What would I say, if I could, to my younger self?  You know, if we went for drinks at a Mexican joint, and I began a sentence with, "Okay, there’s something you should know…" what would follow?  It’s easy to tent a blanket of "Don’t take life so seriously" on it, but that’s like telling someone to "just relax."  The words are there, we hear them, but they don’t make us feel any differently.  It’s too easy.  It’s lazy advice.  Here’s what’s harder to say:

Keep a diary.  And when you write in it, try not to dot your i’s with hearts or fat little circles.  Try to write about something other than the opposite sex or the fights you have with friends.  I wish I knew, when I was younger, to write about the good in my friendships and family, to document the loving moments.  Write about your relationship with your cousins, with your grandfather, with your parents.  I need to take this advise now, too.

Nobody cares if you bite your nails.  No guy is going to notice what shoes you’re wearing, and if he does, he’s the wrong guy. 

You actually look beautiful, and can leave the house, without makeup.

Learn how to keep track of your spending and realize no amount of shopping will give you real self-esteem.  Even the have-to-have handbag or shoes.  But, it’s okay to like nice things.  Don’t be too hard on yourself for buying into consumerism.  There are worse things.

Be kinder.  Try to treat people as if it’s your last interaction, but at the same time, care less, a lot less, about what other people think.  Read that again.  Stop caring what other people think.  How?  Understand that this is your life, not theirs, and you’ll have no one to blame but yourself if things don’t work out the way you’d hoped.  At a certain point, you have to stop pointing fingers behind you toward your childhood. You cannot be walking around worried about what people will think of you.  At the end of the day, all that really matters is what YOU think of you.  Even if people say great things.  Horrible things.  Their opinion shouldn’t matter more than your own. 

Don’t worry about appearing braggy or narcissistic.  It’s called having self-esteem, valuing yourself enough to think people might care about what you have to say.  Don’t be ashamed about anything because all our embarrassments are part of the human condition. 

Don’t play music on your outgoing answering machine message.  I know you think it sounds good and everyone else does it.  Don’t do that.

Rich relationships are a product of who you are, not where you are.  You’ll make friendships anywhere you go, so stop worrying about the right places, schools, cities, apartment complexes, neighborhoods. 

Whatever decision you’re worried about, right now, whether you should do this or that, however important it feels to you, just stop.  Look Up. Remember, when you’re feeling like shit, to just step away from it, for fifteen minutes and just try, TRY, to enjoy the view.  Yeah, the stars shine bright deep in the heart of Texas, but I’ve preached this before.  Now that I’m in, what I consider to be, the ‘burbs, I never think, "I wish I were living in the city."  But when I lived in Manhattan, I always wished for stars, stairs, and a view.  So look up wherever you are and realize a world goes on outside your dramas. Really, all of it will pass, will be worked out.

Don’t be afraid of making mistakes.  I’m not saying to discount the consequences of your actions, but try to worry less about choosing wrong.  We weigh ourselves down in it.  Second-guessing ourselves.  Don’t be afraid of making mistakes because, really, you learn so much when you risk.  So really, it’s never a mistake.  Unless it involves wearing the color orange or anything to do with a hat.  These are usually mistakes best to avoid. 

Ditch negative people.  Don’t keep them around because you feel guilty.  Hold onto your strong female friends, even if you’ve had a pissy fight.  They’re really important.

I wouldn’t tell my younger self to listen more, or to be compassionate as well as passionate.  I think I knew those things then.  Yeah, yeah, live in the moment, in the now.  I already knew that.  Heard and knew the words.  That’s not something I needed to hear, and it’s still not.  I would have liked to have known that the truly big moments aren’t as important as the smaller quiet ones.  The sidelines matter more.  When traveling, I’m never impressed by the main attraction; I remember, more, the smaller moments, the little girl, when I was in Madrid, dressed in "her Sundays."  She saw me watching her walk by as I sat on a bench.  She kept turning to look at me.  I remember those moments most.  "Keep paying attention to the smaller things," I would say.  "That’s where the good stuff is."

