I have given a lot of thought to my beliefs surrounding the issue of God and religion. Raised staunchly Catholic, I was given the firmest foundation of religious practice and background imaginable. I attended every Sunday mass for the first 18 years of my life. I was brought up to appeal to Jesus when life got too tough for me to handle on my own, and vividly remember doing so on my knees with my little hands forming an arrow to the sky…
”Dear God (I always sent God’s secretary my dictation for a letter to Him), I have a math test tomorrow and fractions scare me more than Ms. Gray. I was hoping I could call in a favor and you could miraculously make this kind of easy, or maybe let me sit by Erica Puccetti. Thanks, hope every thing is cool up there. Tell my dog Shooter I say hi. Love, Trisha Ann Duffy (Just so He didn’t get confused)”.
I was baptised, reconciled, communed and confirmed and still hold the highest esteem for the faith that my family and culture instilled in me. But in the midst of all this higher education and just life in general, I noticed that religion, while an excellent moral compass, was exactly that….just a convoluded way to morally guide the ancient peoples of the world before the advent of mass literacy, and codified law. All of the major faiths ask similar things of their adherents. “Thou shalt not kill, steal, covet thy neighbors wife”….It’s all pretty much the same, though some get more specific than others. So somewhere around my 18th birthday, I decided that I believed that Jesus, Moses, Mohammed, Buddha, Ghandi….all of them were pretty exemplary dudes who I should try to emulate in my daily life. Those are truths that I thought were indisputable….unless someone would care to uncover the Buddha’s secret double life as a Tibetan druglord, or Ghandi’s moonlight career as a narcissistic pimp-daddy.
These truths I held to be self-evident….but then, suddenly, nothing else was. I had to start from scratch. I know I’m no atheist. I believe in a higher power. I will always be a spiritual person….but now, after boiling my religious beliefs down to the bare bones, I was left without a spiritual foundation….Lately, I feel as if I have been groping in the darkness, trying to create my own spirituality…my own Tao.
René Descartes insisted in his “Discourse on Method” that math is the path to understanding certainty. He believed that certainty was the closest thing to perfection, and God was the only perfect being. Hence to him, math was the closest way to understanding God. So I suppose through the eyes of Descartes, people like Francis Bacon and I were ungifted beings that were not deemed worthy of the capacity to find God through math. ‘Sokay René, I wouldn’t want heaven to just be the one and only conclusion I drew at the end. While I’ll give him points for originality, I ain’t converting any time soon.
In fact, I think my God is perfect in HER imperfection. She isn’t just one conclusion—She is every possible conclusion you could come to. She is the pot of gold at the end of every rainbow, the lake at the top of the mountain, the diploma at the end of 4 years of hard work. She is the beautiful, conclusive epilogue at the end of a turbulent romantic epic. Dessert after dinner. Cigarette after passionate love-making. Applause that follows a grand finale. Paycheck on a Friday afternoon. Guinness on a Friday night.
She embodies my every victory….When Failure makes me her bitch and knocks me to my knees, I look up to the heavens, as most people do, searching for God….If I look hard enough, maybe now I’ll see Her….Most times, I imagine that she looks just like me….but with the eyes of my Uncle Eddie, or my Grandpa Don, or my Grandma Marge….because I see my successes best through the eyes of those who love me most…my own eyes reflect things back like fun-house mirrors---all distorted like.
That’s all I got for now…more on this later…
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Overdue Apologies and Relationship Fat
Ever notice how exes seem to come out of the woodwork of your past from time to time? Usually it happens as casually as a next door neighbor popping their head out of their front door to give a little wave in your direction. I've found that this kind of check-in comes in text form and sounds a little something like this "Hey! How are you? I was just thinking you should come over because...(insert inane excuse to see you here)" But these little hello's often follow a dry-spell or a break-up....as if they want to feel out their options...The communication is rarely genuine, and if recieved well, ends in a booty call.
I thought I experienced this cliche myself last week, though the motivation for renewed contact surprised me in the end. It was a regular ol' Tuesday afternoon and I was minding my own business eating a chicken sammie for lunch. Suddenly, my phone buzzed. I looked down and couldn't believe my eyes. There on the screen was a number I hadn't seen for some time. I guess I could call him one of my exes. We dated for a second in the summer, and I should honor this guy by crediting him with the best first date I ever had.
