The boyfriend called me 48-hours after receiving the precious gift of my virginity (and giving me his) to say he ‘d cheated on me. In 48-hours. I guess gettin’ a little bit made him need to get a whole lot more, so I broke it off during that phone call. It was definitely painful, being introduced to love and sex in such a slap in the face kind of way, but it schooled me quickly on the very real reality of interacting with humans with penises. He called several years later (don’t they all?)  expressing his regret and wishing he’d realized the love he’d had in me. Granted, this call was coming from the state penitentiary after a recent charge of attempted manslaughter after a White man made the unfortunate mistake of calling a Black man out of his name in the parking lot of a 7-11 (oops!), but the sentiment was appreciated nonetheless.

It’s nice to know in the solitude of a jail cell, a man thinks of wifing me.

That’s the only time I’ve been set up and, despite the less than favorable end to the relationship, it was a good one prior to it’s demise. I’ve always been thankful to that friend for introducing me to a man she felt I’d get along with and would get along with me.

That’s the last time that happened. I’ve never been on a blind date. I suppose the people in my life don’t feel I’m girlfriend or wife material for any of the men they know. It could, also, be the other way around. Maybe they don’t think they know any man who has the sort of characteristics or standards I seek. Whatever the reason, my friends have never been channels with which I can increase and/or improve my dating life. I don’t begrudge it. We all have to sort of look out for ourselves in this world, but, at times, when a friend talks to me about the single men they know or the female friend they hook up with a nice guy at their job my eye twitches a little. It communicates things to me I’m sure they’re not aware they’re saying, but most certainly are.

I’m also not the sort of woman who expects to be hit on or shown interest in a group of friends or at a social gathering. I’ve never been that girl. I don’t ever expect my friends’s brother’s roommate’s cousin to look over across the room, make eye contact, walk toward me and start a conversation. I don’t ever expect a friend to say, “You know, so and so thought you were pretty the other night and wandered if I could set you two up.” That’s never happened. It’s been relayed to me a guy in a group thought I was attractive or witty or funny, but it’s never been anything more than that, a message with which I’m supposed to take and… well, I don’t know what the fuck exactly; appreciate that someone else appreciated what I already know about myself, I guess.

That’s why, when I actually am seen in a group as a woman a man wants to get to know, I don’t realize it. I’m absolutely blind to it.

I recently attended a birthday event for my girl friend’s husband. Not that it’s a thing, but I was the only Black woman in the room; not necessarily something unknown to me as, in the city of San Francisco, that’s usually the case for any Black woman. There aren’t many of us mixing and mingling about over here and, if you’re in the room, most of the people in the room usually ask how the drive over from Oakland was.

No shit. I get asked this question all the time.

Anyways, my friends/acquaintances and I were having a wonderful time at dinner, enjoying one another’s company. Directly across from me was a nice enough guy. He was, easily, the life of the party, ordering endless drinks for the men and keeping the chit chat rolling at our end of the table, making sure everyone felt included in the conversation.

At one point, the conversation veered into an unusual territory: the amount of Black friends he had. I thought it peculiar, but something I guess he felt he wanted to share with everyone. Diversity is important, I thought and nodded it off. When he started to tell us how much he absolutely loved fried chicken, I felt a little weird and began to zone out, focusing on other conversations around me. Mind you, I’m not normally made uncomfortable by people talking about fried chicken and watermelon, but when I’m the only Black woman in a room, I’m made uncomfortable by people talking about fried chicken and watermelon.

Later in the evening the group enjoyed a rousing session of karaoke. Feeling  I was having a good voice day I chose to sing the Elton John and Kiki Dee classic, “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart,” hoping one of the guys or gals would sing along with me. To my surprise fried chicken loving man stepped up and sang the song with me. He complimented my singing voice, which I’m generally used when people hear it for the first time, so I appreciated it, but didn’t think much of it.

Later, when the crowd made mention of my own impending birthday celebration he scoffed and joked, “Your 21st birthday?” 

“My seventeenth 21st birthday, yes,” I joked back.

The next morning, having spent the night at my friends, whose husband had gone off with the boys to continue the celebration at a local bar, I awoke to the news that I had been found to be quite attractive by my duet partner and that he was so eager to know more about me he had searched for me on Facebook.

“What?” I asked. “Really?”

“Ya,” my friend’s husband said. “You couldn’t tell he was flirting with you?”

“No,” I said. “I’m not really used to it.  I’m kinda blind to it I guess.”

“He kept going on about your birthday dinner. If I didn’t know better he was trying to hint that he’d like to attend,” my girl friend said.

“I just thought he was a dude who really loves fried chicken and birthdays,” I said.

This has actually happened before, in conversation with a guy at a bar once. In an effort to ingratiate himself to me he began talking about collard greens. I guess some guys feel that’s what works when you’re trying to get a Black woman to understand you’re into her. I should probably make note: when a man begins talking about soul food in my presence, he just may very well be flirting with me.

Noted.

When I’m in a crowd of women I never expect to be one of the women seen as desirable. Chalk that up to being a full-figured woman or, regularly, the only Black woman in a crowd. Generally one or both don’t lead me to being of interest to a man in a room filled with female options. This is in no way a bad or sad thing. It’s just the reality of the woman I am and the life I live.

“But, Hope,” you say, “It’s dependent on a woman’s personality and a real man will look past race and a woman’s figure to….” Blah blah blippity. Save all of that for a woman ready to give up on romance and dating or suffering esteem issues and greatly in need of a pep talk. I’m talking the true, unspoken reality of initial attraction here.  Let’s not any of us pretend we have not read the numerous articles, posts and studies — as well as seen the endless online, television and movie jokes — that indicate both of the aforementioned attributes are lower on the desirability list of males in the dating world. I’ve read enough dating profiles that omit both to feel comfortable with which I speak.

I should say it’s very safe for you to guess the guy in question here, as he described it later to his friend, likes chocolate. His words, not mine. I’ve never been very keen on being described as a food item. Be it preference or fetish, being the only one of my kind in the room worked in my favor in this instance.

Perhaps we just live in as competitive a single society that I’ve always known I don’t, usually, grab a man’s attention in a room full of women. Fetishists yes: those who like big butts, big boobs or Blackness.  I always get their attention,  lascivious as it may be.  But, that’s not really the sort of man I’d want to date so I don’t take that attention seriously, usually considering it a physical desire with a particular motive, than a physical attraction with innocent intent. I’ve regularly been asked why I believe I don’t attract the marriage minded male and this paragraph pretty much explains why, but, I will be elaborating more on this topic — and my body shape — in a later post.

This doesn’t mean I don’t give an air of confidence when in a room or am unpleasant around people. I always believe myself to be the baddest bitch in a room and go out of my way to have conversations with individuals around me. As mentioned, I’m attractive, witty and funny. It’s not difficult for me to get a man’s attention, when I am one of few women in the room allowing me capability to get his attention. Too many women in a room and all bets of getting any man to see me as anything of any sort of potential are off.

I used to host a monthly single’s get together. One evening I was having a conversation with a woman who expressed her gratitude for the events. She asked me, “Have you met anyone at these events?”

“Oh, no,” I said. “I don’t meet men in social settings. I mean, I’ve never been approached by a man in a social setting where a vast number of women are present. Just too many options for them to figure I’m one, I guess.”

She scrunched her face and asked, “Then, why do you throw these?”

I thought a minute. Of course, it would be nice if I felt I had a chance to meet someone at these events and a small part of me hoped I could, but I gave her the most honest answer I could possibly think of outside of any personal desires I may have had throwing them, “If I can help two people get together and fall in love, well, then I’ll be a happy woman.”

About three months later I stopped throwing the events. After a year and a half — and not being approached by any man in the room — the selfish reasons for the reason I began throwing them began to eat at me and I didn’t see any reason to continue.

I’ve grown to be the more separate and attack sort of girl; get me one-on-one with a man and he can easily see my attractive attributes. It’s why I generally go to bars alone. Some women may see this as desperate or sad, but it’s been my way of separating myself from the competition for years. I’ve never been a woman to go bar hopping or clubbing with the girls. Why bring my own competition with me?

I see it like a room lit with candles: place a man in that room and he’s so blinded by the different lights he can’t see straight. He’s overwhelmed. You place him in a dark room with one single candle and he’ll be so stricken with it’s beautiful glow he can’t help but not look away.

I’ve always considered myself that one single candle that needs to be one-on-one with a guy in order for him to see and attract to my light. Though, I must say, it is nice to see there can be intermittent instances I shine brighter than the other candles in the room and attract a man to my light.

I’ve never had the mom gene. Kids ask a lotta questions and let stuff drip from their nose and want money to go to college and stuff. I’ve never wanted to deal with any of that or, for that matter, the logistics of child-rearing and child birth. I was never comfortable with things growing in my body (which, now, are) or doctors making incisions (which, they now, must) or removing things from my body (which, I now, am scheduled to have).

Funny how that all worked out.

Yet and still, I’m hard-wired as a woman and have, at times, had the fantasy of telling the man I love that I’m pregnant with his child or spitting out a little genetic mini of me and my man. Problem is, that man never showed up. I’ll never have the option to change my mind and bear his child.

I’m upset about that to some degree.  Sure, I can use a surrogate or adopt should a man decide he wants to do more than be buddies with benefits with me, but the female experience of pregnancy is one I’ll never experience. With that comes a twinge of anger with the memory of every man who put me in the bang buddy or friend with benefits zone or hung out/chilled/kicked it with me — because they’re too sensitive, scared or uninterested to use the word “dating” or “relationship” in description of what they’re doing with me — and said “I’m not looking to get serious until later.” Well, it’s later now mother fuckers and because my dumb ass spent too much of my precious time dealing with men who were only serious about falling into bed and not falling in love, the options I had to bear my own child without complication are now gone.

