If there is one topic I have returned to a million times since the start of this blog, it has to be running.
As I've mentioned a time or eight, I have a very unhappy tendon in the back of my left knee. Day-to-day life is completely unaffected. Even after a vigorous workout, nothing much changes. But I attempt to run and I feel it tightening up to the point that I'm positive I would strain, sprain, or even tear it if I kept going (much like what I did to myself sometime in March). I also feel it when the weather turns. I can honestly tell when it's going to rain based on whether or not my hamstring tendon tightens up out of no where.
As luck would have it, I got injured just as the Chicago Marathon lottery opened up. And -- in a fitting turn of events -- I realized I had to drop out of it just as the lottery closed. I also had to downgrade my half-marathon to a five-miler (which worked out for the best because I was *not* used to running that early in the morning, making the run an incredibly daunting experience even without the injured tendon). And -- aside from a few light jogs with my husband around the neighborhood -- I have not been running.
This Wednesday, the Boston Half Marathon opens up for registration. It's a very slim window before it goes to lottery, as they only allow 8,000 runners to compete. I remember getting so pumped at the idea of doing the Boston Half Marathon last year, only to realize that it falls on the same day as the Chicago Marathon (aka Columbus Day). However, with that weekend suddenly freed up, part of me feels like this has to happen, especially since the Chicago Marathon was supposed to be somewhat a "last hurrah" in terms of pushing myself physically before going on to another stage in life.
October is three months away, and I know I still have the muscle strength in me to run a half marathon (given how quickly I started running 10-milers after taking the winter off, I'd say training back up my muscles is the least of my concerns). But the question is that tendon. It is downright impossible to gauge how it is without running distance and potentially injuring it. And I have been avoiding that because, the more it rests, the more likely it is to heal.
So what I'm going to do is take how I feel after my next jog and decide one of two things: either I'm going to dive headfirst and attempt to register during the narrow window of opportunity, or I'm going to sign up for the lottery and let fate decide if I'm going to run this year. Either way, I'm taking it on good faith that I'll be doing whatever it is that I'm supposed to do.
As a competitive person (and as someone who just weirdly loves to run), I have a hard time letting go of the idea that I'm literally out of the running. I would love to do the Boston Half Marathon as a bit of my last hurrah (especially since the Boston Marathon is a bitch to get into, even if under a charity). My last two attempts at a distance race have been failures (I had to pull out of a 16-miler in January and I had to downgrade to a 5-miler for the Boston Run to Remember), but I have faith that putting my name out there one last time is the right things to do.
Monday, July 14, 2014
Sunday, July 13, 2014
Day 342 of 365: Being Emotional
Most people who know me personally know how emotional I am. It's honestly to the point that I'll start crying because someone else in the room has started crying. Shit, if a judge on So You Think You Can Dance starts crying, I tear up. In terms of handling emotions, I'm a wreck.
Now, confession time: at every weekend-intensive training session, I've always found myself on the verge of crying at some point. It's just an emotionally-charged time and we were even warned that we might start crying. But somehow I've been able to keep it together. Usually this would result in the most random-ass thing popping up in my mind on the drive back (and me crying big ol' tears for a solid 5 minutes like someone released the fucking Kraken).
Now, to backtrack even further: last week, I met with a director at a homeless shelter in Manchester. He's looking for someone to teach yoga to the homeless once a week. After a few emails, I had a one-on-one interview with the director. He made no bones about it: this wasn't going to be a usual yoga class. These are people who are drug-addled, who have been abused in ways that make them unfit for the regular world, these are people who are down on their luck in the worst way. It scared the piss out of me, but there was still something in me to do it.
So we can now jump up to present day. Today, we had a presenter talk about her time as a yoga instructor at a jail. That hit me right in the heart, especially since I've been dealing with the emotional baggage that being a yoga instructor for the homeless could be. By the end of the day, the instructor leading the training opened the floor for comments.
I was already charged up, because I wanted to say exactly that. And, right before I am to go, a yoga trainee talked about how important training has been, especially in the midst of a very nasty situation (which I have no right to say in a public forum so this is exactly where I'll stop). She starts crying and ... I start crying. And then I cry even more when it's my turn to talk. And then I don't stop crying.
