My Favorite Mistake

So you know how when you are single, friends some times tell you that the one you are looking for is probably right in front of you, you just have never thought of him that way.

Well, I always sort of bought into that, except it wasn’t me that needed to open my eyes. It was a friend of mine.

Actually, more of a really good acquaintance.

I met him a few years ago and almost immediately developed a huge crush on him. But I got the sneaking suspicion he didn’t feel the same way. The more we hung out and the more I saw him in action, the more this feeling was confirmed.

But still, I thought, maybe one day. Just like my friends always said. One day we would be hanging out, laughing, drinking and he would realize just how freakin’ fantastic I am and we would live happily ever after.

Then I started to really think about it. Think about what I was waiting for. Think about why I was waiting. Then one night I was on a girl date with a new potential single girlfriend and she introduced me to two of her guy friends and after only one beer and a lot of laughs, her one guy friend couldn’t stop telling me how awesome I am.

What the? He knew me for maybe an hour and he already recognized it. Why was it taking my friend almost five years.

So I decided that I didn’t have a crush on him anymore. After all, I could never really be with someone that thick.

That is until a mutual friend got married. Maybe it was all the wine. Or the beer after. Or the wedding, or the dancing or what it felt like to have his tongue in my mouth -- I guess it doesn’t really matter -- I ended up going home with him.

Of course, because this is me we are talking about, only after I spilled my guts about my secret crush and how I know he didn’t like me and how I sort of really think that sucks and I can’t understand why he doesn’t like me the way I like him.

The next morning, while going over what of the conversation I remembered, I noticed that he never actually said he liked me. He argued my reasoning, and offered possible alternative motives for his actions, but he never said, “Tati, I like you. I’ve liked you for some time.” He never said anything like that.

Instead he kissed me, and I stupidly kissed him back.

As the haze of my hangover cleared, I prepared myself for the worst. I got a Gatorade, snuggled into my hangover couch, turned on my TV and waited for the regret to sink in.

Except, it never came.

The following morning, I tried to force it out. Kept reliving my stupidity over and over again. And still nothing.

I couldn’t help but think, while yes I was drunk, I was honest. I went home with a guy that I liked, and woke up next to a guy I didn’t.

Which was a relief. This time I was really over my crush on him.

So now the only thing I regret is not spending more time flirting with the cute lawyer that was seated at my table at the wedding. Well, that and that my friend’s roommate may or may not have seen me mostly naked.

But when you think about all my neighbors that may or may not have seen me naked over the years because I’m too lazy to bother closing my shades, that isn’t really a big deal either.

Year Four

So, Sunday, my blog turned three and I was too hungover to mark the occasion as I had planned. In fact I was too hungover to do much of anything. Seriously, I was at graduation party in Port Richmond and all I could do was laugh at everything that anyone said to me. At one point my part time husband looked at me and asked if I had a case of the giggles because he knew his friends weren’t that funny.

I had to tell him the truth. It wasn’t a case of the giggles. I was just so out of it I wasn’t capable of comprehending anything so I was laughing, hoping his friends were trying to be funny.

But I had planned to announce a reinvigorated effort to blog more often.

See, once I got tired of blogging about terrible guys, I had a bit of a case of writer’s block.

Actually, that isn’t entirely accurate. I made the decision that I wasn’t going to blog about terrible guys, but then I couldn’t think about what to blog about since my life isn’t all that interesting, and then I started to freak out that without douchy guys in my life, my life isn’t interesting and what the hell does that say about me as a person.

But then I was home and my parent’s were pushing me about babies -- my mother mentioned the words “sperm bank” no less than four times in 24 hours and when I mentioned that it would probably be a lot cheaper for me to just go to the corner bar, pick a guy up, bring him home and let him stick it in me, she thought about this for a minute and responded, “well, you would want him to get tested first.”

She thought about it! She thought I was being serious.

That is when I decided something needs to be done. Not only do I have to make my life worth blogging about, I have to blog it so that my parents can stop thinking my life needs a baby in it.

So, welcome to year number four. I promise there will be lots of blogs, some good stories, and I will try to keep the stories of jerks to a minimum.

Rock Climber

Yes, it has been awhile. Feel free to fill the comments with complaints about what a unreliable blogger I am. I deserve it. But I had a reason (note, I did not say a good reason).