Don’t be so damn hard on yourself.  Yeah, you screwed up.  You’re not perfect, fine.  Learn from it.  But don’t punish yourself.  Be kind to you, even when you screw up.  You’ll bounce back eventually.  You’ll make up for it. 

You are not fat.  You are within a healthy weight range.  As long as your doctor isn’t talking to you about health risks, you are not fat.  Even if your fat pants no longer fit.  Try, as hard as it is, to realize how good you look now.  Here’s what I’ve learned.  When I’m a size four, I’m usually miserable and anxious.  Then, at a size ten, I’m happy in my life (miserable that I cannot fit into my wardrobe, but actually happy in my life), but as happy as I am, I long to be the miserable size four again.  It’s lame-ass behavior.  Stop worrying about it.  Your weight issues aren’t going away, so just deal and learn to love yourself at whateverthehell size you are.  Just deal. 

The man should love the woman just a smidge more.  Many wise woman I know have told me this (after the fact).  I wish someone had said it to me once upon a time.  I would have listened.  Life is too short to learn everything the hard way.  At some point, it helps to listen.  Yes, you have to experience some things for yourself, but the things I’m saying here, and especially if I had a "back to the future moment," and it was coming from ME, I absolutely would have listened and reacted… at least while it was top of mind.  I hope to look back on this one day and just add to it.  I hope to keep this list top of mind, too.  Especially the bit about writing about the good.  As for the man loving the woman more bit, I’ve been in relationships where I just *knew* I loved him more… and in relationships where I totally just *knew* he loved me a little more… I still loved him completely, but knew, I guess, that he adored me and would never do anything to screw things up.

Don’t cling to what you know.  Holy shit.  This would have saved me some therapy.  Push your boundaries, explore; don’t rely on the familiar.  Move.  Make new friends.  Go out alone, and don’t be afraid of what others think about it.  No one else is just like you, and you, just as you are, are important.  I wish I knew and believed that then.  Much more important that sunblock.  Okay, just as important, anyway.

Compliment people.  When people receive a compliment studies have shown that their blood pressure is actually lowered.  People are immediately set at ease. 

Accept compliments graciously.  Don’t pull the old, "oh stop," or "ew, no I don’t."  Don’t roll your eyes.  Take it in, and really accept it.  Shake your head and respond with a heartfelt, "thank you."

Get a pet.  You live longer and happier when you can care for it properly.  When you’re older, you tend to live longer if you have a pet.  It’s an activity; something is relying on you.  You matter, even when the kids are too busy.  They also lower your blood pressure.

When you feel blue, have a "self-esteem" music mix at the ready to lift your mood.  Then force yourself to take a walk, wear the anxiety tired. 

Eat three meals a day.  Try not to snack.  I don’t care what you’ve heard about grazing and blood sugar.  You know you and the way you can’t stop once you start.  Stick to three hots.

Realize your life is not like the movies.  It’s not supposed to be a Mark Ruffalo film.

Pointing out how the fake MIT Sunscreen speech of Vonnegut did it better?  Better re-read the title and figure out the author is doing more than "internalizing things;" she’s tipping her proverbial hat. Not a case of sloppy seconds, thank you very much.  Again, try not to expect the worst from people.

(Finding the Extraordinary on an ordinary rainy day)

I sometimes think there are hidden secrets in our lives. Not things that we don’t want to tell people, or things about which we’re embarrassed, but the kind of secrets the universe knows but we don’t. There are actual things, objects, gifts that we meant to give, that we even wrapped, where we even wrote that last minute card at the checkout counter for a birthday party that we ended up saying we were too sick to attend–but really at the last minute we just felt too fat, or too hot, or too tired, or too full to go. Now the present is sitting there, that book that’s still wrapped, at the bottom of our closet, and it’s kind of waiting for us to discover it again. Maybe it was meant to be in our lives, and maybe we’ll unwrap it and read a passage in that book, and it will change our lives.