He came to SF from Santa Barbara to take me out. We started out at my favorite Italian restaurant in North Beach and then walked across town to the Wharf. When we got there, we stumbled upon the Cannery....the outdoor bar was projecting the film "The Graduate" and we sat together, holding hands and sipping beers for a while. This was followed by a slow stroll to get dessert at Ghiradelli Square. We snuck through the electronic-key glass doors and onnto the patios of the expensive penthouses located upstairs, following behind some of the residents. This was probably the best view of the wharf that I've ever seen. We sat on luxurious patio furniture and shared a sundae while wood burning fire pits blazed away. We watched the city move beneath us and the water undulate on the horizon. Everything, the date included, moved with a fluid, natural rhythm. Later, we went and got a couple 40's and drank them out of brown bags on the mini beach at the end of the Wharf. I loved the lack of pretension. Nothing was overtly planned....we just walked and did what we wanted, and it just so happened that we always wanted to do the same thing. The night ended with dancing at a rooftop blues club. It was the closest thing to perfect that I've ever known.
Long story short, it turned out that the perfect night left little room for improvement. It was as if the best of our relationship was wrapped up in that one night...and once it was over, it was doomed to failure. Like all great things, it had to end.
But like most people, I was reluctant to let it go. Something that seemed so right for one night had to be worth holding on to. So I stayed, unofficially of course, flitting in and out of his life...Somewhere in October though, he wound up with a 19 year old girl that he met on an inebriated night in IV. I was there, hanging out with mutual friends at his house. She called him Jason all night long (a far cry from his actual name), they slept together, and have been together ever since. I guess I felt betrayed. I had worked on this connection for weeks, and hadn't slept with him...I didn't quite trust him, and rightfully so I suppose. But nevertheless I certainly invested time in this "thing", whatever it was...and in waltzed (or more appropriately, staggered) this young, naive girl who swooped up any attention I once had. I was gracious, and we stayed friends.
But there came a time, somewhere around January, that I realized that my friendship didn't mean much to him. After a brief confrontation, I discontinued all contact. Asked him not to call, and huffily hung up. I erased him from my life, deleting him from all portals of communication.
Now, here we are....last tuesday in May.
"Hey! How have you been? I haven't talked to you in forever! You should come by and see the puppies. Bring Charlie(my old dog)!"
I vagueley recognized the area code, but warily asked "New phone, who is this?"
"XXXXX!"
"Ooo...." My mind raced...what did he want to see me for? It had been 4 months of silence.
Apparently he had three puppies now, at his house. I had heard about one. One puppy wasn't enough to erase all the bad stuff...But three certainly were.
However hesitantly, I agreed to meet him that night at his house. Fortunately, one of my best friends is dating his roommate, so I quickly coordinated her presence so that I had a buffer there. She made me instantly more comfortable, especially since XXXXX's girlfriend was there on the couch when I arrived. XXXXX and I exchanged awkward pleasantries. He smiled and moved sheepishly as if somewhat cogizant of the wall I built to block him out.
I left his house that night feeling slightly better about the way things ended with him.
The next morning I got a text from the long forgotten phone number: "Thanks for stopping by :) I'm really sory about how I handled things between us. I feel really bad and there's no reason why we shouldn't be friends"
It was the first unprompted apology I ever recieved after a messy end to a relationship. A wave of relief washed over me. I even felt myself exhale deeply, as if I had stored up a ball of toxic energy that I buried somewhere in my stomach since that day and finally was able to release it. To be honest, I told myself and others that aside from the fabulous first date, I put little importance on my relationship with XXXXX.
Isn't it funny how the termination of a seemingly unimportant relationship can still make us immensely uneasy? A simple and genuine apology forced me to confront feelings that I had denied and surpressed for months of silence and indignance.
But not all of us are so lucky....there are many wrongs that will never be rectified. There are many wounds that won't ever heal neatly with the band-aid of an apology. Instead, they will form into jagged scars that present themselves and shock new significant others in future relationships--ugly and painful to look at.
For those less fortunate than me, who don't forsee such a healing interaction on the horizon, please take comfort in the inevitable:
His new-relationship fat ;-)
I thought I experienced this cliche myself last week, though the motivation for renewed contact surprised me in the end. It was a regular ol' Tuesday afternoon and I was minding my own business eating a chicken sammie for lunch. Suddenly, my phone buzzed. I looked down and couldn't believe my eyes. There on the screen was a number I hadn't seen for some time. I guess I could call him one of my exes. We dated for a second in the summer, and I should honor this guy by crediting him with the best first date I ever had.