Those of you that follow me on Twitter and/or Facebook know that a month or so ago I declared that I was officially tired of blogging about douchy guys. Not only did it get boring, it started to feel self-defeating. The more I blogged about jerks, the more focused I became on jerks, the more convinced I became that world was filled with nothing but jerks.

And then I met the Rock Climber.

Spoiler alert: I am not involved with the Rock Climber (so, no, I didn’t drop my blog for a guy) nor did anything happen between the Rock Climber and I (well, we did hug, which is sort of a big deal for me), nor will anything happen between us (he’s about 20 and lives in Colorado). You may now continue reading the blog with your lowered expectations.

As you may know, Lana moved to Colorado about two years ago and since she moved has been begging me to come visit her. As soon as I emailed Lana that I booked my trip, she scheduled us to spend one of my days there rock climbing. In case you couldn’t tell from my blog I’m not exactly the rock climbing type. I’m not coordinated, or rugged, or skinny. Still, Lana was really excited about it and so I agreed so long as we could spend the next day at the spa fixing my manicure.

Our guide for the day, Rock Climber, was everything he should be: young, rugged, and cute. He smiled a lot, carried one of those big backpacks with all the pockets and places to store things (and actually used all the pockets and storage), and said “awesome” a lot. I couldn’t have written a better wilderness guide if I wanted to.

Now, I won’t bore you will all the details of the day – there were tears, cuts and scrapes, cheers and lunch – and will just skip to the good part.

It was the last climb of the day and Rock Climber thought we should try to tackle a particularly tough looking rock face. Lana agreed. I scoffed.

The first part of the climb was easy – well easier than I thought it was going to be. As I neared the top, neared Rock Climber, it got harder and I got tired. I couldn’t get my footing, my legs and arms were shaking, I kept slipping and I couldn’t catch my breath. Then I slipped again, this time falling completely off the rock (but not to my death thanks to Rock Climber) which is when I really started to freak out.

Over my heavy breathing and heart palpitations and the voice in my head screaming “this is good enough.” I could hear Rock Climber telling me to “Sit back in my harness. Relax. Breathe. Try putting your foot there.”

I shook my head. “I can’t do this.”

“Look at me.”

I looked up.

“I think you can.”

I honestly think I can say no man has ever looked at me that way before. He wasn’t just saying that; he really believed it. No man has ever believed in me like that.

Sure, I was (or rather, Lana was) paying him to be so supportive. But I can’t imagine holding my fat butt 20 feet off of the ground was a whole lot of fun for him. In fact, I think it probably would have been easier for him to look at me and ask, “You’re really done? Okay, catch your breath and I will ease you down.” Sadly, I’m pretty sure if he were any of my ex-boyfriends that is exactly what he would have done.

But he didn’t. He thought I could do it and as it turns out he was right.

Osama bin Laden is Dead and I Can't Stop Crying

I was awaken late last night to the cheers and chants of my South Philadelphia neighbors. I squeezed my eyes tight and smiled at what I assumed was another victory for the Phillies.

I rolled over, readjusting my pillow, slowly waking up despite my best efforts, thinking, that is an awful lot of cheering for a May victory over the Mets. Had Cliff Lee pitched a perfect game? Would that really be cause for such revelry on a Sunday night?

Then I started to listen to the chants. USA. USA. USA.

An odd chant for a Phillies’ win.

USA. USA. USA. Obama’s Dead.

I shot up. I’m not sure I know anyone that dislikes our president more than my father, and I couldn’t even imagine him taking to the streets to cheer his death. I ran to my window and looked down on a group of young men, walking down the street chanting.

“USA. USA. USA. Osama’s dead.”

Osama?

Holy shit. I ran to my living room, turned on the TV and my computer and grabbed my phone. Twitter had exploded, a very much alive President Obama was addressing the nation, and my sister had sent a text saying “Osama bin Laden is dead.”

I spent the rest of night on my couch, in and out of consciousness, watching the news.
When I woke up sometime after 7 a.m., Matt and Meredith were showing me scenes of celebration that broke out around the nation, including the scene at the previous night’s Phillies-Mets game. While I was relieved to finally see Philly sports fans being covered by the national media for something other than being assholes, the idea of celebrating sat funny with me.