Does it hurt? A little, but not as much as if, I’m sure, I’d dreamed of being a mother my entire life. I never had plans for my uterus other than keeping it on the strictest of lockdown so the decision to have it removed was an easy one. The damned thing has gone all haywire so, best we just shut her on down.

Not to say the decision to move forward with hysterectomy was an easy one. It wasn’t. It still isn’t. I wake up every morning (and, sometimes, the middle of the night) wondering if I’ve made the right decision. I hear from those against such  surgeries asking if I’ve explored more homeopathic options. I hear from those who wonder how I’ll feel when or if  I meet a man who would like to have a serious relationship that could lead to the proposition of starting a family together. I hear from mothers offering me condolence. I hear from other single women applauding my choice to make my health and comfort a priority, opting to end it all with one procedure rather than facing a decade of many more. I’ve heard from a lot of folks wondering what the hell happened, why the hell at my (young) age, how the hell I am handling it and what the hell were the other options.

And, to them, I suppose my answers to those inquiries are, in exact order:

• Yes

• Not holding my breath

• I’ll live vicariously, and happily, through you

• Ain’t nobody lookin’ out for me, but me

• Massive fibroid tumors the size of cantaloupes

• Irrelevant

• Like a mother fucking champ

• Menopause symptoms for six months? No thank you.

Although I’ve signed on the dotted line and entered the surgery date on my calendar, I still worry if I’ve made the wrong decision. Had I chosen to simply have the tumors removed, they’d return in a number of years and I’d be suffering the same pain and discomfort I have now and having to face future surgeries. Had I chosen the homeopathic route, the necessary work (and yearly expense, let’s keep it real) would occupy a vast amount of my time (and money) that would be much more adequately used in other areas of my life.

I have a wonderful doctor who has guided me through every step of this process. She’s spoken with me for hours over the phone and, the other day, when the water works happened, she understood. She was amazed at my early — and seemingly effortless — decision to “Just yank it,” but was completely understanding of my moment of inexplicable emotion when signing pre-op paperwork and setting my June surgery date. Sadly, she’ll be leaving in May, and is greatly disheartened we couldn’t schedule the surgery earlier so she could be in the operating room with me, but she reminded me — and her  colleague who will be in the OR day of my surgery — to contact her as soon as the surgery is over. My case has been so unique and extreme — and our bond so surprising — she said she won’t be able to stop thinking of me until she receives an update on how I came through it all.

I have a lot to do in the time before my surgery, including the surprising task of mourning the loss of my most feminine body part. I’ve been so preoccupied with dealing with it all I haven’t had the thought or energy to write a blog post, but I reminded myself this is part of my single girl experience, so it’s important to blog about it. What’s dating going to be like post surgery? Does this rule a whole great big percentage of men off my dating list now that I can’t bear children? Not that the list is big to begin with, obviously. I havne’t met a man lookin’ to date me in a decade, so I don’t imagine gaggles of men lookin’ to do so now that ‘m uterusless (it’s a word, dammit ). I should state, here, I do not mean you, “Oh, well I can fuck her without a condom!” kinda men just looking for cheap thrills. No, no. Not you. You men are allowed nowhere near my lady parts.

Will I have as satisfying a sex life?  Because my sex life, when in practice, is satisfying as hell. What’s getting naked for the first time in front of a man going to be like with a large incision scar running down my belly? I’m no bathing suit model, but my caramel colored skin has been *SNAP* flawless! (For those in the know, a laproscopic procedure or horizontal incision were not an option for me).  What feelings will arise in me when asked “Are you married?” and “Do you have kids?”

I’m gonna have to start to practice my woosah pretty damned regularly and fight my internal urge to yell back at these askers, “No! I’ve been single ten years and I have no uterus, gawdamnit!”

Side note to people who ask women these questions:  STOP ASKING WOMEN THESE MOTHER FUCKING QUESTIONS! I’m case in point of how you can get slapped in the face asking women such misogynistic stupidity.

Am I scared? Extremely. Am I eager? Absolutely. Am I relieved? Somewhat, more so, I’m sure, once I begin to discover how much better I feel (and look — I’m awful tired of looking six months pregnant. I’m eagerly anticipating getting my hourglass back.). Though she may be but thick, she be fierce, or something along those Shakespearean lines.

I figure it would be in my best interest to write my feelings as I make my way through this experience. I was further inspired to document the journey by a dear friend who said, “The great abstract expressionist artist Sam Francis really developed his style of painting when he was lying on his stomach for eight weeks after he got shot in the ass in WWII.” 

I’ll be sitting on my butt in highly-medicated recovery for six weeks so, I suppose, I should put my fingers to keyboard, write it all out and develop more of the writer I claim myself to be.

I’ve got a lot to do over the next several weeks: getting my hands on supplies that will get me through my six week recovery period, on a very limited budget; locating someone willing to drive me to the hospital day of surgery; locating people who’d be happy to visit me during my hospital stay (as I will be quite medicated, quite sore and quite unable to think clearly for myself) and help see to my needs; locating another friend who would be willing to drive me home from the hospital and, finally, locating a place to stay a week or so after surgery. From what I’ve read everything from showering, peeing and walking to the corner is going to be a task and I’ll need someone willing to help me get back in the slow-moving groove after it’s all done. I’ve made a list of magazines, movies and TV shows I’m eager to enjoy. I have to catch up on my Angry Birds playing. Four words: Cosmo, cover-to-cover. Maybe I’ll try out that Words with Friends so many people keep blathering on about. I just may watch the entire Dr. Who series, all 30 years. I won’t have a damned thing else to do, but sit on my butt and heal. May as well tackle the complete history of the Tardis.

That’s right, I did just turn a uterus post into a Doctor Who post.

Finally, I can begin writing the scripts for the web series I’ve imagined producing based on this very blog.

I’ll have to learn to take it slow, ask for help and heal properly before diving back into life. It would be nice if I had a boyfriend, husband or parent around to help me do that, but I don’t. That’s just the reality of my life. It’s been that way a decade; no use sweatin’ it now. I’ve never needed anyone but my dearest friends, my adopted family, to help get me through.

So, with all I have to do, my brain will be quite scattered and my nerves quite anxious the next few weeks, but I’m going to do my best to get my feelings down in written form so I can look back, read and know I made the best decision for myself when it’s all said and done.

As a side note, I’ve been viewing a lot of articles and videos on the internet about the procedure I’m having done. I tell ya, the internet is an amazing thing. I  suggest, if you are squeamish, as I am, not to do such things out of curiosity after reading this post. After the madness my eyeballs witnessed I say, with quite authority, the Internet can kindly suck it.

Rushmore

Craigslist

I’m done giving advice for shit I probably shouldn’t be giving advice for anyway and think it’s time to tell the story of the aforementioned Rushmore that I met on the aforementioned Craigslist because he’s quite an important piece to the puzzle of woman I am at the moment.

A funny thing happened on the way to 2013. Ten points if that reference makes any sense to you. Forty seven points if you can tie that reference to “Jesus Christ Superstar.” Fuck, I love having my own blog sometimes. Anything goes, bitches! CNN should give me a show because that’s how their news coverage is lately: random as shit, like my brain. Ratings GOLD!

It began as a simple platonic Woman (Me) for Male (Him) ad posted on Craigslist in February 2012 which received a thoughtful and entertaining response received in the middle of the night several days later. 3:31 am to be exactly middle of the night. I remember well because I was actually awake and scrolling through my emails when it arrived. I’d realized the most successful male relationships I’ve had over the years were platonic and decided it would do me good to spend more time with intelligent, engaging, single men looking for the same sort of company in a female. No hanky panky. No funny stuff. Just some entertaining adventures with a man who has the ability to remind me how good men can be. I needed it desperately because my faith in them was dropping at a speedy rate.

The respondent was male, late 40s, tall, good looking, jovial-sounding and recently divorced. He was in-between jobs and looking for a partner in crime to have a few adventures with. Due to a recent lay off (and impressive severance  he had ample time and money to lengthen his unemployment and take the next step to find the man he is next meant to be, taking sufficient time to exorcise the person he was working an intense corporate job of over a decade and being the male half of a marriage of about the same length.

Over a couple weeks, and a few emails shared back and forth, we decided to take our conversation to the phone. We chatted for about an hour, getting to know one another and determining if we’d make good adventure companions. IT didn’t take me long(er than hearing his friendly voice) to determine he was a mine I would be more than happy to meet at the Pier and grab some snacks and and just take time to see what a day of sun and fun had to offer.

I didn’t dress up. I wore stretch pants, a sweatshirt and my hair pulled back with a simple headband. This was, after all  platonic. I had no plans to impress a man. I made my way to a coffee shop close to my apartment, purchased a decaffeinated tea and waited patiently, glancing out the window every so often until I saw a a man similar to the photo I’d received in my inbox. Tall as a mountain — with weight upon his considerably lenghty frame — raven-haired, statuesque  solid as brick and a determined look upon his face, I named him Rushmore the very first moment I laid eyes upon him.

“Hope!” he said with a big booming voice and a smile. I was, afterall, the only black woman in the place, usual for my home town of San Francisco.

Rushmore and I spent the entire day together that day, following some polite, get to know you in person chit chat. First, a trek along the pier, pointout out — and stopping at — our favorite food haunts and paying for our favorites to share; a hop to a jazz bar just along the water where a strange mix of jazz was followed by a barrage of loud 90s hip hop in celebration of a rather ghetto birthday party taking place on the premises (of which, I sang along to every word and he smiled in entertained joy).