He came to SF from Santa Barbara to take me out. We started out at my favorite Italian restaurant in North Beach and then walked across town to the Wharf. When we got there, we stumbled upon the Cannery....the outdoor bar was projecting the film "The Graduate" and we sat together, holding hands and sipping beers for a while. This was followed by a slow stroll to get dessert at Ghiradelli Square. We snuck through the electronic-key glass doors and onnto the patios of the expensive penthouses located upstairs, following behind some of the residents. This was probably the best view of the wharf that I've ever seen. We sat on luxurious patio furniture and shared a sundae while wood burning fire pits blazed away. We watched the city move beneath us and the water undulate on the horizon. Everything, the date included, moved with a fluid, natural rhythm. Later, we went and got a couple 40's and drank them out of brown bags on the mini beach at the end of the Wharf. I loved the lack of pretension. Nothing was overtly planned....we just walked and did what we wanted, and it just so happened that we always wanted to do the same thing. The night ended with dancing at a rooftop blues club. It was the closest thing to perfect that I've ever known.
Long story short, it turned out that the perfect night left little room for improvement. It was as if the best of our relationship was wrapped up in that one night...and once it was over, it was doomed to failure. Like all great things, it had to end.
But like most people, I was reluctant to let it go. Something that seemed so right for one night had to be worth holding on to. So I stayed, unofficially of course, flitting in and out of his life...Somewhere in October though, he wound up with a 19 year old girl that he met on an inebriated night in IV. I was there, hanging out with mutual friends at his house. She called him Jason all night long (a far cry from his actual name), they slept together, and have been together ever since. I guess I felt betrayed. I had worked on this connection for weeks, and hadn't slept with him...I didn't quite trust him, and rightfully so I suppose. But nevertheless I certainly invested time in this "thing", whatever it was...and in waltzed (or more appropriately, staggered) this young, naive girl who swooped up any attention I once had. I was gracious, and we stayed friends.
But there came a time, somewhere around January, that I realized that my friendship didn't mean much to him. After a brief confrontation, I discontinued all contact. Asked him not to call, and huffily hung up. I erased him from my life, deleting him from all portals of communication.
Now, here we are....last tuesday in May.
"Hey! How have you been? I haven't talked to you in forever! You should come by and see the puppies. Bring Charlie(my old dog)!"
I vagueley recognized the area code, but warily asked "New phone, who is this?"
"XXXXX!"
"Ooo...." My mind raced...what did he want to see me for? It had been 4 months of silence.
Apparently he had three puppies now, at his house. I had heard about one. One puppy wasn't enough to erase all the bad stuff...But three certainly were.
However hesitantly, I agreed to meet him that night at his house. Fortunately, one of my best friends is dating his roommate, so I quickly coordinated her presence so that I had a buffer there. She made me instantly more comfortable, especially since XXXXX's girlfriend was there on the couch when I arrived. XXXXX and I exchanged awkward pleasantries. He smiled and moved sheepishly as if somewhat cogizant of the wall I built to block him out.
I left his house that night feeling slightly better about the way things ended with him.
The next morning I got a text from the long forgotten phone number: "Thanks for stopping by :) I'm really sory about how I handled things between us. I feel really bad and there's no reason why we shouldn't be friends"
It was the first unprompted apology I ever recieved after a messy end to a relationship. A wave of relief washed over me. I even felt myself exhale deeply, as if I had stored up a ball of toxic energy that I buried somewhere in my stomach since that day and finally was able to release it. To be honest, I told myself and others that aside from the fabulous first date, I put little importance on my relationship with XXXXX.
Isn't it funny how the termination of a seemingly unimportant relationship can still make us immensely uneasy? A simple and genuine apology forced me to confront feelings that I had denied and surpressed for months of silence and indignance.
But not all of us are so lucky....there are many wrongs that will never be rectified. There are many wounds that won't ever heal neatly with the band-aid of an apology. Instead, they will form into jagged scars that present themselves and shock new significant others in future relationships--ugly and painful to look at.
For those less fortunate than me, who don't forsee such a healing interaction on the horizon, please take comfort in the inevitable:
His new-relationship fat ;-)
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
The Digital Naked Man
The Era of the Digital Naked Man
The advent of the cell phone markedly and drastically changed the dating world that we live in. Some of us remember when boyfriends had to call the house landline and invariably come into contact with your parents. However symbolic it may have been, there was always a gatekeeper at the threshold of possible romance, whether it be your parents, older brother, or roommate. Then once you were on the phone, conversations had to be moderately censored in anticipation of someone either accidentally or purposefully intercepting your call.