On the way out, I note to one of my friends that I'm honestly surprised it took me this long to cry in class. And she noted that she was honestly surprised that I would ever be so emotional. She always took as me kind of a rock -- the type of person who is emotionally stable and secure. And I guess that wasn't an uncommon sentiment.
Boy, were they proven wrong.
I get it, though. I'm 5'11" (although technically 5'10" because somewhere along the line, I lost an inch). Thanks to yoga and tai chi, I have very defined muscles that can make me look even more intimidating. I'm sarcastic and quick with a snarky comment. Yeah, that person looks like she's never blubbered like a baby when Mufasa died (but I mean how could you not? Simba was pawing at his dad! He wanted him to get up! Oh man someone get me a Kleenex...).
It's just funny how perception is. Because here I am, feeling silly for crying in front of the group, when I was person #3 to do it publically, and person #12 overall to cry. Here I am, feeling like I must've looked like a hysterical mess, when some were just shocked I was capable of crying in the first place.
There's a lot more I want to talk about, especially how that particular person with the current situation and I keep meeting up randomly (which is also how I knew about her story and partly why I latched onto her crying the way that I did), or how I feel like a whole confluence of events are downright conspiring towards something big. But I am completely spent from this weekend. I think it's time for me to just call it a day and be happy I was able to write the way I did, even after crying my eyes out and feeling crazy-silly after.
Now, confession time: at every weekend-intensive training session, I've always found myself on the verge of crying at some point. It's just an emotionally-charged time and we were even warned that we might start crying. But somehow I've been able to keep it together. Usually this would result in the most random-ass thing popping up in my mind on the drive back (and me crying big ol' tears for a solid 5 minutes like someone released the fucking Kraken).
Now, to backtrack even further: last week, I met with a director at a homeless shelter in Manchester. He's looking for someone to teach yoga to the homeless once a week. After a few emails, I had a one-on-one interview with the director. He made no bones about it: this wasn't going to be a usual yoga class. These are people who are drug-addled, who have been abused in ways that make them unfit for the regular world, these are people who are down on their luck in the worst way. It scared the piss out of me, but there was still something in me to do it.
So we can now jump up to present day. Today, we had a presenter talk about her time as a yoga instructor at a jail. That hit me right in the heart, especially since I've been dealing with the emotional baggage that being a yoga instructor for the homeless could be. By the end of the day, the instructor leading the training opened the floor for comments.
I was already charged up, because I wanted to say exactly that. And, right before I am to go, a yoga trainee talked about how important training has been, especially in the midst of a very nasty situation (which I have no right to say in a public forum so this is exactly where I'll stop). She starts crying and ... I start crying. And then I cry even more when it's my turn to talk. And then I don't stop crying.
On the way out, I note to one of my friends that I'm honestly surprised it took me this long to cry in class. And she noted that she was honestly surprised that I would ever be so emotional. She always took as me kind of a rock -- the type of person who is emotionally stable and secure. And I guess that wasn't an uncommon sentiment.
Boy, were they proven wrong.
I get it, though. I'm 5'11" (although technically 5'10" because somewhere along the line, I lost an inch). Thanks to yoga and tai chi, I have very defined muscles that can make me look even more intimidating. I'm sarcastic and quick with a snarky comment. Yeah, that person looks like she's never blubbered like a baby when Mufasa died (but I mean how could you not? Simba was pawing at his dad! He wanted him to get up! Oh man someone get me a Kleenex...).
It's just funny how perception is. Because here I am, feeling silly for crying in front of the group, when I was person #3 to do it publically, and person #12 overall to cry. Here I am, feeling like I must've looked like a hysterical mess, when some were just shocked I was capable of crying in the first place.
There's a lot more I want to talk about, especially how that particular person with the current situation and I keep meeting up randomly (which is also how I knew about her story and partly why I latched onto her crying the way that I did), or how I feel like a whole confluence of events are downright conspiring towards something big. But I am completely spent from this weekend. I think it's time for me to just call it a day and be happy I was able to write the way I did, even after crying my eyes out and feeling crazy-silly after.
