Venting

It would seem that lately, I've been suppressing some feelings. Outwardly, I'm expressing frustration at my circumstances. However, for fear of  being dramatic, I've been containing the rest. This is not okay with me. Historically, holding back my emotions has resulted in worse turmoil then letting it out. 

Discussing it, releases me of the negativity.  I feel better once I've complained. I no longer carry it around, as it expands inside me. This is especially true for things that I know don't matter, and that's the point. Why let it fester inside of me? Why let a little thing grow?

This emotional load I've been bearing is one of these things. It doesn't matter. In the grand scheme of things, it's miniscule. In the end, I know where I'm going, and not much will change that. However, I'm here now, and I need to deal with it.

I'm a careful person. I plan and prepare in order to set up best case scenarios. That makes it especially aggravating, when it doesn't work. When I squeeze every ounce of myself out, to make sure my decision is supportive for all those it effects, only to learn it was pointless, it makes me want to scream. I feel jaded, unappreciated, and bitter.

Don't feel the need to console, commiserate, or empathize. I don't want any of that. Nor should you tell me to get over it. That's just what I'm trying to do. I know that this issue, like all others, shall pass. I'll get over it. In time, I'll forget I ever felt this way. But for right now, I'm getting this toxic time bomb out of my mind before it explodes.

My Own Personal Undertoad

There's something that happens to young skiers as they learn to descend a mountainside on the planks attached to their feet.

They fall down.

A lot.

Sometimes they fall because they are new to the sport, and they have yet to master it. Sometimes they fall because they are relatively new to the world, and are still rather clumsy.  Other times the snow is sticky, or hard, or the hill is uncharacteristically bumpy.  Then, there's the inexplicable fall.  This occurs when everything is going great.  You're on your skis. You're making all the right turns. Conditions are good. You feel like a pro. When all of a sudden....Bam! Yard sale. You're ear deep in a mound of powder, one of your skis is twisted beneath your legs, and the other one is 2 feet up the hill between you and your poles.

As a child, I found this type of fall especially troubling. See, I hate falling. I hate it so much, that I rarely took risks on the hill.  Sure, I could get up a good speed, and do relatively well on the more advanced runs. However, if I perceived even the slightest loss of control, I'd pull back.

So, as you can imagine, it was particularly hard for me to cope with falling when I felt that I was completely in control. "I don't know what happened?" I'd cry. I didn't understand, and that was aggravating.

However, my parents, in their infinite wisdom, always had the answer: It was snow snakes.

According to them, snow snakes were just that: snakes, that live in the snow.  They lived where it was cold. Slithering around within ice patches, and freshly frosted hillsides. I couldn't see them because they were white, and dwell within the snow. But nevertheless, snow snakes were there.  They were mischievous little creatures that found amusement in gliding beneath the skis of inexperienced humans. As my parents explained, snow snakes liked to trip people.

I can't even explain to you how much I latched on to this explanation. In my youthful eyes, snow snakes were real.  They had to be! Why else would I fall over?  I went so far as to look for them when I rode the chair lift, or sat at the bottom of the hill contemplating the next run.  I never saw any, but I always knew they were out there. Waiting to get me when I least expected it.

As an adult, I reflect on this memory and I'm not amused by my innocent acceptance of this inane theory. I'm blown away at how unknowingly accurate I was.

Snow snakes are absolutely real. They are out there, invisible to the human eye, and waiting for the perfect moment to trip you when you least expect it.  However, my parents were misinformed about one thing. Snow snakes live in every climate.

Mom's Turn

There are very few good pictures of me and my mom. This surprises me. I spend a great deal of time with her. She's an amazing person.

When I think of my her, I think of my youth. I remember being carried at bike races. I recall resting my head against her chest, and listening to her voice as she bellowed about incorrect number placement or announced the on-deck rider without a megaphone. The sound was loud, but for me it was reassuring. No matter what was going on, my mom would pick me up if I needed it.