Enter the cell phone.
Suddenly text messages replaced phone calls. You could be asked out, complimented, degraded or dumped by a faceless, glowing, 1” x 1” screen. You could terminate a relationship with a couple of thumb clicks and a “sry” regardless of its longevity. In this way, I propose that the cell phone bred an infectious cowardice that henceforth plagued the dating world.
Some would disagree with me, I know, since the argument has been made that text messages are the 21st century’s equivalent of the love letter. I vehemently disagree with such a theory. The character constraints of text messages force a crudity of language so that “You are so beautiful” quickly morphs into “U R Hot” and their instantaneous delivery allows for fleeting and unstable feelings. In the years preceding the text message, love letters were a very serious business. One had to organize the letter’s transport, and wait patiently. Sometimes it took weeks of waiting before a reply was received. So, I certainly condemn those who claim that text messaging is the newest form of love letters. A drunken “Hey SXC, sup?” should never be compared to Lord Nelson’s correspondence with Emma Hamilton in the 1800’s, nor could it hold a candle to the letter writing of my parents in the 1970’s.
In spite of this blaring cowardice and transience of sentiment, there seems to be an exception to the rule—Cell phones have created a frankness of sexuality that has hitherto been relatively suppressed. Booty calls are commonplace. Making and receiving them is pretty standard. Sexting is considered a viable and encouraged form of foreplay. But perhaps the bravest side effect of mobile technology is the newest craze (or epidemic): The Digital Naked Man.
I bring this up because I have recently been bombarded with stories from my girlfriends regarding their experiences of the Digital Naked Man, and have come face to….well, sure, let’s say face—with him myself.
Situation 1: A friend of mine recently told me that as she was waitressing, the Riverside baseball team came in for the All-You-Can-Eat Pizza Night. As she served them pizzas, one player in particular seemed to take interest in her. She gave him her number, under the impression that the team just wanted an in on the party scene in IV. She invited them to a party at her house and wound up kissing the bold 1st baseman. After he left though, he sent her a text that makes the word “bold” wildly understated. After the typical “U R Hot”, came a full frontal picture that he took of himself in a mirror, fully erect at the thought of her.
Situation 2: I have another girlfriend who had maintained a mentor-like, but faceless relationship with a friend of a friend on facebook. Both of them were photographers and became acquainted via FB due to a mutual friend and admiration of each other’s work. One thing led to another and they decided to meet in Monterey (the central point between their two locations). A night of passion followed, and she left feeling satisfied with the meeting. After two weeks of silence on his end, however, she was stunned to receive a text request for sexual photos of her.
Situation 3: I recently received a photo of a male friend of mine that he took of himself. While it wasn’t necessarily explicit in content (it ranged from the neck down to the hips) it certainly was suggestive. I have definitely flirted with him in the past, but this was the first sext-photo that I ever received.
These women (and others that I have talked to) have all agreed that receiving such pictures puts them in an awkward social position. The brazen and unbridled sexuality demands a response. But what response could they give?
The Digital Naked Man is a clever ploy, really. To some, it demonstrates an open discourse of sexuality. To others, it resembles the time-old “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours” clause, except there is no question preceding the showing of “mine”. It’s an assumed reciprocal situation! More often than not, the hesitant recipient of the Digital Naked Man manages to evade the desired response, and replies instead with a “wow, have you been working out?” clearly ignoring the hard-on that is staring them right in the face. You see, the common difference that I have noticed is this—Female recipients of the Digital Naked Man remain pretty aloof to his photographic advances. Speaking strictly for myself, a picture of him wanking it in front of a spotty bathroom mirror just doesn’t get me hot. And I don’t feel flattered that it is me that he’s allegedly thinking about in the process.
But in the end, the Digital Naked Man always adds a little intrigue to my day, so I guess if I’m not getting an elegantly constructed love letter, I don’t mind getting a little jolt of red-cheeked surprise from a sext-picture.
The advent of the cell phone markedly and drastically changed the dating world that we live in. Some of us remember when boyfriends had to call the house landline and invariably come into contact with your parents. However symbolic it may have been, there was always a gatekeeper at the threshold of possible romance, whether it be your parents, older brother, or roommate. Then once you were on the phone, conversations had to be moderately censored in anticipation of someone either accidentally or purposefully intercepting your call.