Saturday, July 12, 2014
Day 341 of 365: One-Year Homeownership
This time last year, my husband and I were signing on the dotted line ... only to get a call from our mortgage company about wanting more proof that we could pay the change in our closing costs ... only to get another call from them after we had already come up to the house that they wanted a slightly different way of having the paperwork signed ... only to change their minds again when we make the trek back to the lawyer's place.
This year, I spent the majority of the day in teacher training and meeting with my fellow trainee about our upcoming practicum. A huge difference from last year.
I recognize that I am absurdly lucky to have the house we do -- or to have a house in the first place. So I've decided that, with my remaining energy, I'll tell you three things that I wish someone had told me about buying a house:
1) It will cost way more than you expect it to.
We had a serious chunk of cash squared away for our house. Given that we were first-time home buyers (and we were preapproved for an absurdly high loan), we got the sense that what we had was more than enough for any type of house.
We ended up finding a house that was actually below our budget. We thought about where all our extra money would go -- finished basement, new furniture -- only to find our closing cost fees double. And what didn't get eaten up in fees disappeared after we realized that we had none of the essentials: no ladders, no shovels, nothing. Factor in money for movers and painters, and our huge chunk of cash turned into a sliver.
2) You have no idea how much mortgage companies suck.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, we get it: thanks to the house bubble bursting, mortgage companies are absolutely jackasses now. You expect that now. But you don't expect just how horrible they are going to be. They will pry into your lives and make you explain every transaction you've ever made in the last 5 years -- in a formal letter, dated, signed, and faxed over. And they'll wait until the very last minute to inform you of crucial changes. And they'll pick inopportune times to decide they need more "proof" of something (like proof that we could afford the extra closing costs, even though we had the farkin' cashier's check in our hand).
They're terrible and horrible and your only choice (unless you have a cool $150 - 600k rolling around).
3) Thought picking out things for your wedding was stressful? Try picking a house.
A house is the single most expensive thing most of us will ever invest in. And, sure, it's a lot of fun to make up your dream house on Pinterest. But it's a whole other game when you're being shown houses that have some of what you want, and a whole lot of "almost"s and "not quite"s. Suddenly you have to figure out what is a deal breaker, what is a complete necessity, and what you can do without.
However, when you find the house, you will find "the house". It will probably not have everything on your Pinterest board, but it will just feel right. We swore we needed a four-bedroom house with a same-floor garage and a tile-floored kitchen. We walked into our house -- a three-bedroom house with a basement garage and wooden-floored kitchen -- and knew we were home. And while the process was stressful -- from crappy mortgage brokers to terrible painters -- we'd do it all over again. Because this is home, plain and simple.
This year, I spent the majority of the day in teacher training and meeting with my fellow trainee about our upcoming practicum. A huge difference from last year.
I recognize that I am absurdly lucky to have the house we do -- or to have a house in the first place. So I've decided that, with my remaining energy, I'll tell you three things that I wish someone had told me about buying a house:
1) It will cost way more than you expect it to.
We had a serious chunk of cash squared away for our house. Given that we were first-time home buyers (and we were preapproved for an absurdly high loan), we got the sense that what we had was more than enough for any type of house.
We ended up finding a house that was actually below our budget. We thought about where all our extra money would go -- finished basement, new furniture -- only to find our closing cost fees double. And what didn't get eaten up in fees disappeared after we realized that we had none of the essentials: no ladders, no shovels, nothing. Factor in money for movers and painters, and our huge chunk of cash turned into a sliver.
2) You have no idea how much mortgage companies suck.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, we get it: thanks to the house bubble bursting, mortgage companies are absolutely jackasses now. You expect that now. But you don't expect just how horrible they are going to be. They will pry into your lives and make you explain every transaction you've ever made in the last 5 years -- in a formal letter, dated, signed, and faxed over. And they'll wait until the very last minute to inform you of crucial changes. And they'll pick inopportune times to decide they need more "proof" of something (like proof that we could afford the extra closing costs, even though we had the farkin' cashier's check in our hand).
They're terrible and horrible and your only choice (unless you have a cool $150 - 600k rolling around).
3) Thought picking out things for your wedding was stressful? Try picking a house.