My mom is always trying to make things easier on me. She's there to assist me, whether I need it or not. I know I can call her for anything, whether it's what aisle the Texas Toast is in, or how to do my taxes. She listens when I complain about things that don't matter, and she indulges my dork-moments.

There are times when I wish I could shrink back into my 5-year old body, and crawl into her arms, because I know she'd make the bad world go away for a little bit. I'd listen to her voice echo in her chest, and know that everything will be alright. I think letting go of my mom's hand is the part of growing up that's been hardest for me.

She's the first person I think of whenever I need help, and I'm most excited to share my stories with her. She's my greatest advocate, and I'd be lost without her.

Essay on my Father

As we once were.

My dad regularly mourns the loss of his children.

This is not to say that I have siblings who have passed. My father simply explains child rearing as akin to making a friend who slowly dies.

That sounds exceptionally bleak. Maybe it is. Maybe I don't fully understand. What I think is: my dad thoroughly enjoyed raising the three of us. We were fun little kids to have around. And while he loves us individually as adults, we no longer are who we once were.  Sometimes I feel bad about that. I worry that my inevitable maturation is distressing for him.

Then, I reflect on the times we spend together, and marvel at our conversations. I'm amused by our mutual sense of humor, and I appreciate my ability to understand him on a new, more grown up, level.


It's pretty cool that we get two chances to develop a relationship, and learn about one another in entirely different ways.

Dad and I after a ceremony symbolizing my entry into adulthood.

My Anonymous Childhood Boyfriend

I used to believe that there was one person for everyone. This was not so much a hopeless romantic thought as it is an innocent yet irrational child pondering.

When I was little, I honestly believed that people were somehow assigned to one another by a higher power (FYI: I'm not religious at all). I used to think that there was a boy out there that was literally my counterpart. To me, this meant that a young man existed, somewhere in the world, who was exactly like me. Not only did this boy think like me, act like me, and want the same things as I did, but we had simultaneous actions.

I gave this a great deal of thought. From early on, I have memories of exploring parks while my parents participated in a bike race. As I climbed trees, spun on the merry-go-round, and pumped my legs in the swings I envisioned that somewhere, someone special was doing the same thing. Sometimes I'd argue with my brother, and then run to my room. Once there, I'd console myself with the idea that someone knew how I felt because he had just fought with his brother (or would it be sister?). Also, I would harbor immature amusement, and then subsequent bewilderment at the idea that he used the restroom at the same time as I did.

I no longer think this particular man exists. He's not out there writing a blog contemplating my existence. Nor, do I believe that people are arbitrarily assigned to one another by some magical power. However, I do think some people are meant to be together. Those connections present themselves differently, and at different times, but they are always clear.

Bookmarked and Waiting for the Next Chapter

Location: Bedroom
Mood: Benign

I think a lot about relationships in all their various forms. This often starts with me pondering the various intricacies that make up a particular connection in my life, be it a bond between myself and a family member, an interaction with an acquaintance, or the dynamic I have developed with a client. Recently, these pondering have routinely turned to one of two subjects:

My romantic relationships, or my relationship with myself.

Lately, I find that one begets another. It seems that I've reached some kind of interpersonal stalemate.  I have been single for the last two years, and this time has been incredibly valuable to me. It seems weird to say so, but I had no idea how much I didn't know about myself. Don't get me wrong, I'm in no way saying that any of my previous relationships have kept me from learning about myself. However, they've definitely served as a distraction from me and my own world.

I think that everything about me is somewhat contradictory. For example, I'm pretty neurotic, and relatively insecure. In contrast, I'm comfortable in my insecurity, and I find most of my neurosis empowering. I'm able to laugh about myself, and accept teasing or criticism in most instances. In fact, I often invite it as an opportunity to connect with others.

In the past, I allowed myself to become distracted by romantic relationships. This effectively kept me from embracing who I am, and it was easier that way.  I couldn't describe why I was the way I was, because the opposing aspects of my personality were confusing and stressful. Instead, I unknowingly ignored it. Thinking I knew who I was, I forged on with external relationships, before cultivating the one that is the most important and will stay with me for my entire life. I don't think this was unhealthy, but I do think it set me back in creating a future for myself.