Enter the cell phone.
Suddenly text messages replaced phone calls. You could be asked out, complimented, degraded or dumped by a faceless, glowing, 1” x 1” screen. You could terminate a relationship with a couple of thumb clicks and a “sry” regardless of its longevity. In this way, I propose that the cell phone bred an infectious cowardice that henceforth plagued the dating world.
Some would disagree with me, I know, since the argument has been made that text messages are the 21st century’s equivalent of the love letter. I vehemently disagree with such a theory. The character constraints of text messages force a crudity of language so that “You are so beautiful” quickly morphs into “U R Hot” and their instantaneous delivery allows for fleeting and unstable feelings. In the years preceding the text message, love letters were a very serious business. One had to organize the letter’s transport, and wait patiently. Sometimes it took weeks of waiting before a reply was received. So, I certainly condemn those who claim that text messaging is the newest form of love letters. A drunken “Hey SXC, sup?” should never be compared to Lord Nelson’s correspondence with Emma Hamilton in the 1800’s, nor could it hold a candle to the letter writing of my parents in the 1970’s.
In spite of this blaring cowardice and transience of sentiment, there seems to be an exception to the rule—Cell phones have created a frankness of sexuality that has hitherto been relatively suppressed. Booty calls are commonplace. Making and receiving them is pretty standard. Sexting is considered a viable and encouraged form of foreplay. But perhaps the bravest side effect of mobile technology is the newest craze (or epidemic): The Digital Naked Man.
I bring this up because I have recently been bombarded with stories from my girlfriends regarding their experiences of the Digital Naked Man, and have come face to….well, sure, let’s say face—with him myself.
Situation 1: A friend of mine recently told me that as she was waitressing, the Riverside baseball team came in for the All-You-Can-Eat Pizza Night. As she served them pizzas, one player in particular seemed to take interest in her. She gave him her number, under the impression that the team just wanted an in on the party scene in IV. She invited them to a party at her house and wound up kissing the bold 1st baseman. After he left though, he sent her a text that makes the word “bold” wildly understated. After the typical “U R Hot”, came a full frontal picture that he took of himself in a mirror, fully erect at the thought of her.
Situation 2: I have another girlfriend who had maintained a mentor-like, but faceless relationship with a friend of a friend on facebook. Both of them were photographers and became acquainted via FB due to a mutual friend and admiration of each other’s work. One thing led to another and they decided to meet in Monterey (the central point between their two locations). A night of passion followed, and she left feeling satisfied with the meeting. After two weeks of silence on his end, however, she was stunned to receive a text request for sexual photos of her.
Situation 3: I recently received a photo of a male friend of mine that he took of himself. While it wasn’t necessarily explicit in content (it ranged from the neck down to the hips) it certainly was suggestive. I have definitely flirted with him in the past, but this was the first sext-photo that I ever received.
These women (and others that I have talked to) have all agreed that receiving such pictures puts them in an awkward social position. The brazen and unbridled sexuality demands a response. But what response could they give?
The Digital Naked Man is a clever ploy, really. To some, it demonstrates an open discourse of sexuality. To others, it resembles the time-old “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours” clause, except there is no question preceding the showing of “mine”. It’s an assumed reciprocal situation! More often than not, the hesitant recipient of the Digital Naked Man manages to evade the desired response, and replies instead with a “wow, have you been working out?” clearly ignoring the hard-on that is staring them right in the face. You see, the common difference that I have noticed is this—Female recipients of the Digital Naked Man remain pretty aloof to his photographic advances. Speaking strictly for myself, a picture of him wanking it in front of a spotty bathroom mirror just doesn’t get me hot. And I don’t feel flattered that it is me that he’s allegedly thinking about in the process.
But in the end, the Digital Naked Man always adds a little intrigue to my day, so I guess if I’m not getting an elegantly constructed love letter, I don’t mind getting a little jolt of red-cheeked surprise from a sext-picture.
Monday, May 3, 2010
An A-Bomb of Clarity.
Pardon the violent connotation associated with the title of this post, but I did it for a reason.
You see, today I went through a series of ups and downs. I started my day with a bitter and determined resolve to get all the shit that left me Sleepless-in-a-Santa-Barbara-loft-bed out of my system and into the blogosphere. I meant every word of what I said in my last post, and felt a tiny morsel of relief after submitting it.