I love the idea that it doesn’t just happen with things but also with people in our lives. Maybe there’s an old receipt in our closet, and we find it, and Oh, my God, you know what? I’m going to return that thing, that shirt that I bought that I never wore. Because the store says you can return whenever, and they have a really easy return policy, so you return it and meet your best friend.

It’s comforting, inspiring really, to know so many possibilities are hidden in our lives. Whether it’s some business card at the bottom of an old handbag, or the label on a sweater that belonged to your grandmother—one you decide to research, to see if the company is still around, and then you find something else, something new, something you never would have discovered a passion for if you hadn’t taken the moment to look. And it was just sitting there, ignored, right there within reach, as you droned on wondering what you’re doing with your life.

I just love the idea that there are “secrets” in our lives that prompt us to live our days differently. We can all look around, wherever we are, and find something, an actual object, that can change the course of our lives. Looking up at your closet full of perfume, you might realize you don’t actually wear any of them anymore, so you decide you’ll get a new fragrance.  After a day of spraying, waving, fanning, and sniffing coffee beans, you decide there are no fragrances out there that really suit you, so you begin to research fragrance, thinking maybe I’ll design a fragrance. And one day you’ll be telling this Once Upon A Time story to a reporter, many years later, who wants to know how you got your start. What was the motivation, the driving force behind your empire? They’ll want to know. And your answer will be: curiosity. Simply looking up and noticing. I believe that’s the key to an active life and mind: remaining curious. Life is never dull when you encourage yourself to learn.

Our lives are rich with possibilities, yet we have crowded to-do lists and TV shows to watch, calls to make, emails to send, dry-cleaning to drop off, diets to start, that we rarely notice the small gifts, the tiny secrets, there just waiting to change our lives.  Instead, we barrel through our habits and rituals, our routines and our way of doing things, without even questioning Why am I living this way anymore?

They’re such gifts, doors really, and yet we ignore them. Assume we’re just wasting time, creating busy work. It’s why I call them “secrets,” because all these detours are secret entrance-ways to a different life. Our lives can go in such different directions if we choose to pursue any of them or choose to open our eyes and realize I don’t have to live the life that I’m living right now. I can actually choose a new one.

I can stop everything (gradually, of course) but I can! I can decide tomorrow that I’m going to research film classes, review their reading lists and go ahead and read all the should books and see all the should films, then write my own film in my research. Who knows, and that can be my thing and the people I meet along the way can be the ones with whom I’ll grow old—my mentors, my dinner companions, the people with whom I’ll vacation, my first thought when I receive an extra ticket… the friends with whom I’ll visit the museum, the ones who’ll notice the little girl with her arms outstretched, flying over lily pads and believing anything is possible.

A YEAR AGO: Nuclear Results and False Negatives

5 YEARS AGO: Sample Sale

“I‘m afraid that if I start dreaming, I’ll lose my way.” I wrote it in my journal just the other day and immediately saw the irony. When we stop following our dreams, isn’t that when we’ve lost our way and not the other way around?

“If I start dreaming, I’m afraid I’ll move away from what I’m meant to be doing, get distracted, and do something I’m just mediocre at, that won’t make me special. I’m afraid I’d start painting and drawing, and what would I do with that? I’m not an illustrator. I didn’t go to art school.” That’s the voice of my inner defeatist asshole. She dresses governess-chic and always looks as if she’s just come from the salon. Only her lipstick shade is always a little off, too coral, the poor thing.

Maybe it’s also the voice of my parents—the people who love me dearly, but who also live in a practical world of meals on tables and money to pay for heat, water, and premium cable channels. I was always told to follow my dreams, but then it was quickly chased with a, “You know, you’d make a great lawyer.”

Had I said, “When I grow up, I want to be an artist,” I’m sure it would’ve sent my father to the bowl with “The ‘rhea.”