Instead of rejoicing, I started crying.

And while I have finally stopped, I am still fighting back the tears.

Please understand, I was not crying for the death of Osama bin Laden. I am happy that man is dead. I know the world is a better place now that he is gone. But my first instinct was not to run to Broad Street and celebrate.

As I sat there crying, I noticed the faces in the crowd coverage in D.C. were all very young. And the two kids with their big grins standing behind Matt at Ground Zero, were just that – kids; college kids that had driven down from Cornell to celebrate this blow to terrorism.

These kids were barely teenagers 10 years ago. And while I am sure they remember the attacks and were impacted by them, I have to think their experience was very different than those of me and my friends who were all the age these kids are now, 10 years ago.

I was their age when I sat on my bed, with my sister in my tiny apartment in Fairmount, watching a plane fly into one of the World Trade Center towers over and over and over again. Then watching it crumble, over and over and over again.

I was their age when the coverage switched from the streets of New York City to some long forgotten city street in the Middle East where extremists celebrated the deaths of more than 3,000 Americans.

I was their age, working in a bar, when one of my regulars came in, sat down and said, “I just got back from my first World Trade Center funeral.” His first. Because he had several to go. He was also just their age. Like me, he just graduated college and a number of his classmates had taken promising jobs in New York City.

I was their age when two weeks later I was running the Philadelphia Half Marathon. A woman was running in front of me wearing a white t-shirt. In black magic marker she had written "In memory of my son," with his birth date and his death date – September 11, 2001. I cried then too as I picked up my pace because I simply couldn’t stand to run behind her, reading that message.

As I think about that t-shirt, I start to cry all over again. I can’t stop remembering all of these things. I can’t stop thinking about all those people that died that day. How the whole world changed that day. And even though Osama bin Laden was largely responsible for this change, his death doesn’t change it back.

Which is probably why instead of celebrating, I am crying. I am happy and relieved he is gone. However, his death has served as a powerful reminder of everything we lost that day and since.

One More Summer

When I was eight-years-old my mom and I stopped into a specialty boutique for young girls (what we now call ‘tweens) to window shop. The super cool store near the bakery where we were probably either picking up end of the year cupcake, or placing an order for my sister’s birthday cake, was unlike anything I had ever seen before.

It was all purple and glittery. Inflated stars and hearts hung from the ceiling. It sold super cool pens with feathers and sparkles on them and matching, scented pads of paper. I silently cursed that I discovered this place so near the end of the school year and not in late August when it could have made me the envy of all of my classmates.

My mother, a sucker for my I-want-it-all-face, smiled down at my wide-eyed wonderment and told me I could get one thing. Just one.

Well, this wasn’t a decision to be taken lightly. I wandered the store, picking things up, putting them back down and occasionally sniffing things when it was required. And then I saw it. The thing I absolutely had to have and would simply die if my mom didn’t get it for me.

It was a two piece bathing suit.

But not just any two-piece bathing suit. It had a peach top that wasn’t smooth like other bathing suits, but ruched (no I didn’t know that word at the time, I just thought it was cool) and a turquoise blue bottom with a sash of peach flower pattern on a turquoise blue background. It looked so tropical. Like something one of my Barbies would wear. In short it was the most beautiful bathing suit I had ever seen.

When I tried it on, well, there was just no denying that this suit was made for me. Not even my mom could deny the beauty of that bathing suit.

It was one of the happiest days in my young life. No more silly, childish one-pieces with Miss Piggy on the front and ruffles along the bottom. I had a two-piece. I was a grown-up. I was eight-years-old.

Now this two piece bathing suit that I was so proud of had a top looked like a sports bra and the bottom was a brief cut, with the sash around the waist covering my belly button. It was nothing like the bikini my much older sister wore. It survived diving into pools, hardcore games of Marco Polo, body surfing, water slides, and running away from the neighborhood boys. After all, I was still an eight-year-old girl and I literally spent my summer in that swim suit.