He asked for a kiss at the point. I remember the moment distinctly. We’d spent the past hour singing along to songs, sizing up the other patrons and sharing more of ourselves than expected. He’d shed himself of the layers he’d worn in expectation of the foggy SF morning and his thick, manly shoulders peeked from his blue tank top. I wanted to do nothing more than take my hands, grab them and pull him toward me. Yet, still, I declined, noting, “I’m shy.”

I’m not shy. I’m full of shit. I

knew I wasn’t sure I wanted to take this meeting any farther than platonic. It was, afterall, where it began. I have no doubt this man went into it platonically, but, in the company of my sparkling personality (dont even try me. I’m sparkling damnit) he lost his ability to do the same.

We followed the jazz bar with a trip to the top floor of a local location of one of my favorite Mel Brooks; the Hyatt Regency along the Embarcadero. We found a quiet corner, huddled in and stared out at the view, in awe of our home town. He softly shared his wish to explore the city in a way he never had before, looked at me, lifted his thick palm and swatted me, softly, across the right ass cheek. “Dinner now.” he commanded, not asked.

At that moment, I was hooked. You softly dominate me and everything I have is yours.

He asked for a kiss at that point. I declined, noting, “I’m shy.” I’m not shy. I’m full of shit.

An hour later at dinner he says, “This isn’t in stone,” he said, “But I’m thinking about living overseas for a year.”

“Wait. What, you mean, just up and leaving and living in another country?” I asked.

“Yea. I mean, why not? I don’t want to rush back to a job that sucks the life out of me. I have the time and the financial ability. I just, you know, need to do something for me… something adventurous. I’m thinking of doing a test trip to Hawaii first… see how I can handle the elements with only a backpack and my know how.”

“Good for you,” I said. “I think it sounds wonderful. I only wish I had the time and the money to do something so adventurous.”

“You will,” he said with a grin. “One day, you will.”

By that time we’d been in one another’s company for close to fifteen hours. When he drove me home, he asked me for a kiss. I declined, noting, “I’m shy.” I’m not shy. I’m full of shit. I also wasn’t sure if I wanted to take something that had begun as platonic, and was quickly eviscerated by chemistry, to a place beyond a place platonic could every recover.

I didn’t hear from him for a month. I hadn’ t cared. It was platonic. I hadn’t done anything I regretted or hoped upon more for. We’d spent a wonderful day together. One day, out of the blue, my phone rang. It was Rushmore.

He’d spent the past month making his decision a reality. His passport was acquired, his survival list was made, his provisions were being purchased. He was in the process of preparing himself for an almost year-long adventure in Southeast Asia. He’d enjoyed the time we’d spent and wanted to do it again. Of course, I agreed and accepted.

“You should come with me to Hawaii,” he said, quietly over a tapas dinner three days and severl hours later. “I can pay as much as I possibly can for you without dipping into my budget for my trip. If you can buy the ticket, I can buy everything else,” he whispered across the table, sliding his hand toward mine. “You should come,” he repeatedly softly.

I wanted to. I really wanted to follow this man across the country.

“I can’t,” I shook my head. “I can’t afford the ticket,” I said, weary of my un-ending under employment issues, “I have a job now, minimal as it is, and it’s barely keeping me afloat. I just… can’t.”

Later, in his car, “Kiss me,” he said softly. I kissed him. I wasn’t shy. I wasn’t unsure. I wasn’t full of shit. I wanted this man. Later, we had each other, a very, very, very long time. I don’t think we rose from within each other until about 24-hours later. If he were a contributor to this blog, he’d agree with the words I just typed.

He brought me the loveliest perfume from Hawaii three weeks later. We spent the next several weeks in each other’s presence, watching movies, ordering or our favorite foods and sampling, sharing our favorite music and artists, and more of ourselves than we expected; opening up about the  details of the future with which we face: me on my own, tirelessly saddened and him on his own, trepidatiously excited.  I shared with him my goals as a writer. He gave of himself, making sure I had what I needed in my difficult times. I made little crafts and art projects in celebration of his departure, wishing him the most fortuitousness journey in the search of his new self.

A woman single ten years and a man married ten years, finding connection with one another. I was fucking another man, but I was making love to this man. He could have been fucking other women at the time. I didn’t care. He was making love to me. The time we spent, was time I cherished; time I enjoyed more than any other time I spent.

The morning of his departure, we slept fetus-like, locked against one another, reluctant to let go. As we rose, he muttered softly to himself, “No falling in love. No falling in love. No falling in love.”

“I’m not falling in love with you, dummy!” I toyed.

I’m full of shit. I was falling in love.

We kissed and embraced good-bye, my head buried deep in his thick chest, imprinting his manliness in my brain. I would miss the affection he allowed me to feel, the kisses he planted upon my forehead, the embraces he enclosed me in, the looks of lust he gave me in this quiet moments.

As he walked from my door, he turned and said, looking deeply in my eyes, “Remember, writers write,” and walked flew far, far away for a very long fucking time.

And that’s what I did. I wrote. I restarted the blog I let die in my sadness. I started a writing business. I rose from the ashes.

Hope Leslie Single was born again.

….the be continued

So, this post will be sweet and short and to the point, inspired by Online Personals FAQ recent post The Faces Women Need to Stop Making on Their Online Dating Profiles.

Some men need help too. So, I made this handy dandy list.

1. ”I look younger than/young for my age”

Stop. No you don’t.

You look like an older man attempting to seem younger online in order to date young women. This line is pathetic and desperate sounding. Don’t use it. Women see through it immediately.

If you happen to be in the 32% of men who actually do look young for their age (Yea, I made that percentage up. You wanna make something of it?), you absolutely are not younger than/young for your age in tastes, style, personality and character. Even if how “young” you look is lucky enough to get you in the door for that first date, the conversation you two have over coffee or dinner will be the tell-tale difference between relationship and no relationship. Then you’ll just be “that old dude” she talks about having an awkward first date with to her friends.

I know it sucks the women you deem appropriately aged for you to date stop their search just a year or two shy of your  age. Women in their 20s are not as open or eager to date a man 40-years-old plus. You have to accept that.  Just like you don’t seek to date someone outside of your preferred age bracket, or be persuaded by a 47-year-old woman about how “young she looks” for her age,  neither do the women who leave your age outside of their preferred match bracket. Respect it and seek out women who want to date you and include your age in their preferred match bracket.

Don’t attempt to deceive anyone about how old you are or how old you seem. You’re really only deceiving yourself.

2. “I’m mature for my age”

This is the reverse method of  ”I look young for my age.” I get this one all the time considering my preference is for older men. Men my age, or younger, think telling me how “mature” they are will get them in the door. It doesn’t.

I like older men because they’re a little wonderfully worn around the edges: comfortable in their skin, attractive age lines around their eyes that crinkle attractively when they smile, silver-haired whisps against their temples; an appreciation for the vintage, the aged, the antique, things long gone by. These are attributes a younger man can’t pretend to have.

Older men also have an understanding of what they want in a relationship: committment, cohabitation, marriage. Not universally, of course, but more so than younger men out to play the field. As a single woman of ten years, I know I want my very immediate future to include marriage and, for that, a younger man isn’t on the list of men I seek to date. Younger men should keep this in mind when attempting to persuade an older woman to date them because they think they are “mature” for their age.

2. “I’m cool, laid back and down to earth”

SNORE! SNOOZE! ZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. So are you and about 14,768  men who wrote the same thing in their profile. Who are you, Fonzi? There isn’t a line I hate more in online dating profiles than this one because A LOT of men use it and think they’re saying something a woman wants to read. They’re not.

Use better words. You’re an adult with a vast vocabulary at the fingertips. Use it! How are you cool? Do you take impromptu trips to the mountains or snow when the feeling strikes you? How are you laid back? Do you enjoy listening to jazz and cooking to a glass of cabernet after a long day at work? How are you down to earth? Do you volunteer as a shelter on weekends or holidays?

Don’t just tell a woman you’r'e cool, laid back and down to earth, because you’re not saying anything other men aren’t saying. SHOW how you’re cool, laid back and down to earth. That will get you more attention than most and a chance at a conversation in email, on the phone and in person.

3. “I can’t believe I’m here doing this online. Trust me, I’m not the type of guy who has trouble finding dates, but thought I’d give online a shot because finding someone in the real world is hard.”

Waaa waaa, cry me a river. Who are you trying to prove you’re some dating adonis? Attempting to show you can easily get women’s attention isn’t the best way to land ONE woman’ s attention. She’ll worry you’ll attract more female attention than she’s comfortable with. Then, there are women who will just be turned off by the inflated ego you displayed in your profile.

Don’t insult others who have chosen to use online dating by citing it as some last ditch effort you’ve reluctantly decided to use to find a date. That won’ t go over well with women you could have a shot at getting to know. Just say who you are, what your interest are and what you seek in a date and leave the internal commentary out.

4. “I tend to be most attracted to ________________.”

I’ve seen it all: Big butts, petite women with large breasts, thin/slender women who love wearing high heels, women who don’t wear weaves, girl next door types with milky skin and pretty feet.

STOP.

First things first, do not objectify women in your dating profile. You’re a man, so we know you’re, initially, attracted to a woman’s body and/or face. This isn’t something you need to tell or show us. Your dating profile is NOT the place to call attention to this. Women do not like to be objectified or made to think your attraction to them is primarily or specifically physically based. It is an instant turn off.

It’s also not a reader’s job to see to your physical preferences. That is YOUR job by a) doing your own internet dating search of available women and b) carefully reviewing the messages you have received from women who have read your profile.