“That’s fine,” he’d say two hours and one box of Tuck’s medicated pads later. “Do all that art stuff, you know, as a hobby, on the side. But in the meanwhile, take the job with the health insurance and 401k.” So I did both. I took the job in advertising that allowed me to be creative with a month of paid vacation, and two free pairs of eyeglasses a year, dental and medical. And I followed my passions on the side, taking night classes in figure drawing, in watercolors, in photography, and in writing. I did this for eight years, and then I left advertising to begin a new full-time job as a writer (who’d work from home, cafe’s, and a lot of bars).

It’s no “secret” that I strongly believe that when we follow our passions, doors open for us, to show us that we’re moving in the right direction. As long as we make ourselves open to possibilities and have the guts to risk, it can all come true. I’ve known and said this for a long time now. And yet. There I have it, in my journal: an expressed fear of following my dreams. Well WTF is that about?

“I’m afraid that if I start dreaming, I’ll lose my way.” I realize this is actually horseshit, given that you can have lots of ways. I wonder why, from such a young age, we’re asked what we want to be when we grow up, and our answer, while it changes from day to day, mood to mood, year to year, usually contains an OR instead of an AND. “A princess,” or an “actress,” or an airline “stewardess,” anything ending in “ess.” Then we grow up and realize it’s actually “flight attendant”– how disappointing — choose one thing, dedicate our lives to becoming more skilled, in teaching others what we’ve supposedly mastered. Though none of us really feels as if we’ve mastered anything. Mostly we wonder when we’ll be found out, when the world will realize that we don’t deserve the awards, the promotions, the accolades because there are so many people out there with so much more talent, just not as much tenacity. And yet, so often we believe that one role we chose is what makes us us. People get laid off, and find themselves saying, “But this is who I am.” It’s what we know, but it’s such a small part of who we are.

Dreaming feels indulgent, like making five different desserts for Thanksgiving (and eating them all, naturally). There’s a fear in dreaming, that the reality of it will never be as satisfying as we’d hoped. It’s what I call “The Pillow Fight Factor.” People have pillow fights in movies, running through hallways of a house barefoot on wooden floors, jumping on beds, feathers slipping out, seesawing their way through the air. Then giggles, hiding behind a chair, threats of “I’m going to get you.”  No one is ever allergic, and no one has to clean up the mess. Then you try it in your own life, only to realize PILLOW FIGHTS FUCKING HURT. They are not fun at all. Especially those Goose Down numbers that might as well be a sock, stuffed with flour, and knotted at the top, a weapon. The fantasy of it was so much more exciting than the reality of it, so what if that happens with my life? With this job, with this relationship, with this sexual fantasy I want to try out, with this huge decision I’m making? What if I risk only to later feel regret?

The eye-rolling kicks into high gear, followed by a yawn. Please don’t tell me “Then you learn” or “Then you can always change your mind.” That’s not enough. Here’s what is: Then at least you’ll know. In old age, at the very end, wouldn’t you rather say, “At least I tried. I didn’t waste my life too scared to live it.” It really does come down to a book of quotes about failure and success. And as cliche as they might be, they encourage me to at least try.

Why would I be afraid to dream? Because what if what I dreamed for now “derailed me?” What if it took me so far off course that I’d live to regret it with a “what the hell was I thinking?” years from now? I think I read somewhere that it took courage to dream, and I remember rolling my eyes. It doesn’t take courage to dream. It takes courage to follow them.

2 YEARS AGO: Delusional, Much?
3 YEARS AGO: This Waltz
5 YEARS AGO: Why I Never Went to Law School

Whether we insist on sleeping without socks, or if we’re the type who unconsciously squints when we really like something, we want so much to be adored for our sidelines. For the little things most people miss, the smaller streets. For our bitten nails or the fact that we’ve got the "royalty toe" (when the second piggy is longer than the one who goes to market). There’s someone out there who wants to take us to new countries and cities and neighborhoods, restaurants, parks, or to hear a new songwriter at that new bar with the new wine list, just to witness the way we experience new. That’s their adventure: learning us, seeing through our eyes, loving the way we see the world. And we’re not even their kid, but we’re loved as though we’re family. And one day we might be even if we never officially are.

