in some instances, it is more important to recognize the reasons for which he or she came into it. Everyone does for a reason and sometimes it’s not the reason you want to believe.

I spent so long wondering how something that started out so passionately could end so abruptly and so pointlessly.  I now know he and I were never supposed to be together. He came into my life to change my reality, make me question my choices and to ultimately make me a stronger person.

While that remains to be true, yet another two years later, he is happily (I assume) married to the woman that he ended our relationship for. A woman I think I would be BFF with (at least according to some drunk Facebook and wedding registry stalking), which does not make any of it easier.

Nor does the startling realization that four years after the fact, I have yet to fill the void he left or found what he made me recognize I was missing. Alas, I am now attempting to do just that and, as I continue to go through my checklist and my search with the very goal of ultimately becoming the stronger person I know he saw in me, I realize he continues to serve his purpose.

So, in addition to telling him goodbye, I would like to mentally tell him thank you. Thank you for breaking my heart in a way that woke me up and for helping me learn I have the strength to put it back together all these years later so that it is more whole than I ever could have imagined.

And even more importantly … open.