If a woman who is not your ideal physical preference messages you, ignore the message and move on to someone who is or send her a polite response saying why you don’t think it’s a good match (Do not mention anything physical about her or about your physical preferences).

Casting the net and reviewing your catches is your duty and your duty alone. Don’t attempt to guide the type of responses you get by placing uncomfortable, and inappropriate, physical requirements in the body of your dating profile. It doesn’t come off good at all.

5. I’m not really into ______ women. I really love ________ women.

I once came across a dating profile ad that stated: “I’m an open-minded guy and really don’t have any preferences. NO BLACK GIRLS!”

Yea, ok. Good to see how open minded you are.

You can place any ethnicity into the empty spaces above, but you’ve already ruined your chances with quite a few women you may be interested in actually getting to know. Bi and Multi-racial women are very proud of their heritage. If you instantly confirm your aversion to one part of their background and objectify your attraction to another, you’ve ruined your chance to meet a very large section of single women.

Rashida Jones, Olivia Munn, Norah Jones, Leila Arcieri, Shannon Elizabeth, Thandie Newton, Naya Rivera,  Zoe Saldana, Kimora Lee Simmons, Shannyn Sossamon: All bi or multi racial women you’re saying you’re not interested in (if you, ya know, actually had a chance to meet) by including racial parameters in your online dating profile.

Even worse are men who claim a woman in an “exception,” by stating they don’t normally date their kind, but would gladly do so them because they like their personality.

“I’m not normally attracted to _____ women, but you’re different!” *BUZZ* Thanks for playing the game. You lose. You are instantly denied the opportunity to move any further in the dating game.

Have your preferences ethnicity wise, of course, but don’t count yourself out of meeting a great woman by verbally, and thoughtlessly, excluding or demeaning a part of her heritage in your online dating profile.

6. Anything Sexual

Hey, Creepy McCreeperson: there should never, ever be anything of a sexual nature in your online dating profile. Furthermore, questionable uses of the following words should be avoided: seduce (seduction, seductive, seduction), passion (passionate), cuddle (cuddle, cuddling), etc.

Sex is part of a relationship, sure, and if you stick in there, get to know a woman, woo her and get to that one night when the stars align and she invites you in for a “night cap,” you’ve done what you’re supposed to do to get the nookie, but placing — right off the bat — that you seek a woman with a high sex drive “in case things hit it off” or how much you “really love oral” is down right disgusting and only proving to women you’ve got much-too-much of the sex on the brain.

During the moments of singledom she posted rather dreary and depressive status updates about being single and lonely and, quite possibly, ending up alone. This was a woman single less than six months. At first, on the inside, I, single girl of nearly ten years felt, like this:

Now, imagine if that woman had been single ten years. Imagine if, throughout many of those years, she expressed the sadness she felt day-after-day because, with the endlessness of your single life, it never goes away. You really don’t have to imagine too hard because, for a great while, that woman was me.

I was miserable. I was depressed. I was achingly lonely. I was desperately romantically unloved. I was sad. I was, at times, suicidal. I was angry. I was miserable and I made sure anyone who had ears or eyes could hear and see my misery. Like the six month single woman, I had every right to express the anguish I often experience being single. It’s not an easy thing to be on your own for a decade, especially when you have a hell of a lot of love inside to give someone that sits dormant.

However, being so expressive, it made individuals around me uncomfortable, irritated, annoyed. I was mocked. I was ridiculed  I was judged. I was insulted. I was dropped. I was called things like bitter, dramatic, jealous and addicted to unhappiness.

These people were wrong. What I am is a product of my history: a history that includes abandonment, rape at the hands of a partner, mental and physical abuse at the hands of a partner, infidelity by (what is, sadly, nearly every) partner, etc. and so on. It shaped me into a woman who was bitter, angry, defensive, guarded, emotional and untrusting. Yet and still I was Hope Leslie Single: brilliant, beautiful, loving, kind, creative and funny. My past, and resulting present, no more defined or destroyed my worthiness than theirs does. I reacted and responded authentically and I wouldn’t have changed that to appease or ease the discomfort of one single person.

These people were also right. In the “About” section of this blog I jokingly refer to it as not being an advice blog. And, to some extent, it still isn’t. It never will be. You’ll never see me post a list of helpful hints to land a man. I don’t fucking know. I haven’t had a boyfriend since Dawson’s Creek was on the air.  I am no help in that fucking department.

However, over the past couple of years, I have learned to settle my sadness. Notice I say “settle,” not “solved,” not “set aside, ” not “forgotten”. I’ve settled my sadness. Like a bet made and pointing in my favor: something I was once rightfully owed, but am now fully paid up on and have reconciled.

How I settled my sadness was by changing my outlook on, not life, but myself. I had to see myself as solo, not single. Synonyms, yes, but look at the very interesting differences in the definitions of these words:

sin·gle

Adjective
Only one; not one of several.
Noun
An individual person or thing rather than part of a pair or group

so·lo

Noun
A thing done by one person unaccompanied.
Adjective
For or done by one person alone; unaccompanied.

I’d rather, when people speak of me, they say I’m a woman living an independent life rather than a woman living alone.

I’m independent; more independent than nearly everyone I know who has made themselves dependent upon another (boyfriend, husband, girlfriend, wife, et. al) for emotional wellness and abundance. That may offend some of you in relationships, but it’s a truth by which I now live. My singleness may seem a weakness to some in relationships, but I see it as a strength in comparison to the life they’ve chosen. I’m a fighter, I’ve faced my battles on my own and won every single one of them. I’m determined, my goals — and the celebration in which I partake when I reach them – will be in honor of me, because I got myself there without the aide of a man on my arm in support.

And witnessing the behavior of the one woman I know while she was single helped me see what others were seeing in me for years. I read a quote somewhere that stated something like the topic to fastest empty a room is loneliness. People are incredibly uncomfortable with the topic of loneliness and solitude, thus why being alone is often considered a bad thing and is, really, only seen as a good thing if it is in between moments of coupledom.

While I was absolutely owed the right to my feelings of long-term  single-girl sadness, despite the amount of discomfort it may have caused others, namely others who had no idea what it was like being single longer than a couple of years, there had to come a time I settled them. After ten years, you kinda have to accept your solo life and live it and stop giving a flying fuck if anyone comes and sweeps you off your feet. The universe has made you solo for a reason. Accept it and embrace it and realize you are not like others who date and love and romance and cuddle. Maybe you’ll get the chance to one day. Maybe you won’t. Don’t let it break you, because with your solo life you have a strength these people will never have or experience.

With this settlement of my sadness came an acceptance of my role; the platform with which this entire blog is now built upon: My name Hope Leslie Single. I have been single a decade. I was once a single woman of great sadness. I am now a solo woman of great strength. I’m here to tell you how to handle it if you’re living through long-term single-hood.

Now, I can’t say this is exactly what you should do, but I will say this is what I do on a daily basis and it helps. It helps a lot.

Create a Vision Board

I have a (greatly in need of some attention) vision board in my bedroom just near my mirror, so every time I see myself I see my goals and my inspirations. Pinterest serves as my digitized vision board at the moment. I have over 76 boards, to my own surprise. The boards dearest to my heart are Single Girl: Inspiration and Single Girl: Reminders and Me, a board I use as a reminder of the woman I am and the one I will never compromise in my search for love. I read them every day to remind myself to be positive, stay positive and to never let the solo life grind down to a point I give up on the life I’ve been given.

Daily Affirmations

For years I had a constant voice in my head telling me why I wasn’t good enough for anyone, which can happen after a decade of rejection and lack of interest from men. This was doubled with people around me commenting on why I hadn’t yet found a relationship: you’re too smart, you’re too independent, you’re too intimidating, you’re too combative, you’re too broke, your preferences are wrong, your weight is wrong, you’re living in the wrong city, etc.

There isn’t a damned thing wrong with me.

I had to banish the voices that constantly picked apart the person I am and listen to those who celebrated the person I am. Daily affirmations made a huge impact on my well being once I began listening to them on a daily basis. Make a list of your own and recite them out loud daily or listen to them as you commute to work or lay down at night before bed.

Here is the perfect place to start. If you can tell me you don’t feel enlightened and empowered after listening to that, you’re dead inside. 

Examine Your Friendships

You are a long-term solo woman, you are not like other women. You will have emotionally intense up and downs and moments of overwhelming loneliness that will, more than certainly, effect friendships. You will isolate. You will emote. You will cry. You will scream. You will feel a roller coaster of emotions that are often times hard to get a handle of. You will need a supportive group of friends around you to help you through these times.

You may think every friend you have is able to emotionally support you throughout your long-term single life. This isn’t the case. Having a long-term single friend takes an ability not all people have and you will need to sit and seriously consider the the attributes of each of your friends to determine those to keep closest to you. You’ll need to note who is there for you when you fall apart and offers you a hand to help you back up. Note the friends who recognize your life as a long-term single is difficult and don’t judge you or your response to it, instead understanding the loneliness that can often times overwhelm you and stand in support. offering ways in which they can help you.

The friends who are able to withstand and see you through your darkest, loneliest days as a long-term single of sadness and help you on your road to a long-term solo of strength are the friends you will be able to be your most honest and vulnerable with.

Talk to Someone

Therapy isn’t for everyone and, if it’s not, it’s not the only choice you have to talk to someone. Join a support group (I truly believe there should be support groups for long-term single, aside from those already established for singles, as our emotional and romantic needs are different).