A house is the single most expensive thing most of us will ever invest in. And, sure, it's a lot of fun to make up your dream house on Pinterest. But it's a whole other game when you're being shown houses that have some of what you want, and a whole lot of "almost"s and "not quite"s. Suddenly you have to figure out what is a deal breaker, what is a complete necessity, and what you can do without.
However, when you find the house, you will find "the house". It will probably not have everything on your Pinterest board, but it will just feel right. We swore we needed a four-bedroom house with a same-floor garage and a tile-floored kitchen. We walked into our house -- a three-bedroom house with a basement garage and wooden-floored kitchen -- and knew we were home. And while the process was stressful -- from crappy mortgage brokers to terrible painters -- we'd do it all over again. Because this is home, plain and simple.
Friday, July 11, 2014
Day 340 of 365: Heifers in the Modeling World
It really doesn't matter how long I've been modeling, or how many times I remind myself that I'm a commercial model (not fashion), or how often I talk about "strong is the new skinny" and love my body for exactly what it looks like: when I am put into a casting with a bunch of 21-year-old, industry-standard-sized models, I feel like an old heifer.
I'd say, for the most part, my go-sees are uneventful. Usually because, as a commercial model, they want svelte and pretty, but not necessary crazy-young and crazy-skinny. That means I'm usually in the same room as a 40-something dude, a 30-something lady, and young kids. It's a motley crew, if you will.
But yesterday, even though the casting called for people of all ages, I somehow got there during America's Next Top Model hour. And there are few things as damaging to your self-esteem than sitting next to a girl who is your height, probably half your weight, and so surrealistically beautiful that it makes you want to hide in your makeup bag. Especially when you factor in that they'll probably get the job over you.
I talk a bit about this in my essay collection (which -- have you gotten it yet? Hmm? Hmm? Available where all ebooks are sold, motherfucker). The modeling world is a rough industry and, to be frank, if I didn't enjoy the actual being-in-front-of-the-camera part, I probably would've quit a while back. But it is just hard to accept that these cuties are going to get the job -- the same way it's hard for me to accept that I get injured easier and don't recover as fast and can't do all the fun things that I finally feel comfortable enough in my body to do (which includes running distances, but that's maybe a post for tomorrow). It's a reminder that life continues on and that I'm not the target demographic anymore, for almost anything outside of Pampers Baby Wipes.
Even though I left that particular go-see feeling like the aging cow led out to pasture, I still made sure to enjoy my city on such a beautiful day. And, like clockwork, the walk helped clear my mind and helped me remember that it really doesn't matter how youthful I am in comparison to everyone else. Here I am, with two (relatively) working legs, enjoying the sun on my face and the wind in my hair and the parts of Boston I almost never go down unless I went there specifically for a casting. I still get the opportunity to take in this incredible world and it shouldn't matter that I'm bulkier than a girl who can somehow fit into a size 0 at 5'11".
And -- really? -- I'd hate to be that age again. I'd love to have the impossibly-fast metabolism and quick physical recovery, but you couldn't pay me to have the mindset of a 21-year-old again. You couldn't pay me to be that unsure, unassertive, and insecure again. You couldn't pay me to have the coping strategies and temperament of a 21-year-old. Shit, you couldn't pay me to have the coping strategies of a 25-year-old. And if turning back the clock on aging would result in turning back the clock on my development as a person, I would pass.
And who knows: the last time I felt that low on a go-see, I ended up getting the job (I had a, "I'm Ron Burgundy?" moment and walked away feeling like a huge putz, only to get an email a day later saying I landed the gig with Volvo). I'm not saying I'll get this job, but I am saying that I can't rule myself out just yet.
I'd say, for the most part, my go-sees are uneventful. Usually because, as a commercial model, they want svelte and pretty, but not necessary crazy-young and crazy-skinny. That means I'm usually in the same room as a 40-something dude, a 30-something lady, and young kids. It's a motley crew, if you will.
But yesterday, even though the casting called for people of all ages, I somehow got there during America's Next Top Model hour. And there are few things as damaging to your self-esteem than sitting next to a girl who is your height, probably half your weight, and so surrealistically beautiful that it makes you want to hide in your makeup bag. Especially when you factor in that they'll probably get the job over you.