She’s the kind of girl who thinks she’s good at cards, and she’ll do a little dance when she wins. You’d tell her you only let her win so you could watch her, but she really did beat you. Truth is, you’d love her either way because really, you love the way she reacts to things. You love the way she cries at commercials and looks in her glasses, no makeup. And she thinks she looks ugly, but it’s when you love her most…in her socks, comfortable at home, at her desk chair, caught picking her nose, but only a little. You love her like Sunday with eggs and the smell of bacon and fizzled onions. In her undershirt, her laugh, the way when she reads something she likes, she has to read it to you aloud. "Are you listening? You’re not fucking listening. Pay attention. There will be a test." You like her threats and her smile, but you think she’s prettier when she doesn’t. When she thinks no one’s watching her. You like her off.

You can’t stand how long it takes her to get ready or how many times she asks you to get her water, or please do this for me, but you compromise because she rolls down the windows and makes you forget about the traffic. She’ll paint her nails in the car and whine when she’s cranky and when she can’t sleep. You like that you know she’ll sip at her tea in a way you can hear, and that she chews on her shirt collar when she’s nervous. That she prefers mittens to gloves and wishes she had a fireplace only for the smell. You love the curve of her face and the cup of her smile, the way she breathes in the dark, and how she loves you. You’ll spend the rest of your life letting her know you’re the lucky one, that you adore her, even with the extra twelve pounds, and you’ll whisper it every night, even when she can’t hear you.

You love how she gets excited when they’ve got her Ben & Jerry’s flavor in stock. She’ll spin around in front of the glass door and say, “Hells yeah.” And she’ll look up for a moment to make sure you see her, the way she does at the movies when something good happens. She always wants to share with you–you know, except when it comes to her fries. Her fries are hers, and your fries are hers. Money too, but mostly the fries.

You love the way you know her, that you know how to make her feel at home no matter where she is. Sometimes it’s as easy as the Disney channel and the original Parent Trap. Other times it’s ordering in and a bedtime story she forces you to make up, and if it sounds vaguely like any movie she knows, she’ll call you out on that shit and make you start over. With something new. Because as long as you both find and make new, you can stay with everything that’s old and broken-in.

Upon viewing some of my past skinny pictures, someone recently commented, "Seeing how amazing you look at 118 pounds, what keeps you from going on an extreme diet to recapture that?" I have an answer.

Ignoring the wrongs of "extreme dieting" outright, I will say that the times in my life where I’ve been my thinnest, looking my best, I was, in fact, at my worst. I smiled pretty for the camera, but inside I weighed more than I ever had; I was heavy with anxiety, self-doubt, and felt the pangs of rejection. I was miserable, but damn did I look good. And you know what? I don’t want that back, not even for a second.

Aside from hate-dieting my way to thin, there were times when I thought thin was the answer. We all have been victims of the "someday" mentality, believing that someday when (X) happens, all our "Y" eldest dreams will come true. But it doesn’t work that way, and I can honestly say, I’m happy with where I am right now. Could I stand to lose 15 lbs., absolutely. But I’m at a normal weight, and I feel extraordinary. Do I like having a double chin? No. But do I want to work my ass off, keeping a food journal, and watching those around me feast while I abstain? No.

I have no desire to sustain the unsustainable weights of my past, a life lived in single servings of fat-free yogurt with grilled chicken dinners without carbs or dessert. A weight attainable only if I ate at home where I knew the exact measure of olive oil, the precise cut of the butter, or the seconds with the non-stick spray to the pan. I don’t want a life of occasional indulgences. I want it to be filled with everything I love as often as possible without sacrificing my health. I want every last thing I can get away with. Life is too short to deny myself shortening, and I believe, above all else, life should be lived with gusto. Not excess, but gusto.