And while I remember a lot of things about that summer, the one thing I don’t remember is ever feeling fat or too pale or as if my boobs were too small to fill it out my awesome swimsuit. Heck, I didn’t even have boobs at eight. I did worry that someone would see too much of my backside as I got off the speed slide at Wildwater Kingdom. I was petrified of spilling blue snow cone “juice” on the front of my suit and ruining it forever. I was also scared about who my third grade homeroom teacher was going to be and whether or not my best friend and I would be in the same class. But never once did I worry about my chest being too small.

Why am I bringing this up? Because Abercrombie & Fitch has just released its new padded, push-up triangle-top bikini – the Ashley – for girls ages 7 to 14.

Think about that. Second grade girls owning a padded, push-up bikini top. I saw the thing laying on a table on the Today show – it has about as much padding as one of my padded, push-up bras. But I am an insecure 32-year-old woman. I’m allowed padding.

These are young girls that aren’t supposed to know that they are flat-chested yet. They have their whole lives to be insecure about their bodies and whether or not they are attractive to the opposite (or same) sex. Why are we pushing this on them? Why, when the one thing they should be looking for in a swimsuit top is whether or not it will come off when jump off the high dive at the pool, are retailers telling them that they need bigger boobs to look good in a bikini?

What upsets me more than Abercrombie & Fitch thinking this is okay – let’s be honest, A&F is evil and they will continue to do these outlandish things just to keep their name in the media – is that there are probably parents out there that will buy this bathing suit for their daughters.

Which is why instead of calling for a boycott of this despicable institution (actually I can’t imagine a lot of my readers shop at A&F so boycotting won’t do much good) I say we buy them out of these suits and then destroy them. Yes, I realize buying these suits will just pad A&F’s bottom line, but let’s be honest, as long as there is babysitting and paper route money, that chain isn’t going anywhere. However, there is a higher purpose that needs to be met here. We need to keep these suits off of our young girls.

We need to give them another summer (or more if possible) of not caring how they look in their swimsuits. Another summer just assuming they look awesome. Another summer when their biggest worry is a water-slide wedgie.

Liar Pride

I know. It has been awhile. I apologize. I have been busy, but that isn’t why I haven’t written. The reason I haven’t written is because I have been stumped by that article about why I’m not married.

I just heard the collective groans of all 22 of my readers. Yes. This again.

First, I am still wondering if I even want to get married. But I will get into that later. The real bit that has me stuck is when she suggested that we aren’t married because we are liars.

Priding myself on not being a liar, I secretly applauded the author for calling women out on this. We all know a liar. We all have a good friend that is with a guy that everyone knows isn’t in it for the long haul, he has even told her as much, and we want to shake her but she just sighs and tells us we don’t understand, that we aren’t there when it is just the two of them, by themselves and he tells her he loves her and she doesn’t care that he doesn’t want to commit because they spend all their time together and who needs a title anyway?

If you are anything like me, you are so scared for this friend of yours. You say to anyone that will listen, “That girl is lying to herself.” Every time you see that friend’s name on the caller ID, you bite your lip before hitting the answer button, expecting her to be sobbing on the other end of the line.

And you're not wrong to be worried. But the truth is your friend is also right. You aren’t there when they are alone. They do spend a lot of time together. He comes to all her things and he invites her out with him and his friends. Both their Facebook profile pictures include each other. And while it is easy to judge a situation when your feelings aren’t invested, it is a wholly different thing to be in a situation where you really like a guy, and you really like spending time with him, and you have so much fun when you are together, and he makes you feel like no other guy has made you feel, and he is pretty much perfect for you minus one, small, itsy-bitsy little detail – he doesn’t want to call you his girlfriend.

Every relationship book we have read has told us to run from this situation as fast as our little (or not so little as the case may be) legs can carry us. So why won’t liars listen? Why do they insist on sticking around? Do they know something we don’t? Could there be something to staying in a relationship even when your partner refuses to call it that?

And no, I am not asking because I have suddenly found myself in this situation.

It is because, I’m not sure marriage is my goal.

So if marriage isn’t the ultimate goal -- or even if it is but you are still holding out the silly hope that you can be one of those that finds happiness in it by finding the perfect guy for you – why not spend your time with a guy that might not be the one you spend happily ever after with?