I talk a bit about this in my essay collection (which -- have you gotten it yet? Hmm? Hmm? Available where all ebooks are sold, motherfucker). The modeling world is a rough industry and, to be frank, if I didn't enjoy the actual being-in-front-of-the-camera part, I probably would've quit a while back. But it is just hard to accept that these cuties are going to get the job -- the same way it's hard for me to accept that I get injured easier and don't recover as fast and can't do all the fun things that I finally feel comfortable enough in my body to do (which includes running distances, but that's maybe a post for tomorrow). It's a reminder that life continues on and that I'm not the target demographic anymore, for almost anything outside of Pampers Baby Wipes.
Even though I left that particular go-see feeling like the aging cow led out to pasture, I still made sure to enjoy my city on such a beautiful day. And, like clockwork, the walk helped clear my mind and helped me remember that it really doesn't matter how youthful I am in comparison to everyone else. Here I am, with two (relatively) working legs, enjoying the sun on my face and the wind in my hair and the parts of Boston I almost never go down unless I went there specifically for a casting. I still get the opportunity to take in this incredible world and it shouldn't matter that I'm bulkier than a girl who can somehow fit into a size 0 at 5'11".
And -- really? -- I'd hate to be that age again. I'd love to have the impossibly-fast metabolism and quick physical recovery, but you couldn't pay me to have the mindset of a 21-year-old again. You couldn't pay me to be that unsure, unassertive, and insecure again. You couldn't pay me to have the coping strategies and temperament of a 21-year-old. Shit, you couldn't pay me to have the coping strategies of a 25-year-old. And if turning back the clock on aging would result in turning back the clock on my development as a person, I would pass.
And who knows: the last time I felt that low on a go-see, I ended up getting the job (I had a, "I'm Ron Burgundy?" moment and walked away feeling like a huge putz, only to get an email a day later saying I landed the gig with Volvo). I'm not saying I'll get this job, but I am saying that I can't rule myself out just yet.
Thursday, July 10, 2014
Day 339 of 365: Forge This Smile
I mentioned a long time ago that I'm not one for jumping blogs. I believe that creating a brand new blog every time you feel like getting back into writing is like buying a bunch of workout clothes every single time you try to get back to the gym. It's to the point that I have to remind myself that this blog should be left alone once we hit 365/366. I also mentioned that I have had the same LJ since 2004. Granted, I update it maybe once or twice a month, and I use it primarily to comment on the gossip site ONTD, but hey, I still have it.
Now, like I said, I got this in 2004. I got this in the midst of the kind of gnarly little heartbreak that is part and parcel of high school life. So, what was my LJ name? Forgethissmile. Aka, "Forget His Smile".
*sigh*
I don't want to abandon an old LJ, and I feel silly for paying money to change the name, so I kept it what it was for over a decade. Then, yesterday, I had someone on ONTD ask me what my LJ name meant.
And, no, the LJ user didn't ask for the background of "Forget His Smile"; they wanted to know if the name was "Forge This Smile" or "Forget His Smile".
In all my time with this name I've never once considered that version of the username.
I saw the typo "forget this smile", and that was about it. I replied back that it was originally the latter, but I was now adopting the first idea.
In some weird way, it's fitting that, over 10 years later, I completely change the meaning without changing a single letter. And it goes from something a little whiney and dependent to something that could downright be the name of a death metal band.
Forge this smile from iron, forge this smile stone, travel through the fire, know you're not alone.
Oh, I could make a killing making crappy song lyrics.
Now, like I said, I got this in 2004. I got this in the midst of the kind of gnarly little heartbreak that is part and parcel of high school life. So, what was my LJ name? Forgethissmile. Aka, "Forget His Smile".
*sigh*
I don't want to abandon an old LJ, and I feel silly for paying money to change the name, so I kept it what it was for over a decade. Then, yesterday, I had someone on ONTD ask me what my LJ name meant.
And, no, the LJ user didn't ask for the background of "Forget His Smile"; they wanted to know if the name was "Forge This Smile" or "Forget His Smile".
In all my time with this name I've never once considered that version of the username.
I saw the typo "forget this smile", and that was about it. I replied back that it was originally the latter, but I was now adopting the first idea.