At my thinnest moments, I didn’t even feel like a person. It felt like a lie. It’s not that I aligned myself with a fat girl identity and believed the thin me wasn’t real. I wasn’t sabotaging myself because thin didn’t feel familiar. I felt empty, soulless, ghost-walking through my life. I wasn’t nurturing my spirit or my body. I was anxiety in a size 4. It didn’t feel real because I wasn’t eating or living real. I was exercising too often, and eating too little. What I did eat wasn’t real; it was processed, unwholesome. Chemicals. Substitutes. Never mind healthy, it was all empty.

Whereas the calories that people have come to consider "empty calories," sustenance from your mother’s chocolate chip cookies, for example, were a comforting, calming, indulgence. This might just draw one to argue, "Aha! You use food as comfort, and that’s your problem!" I can only respond, it’s not my problem. I have no qualms about food anymore. I don’t feel guilt or fear or panic when it comes to fueling my body. Sometimes I eat too much, sometimes not enough. But at least I feel whole.

In the photos where I’m thin, I smiled. In my behavior, I was more forward, less inhibited, eager to meet up with people from my past. But in the quiet moments, alone in bed, I didn’t like myself. I wasn’t really a person, just a thin container. I loved fitting into fashion-forward clothing, that men seemed to be uncritically fond of me, but really a part of me was missing. The heart of me.

So now I eat the heart out of everything, and I’m happy.

I didn’t so much mind the velvet ropes, just the bouncers and the authority games.  Being on the list.  Even being at a place with a list.  It was annoying and not at all who I was.  And even at the time, I knew someone who put us on the list, got friends in and left.  Usually, I just went along for the ride.  I liked the cab time with the girls.  The way Alexandra had to listen to 80s music and Dulce needed to begin her lipgloss ritual, making circles with her finger over the pod, but only on red lights, for fear that the cab might suddenly jerk, causing her finger to dent her perfect pod procedure.  I liked watching my friends.

What I didn’t like was wiggling.  It’s what I hated most about dating. I layered on dates, piled them up like luncheon meat.  A quick face to face over coffee, then home to change for drinks with someone else.  And even if drinks were going well, I’d keep the next date, usually dinner–which meant it wasn’t a first date.  And if that date sucked early enough, as soon as I was home, I’d IM or email a guy and have him meet me in "How fast can you get to the upper west?"  I didn’t care so much that I’d forgotten which stories I’d already told, and I became a bit of an expert at fibbing. 

A suitor, not The Suitor, would ask me for plans on Thursday night, but I already had plans with another man.  "Sorry, my sister is in town that night, but I’d still really love to see you.  Does Sunday work?"  I’d be very specific with the lie if I really liked him.  Because I knew. 

I knew all too well what the vague "I’m busy that night" meant.  Or equally as disappointing, "I have plans" or "I’m not free, but how about…"  It never meant a poker game or a family dinner, or else he’d say as much.  It rarely even meant plans with a friend.  And if it did, and the intention was to hit some party, if he really liked me, he’d say, "I want you to come with us."  Or he’d at least reveal, "I have dinner plans with a friend, and then we’re supposed to go to some party, but I really want to spend time with you.  So can you come to the party at least, and then we will also be able to spend all of Saturday night together, too?"   I liked the guys who wore it on their sleeves. 

I was completely spun up in it all, and half-detectived my way through each communication. I was irritated by it, of course, because I was playing the same game.  I knew what vague meant because when I was vague it meant someone else, someone with whom I wasn’t ready to let go.  However, I have girlfriends who’d never think this way, who are always vague about telling men their availability, and not as a manipulation or plot.  They simply don’t care to bog him down.  They keep the mystery without ever seeing it as a strategy.  I was all about strategy and could over think myself into a pirouette.  Some of these same friends didn’t much care if the guy she liked was dating other women.  "So am I, so it’s fair."  I can’t stand level-headed people.  "You can’t win the game if you don’t play."  Who says shit like that aloud?  Seriously.  "Well, if he really likes you, all those other women will eventually be weeded out.  So until that happens, just enjoy it."  I hate you.