In the last two years, I've had the time to get to know myself in a way I never really did. I've acknowledged the enigmatic aspects of my personality. I've embraced the parts of me about which I am unsure.  I have developed a trust in who I am, and what I am capable of. I find solace in my introspection, and enjoy the idiosyncrasies that make me who I am. I'm sassy and sweet. I'm wrecklessly cautious. I'm silly, but serious. I'm gracefully clumsy, and accommodatingly ironic. I'm insightful and entertaining, and I'd have it no other way.

 There are roads I plan to travel, and places I intend to take myself in this journey. I'm prepared to grow, and learn, and laugh, and love. Despite my fears, I'm ready for this life. But, like I said, I've come to a stalemate. I've reached a page break in the story of my life.

I've cultivated my relationship with myself; it is strong and reliable. Which means it's time for me to look outward, and develop other meaningful relationships. One begets another.

Standing Up For Myself

Location: Apartment
Mood: Irritated

I've reached my breaking point. I'm done. I'm tired of dealing with this crap.

What am I talking about? Glad you asked.

It turns out I've surrounded myself with a group of people who are not so great at the whole friendship thing. For awhile, I thought maybe I wasn't trying hard enough to keep contact. So, I turned that up. I made every effort to contact distant friends, and make plans. I called, texted, and wrote, but got minimal response.

Then I thought, maybe I was bailing on my "friends" more than I should. That's when I decided to try a little harder in that department. I started dropping everything whenever they called. This is when I realized something: They don't call me. They are standing me up. They are being flaky and passive aggressive with me.

For this reason, I'm over it. I'm done. I don't care any more. I'm out.

I'm tired of pretending we're friends. Let's call it what it is: We're not really friends.

If we were: You would be calling me too. You would be making an effort as well. You would not be texting me once every 6 months telling me you miss me and we should "hang out soon." You wouldn't be telling me you'd love to hang out if your prior commitment ends early enough. You wouldn't blame it on the 11 miles between us. You wouldn't say "if I wasn't so tired," or "our schedules are just so different." If we were friends I'd hear from you, I'd see you, and I'd know what was going on.

I have a few friends I can rely on. You know who you are, and you know this doesn't apply to you. For everyone else: That's it. I'm done trying to contact you. I'm not going to expend the energy, and ultimately end up alone on my couch because you slept in, or forgot we had plans. I deserve better than that.

Don't get me wrong. I still care about you, and I'd love to see you. However, it's your turn to make it happen. You need to take a second to figure out if you actually want to see me too. If you don't, than this is it. No more. I'm not going to be the reliable one anymore. The ball's in your court. Try stepping up to the plate, and working around my life for a change.

Creep Magnet

Location: Lola's Room
Mood: Bemused

Have I ever talked about the type of men I attract?  I don't think I have.
It's bad.

I tend to attract the creeps. The weirdos. The (for lack of a better descriptor) losers. And, despite my best efforts, I either warrant no attention from the decent guys, or I somehow wind up in an awkward scenario which effectively repels them.

For example, tonight I went dancing with a friend. I wound up dancing with a guy who wasn't going to steal my heart, but he was cute enough, plus he didn't mind making a fool of himself (my biggest turn on). We're having a good time flirting, and comparing dance moves. I'm thinking, "this is alright!"

Meanwhile, there's this creepy middle-aged man with floppy blond hair in a Ryder Strong cut. We have not even had an interaction, but he is circling us, and throwing me awkward compliments like "I love your pants!" or "that shirt is great!" and "oh my god, those shoes!" He's doing this, repeatedly.  In three minutes, he must have complimented my outfit at least four times. I thanked him at first, but then it was uncomfortable. Also, throughout the night, anytime he looked over and saw me there he'd say "Oh hey!" or "it's you!" like we were buddies. So, I used my most powerful tool: I was ignoring it.

I was having a good time dancing with the decently attractive fun guy.