In some weird way, it's fitting that, over 10 years later, I completely change the meaning without changing a single letter. And it goes from something a little whiney and dependent to something that could downright be the name of a death metal band.
Forge this smile from iron, forge this smile stone, travel through the fire, know you're not alone.
Oh, I could make a killing making crappy song lyrics.
Wednesday, July 9, 2014
Day 338 of 365: Yet Another Idea
I swore I wasn't going to attempt NaNoWriMo this year, especially since I went balls to the wall for the last two, but yet another novel idea has hit me upside the head.
It's in its absolute infancy right now, and, for the most part, it's all background. This usually means I let the idea just swirl around a bit in my head until something more meaty comes to surface. But what happens when November hits?
And thus the problem with being a wannabe-novelist. Each manuscript has been a tiring, daunting, frustrating, and unnerving experience. With each completed manuscript, I felt relieved like a marathon runner crossing the finish line. Each time, I told myself that I'm done writing these 70,000+ word beasts, that I'm going to take a breather and edit and maybe try to sell one.
LOL. Nope.
I won't say much about it, aside from the fact that it will be *sigh* a YA book. But that's only because the character I have in mind is 16. The idea of writing something that could easily be considered YA was enough for me to potentially try to make the character 24 or 25 instead -- only doing so would ruin a few major elements of the story.
So I've got a character, I've got background, I've got events that could serve as a catalyst for the beginning of the story... and that's about it. Yet another idea that is eating away at me, begging me to figure it out to the end.
Well, in some weird way I'm thankful for it. Thanks to this blog, I've gotten used to writing a ton -- probably way too much for my own good. It might be nice to transfer some of this energy into a potential M#4.
Besides, YA is all the sells nowadays, anyway.
So this is one gigantic, "we'll see," when it comes to what the future holds. I might be so exhausted with everything that it'll get the boot until next year. And I might have M#4 on my hands by December. Only time will tell.
It's in its absolute infancy right now, and, for the most part, it's all background. This usually means I let the idea just swirl around a bit in my head until something more meaty comes to surface. But what happens when November hits?
And thus the problem with being a wannabe-novelist. Each manuscript has been a tiring, daunting, frustrating, and unnerving experience. With each completed manuscript, I felt relieved like a marathon runner crossing the finish line. Each time, I told myself that I'm done writing these 70,000+ word beasts, that I'm going to take a breather and edit and maybe try to sell one.
LOL. Nope.
I won't say much about it, aside from the fact that it will be *sigh* a YA book. But that's only because the character I have in mind is 16. The idea of writing something that could easily be considered YA was enough for me to potentially try to make the character 24 or 25 instead -- only doing so would ruin a few major elements of the story.
So I've got a character, I've got background, I've got events that could serve as a catalyst for the beginning of the story... and that's about it. Yet another idea that is eating away at me, begging me to figure it out to the end.
Well, in some weird way I'm thankful for it. Thanks to this blog, I've gotten used to writing a ton -- probably way too much for my own good. It might be nice to transfer some of this energy into a potential M#4.
Besides, YA is all the sells nowadays, anyway.
So this is one gigantic, "we'll see," when it comes to what the future holds. I might be so exhausted with everything that it'll get the boot until next year. And I might have M#4 on my hands by December. Only time will tell.
Tuesday, July 8, 2014
Day 337 of 365: No, It's Not Weird
"I mean, you're not going to be weird about this, right?"
I've said it a lot and I'll say it again: I really, really lucked out in not having to deal with the post-college dating world. All the buffoonery that goes on in the college dating scene seemed to just spill out into the "real world". Including warning one to "not be weird about this" when they start showing signs of actual feelings.
I've been there, albeit before "not going to be weird" was a thing. He might as well have said, "Hey, I know we're constantly spending time together, going out and sharing dinners together, becoming physical and physically attentive -- but, I mean, you're not going to act on the emotions you are developing because of our time together, right? Because that would just be weird."
People in the dating world used to say, "Let's keep this casual." Now we warn people to, "Not be weird." We've evolved the decision to not be something more from a dual effort to you being flawed and not "getting it". We've stripped ourselves of the onus of understanding that there is a fine line -- that you cannot eat your cake and still have, that actions do have consequences -- or the onus of finding someone who wants the exact same thing from a dating experience. No, now we must wag our finger in front of the person we spent all night last night talking and cuddling and fooling around with and tell them, "Don't be weird," when they start acting like it could be something more.