No, no, no.  I didn’t care how special the relationship, how extraordinary our circumstances and our magical "I feel like I’ve known you forever" cliche crap; if he wasn’t all in after those first few dates then forget it.  I couldn’t be bothered with a wiggler.  It wasn’t just that I didn’t have patience and wanted everything to happen fast (which I did).  I didn’t want to be with anyone who’d choose me second, even for a second.  Who wants prudent when it comes to the heart?  I wanted a man who’d cancel on someone else to be with me. Someone rude, I suppose, as long as it wasn’t to me. 

But a real man wouldn’t need to be rude, only honest.  A real man could say what’s hard to say.  Could phone that girl and say, "I know we had plans for Friday night, but I need to cancel because, well, to be truthful, I am developing strong feelings for someone else.  And I need to see where they go."  Then he can reassure her, use the whole, "it’s not you at all" thing.  A man who does this knows he’s burning a bridge, is going with his gut and following every impulse except for the frightened practical one urging him to hedge.  To keep one around in case it doesn’t work out with the other.  Well, padding sucks.  I spent my life padding and hedging.  Battened in safe ego-friendly layers.  Eventually we all should grow up.  We don’t all do it, but we should.

There are two camps, really, when it comes down to it.  There are those who wouldn’t ever dream of online dating, fearful of the stigma, that it makes them look desperate.  It makes them feel like a loser.  That, or they’re waiting for "destiny."  For a grocery store incident.  I’m not talking about these people.  The camps: those who after a terrific date sign on to their dating site to both read email and also to see if the other person has logged on (and are relieved if they haven’t–and if they have… their shoulders drop and they question all their choices and in a way want to figure out a way to punish the other person).  And then there are those who genuinely couldn’t give a shit.  Wouldn’t even think to adjust their privacy settings to prevent others from seeing when they’ve logged on.  They don’t care, and wouldn’t bother to even look to see if the other person is signing on, etc.  I am the type to play at the first camp, Camp Psycho.  And I don’t think, even with all the confidence and perspective in the world, you stop being that type.  Because at the end of the day, that kind of person doesn’t ever want to feel like someone got something past them.  They don’t want to be outplayed, caught off guard.  They don’t want to feel dumb.  Rejection is one thing, but when it blindsides you, you begin to worry that it’s your problem or your fault for not picking up on it sooner.  And your subconscious takes the reins and vows to never let you look like such an ass again.  A psycho, yes–but not an ass.  But really, you don’t even care how you look.  You just don’t want to be betrayed, to believe in something, alone.  Because you feel like a fool.

And when we get there, to that unhealthy place of suspicion, when we’re that insecure, there’s a bigger problem going on.  Not just self-esteem and wall-talk.  And forget the whole, "well, if you behave that way, it usually happens because you drive them to it" crap.  Self-fulfilling prophecies, blah.  What sucks about it is the energy you waste, the life you waste on it.  And for what?  To be right.  Great.  Must feel great to know you were right in suspecting he was on the prowl.  Because even when your detective work is right, your life still feels wrong, and you still feel like a fool, even if you aren’t. 

I didn’t like what was quiet and unsaid because I didn’t like believing in something enough for two people.  I wanted the truth, straight up, to know where we stood, especially if he was still figuring that out himself.  We’d have an intoxicating evening, making plans already to see each other again.  We liked the same things, charmed each other, and the chemistry was intense.  We layered over each other’s sentences, so eager to share and add on things; "Remind me to tell you later about the time I==" happened all the time.  We said everything.  And then there was a good night, an end to the evening, back to our own apartments because of dogs or schedules.  And then the unsaid would come out.  I’d see that he signed onto the dating site, even though I hadn’t.  And it undid things.  Wasn’t I enough?  "But it’s just habit," I knew he’d say.  And it didn’t matter who the "he" was.  It was always the same.  "It’s window shopping, just something I do."  And then it undid more.

