You can be glad because that fucktard is no longer in your life

The other day, I inadvertently recreated my past a la Douchebag.

Being my last day off before my trip to Vegas I decided that was the only day I could color my hair.
And being that I stayed up way too late the night before I hit up Starbucks on my way.

I realized, as I stood waiting for my drink, I hadn't been to that particular Starbucks since me and The Douchebag had coffee there on Thanksgiving.
There were the chairs we sat in when I gave him that journal and he was so moved he said I was gonna make him cry.
"Thanks for making my day so happy."

Pardon me while I hurl my computer across the room.
I've never known a man to prompt me to throw so much.
He's a fucking gem.

It should be no surprise that after DB's deceitful charm I started spending time with a guy who never compliments me.
I think the closest he's ever come was telling me I'm a weird girl.
At least I know I'm not being manipulated.
Obviously I'm weirder than Gonzo.

Then I remembered when I last got my hair done.
It was three days before my birthday.
I was wretchedly ill and trying to do anything to feel better.
And while waiting for my color to set I glanced at my phone.
Douchebag had emailed me.
And told me he wanted nothing more to do with me ever again because I was unhealthy for him.
Happy birthday to me.

So as I sat in the salon, all those weeks later, I couldn't stop smiling.
The things that seemed so dire then were now a moot point in the story of Resa.
I have a sexier man in my life to kiss, my health, my certainty that any man worth my texts would chase me down the street just to talk to me.
Not run away from me because he's incapable of anything genuine.

And my crushes will exit and new beaus will take their place and my hair will fade and I will paint on new coats of vibrancy.
And I will always move on.
And I will always get over the forgotten boyfriends.
And the ones who never even made it that far.

There's a man buried inside these curves

I'd like to think that it wasn't always this way but when I look back on the men I've dated the pattern always seems to be the same.

Why do I always date men whose appetites never satiate mine?

I think the only person who may be the exception to this was Narcissus.
But he was foreign so he doesn't count.

Every other guy is too tired, too worn out, too in need of autonomy, blah, blah, blah.

I thought all men ever wanted was sex.
Rubbish!
All Resa's ever want is sex.
Or at least something in the near vicinity.

It seems ludicrous for a woman such as myself to endure sexual frustrations.
ISN'T THAT THE WHOLE BLOODY REASON MEN PURSUE ME IN THE FIRST PLACE?

Apparently I'm not the woman I always believed myself to be.
I must secretly be a dude.
Because if I'm honest about my top qualities essential for any long term lover of mine?
They are all passion driven.

Of course I want a man who is kind, who is caring and learned and respectful and successful and well endowed, whatever, whatever, whatever.

But mostly.
I want a man who can keep up with me.
Verbally. Mentally. Physically.
Sweet battery operated devices, let there be a man in existence who can keep up with me physically.

The c'est tragique timing of late is that the handsome Romeo I thought was my physical counterpart is actually much more layers of complexity and less oh baby oh baby.

Grrr.
Even my seemingly no nonsense one track minded relationships are never so instantly gratifying.

I really am Mae West.
I need a boyfriend for a rainy day and another when it isn't raining.

Maybe multiples is the answer to my madness.
Hey.
That's what a guy would do right?

And this guy?
Has got to find someone to ease her pain.

The girl who went searching for a little attention and wound up with a new admirer

I was dumbstruck.

Banging my head on the coffee table, mouth agape, utterly flabbergasted.
Only a man could cause such stupefaction.
And this particular man I was totally crushing on.

Mr. Unlovable and I had been whiling away the hours together for weeks.
It was the kind of relationship neither one of us attempted to label.
Somewhere between Friends With Benefits and Dating.

Initially I was thrilled with such a casual state of uncertainty.
No labels. No expectations. No smothering. No headaches.
But of course things never remain so stagnant for very long.
And eventually I realized I had absolutely no idea what he wanted from me.
Or what I even wanted from him.

Apparently I did need a label.

The problem surfaced when we genuinely started to click.
Indifference becomes quite forced when you actually start to give a shit.
What can I say, I'm so damn lovable.

So just around the time I felt like we were vibing and really might dig each other, and I might actually be ready to go all the way, he flipped the switch.
And brought out the Douchebag pants.

Thud. Thud. Thud.
I nearly cracked the coffee table with my head.

Douchebag pants rocked my love life runways last fall.
And I had very little tolerance to try and make that fashion fiasco work again.