If you are a believer in the healing a therapist can offer, find one. Some professional mental health providers are a bit on the expensive side, but some have sliding cost fees you can negotiate. The county should also provide low cost and, at times, even no cost mental health assistance. If you don’t feel you need to speak to someone weekly, see if a therapist will see you once a month to help you stay focused on your positivity and help you talk through those moments you’re feeling your long-term single life get the better of you.

Never be ashamed to seek a subjective party — outside of family and friends — who can help you keep on the course to your own health, wellness and success. Seeking therapy doesn’t mean you’re weak, it means you’re strong enough to face yourself and your internal demons on a regular basis.

Quit Your Vices

This is a difficult one for some, but necessary if you need to face yourself head on. If you drink to ease the pain, stop. If you focus on sex as a way to forget your frustrations, stop. If you smoke to ease your troubled mind, stop. If you eat to fill yourself with what it is you’re missing, stop. This will force you to face your solidarity head on and tackle some of the more difficult things about it you’ve always avoided. Once you’ve faced what is trying to get your attention inside you’ll be surprised the quiet and clarity you begin to experience, leading you to live a much happier and healthier life as a happy solo person with a healthy focus on yourself and your goals, whatever they may be.

Replace the habits you’ve used to cope with ones that will make you thrive. Replace the endorphins of sex (addiction) with regular exercise. Replace over or compulsive eating with a hobby of trying new dishes from healthy food blogs. If you have drinking or substance abuse issues, recognize it, seek help for it or adjust it in a way you’re having fun with yourself instead of causing harm to or numbing yourself.

It is not often easy to face loneliness, but necessary. Putting aside the vices you use to avoid that confrontation will help you immensely.

Sing

Don’t just listen to music. SING music.

Sing if you have a bad voice. Sing if you have a lovely voice. Just sing. Sing until you feel your soul soar. Sing until you have sung the hurt out. Sing louder and harder than you have in your entire life. Sing songs that equate your pain, mend your heart, ease your pain and lift your spirit. I actually sing, like in a band on stage and stuff, and have sung off and on on stage since I was a little girl, but, the most important singing I do is to myself, in the privacy of my home, when the pain of my single past or the confusion of my solo future weigh me down or cause me to trip; when every pain I’ve experienced as a single woman attempts to dull the luster of my solo sparkle shine.

So, I sing. I sing loud and clear for every single one of my neighbors to hear. For every man or woman in my past, who — for whatever reason — has felt I wasn’t worthy, I sing this song at the moment, from the bottom of my soul, until the hurt is lifted, the tears have all fallen and my sky is blue and full of wonder again.

Don’t get all excited. You can still count the number of dates on which I was asked out on one hand, but that is still a far and away higher number than most years. I did all of this meeting and dating without a single online dating profile which means… wait for it… I met nearly all of these men in the real world.

This made me come to a realization: there are some truly fucked up men in the real world.

Since we’re all aware I’m on vagatical and not giving two good fucks about dating at the moment, I’m spending my time much more productively on a variety of things like: watching make-up tutorial videos on YouTube and trying them on myself without ending up looking like a busted ass clown; learning all the lyrics to Willam Belli’s Selena Gomez parody  Love You Like a Big Schlong so I can go to a karaoke bar, pretend I’m about to do the original, then bust out with this version;  learning how not to eat a whole pan of paleo brownies in one day; and eagerly anticipating the new season of Mad Men. It’s the 60s and Jon Hamm who, we all know, isn’t a big fan of  smothering his hefty howdy doody in underwear, will be wearing slim pants.

I’m not as frivolent as I seem. I swear on all that is unholy this was an actual news story. Yay for journalism!

Anyways, while surfing through the aforementioned make-up tutorials and schlong videos on YouTube I came across The Secret, the video based on the popular book The Secret by Rhonda Byrne. I’d added it to my favorites some time ago and decided to give it a watch again. Only days prior I’d made the conscious decision to find  part-time work and, within 24-hours of this decision found an email in my inbox from a recruiter I’d met last year who had a client seeking a  part-time employee with my skill set.

BLAM BITCHES! That’s the The Law of Attraction at work.

Granted, the job didn’t work out as they wanted more hours than I had available per week, but two days later a firm I currently work with asked if I was looking to increase my hours. These are testaments to the power of the law of attraction. When you firmly decide and communicate what you want the universe will guide it to you.

This made me take note of the energy I’d placed in my romantic life the year prior and the sort of men I’d met and dated. I was doing the work necessary to meet men, sure: going out, being open to conversations, and accepting offers to spend time together, but there was, quite obviously, a problem with the sort of men I was meeting as I was attracting exactly the sort I don’t want instead of those I do.

I’m sure you’re thinking these men can’t be all that bad and, in an effort to prove the fucked upness I did, indeed, attract man wise, we’ll take each of them case-by-case.

Let’s begin today with The Crazy Cabbie. This might be a long one so settle in and stay a while. Make a cocktail or a hot cup of tea or cocoa with some mini marshmallows. Cozy up in a snuggie or somethin’ and get comfortable.

The Crazy Cabbie

I’d had quite the hectic spring planning a week-long conference for my job. It was to be held at a lavish estate and hotel several cities over and — being in charge of every single detail — I had three large suitcases of business suits and supplies I needed to get to the train station. So, I called my most reliable cab company and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Two hours later I sat staring at the clock, watching the minutes tick closer and closer to a pre-conference dinner meeting the Executive Director had scheduled. I was just about to call the cab company again with some choice words when a van screeched in front of my apartment and honked.

I jumped up and lugged my bags out the door, but was stopped by a tall, forty-something-ish man jumping from the driver’s seat. His five o’clock shadow screamed for a good once over with a Gillette and a baseball cap hid a head of salt and pepper hair he looked as if he just decided he didn’t have time to comb that day.

“Go ahead and hop in. I’ve got them,” he said with a cheerful smile on his face.

Twenty minutes and several miles down the road the look of displeasure had begun to lift from my face as we engaged me in some friendly chit chat. He noted my frazzled nature and apologized for the lateness of his company’s response.

“Where are you headed?” he asked.

“Oh, I’ve got this thing….. an event I’m organizing for my company for a few days.”

He’d done it; he’d loosened me up and gotten me to forgive and forget the lateness. We started talking about our jobs and the flexibility of them, something we shared in common and found important in our working lives.

“I gave up a pretty successful marketing job to drive a cab,” he said. “I know it sounds crazy, but I like the ability to make my own schedule and work when I want, not when I’m dictated. I like being my own boss and living my life on my own terms. I needed that sort of change to feel whole and happy again after my wife died.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “How long were you married?”

“Thanks. That’s sweet of you. Ten years,” he said as he raised his eyes to his rear view mirror and caught my gaze.

We chatted on and on the rest of the drive about the usual shit cabbies and clients talk about when locked in a car together. The weather’s been nice lately, hasn’t it? Look at that stupid driver making a lane change with no signal. This freeway is always backed up, especially at rush hour. What do you think is the quickest way to the train station?  You look stunning and your smile is beautiful.

Wait. What? Whoa!

Cabbie man had taken the conversation in another direction! I’ve been flirted with (badly) enough to know when I was being flirted with (badly). I smiled politely and did my best to avert widowed cabbie man’s attention back to the road and off  me.

As we pulled into the train station, I saw my train pulling up.  Cabbie man jumped out and began to unload my bags, but I watched in frustration as the doors closed and it began to pull away.  I’d have to wait an hour for another and risk being late to my dinner meeting.

“Not necessarily,” Cabbie man said. “I could just drive you there.”

“How much would that cost?” I asked, wondering how stupid a two hour long cab ride would like as a travel expense.

“Twenty dollars and…” he trailed off. “Dinner after you return?” 

You gotta hand it to him. He handled that well, making it clear he was willing to lose income in order to spend more time with the frazzled female in his cab who’d caught his attention. I wasn’t quite sure if I wanted to accept the date, but one thing I do know how to accept is a mother fuckin’ bargain.

“Well, giddy up, my good man!” I said with a hand gesture and he hopped back behind the diver’s seat and we were on our way.

He was chatty and amusing in a kooky sorta way, which I generally am, but, as my brain was in business mode my mood didn’t quite match his. Still, he made me chuckle several times and I began to silently and seriously consider his dinner invitation. I thought he’d forget as we pulled up to the estate, but, lo and behold, after he’d walked my luggage to the main steps and shut the door behind me he pulled a business card from his wallet and smiled all cheesy at me.

“I’d love it if you gave me a call after when you get back. Sushi? Steak?”

Shit.

“Sure,” I said.

I mean, for goodness sake, the man just drove me two hours for only twenty dollars. I owe him the reimbursement of my fabulous company over dinner and a cocktail. Plus, I was learning to keep my options open. I can’t rightly give up on dating if I don’t ever give it a shot.

A week and some odd days later I found my way to a small bar Cabbie Man had picked for us to meet. I’d called him a couple of days after I returned home. I’d been speaking to another man who’d kept putting off our second date and, getting the feeling he was keeping me on a hook, decided to give my Saturday night to someone who actually showed interest in seeing me again.

I looked around, but didn’t see him.

“Hope!” he shouted from a booth at the back.

This man was not the man who’d driven me a hundred miles out of his way. This man was clean shaven, with his slightly thinning hair slicked back in an effort to look dapper.

Let’s take a minute here to pause and enter a disclaimer: Ladies, before you accept a date, make a mother fucker take off his hat. I’ve fallen for this a couple of times. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on you and that big ass, shiny dome you’re trying to hide. Unless you’re sportin’ looks like Corey Stoll or Jason Statham you bald dudes better make damned sure you stop asking chics out while wearing baseball caps or posting photos where you’re wearing a fedora in your OkCupid profile. That’s just damned near catfishin’ a bitch.