I did find that when I myself was man enough to deliver the truth, aloud, without sugar, guys actually did respect it, the "I’m not going to bullshit you" angle.  The truth.  All of it.  They liked not having to play detective, and even said, "If it doesn’t work out with him, I want to be your first call."  Which felt amazing and really showed me the kind of people they were.  Not angry or spiteful.  Gracious.  And it made me like them more.  If a guy I’d been crazy about did this to me, though, I’d completely respect him and definitely like him all the more for it.  But.  But I’d never let him back in because once upon our dating life ago he chose her instead of me.  And I’m not big enough to ever move past that kind of rejection.  Even if it was their mistake.  Even knowing how it looks from the other side, how much more I liked the guy when he handled it all so well.  I would handle it well, but I’d never open that door again.  I had, and still have, plenty of growing to do, but at least I know who I am.

Before I cowboyed up and became completely honest, I figured my fib would soften the blow of rejection.  No matter how specific, in the end, people can always see through it. If they want to. I’d always assume the worst simply because I myself was the worst.  I was bending the truth, was juggling and wiggling with the best of them, so I assumed everyone else was, too.  Nothing is fair in love.

I was mildly irritated with the  guy who of that Friday night party with his friend I presumed thought, "No point in bringing sand to the beach.  So I’ll see her Saturday and see who else I might meet on Friday at the party."  It wasn’t as if it was illegal to date.  I was, after all, doing the same thing.  But who cares what I’m doing?  He should just want me, to live and die for me.  I wanted this only with the ones I actually liked.  And no, the argument does not go, "Well, maybe you wanted them because they didn’t drop everything to be with you."  No.  That argument is trash talk.  It is absolutely wrong.  If he wasn’t taken and smitten up front, then he didn’t count as far as I was concerned. 

And then it got trickier.  If I got a call mid-party on Friday night, with the whole, "I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and why should we wait until tomorrow night?" thing, I could think one of two things.  1) He clearly likes me and is already smitten and eager, desperate to see me, and I love it!  2) He clearly likes me.  Um, or he just wants a woman to put her hand on his penis.  But let’s assume the hand to penis thing exists in all men, at all times.  Then my thinking would go to this place: the party sucked.  I mean, clearly he’d been drinking and all the "so we’ll talk tomorrow" promises said earlier in the sober night no longer counted.  The drunken words mattered more. Immediate gratification mattered more than the polite emails of plans and reservations.  When I say "the party sucked," I mean the girls were dogs, or too religious for his liking.  Because if the women were just completely insane or had horrible reputations or drug problems, the guy wouldn’t give a shit and wouldn’t be calling me at 12:20 am. Depending on how eager and persistent he was in making plans with me, I could feel out the rest. But that after midnight calling, or far lazier TEXTING (which is the most unmanly thing a guy can do), shit would need to stop if we were going to go anywhere.    

While I was fine to date as I pleased, to layer on the men and moments, if I suspected he was choosing to honor plans with another woman, I lost interest.  I didn’t want to be bothered with the possibility of rejection.  Then I’d spend the day squirming, wondering if I killed something before even letting it begin.  That’s how much I hated rejection.  It wasn’t about putting up some barrier, preventing someone from getting too close.  That’s shit you hear on crap television. "I want to let you close to me, but I’ve built this wall from being hurt so many times."  Please, someone hurt her once and for all.  I wouldn’t let it start because by my standards, he needed to be floored before we could take off.  Men are the gas; women are the brakes.

"I can’t do Friday" meant another woman, one he liked enough to give me a "How about Saturday instead?"  And then I’d wonder if that meant Saturday day, or night?  And I’d have to say, "Saturday during the day?"  To clarify like one of those people who had to fill up every second of her time–because I was one of those people.  Because really, if a guy likes you, and you suggest Friday, and he doesn’t respond, "Great, what time?"  And instead keeps things very vague with some "plans" bullshit, then he doesn’t like you enough.  No one, it seemed, would ever be enough for me.  It’s called needy, and it shouldn’t be permitted past the velvet ropes.