Cue exit music. Begin audience applause. Lower neon flashing sign, "NEXT!"

So uncertain of which Jekyll or Hyde I had actually been dating. Kissing. Illin. Err... Hangin with....
Oh hell. Whatever the fuck we were doing.
I made plans to meet up with my girl and her friends including the kid who'd had his eye on me for months.
You know the kind, the guy who has the worst luck and the worst timing when it comes to girls and finds someone he likes whose unavailable so he's aggressive when he shouldn't be and not around when she's finally single.
The poor bastard.

So we went to hear some jazz and the band was swell.
My date however was unfathomably quiet.
I dig dudes that are shy but there's a fine line between soft spoken and mute.

So after an hour or so and a couple of stiff drinks I bid my adieu's and closed out my tab.
"Heeeyy! Next song they play, let's dance, you and me!" some guy shouted at me from the other side of the bar.
Only I couldn't quite hear what he said so it sounded more like HEY. NEXT. DANCE. YOU. ME.
You crazy. Me Jane.
I laughed, genuinely amused, and waved goodbye.

I left the bar and got maybe twenty feet from the door when all of a sudden my suitor was tapping me on the shoulder.
"Wait. I'm sorry. I just can't let you leave without getting to talk to you. I've been watching you all night and I just had to tell you, you've really got it goin' on."

This is the part where those who know me will appreciate what happened next.
Because there is a part of me that is a genuine hopeless romantic and loves those cheesy romantic comedies and would love to have a guy dance with me in the middle of the street and sing a song softly in my ear while under the stars.
But that was also more me when I was 19.
There is another, possibly larger, part of me who no longer trusts such saccharine tripe.
Which is why I artfully raised one eyebrow and replied, 'Bullshit.'

"No. I'm serious," he quickly replied.
"You came in by yourself, right? And I saw you sitting there alone and then you were looking at your phone so I thought, Oh she is waiting for her boyfriend or her husband. So I came by and walked past you and I noticed that ring on your finger."
I looked down at my jewelry and shook my head.
Only a man from Jamaica would give a damn there's a diamond ruby ring on my ring finger.

"Come back inside, have a drink with me."
'I can't have a drink with you! I just left a date with another guy. I think that'd be pretty rude to have a drink with someone else at the same bar.'

It also would make me a baller but for the moment I was remaining a lady.

So he pressed and pleaded and convinced me to walk and talk with him "just for fifteen minutes."
We end up stumbling upon some benches a few blocks north and conversationally he was refreshingly charming.
He asked me questions about myself and spoke openly about his own story.
"Things are different in Jamaica. There, when we see something we want, we go after it."
'Clearly. I noticed that.'
An overwhelming contrast to my usual We can't hang out cuz I might FEEL something pattern of emotionally stinted boys.

He questioned my continuous laughter and I didn't quite know how to tell him I was waiting for the orchestra to begin playing and the rest of the cast to enter for the big dance number in the movie I was clearly starring in.

But instead, I told him I was ready to walk back and he tried offering me his number.
'What? I don't want your number. I'm not contacting you.'
"Well I know I'm interested in you but how do I know you're interested in me?" he dishes back.
'You have been so charming and wonderful this evening, why would you go and blow it?'
Then he was the one laughing.
'I don't chase men. If you're interested YOU can call.'

So he quickly got out his phone to take my digits and hugged me goodbye.
Then he leaned in and with a swiftness like Batman stole a quick kiss.

I'm fairly certain my jaw dropped open.

"I will text you in the morning and we can do something tomorrow."
I nodded, not believing him in the slightest and drove home just as mystified as I'd felt over Mr. Unlovable.
I was like Keri Russell in that scene from Waitress when she has this confused look on her face for minutes until finally it gives way to a giant grin.

I woke up and he'd texted me.
He called later too.

I literally went out seeking a little male validation, seeking out some new distraction.
And it chased me down the street.

If my life really were a movie, I couldn't have written it better myself.



Starts around 2:30

The pretty that was wasted and other small tragedies

He never really knew anything about me.
I don't think a question was ever even asked.
Not once.

Years into the future, if someone were to ask him about me his eyes would glaze over and he would tilt his head, searching a blank file where my picture should have been painted.

He knew nothing of my passions or interests.
My schooling or family.
My past lovers or my indifference towards having children.

I was a stand in to him.
A warm body filling the void until the next player should enter.
Stage Left. Dimmed house lights. Spot up.