Yes, I know there are studies and vignettes and hormones all proving women are incapable (or less capable) of casual sex. But that is not what I am talking about. I am talking about being with someone you love (or like a whole lot) that loves (or likes you or is good enough at pretending he likes you that you don’t know any better) as opposed to spending your time alone. Or worse, spending your time with someone that doesn’t make you feel all warm and special inside because you know there is a better chance that that someone will marry you.

I took a long hard look at the liars in my life. They are all pretty happy right now. Sure there are times when they hurt, or when they want more, but that passes just as quickly as all the times that I am sad because I haven’t had a date in a while. And sure, they could get really hurt when the guy that has been telling them that he doesn’t want anything serious moves on. But they could also get hit by a bus and die tomorrow. Yet, I wouldn’t advise any of them not to leave their houses – ever.

Personally, I’m not sure its possible for me to be so risky – to throw such caution to the wind and be with someone that I am so sure is only going to hurt me. But that doesn’t mean I’m not jealous of liars’ bravery.

Reason Number Seven

So the Huffington Post published an article by Tracey McMilan, “Why You’re Not Married” giving single, heterosexual women everywhere the top six reasons they aren’t hitched.

Considering all the thinking I’ve been doing about relationships (not necessarily getting married) this article struck a nerve. Particularly because it is as if she is addressing me personally in her first couple of paragraphs (simply replace “to get married” with “a boyfriend”).

After reading the article late last night and determining that I meet the standards for four of the six reasons, I came to the obvious conclusion that I am never going to get married. I then drank two big glasses of wine and passed out on my couch. But not before posting the article to my Facebook page.

The next day, not able to shake the feeling that I should be angrier at the author of the article, I re-read it. Yep, I’m still a selfish, shallow bitch that doesn’t think she is good enough (sometimes). But hey, at least I’m not a liar or a slut (anymore, and really sometimes I wish I still was). Besides the not being good enough part – which I am working on, kind of – I really sort of admire my bitchy selfish ways. (As for being shallow, I find her argument flawed in that she married a man she describes as a liar and a cheater – neither qualities I would for in a man of character.)

So I’m a bitch because I’m angry. I’m not always angry. Besides there are a lot of things in this world to be angry about. Especially if you are a woman. That reads. Or sees. Or hears. Or thinks. And while I have never seen Kim Kardashian angry, I have to believe she has been. And if she hasn’t well then she’s an idiot. Because there is no way you can be smart and not be angry at least some time. Plus, I can be angry and nice. A lot of people think I am really nice: pleasant even. So if a guy is looking for someone to be nice to him – I can do that. So long as he’s not a rapist or a child molester or thinks I’m dumber than him simply because I’m a woman. In my opinion those sort of guys don’t deserve my niceness and what the hell, I wouldn’t marry that sort of guy anyway. Even if he was tall (so, see, I’m not even that shallow).

So I’m selfish. Yes, I think about myself a lot. Hell, I’ve dedicated a blog and a Facebook page and a Twitter account to the practice. But I don’t think I’m self-absorbed (feel free to disagree – you are all entitled to your opinions even if they are wrong). I spend most of my time thinking about myself (my career, my thighs) because that is what I have to think about. But I also think about my parents and my friends and my co-workers and poor people and the Today Show hosts, and Stewart Bradley and rape victims (which is when I get angry) and now Kim Kardashian. If I had a boyfriend, I would think about him too, giving me less time to think about myself. If I had a kid, I would have a lot less time to think about myself. However, I’m not about to go out and have a kid to prove I’m not selfish (and in turn find a husband).

Still not angry at the author, I read the article a third time. Which is when I started thinking about reason number seven (no it’s not in the article) why you’re (I’m) not married. Because I don’t want to be. I realized I agree with everything Tracy wrote. She tells the cold, hard, ugly truth in it. And if I wanted a husband (or a boyfriend) all I would have to do is make three really easy changes (and one not so easy change) and I would probably be married (or seeing someone seriously) in less than two years.

But I don’t want to make those changes. So maybe I don’t want a boyfriend?

I know it probably isn’t that simple, but I kind of think it is. For the past couple of weeks I have been questioning my motives for wanting a boyfriend, finally deciding that the reason didn’t matter. But what if I haven’t been asking the right question?

What if instead of asking why I no longer want to be single I should be asking am I tired of being single or am I tired of being the single friend?