Let’s continue…

I walked to the booth and took a seat. We hugged hello and he asked what I’d like to drink. After heading to the bar and buying me a cocktail we had a little ‘hey how ya doin’, you look nice, good to see you again’ chit chat. He was clearly a regular at the bar because, just as I was getting comfortable, an older, squat-looking gentleman of about fifty walked up to our table, took a seat and introduced himself as Cabbie Man’s friend. He stayed and chatted with us about twenty minutes which, honestly, I didn’t mind too much because I’m a bit of a people person when I’m in the mood for it.

After his friend bid us adieu Cabbie Man and I attempted some get to know you chit chat. I say attempted because he, oddly, kept getting distracted the shiny gold bracelets I wore on my left wrist. When I spoke, and waved my arms, his eyes would focus on my wrists, reaching out every now and again to touch them like a distracted cat.

“Um, am I going to have to take them off?” I asked.

“Oh, no, no.” he mumbled. “They’re just so sparkly. And that noise they make…”

Sliding my arm behind my back I opted to use only my unadorned one to gesture emphatically when speaking, as I do,  in order to keep what little of his attention I seemed  to have.

“So, do you see something here?” he asked.

“Where?” I asked, looking around.

“Here, with us. I mean, this.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know you. Isn’t that why we’re here? To get to know each other.”

“Well, yea. You were just so pretty and funny and smart the other day when I picked you up. You had this frazzled way about you that I found attractive and funny. I just knew I wanted to know you more. Could you see it? Us? Together?”

“Well, ok, ya, but I’d have to get to know you before I can say yes to that. So, you know, let’s have fun tonight and get to know one anot – -”

I lost him again. I was gesturing with both hands and my bracelets had caught his gaze. He reached for them again.

“The jingle jangle was just too much for ya, was it?”

He laughed. “You’re just so hilarious, Hope. So,are you scared? I mean, do you like me? Just say it if you don’t. I mean, I’m really a nice guy. I’ve just looked a long time for a really nice girl and you just made me feel so great the other day. I could see us together. Can’t you? If you’re trying to be nice, you don’t have to be.”

I stared. I mean, what is one supposed to say when they’re being date attacked in such a way? Is this a thing? Dudes date attacking you all up in your face:

BE IN A MOTHER FUCKING RELATIONSHIP WITH ME BECAUSE I’M REALLY NICE GAWDAMNIT!!

After several minutes (and several sips of my drink because I needed it) he smiles brightly and says, “I brought you a gift.”

Cool, I thought to myself. He’s gonna redeem his creepiness by straightening up and giving a girl some flowers. I looked around excitedly. He bent and pulled a bag from beneath the table, rifling through momentarily and pulling from it a balled up piece of purple, lacy fabric. My face cringed.

“What is that?” I asked.

“It’s a bra. I won it.”

Ya, I wasn’ t gonna ask where it won it from. I didn’t really care to know what sorta backwoods adventure parks giving away bras as consolation prizes this seemed to spend his time.

“It says one size. I hoped it would fit you because, well, you know…” he said as he looked down at my considerably sized chest area.

I nodded, letting my eyes lower to the floor. Purely out of curiosity I reached my (non-jewelry adorned arm) out to touch the bra. I really wanted to see if there was some size-unconscious manufacturer creating One Size Fits All bras. I flicked the label and saw the sizing. Indeed, there is.

“Hey,” he asked enthusiastically. “Do you think… um, you know, when we’re together, I can suck on your toes?”

YES! HE ASKED ME THIS! IN PUBLIC!

I reached my hand slowly for the glass in front of him, picked it up, peered inside, lifted it to my nose and sniffed.

“You’re so cute. I’ve only been drinking beer, silly! Why?” he asked.

Did this man just ask me why after he asked a woman if he can suck her toes… in public… where people can hear the conversation and look over at me like I’m a dumbass for sitting in a booth with this man?

He laughed. “No, seriously. I’m a really good guy and, you know, you’re single and awesome. I don’t see why something like this couldn’t work. Unless, you have, like, herpes or something. Wait, do you have herpes?”

YES! HE ASKED ME THIS! IN PUBLIC!

Cocking my head to the side slowly, I asked, “You say you were married, yes?”

“Yea.”

“Baffling,” I muttered quietly. I truly do not get how I’m single a decade and mother fuckers like this just get all married and stuff like it’s, you know, normal or right or sane.

“So, you want to go get dinner somewhere?”

“Ya know, I’m going to get dinner, but I think I’m just going to grab something quick and head on home.”

“I don’t see why you’re being so standoffish and mean. I’m a really good guy.”

“Yes, you said that.”

“…and this could really be something.”

“Yes, you said that.”

He kept on and on with his reasoning, but I was ready to make my escape. I lifted my arm and jangled my wrist. His eyes caught the glow of my bracelet, the sound easing him into a mystified silence. I’d sufficiently hypnotized him enough to grab my jacket and purse and slip from the booth with a polite, “Thanks for the invite. Have a good night.”

He followed me several blocks, at first pleading and then, finally, assaulting me verbally for ending our evening abruptly.  By the time I made it home I’d realized the traits I had recognized as humor, kookiness and friendly chattiness were actually severe cases of adult attention deficit hyperactivity and mental disorders.

Over time, I realized the reason I had attracted Crazy Cabbie Man, noting the one characteristic he continually mentioned being attracted to was how “frazzled” I seemed to be while running late for my conference.

Now, using the Law of Attraction means I should sit and write a list of attributes in a man I would like to be with rather than just saying to myself  ”I don’t want to date crazy dudes.”  Make him as real, in my mind, as I possibly can. Imagine him beside me. Make him as much as a reality in my own mind as I possibly can. List his characteristics, his looks, his demeanor.

Type of Man for Hope Leslie Single:

• 37-50 years of age
• Gainfully employed
• An unshared home or apartment
• Well-written and well-spoken
• Artistic/Creative
• Humorous
• Honest
• Mentally Stable and won’t shove me in a well and tell me to put the lotion on my skin

Strange to think mentally stable should be among the list of attributes. It should just be, sorta, a given, but, I’ve learned from my interaction with Crazy Cabbie man, it’s probably pretty important to include. The man for me should be amusing, chatty and kooky in an entertaining way, not a “I’ll strangle you in your sleep, bitch!” sort of way.

Going forward I’ll most certainly keep in mind the things I look for in a man, being sure to give off those same attributes myself, paying close attention to the mood I am emitting when approached by a man.

Several weeks after my unfortunate meet-up with Crazy Cabbie Man I took a cab home from an event. I, again, got a discount cuz I’m cute like that and engaged in friendly chit chat with the driver. As I exited the car he said, “I’ll wait here until you’re inside, just to be sure you’re safe.

As I slid my key into the lock, I heard him shout from his open window, “Say, you’re really pretty and nice. Would you wanna get together sometime?”

I ducked inside, quickly, and locked the door behind me.

“I didn’t,” I replied. “It’s mine.”

 What is a vagatical?

A vagatical is, obviously  a vaginal sabbatical. It’s what you go on when you’ve been absolutely worn thin of emotionless sexual escapades with men whose names, or penises for that matter, you barely remember. I started to listen to my body when it began to fiercely communicate to me that I felt nothing when in the act. I had become numb to sex, hating the feeling during and immediately regretting the act after.

At one point I actually asked a man to remove his body from mine, dress and leave. He laughed and said, “You’re so funny.” Problem is, I wasn’t being funny.

Perhaps Rushmore had a bit to do with what had begun to happen within me. After ten years of loveless/emotionless sex (or sex within which I wasn’t allowed to express love or emotion because of unrequited feelings from my sexual partner), the act was suddenly filled with a tiny bit of emotion. It was no longer just a physical act I did with some guy with an emotional wall or unwillingness to see me as anything more than brief sexual satisfaction. Rushmore and I sorta kinda fell in love with one another and the physical intimacy with which we communicated those feelings was an unidentifiable activity with which I had to familiarize myself.

After he left on his year-long overseas trip, I couldn’t see myself returning to anything less the sort of physical intimacy we’d shared. I ignored this conclusion for a while, attempting to live out my Sex and the City Samantha fantasies for once in my life — believing myself free-thinking and flirty enough a single woman to just have fun until someone offering something more presented himself. That didn’t work for long, as I had to realize I’m years past the ability to engage in anything casual and that’s precisely the problem with being a woman as single as I have been in a vast dating pool filled with offers of casual coffee and companionship cunnilingus from Friend with Benefits Fellas and Maybe More Men. Seriously, this is a thing now. Dudes just casually offer to go down on you over a coffee date or an email. That’s when I locked it up and sent my vagina on sabbatical.

I’ve been on vagatical now for seven months.  My vagatical goal is one year, perhaps more; my overall goal being to stay on vagatical until a man presents me me with the option (or the very real possibility) of a committed, monogamous relationship that isn’t defined by any type of air quotes. Being that hasn’t happened in ten years, I may be setting myself up for long-term chastity, but at this point it’s a welcome rest and relief from anything of a sexual nature.

The sexual world of the single female can be an exhausting one filled with the aforementioned Friend with Benefits Fellas, Maybe More Men and Oral Friendship Offers (THIS REALLY IS A FLIPPIN’ THING NOW!) seeking to withdraw more from a woman sexually than they’re willing to invest emotionally. More on these men in a later post, but the revolving door of lick and dick offers a single girl  must wade through in order to just go on a nice dinner or movie date should be discussed.