Curiously, onlookers watched my willing participation in such an imbalance of equilibrium.
Musings over rumors of my walking coma, my narcotic hazed delusions, my memory loss excused such tripping steps.
But only I embraced awareness for my broadcasted insanity.

I wasted the beauty.
And hadn't even a photo to show for it.

Peculiar to patterns past this play was shortened in acts.
Rather than a full chapter, a mere page.
Words pulled and poked at one another striving to create another full paragraph.
But the letters were merciless.
And unmoved to form even a single sentence.

The tragedy was his obliviousness to such a rare and vibrant connection.
The potential for words inaudible to be understood. Clear.
For the strain of isolation to give way to warm bodies, entwined.

But as Timing and Ego and suffocating Facades would have it, such anticipations became moot.
And gathered coatings of dust.

Glimmers of the passion sparked in between blinks when some flint got in their eyes.
But the saline waters washed each faint flicker out.
And all that remained was an unmet look. Searching.
In vain.

Maybe you're wrong

You know how some people boast really good intuition about people?
Well, I don't.
In fact, if there were a game show called Good Idea Bad Idea I would always inadvertently choose the bad.
I would never win the showcase show down.

It's comical actually because I'm kind of like Charlie Brown with the football.
This time I'm really gonna kick it.
And there I fall, laying flat on my back wondering how I could have been so wrong yet again.

The past is an unpredictable force.
Sometimes unnoticed.
Sometimes ill affecting the present.

Stop living in the past.
But what if its memory lingers without my consent?

Walls go up, guards, protective falsehoods to keep strangers from repeating pasts indiscretions.
And I catch my reflection mirroring such foolishness, having open the gates only to slam them shut again.

I don't know this version of myself.
This girl cautious and accutely aware.
I once flew headstrong into everything, no thought for what wasn't but only for what I believed.
Everything else caused me to blink twice, unmoved.

Now I am unawares of what I want or what I even need.
Maybe I don't know what I want.
Maybe I concur inclusively.

But while each set of eyes is incapable of catching such similarites, I all too knowingly anticipate the distance growing.
The hesitation outweighing instinct.
And such timing never dancing in sync.

Then again, maybe I'm wrong, as so often is true.
Maybe time will instead stir surprises.
And I can once again sleep soundly knowing I'm home again.
And I will fall, tumbling forward, having finally kicked the damn football.
As I always knew I would.

Play Me

The music of Yann Tiersen is my favorite to play on the piano.

Though Schumann would be a close second.

And Beethoven and Chopin. Third and fourth, respectively.

But of all Tiersen's pieces that I've learned to play there has only ever been one that has given me difficulty.
His Sur Le Fil is rhythmically the most challenging.
It's the only piece I can never go on auto pilot and manage to play through without a mistake.

And tonight I realized that women are like the Sur Le Fil.
To master something so complicated and intricate takes discipline and focus and careful attention to detail.

One faulty move and the whole run is off.

And so is the woman on her way out of your bedroom.

The thing I find so amusing about the section I find so challenging is that it's a matter of tempo and build.

If I try and slow the tempo down too slow my timing gets off, the notes are garbled and jumbled and the phrasing doesn't work.
Yet if I try and rush through it, speeding up the tempo the whole thing becomes one slurred mess and the accents are lost, the arc of the music, fallen.

Women need the right tempo, the right build.

Not to be slowed at the most challenging section nor rushed neither.

I'm thinking most men could use a refresher course in music theory.

And for those who also need to brush up on their french?

The piece so intricate, so delicate, so in need of an expert's touch?

Is entitled Just In Time.

Here's to the lover skilled enough to learn my tempo.
Sur Le Fil.

Or I shall hand the sheet music over to another.

sights unseen

There are these moments
That disappear when I blink
Moments where you think something really beautiful
And those thoughts appear in your eyes

Sometimes my glance is quick
And catches each thought
As they dance from iris to iris
Mirroring the tentative hope twirling in my own eyes

Sometimes my glance is distracted
It looks with trepidation towards pasts clutch
Gripped tightly around each ankle
weighing slowly the steps I skip

There are these moments
That reappear when I sleep
Moments where I remember something really beautiful
And those thoughts appear in my dreams

Sometimes your role is brief
Our passions mere flickers
Heats rise and scatter
And you vanish before each eye blinks

Sometimes your role is vital
Your mere presence of great import
I run to your side
To stop from falling down the rabbit hole

And to both our surprise
You draw me close
Huddled together in silence
Willing the nights curtains consume us