Then, the music gets quieter for a minute and Creepo yells, "hey, hot pants? Where's your husband?!"

Fun Dancer freezes, yells, "you better go find him!"   and runs off, never to be seen again (along with all the other viable options on the dance floor). I'm left, alone with the uncomfortable complimenting man in a crowd of 80s garb.

Seriously?! Is this my life?

Then the Nerves Set In.

Location: Apartment
Mood: Introspective

I'm feeling a bit anxious in the soul and also my chest area.
This happens whenever I make a decision, particularly a big one. It makes it really hard for me to judge if I'm making the right one.
Is my chest fluttering because I'm excited, or am I nervous? It's hard to tell when the decision is not easily made, and has both positive and negative aspects to either choice.

Eligible and Entertaining

At some point in the recent past, I have become a romantic-comedy-inspired stereotype.

Somehow, I have turned into the haplessly single young woman that everyone is concerned about. (This is especially ironic since, from the point I began dating until recently, I have pretty much always been involved in some kind of relationship. I'm attempting to negotiate these very conflicting pieces of my identity.) Unbeknownst to me, I have dispensed this aspect of my life into the universe, and people all around me have begun to reference it in one way or another. 

About a year ago, I began to field variations of the question "So, Mindy do you have a boyfriend?" at an alarmingly high rate. People in all parts of my life have suddenly taken a huge interest in my love life (or lack thereof). I guess it's confusing to others that I'm alone.

I'm most confused by how obvious it is to others. How do they know?! Do I have "desperately unattached" written on my forehead in last night's lipstick? Who chiefed me?!-That's embarrassing.

Any time the above question is asked, it's clear that the interviewer already knows the answer. Any glimmer of positive affect that may be detected is obviously them hoping to be wrong about their assumption. No one is ever surprised by my answer. They feign surprise, and then act all sympathetic like it's genuinely depressing that I'm an independent woman in this day and age. Those closer to me, have begun to offer up their other single friends in an attempt to save us from ourselves.

In the past, I've laughed this off. See, I was raised by someone who made me memorize and recite: "A woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle." As much as I rejected it, the quote stuck in the corner of my psyche, and has shaped my responses to this dating inquisition. I'm sure my father would be proud to know my feelings on the issue are: Haha! I don't care. I am Mindy the Maladroit. I'm endearingly neurotic. I love myself, and that's all that matters...right?

Right?!?

Then, a few months ago, one of my clients noticed it:

     While drawing a picture for me he looked up with his doe-eyes and said "you have a dog at your home Muwinda?"
    "Nope, no dog," I replied.
    He stopped drawing, and scrunched up his five year old face trying to determine exactly what that means. Picture him thinking, how could Teacher Melinda not have a dog? That just doesn't make any sense. Then, his eyes widened, and his mouth relaxed in what was clearly an "a-ha!" moment. "You have a cat," he said matter-of-factly as he returned crayon to paper.
    "No. It's just me at home."
    The kid might as well have said, "aww you poor thing" with the look he gave me. Instead, he responded with a condescending "you need a cat Muwinda." He then proceeded to draw a picture of the two of us playing together in a house with a cat.

"That's me and you at your house, with a cat. You need a cat Muwinda."

As adorable as this story may be, I'm disturbed. What am I doing that a preschooler is sensing my singleness, and attempting to resolve it? Where is this coming from?! How can I fix it?

I'm fine being single. I'm as independent as I need to be. Hell, I'm a fish, and having a bicycle would just be absurd! 

Well, wait a second. How cool would it be to see a fish riding a bicycle? 

 Right?! Not necessary, but totally awesome. Maybe I've been interpreting this quote wrong my whole life.

At this point in my blog writing process, my prophetic iTunes shuffle just started playing Love Train. Dear God! There's theme music now! The universe is obviously trying to communicate something to me.

I had big plans for the end of this entry, but I can't do any better than that. Fine! I give in! I'm comically single, and clearly have the personality of a rom-com heroine! Do what you want with that.

Commence happy ending sequence.