In a year’s time a single girl can be with a vast number of men.  Now, I ‘m not one to accept any sort of slut shaming. It’s not like I haven’t shamed a slut or two in my time. It’s not like I haven’t been a slut in my time. As my awakening feminism grows, I’m adamant a woman has every right — as much as any man — to get it on with as many people as she desires without feeling as if her value as a potential partner is diminished. Get it on, girl. Run a train. Do your thing.You are still woman and still valuable to someone as a potential wife or life partner.

However, having an active sex life doesn’t necessarily mean you:

1. Have a satisfying sex life. It can be exhausting to constantly wade through and identify worthy and satisfying partners.
2. Have a consistent sex life. Most casual sexual relationships are physically unsatisfying because of the lack of emotion involved and end quickly.

Having an active sex life as a single girl really only means you get to have sex, most of the time incredibly inconsistently. Say, you meet a man in February. You have sex once or twice with said man. Due to the lack of physical and/or emotional chemistry one or both of you decide never to contact/see the other again and, in a month or two, when you’re is getting the itch again, you go in search of a replacement sexual partner. This act is cyclical and by the time you look up you’ve amassed a hell of a number of partners by the time the year is up.

To avoid this, you really have only three options:

1. Involve yourself in a highly satisfying sexual relationship that risks the chance of becoming emotional due to the release of oxytocin in your system, risking the desire to bond/fall in love and, potentially, experience rejection when your partner does not return your same feelings.
2. Keep one or two men around that you’re sexually satisfied enough with, yet not emotionally attracted to, in order  to take care of your needs
3. Give chastity a go.

Why go on a vagatical?

Having done numbers one and two I decided number three was my last, and final, option for a number of reasons:

•  STDs

I’m not one of those people who’s overly obsessed with a fear of getting an STD. I don’t wrap myself in saran wrap and tell a man he only has a four-inch stretch of skin with which he can touch me. It’s a concern and a worry, like most other things like suddenly losing my hearing or becoming szchizophrenic (don’t act like you don’t have these irrational fears sometimes), but it’s part of the territory when you must constantly sleep with strangers which, when you’re single, every man really is. To even go deeper, I, like about 80% of the population, already have one: HSV 1. And while most people don’t think of HSV 1 as an STD, it most certainly is and can be.

That’s right. If you get cold sores– and that’s 80% of you mother fuckers going around describing yourself as “clean” or “STD-free” — you have a disease that can be sexually transmitted to your sexual partner.

Soooooooooooooooooooooooo, you should probably stop doing that.

Yes, you do not have to actually have an outbreak to pass it along (it’s called asymptomatic shedding — look it people. That girl you went down on last week will thank you for it) and, yes, you can transmit it to more than just your lover’s mouth. This is why I don’t understand people who exclude individuals with HSV from their dating list. Pretty much everyone has it and pretty much everyone can give it to you.  Don’t think because it’s just on people’s lips you’re safe from a lifetime of Valtrex prescriptions for your nether regions.

I know, chewing on that little bit of info is probably kinda fucking up your world right now, but that’s the reality being sexually intimate with people.

That said, I found out, in a rather surprising way, someone I was once intimate with had HSV 2, but hadn’t told me and I have a couple of friends who’ve had lovers they eventually discovered had hidden an STD from them. I’ve had STD scares, including a very long and very life-lesson learning scare with HIV, and I’d just rather not have to go through anymore of that. Not to say I won’t avoid this situation if I ever enter into a committed relationship. People sometimes cheat. People sometimes lie. People sometimes expose their partners to STDs by cheating and lying, but if I can make the conscious choice to avoid STDs by being on vagatical until I am in or headed to being in a relationship with someone, I think that’s a good plan.

I’m also tired of “the talk.” Yes, I have the talk, every single time. I do so out of my own sexual responsibility. I’ve found men I attempt to engage in the conversation unaware and uncaring of the specifics of STD health and shrug their own status off as “Yea, I’ve had cold sores my whole life, but never thought it was something I needed to tell a girl before I have sex with her.”

That right there… nope. No thank you. You can keep yourself to yourself.

The ignorance and inconsideration some people have for other people’s sexual health — in order to simply get their rocks off — was something I could no longer abide.  I value, cherish and appreciate my sexual health as it stands at the moment and don’t plan or wish to change it for the worse at anytime. Therefore, sleeping with someone I love and trust — who is honest about and responsible with their own sexual health — is much more appealing to me than someone I barely know,  barely like and who barely feels a responsibility to protect my emotional, physical and mental well-being.

I didn’t really plan to get into a sexual health lesson in this post, but, there you have it.

•  Taking Out the Sexual Garbage

Early last year I began a casual sexual relationship with a guy I met at an event. At first, it was high on the list of some of the best sex I’d ever had. A month later, it lessened in enjoyment. By the fourth month, what had been long, enjoyable evenings spent in one another’s sexual company became a call or a text before work and less than one minute of work on his part.

This is what perturbs me about casual sexual relationships. Sometimes, not all, but sometimes men and women are nothing more than sexual garbage to and for one another: “Let me use you and then throw you away.”

I’ve been sexual garbage and I’ve had sexual garbage, opting to call and visit a man only when I needed something sexual, never caring an iota about them until I needed to use their body again for my own selfish sexual satisfaction. These sorts of relationships have numbed me to the idea of what sex is and  is supposed to be about between two people. I dislike casual relationships now. I absolutely don’t do Friend with Benefits (FWB) situations and when a man seems to be veering in that direction with me I politely inform him I don’t fuck my friends. I don’t even understand people who use this term unless  they’re, like, literally fucking someone they’ve known since high school.  Otherwise, the act of calling or texting someone drunk at 2am in the morning, rolling by their house for a half hour of awkward sex and then not contacting them again for a month or two doesn’t seem very friendly to me.

I know I’m arguing semantics, but the absurdity of the term Friend with Benefits gets under my skin.

I’m well aware men enjoy companionship, seeking relationships that are less than girlfriend, but more than friends in an effort to noncommittally see to their emotional and sexual needs.  I just got to a point I couldn’t allow either my person or my privates to be casually used in such a way.

I’ve learned to avoid such potentially implosive relationships by choosing to remove casual sex from my life. I thought it would be difficult. I thought I’d have withdrawals like an addict. I thought I’d miss it. As an adult, I enjoy being sensual and sexual just as much (and probably more) than anyone else, but there comes a point a decade of sex with nothing more to it  becomes an awfully empty endeavor.

• Improving My Focus

I have a tendency to become obsessed with things. For instance, I don’t just watch one episode of a television show, I take a week out of my life to binge watch every episode of every season, read about the production and research every writer and producer involved.

That said, did you know Alex Borstein received a Master’s Degree in Rhetoric from San Francisco State University?

Sex is the same way. The hunt for and engagement in sex can be a downright obsessive endeavor. Like anything else we want or need, the search to find it and feel the satisfaction it brings can become a huge focus in our lives. I have way too much to do to spend hours of my life searching for and communicating back and forth with a potential sex partner I’ll, more than likely, never see after a month or two.

Replacing my focus on my career and my creative life has given me an emotional contentment I’ve never had before and goals has thrilled me more than casual sex ever has.

• Increase Emotional Value

Rushmore and I recently engaged in an intense email discussion after I communicated my displeasure of his unfortunate misspelling of my name. My response of “Once you’ve been inside a woman, it’s probably best to remember her name” didn’t hit him so well and along with deeming it an inappropriate response (I’m not sure who he thought he was seeing. I’ve never been appropriate a day in my fucking life), he was disheartened to think I thought the only pleasure he derived of my company was physical.

I hadn’t necessarily said that, but what he said presented a question my vagatical will now prove upon his less than a month away return to the States.  Being a man in the midst of a divorce, with no desire for a committed future with any woman at the moment, my vagatical couldn’t have come at a better time; allowing me to strengthen our platonic relationship and avoid any unrequited feelings that could arise should we return to the physically intense and emotionally intimate relationship we had prior to his trip. He was, of course, disappointed our sexual relationship would end, but accepting of my wishes, well wishing and hopeful my vagatical would bring me the emotional opportunity I desired by saving the most precious of the gift I give to a man for someone willing to be more than a just a buddy.

I seek to increase the emotional value of men in my life (and vice versa) by stripping away the sexual part that ends up overwhelming the relationship as a whole. It’s important for men to understand they need to serve as more than just a sexual solution, since most of the ones I meet in the dating zone are anything but. They’re the sexual problem.

I am determined to increase and improve the value of men in my world. They will need to support my endeavors, offer emotional connection, give platonic companionship, willingly engage in open — and even difficult — conversation, give support in emotionally challenging times and, the most important, do all of this without an expected trade off of sexual gratification.

A tall order, but I have faith it can happen.

Overall, my vagatical has allowed my self-esteem to improve, my self-worth to increase and my creative focus to sky rocket. My commitment to guarding my body and protecting my heart has communicated my desire to spend time with more than just Friends with Benefits Fellas and Maybe More Men.  Making it crystal clear the privilege of my intimate attention comes with commitment,  adoration, affection and love keeps men unwilling to give more than, literally, just a fucking friendship far, far away from me.

Men offering anything less are more than welcome to go take the sexual time of another woman. I just don’t have that sort of time left to give.

Evidently, a couple days later, he was still thinking about my profile and wanted me to know. Either that or force a response from me. He really seems to want to let me know he plans to find me when (and he’s not quite sure about this still, it seems) when and/or if he comes back to California.

Ok, dude. That’s um… good to know.  Again.  I guess.

I guess it’s a good thing to let a woman know she’s about to be stalked. Or, already is being stalked.

I’m exaggerating. I get, like, six.

That time, I didn’t exaggerate.

Can a bitch just write a paragraph? Yes, she can. This isn’t it.