You want casual? Go right ahead. The world is filled with people perfectly okay with obligation-free minglings. You want something a little more open? Go right ahead. There is a pot for every lid.
But don't you dare tell me to, "not be weird" -- because there is nothing weird about having feelings for the person you are with.
Do you know what is weird? Navigating a completely ambiguous dating world. Where people "talk" for months on end and you never know exactly where you stand. Weird is deciding a relationship is over and coldly avoiding contact until you think the other person has gotten the hint, leaving them to wonder what it was that brought things to an end, leaving them to assume the worst about themselves. Weird is withholding information, refusing to say what you're looking for in a dating partner, refusing to communicate when you're mad or falling in love or falling to pieces over their careless actions. Weird is pretending that everything is ultra cool and casual while still holding onto the option of it magically evolving into everlasting love or randomly ending with the person "ghosting" away.
No, the only weird thing is to go out for drinks, coffee, dinner, movies, cuddling, talking, sharing a bed, only to turn around and act like no one develops feelings after all those interactions.
Take a moment, when the girl next to you wakes up and rolls into your arms and you want to tell her that her natural feelings are unnatural. Or take a moment when you contact your ambiguous pseudo-significant-other, upset that they cancelled plans last minute, and they start venturing into "don't be weird" territory. Take a moment to realize what is being said when, "Don't be weird," gets flung about like the last grenades in the bag.
Don't be weird? Oh, I promise to stop being weird. And the first step to normalcy is to get out of this unhealthy situation.
I've said it a lot and I'll say it again: I really, really lucked out in not having to deal with the post-college dating world. All the buffoonery that goes on in the college dating scene seemed to just spill out into the "real world". Including warning one to "not be weird about this" when they start showing signs of actual feelings.
I've been there, albeit before "not going to be weird" was a thing. He might as well have said, "Hey, I know we're constantly spending time together, going out and sharing dinners together, becoming physical and physically attentive -- but, I mean, you're not going to act on the emotions you are developing because of our time together, right? Because that would just be weird."
People in the dating world used to say, "Let's keep this casual." Now we warn people to, "Not be weird." We've evolved the decision to not be something more from a dual effort to you being flawed and not "getting it". We've stripped ourselves of the onus of understanding that there is a fine line -- that you cannot eat your cake and still have, that actions do have consequences -- or the onus of finding someone who wants the exact same thing from a dating experience. No, now we must wag our finger in front of the person we spent all night last night talking and cuddling and fooling around with and tell them, "Don't be weird," when they start acting like it could be something more.
You want casual? Go right ahead. The world is filled with people perfectly okay with obligation-free minglings. You want something a little more open? Go right ahead. There is a pot for every lid.
But don't you dare tell me to, "not be weird" -- because there is nothing weird about having feelings for the person you are with.
Do you know what is weird? Navigating a completely ambiguous dating world. Where people "talk" for months on end and you never know exactly where you stand. Weird is deciding a relationship is over and coldly avoiding contact until you think the other person has gotten the hint, leaving them to wonder what it was that brought things to an end, leaving them to assume the worst about themselves. Weird is withholding information, refusing to say what you're looking for in a dating partner, refusing to communicate when you're mad or falling in love or falling to pieces over their careless actions. Weird is pretending that everything is ultra cool and casual while still holding onto the option of it magically evolving into everlasting love or randomly ending with the person "ghosting" away.
No, the only weird thing is to go out for drinks, coffee, dinner, movies, cuddling, talking, sharing a bed, only to turn around and act like no one develops feelings after all those interactions.
Take a moment, when the girl next to you wakes up and rolls into your arms and you want to tell her that her natural feelings are unnatural. Or take a moment when you contact your ambiguous pseudo-significant-other, upset that they cancelled plans last minute, and they start venturing into "don't be weird" territory. Take a moment to realize what is being said when, "Don't be weird," gets flung about like the last grenades in the bag.
Don't be weird? Oh, I promise to stop being weird. And the first step to normalcy is to get out of this unhealthy situation.
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