This morning:
I meandered aimlessly around my messy room--a cluttered reminder of the tornado of a weekend that I survived. Then I wandered into my car and found myself at Borders picking up a copy of a biography on Marilyn Monroe. My little sister has only recently revealed her to be "numero uno" and I truly agree. Plus, if there's any way to feel infinitely better about my current situation, reading about the life and secrets of a misunderstood, bipolar, sexually abused and tragically beautiful Hollywood starlet definitely takes the cake.
I did my little emo thang and listed to Rihanna's Rated R album on my way to work at the Meat Market.
Let me tell you, there's something truly mentally liberating in the action of slicing tri tip. I get my deepest thoughts and best ideas at the slicer, which kind of scares me 'cause shit, what am I going to do when I don't have one of those monotonous tools to aid my day dreaming? Maybe I'll buy one for my house on eBay.
At the slicer and between hot pastrami sandwiches, I found myself reflecting on something that I shall credit to my friend/coworker Sarah's father. He said
Then Fernando, a guy who has blessed me consistently with his crude and yet indispensible wisdom said
I didn't walk away from this with any communicable diseases...In fact, I walked away calmly and gracefully in a pair of strappy five inch Guess heels. In spite of all my internal wretching, I smiled assuredly and wished him the best.
This meat-market-moment of simplicity mushroom-clouded into the realization that even though my friends and I got played like Hendrix's guitar (pre-breaking) in our most recent romantic (or not-so-romantic) affairs, we came out of them with our pride. And with the full knowledge that we won't allow any such things to happen again.
For now, cynicism can be my saving grace but quiet acceptance of the past will let me move on, no regrets.
'Cause who wants those?
You see, today I went through a series of ups and downs. I started my day with a bitter and determined resolve to get all the shit that left me Sleepless-in-a-Santa-Barbara-loft-bed out of my system and into the blogosphere. I meant every word of what I said in my last post, and felt a tiny morsel of relief after submitting it.
This morning:
I meandered aimlessly around my messy room--a cluttered reminder of the tornado of a weekend that I survived. Then I wandered into my car and found myself at Borders picking up a copy of a biography on Marilyn Monroe. My little sister has only recently revealed her to be "numero uno" and I truly agree. Plus, if there's any way to feel infinitely better about my current situation, reading about the life and secrets of a misunderstood, bipolar, sexually abused and tragically beautiful Hollywood starlet definitely takes the cake.
I did my little emo thang and listed to Rihanna's Rated R album on my way to work at the Meat Market.
(No seriously, I work at a catering company called Country Catering and Meat Market....this is not a euphemism for a prostitution ring....sorry to disappoint).
Let me tell you, there's something truly mentally liberating in the action of slicing tri tip. I get my deepest thoughts and best ideas at the slicer, which kind of scares me 'cause shit, what am I going to do when I don't have one of those monotonous tools to aid my day dreaming? Maybe I'll buy one for my house on eBay.
At the slicer and between hot pastrami sandwiches, I found myself reflecting on something that I shall credit to my friend/coworker Sarah's father. He said
"I think that heaven and hell all come down to the last five minutes of your life. If in your last few moments, you look back on your life and are satisfied and happy with it--that's heaven. If you look back with regrets and unhappiness, that's hell"
or something to that effect. Remembering this fun-sized bit of wisdom was the catalyst of the A-Bomb of clarity that was about to hit...It set the stage for a change of heart. I started thinking about all of the good things that I have going in my own life: great friends, a wonderful family, good health, intelligence, no addiction problems, and an-almost-BA-in-a-totally-useless-field....and I started thinking, "eh, to hell with all those guys, I'm set!"Then Fernando, a guy who has blessed me consistently with his crude and yet indispensible wisdom said
"Seriously, stop frowning....unless you got the clap, there's no reason for you to be mad"
That was when the bomb was dropped. He's right!I didn't walk away from this with any communicable diseases...In fact, I walked away calmly and gracefully in a pair of strappy five inch Guess heels. In spite of all my internal wretching, I smiled assuredly and wished him the best.
This meat-market-moment of simplicity mushroom-clouded into the realization that even though my friends and I got played like Hendrix's guitar (pre-breaking) in our most recent romantic (or not-so-romantic) affairs, we came out of them with our pride. And with the full knowledge that we won't allow any such things to happen again.
For now, cynicism can be my saving grace but quiet acceptance of the past will let me move on, no regrets.
'Cause who wants those?
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