There are so many things above, I can’t even…. I won’t even make mention of the word he missed. The fact he didn’t feel it was important to include doesn’t give it enough value to pontificate upon.

I’ve had to ease up on my opinion of folks who misuse “your” in place of “you’re”, because many people I know and care for do it, but I’ll never, ABSOLUTELY NEVER, EVER understand it. I mean, I’m not one to judge; I misunderstood the correct use of effect/affect for years and avoided using them until I properly understood how. I’m sure I still fuck it up and I’m sure I still look like a dumbass every time I do. So, I’ve chilled out about errors such as: your/you’re, there/they’re/their, and quite/quiet. It happens and, should people be too lazy to learn better, I’m too lazy to have a fit about it.

I still can’t see myself dating someone who doesn’t know the difference. I had a musician friend once tell me I was picky and, perhaps, not quite ready for a serious relationship if I was so quick to count out potential partners for such a thing.

Now, you know some folks. Click their Facebook account to “In a Relationship” or place  a wedding band on their finger and they’re prepared to start dolling out unsolicited advice and insight to their single friends like they’re Dear Abby. The fact I was in a five-year relationship — in which we lived together — when I met this mother trucker aside, I expressed wonder on how much he would have been keen to date his now-wife had she expressed an ignorance of or hatred for the musical instrument he’s committed his life to playing, perfecting and teaching; the one that puts food on their table and a roof over their head. He got the point right quick and understood my abhorrence and aversion to dating any one who doesn’t understand the difference between second person possessive adjectives and contractions followed by present participles.

At first, the mention of  “A couple of pounds” in this message made me wonder if I’d mentioned British currency in my profile. What the fuck was that even supposed to mean? Then, I figured it out.

I should mention I don’t actually have an image posted on the site. I’d thought I’d removed every dating account I had last spring so I was surprised to even receive this message, but I do recall removing photos to go a bit undercover without removing the profile on the whole.  So, I can only assume he focused on the “Full Figured” description in my profile and thought it a good idea to mention.

On one hand, I’m flattered my words communicated the unique sort of woman I believe myself to be and he didn’t need a photo to feel and express interest. He noted I’m not the average sort of woman and that I am really into music. That’s nice. On the other hand, even without a photo, his concern was my body and I’m regularly leery of men who make mention of or focus on it.

Men are visual. Men objectify. Men say stupid shit about stupid shit women are sensitive about. That’s just simply the world we live in. I get that, but it baffles me when men feel weight, height, race or body parts are proper conversation points for first interaction.

My favorite is the regularly used, “I’m really into big girls. We should get to know each other.” 

That’s great.

“I’m really into short, pudgy, balding dudes. We should get to know each other.”

See how that works?

I take messages like these like I take men who circle me like vultures on the street and comment on how big my ass is and wonder if they can, “Holla at me a second and get dem digits.”

No. No, you may not.

I won’t even go into the fact he’s almost 60 years old. Old man gotta try. I can’t hate on him for that. And while his offer to buy me a bright red snow-cone was, ugh… nice I’m fascinated by it being, “Whenever he gets back to the Bay Area…”. Not “When I get back to the Bay Area…”. Not, “Next month, when I return…”, but “Whenever”.

Ok, then. Good to know. I won’t go placing that date to get that red snow-cone in my calendar anytime soon.

If it matters, no, I didn’t reply. I deleted his message. The reason? His age and his location. That’s it. Missing words, improper grammar and  objectification aside, he read my profile and really appreciate the words I wrote. He noticed how special I am and that is worthy of my time, every single time.

There’s a lot going on these days, strangely for a woman who rarely leaves the house for anything other than work and spends her free time sitting around watching television shows and movies. I suppose the most important thing to mention is a trip to the hospital following some of the worry I expressed in this post. I hadn’t been able to stomach a meal for about a week and, after a night of chills, aches and a bunch of other stuff that’s just plain too nasty to mention I headed my butt on into the ER.

I assumed an ultrasound for gallstones would produce an enlarged gallbladder — you know, the large mass of WRF?! I’d been feeling in my abdomen for quite some time. I was surprised to find out the results had shown a perfectly healthy gallbladder and that I was more than likely just suffering a mild case of food poisoning, but the ultrasound, and a even more detailed CT scan ordered after some “abnormal” results, showed several large tumors, one of which is crushing my digestive organs.

“Bitch, we gon’ have to get yo ass upstairs and admitted right quick cuz you ’bouts to die!” said my Nurse Practitioner.

That’s not really what she said or how she said it, but that’s what I heard.

I attempted to collect myself as the staff prepared a room in the hospital for my admittance. I called and texted The Crew, doing my best to keep it to the facts I knew and not go all dramatic and shit on them. This was the time to break the fuck down. I had shit to get through and crying and fussing wasn’t going to help. We’ll save all that for after we figure out what’s going on.So, I locked up all the anxiety, gave the nurse the “You better get out of my face with all of that” eye  when she rubbed my back and urged me to, ”Let it out and cry if you want.”

In the back of my mind, the jokes I’d made about my mass being “my cancer” felt as if they were coming back to bite me in the ass.

I have to give it to The Crew.  My core. My peeps. Mother fuckers mother fuckin’ rallied. My best friend, too distraught to even deal with the thought of me riddled with cancer, left work early, eager to pick up anything I needed at my apartment (including my teddy bear) and head to the hospital. Mr. McPoopytooth offered to pick up my mother and sister. Though the sentiment was appreciated, I was adamant I didn’t want my mother to be told where I was or what was going on. My sister, now living with my mother, and not knowing a damned thing about fixing a car, was ready to pop the hood of my father’s non-working one to get to me in the hospital. And, my friend, for whom I sing back-up — and the wonderful soul who got herself up and out of the house at 7:30 am to drive me to the ER — let me know she’d be up in the hospital every free minute she had if necessary.

It’s funny how I was worrying so much about not having a boyfriend or a husband to offer emotional support through a tough time. These people prove to me I don’t need one.

I can’t really explain what went through my mind during this time. It was the longest and loneliest two hours of my life. Time slowed to a snail’s pace and so many different moments of my life — some I’d never thought upon before — came to mind: What would have happened if I’d gone to Julliard? Why didn’t I have that extra helping of strawberry jam on that scone? What would have happened between that lanky dude with the lazy eye had I allowed him to kiss me? Will I get to finish season 3 of Louie?  What if I’m placed in a room with some elderly person who likes to watch the new Family Feud with Steve Harvey and JAG, The Pretender, CSI: Miami and The Closer reruns? Why do old people watch crap? Why does Steve Harvey have such elderly White people crossover appeal? What do they think about his pimp suits?

After several hours of worry, sadness, disbelief, fear and all that other stuff that comes with not knowing what the fuck is going on in your body, the radiologist diagnosed me as having fibroids.

Well, ok then… that’s good to know. Not cancer. That’s cool. The adulation I felt learning I wasn’t riddled with cancer quickly turned to concern when I realized I’d more than likely have to have a hysterectomy. Like, Yay, I don’t have cancer. Awwww, I can’t have kids.

It’s hard to explain the feelings I’ve experienced the past week or so and, because I’m such a television addict, I immediately compared my feelings to that of Robin Scherbatsky when she learned she couldn’t have kids, although she had been very vocal about never wanting any.

Now, that fantasy is simply that; a fantasy, and I’ve have a strange, and unexpected, emotional response to it.

I’m not ridiculously heartbroken over this prognosis or anything.  I still have follow-up appointments to discuss options, but something about all this has been biting at  me for days. Everywhere I look now people are posting baby photos and talking about their babies and are talking to babies. I’ve been grossly blind to all of this stuff before. Now, it’s they’re everywhere. Seriously, did you guys know babies and kids and stuff are, like EVERYWHERE?! What the fuck is that about?

I got on the train this morning and some dude was talking to his kid… on the phone. Like, literally, holding a conversation with his spawn like it, I don’t know, had stuff to say,

“Did you eat your oatmeal this morning? Did you get your shoes on all by yourself? Can you see the rain outside the window? Really. You want macaroni and cheese for dinner?”

C’mon dude. Really?  What’s this? Micro-parenting?

I just can’t understand shit like this. Personally, I don’t understand any conversation, with anyone, that takes place prior to 7:30 am in the morning. You didn’t have this conversation before you walked out the door? This can’t wait until you get home? It’s important to have this conversation now? On a loud and busy train? All up in my ear socket?  Ya’ll better work out Twitter accounts or something for these sorts of updates. Some of us like quiet on the way to work and your conversation about what number The Count went up to this morning on Sesame Street is sorely disturbing mine.

And… now you know why it’s never really been in my plans to be a parent.

Still, the ability to experience pregnancy, should I change my mind and choose to at some point,  being taken away from me is affecting me in a way I never thought it would. Not detrimentally, but the sobering reality of it all has been tickling my brain in an annoying fashion. I’ve lost the chance to experience so many of the typical things a woman can (and desires to) in life like being taken to prom and having my father walk me down the aisle at my wedding. I feel a little cheated as a woman sometimes and I’m sure it’s lended to the sadness that’s lived within me. Not to mention these tumors the size of volleyballs I’ve been carrying around. Good gracious, now I understand the roller coaster of emotions I tend to go through from time-to-time.

With the mess I learned that’s going on in my lady plumbing, I may be near to damned infertile anyways. So, again, it’s really not all that big a deal. But, it’s still a deal and something I’ll have to accept, resolve and move on from like all other things. I should be ok with that process, though. I got My Crew and they’re some bad ass mofos who’ll bring a girl her teddy bear so she can cuddle it all out if she needs.