Cravings

factsontheground.png

I’ve been doing really well lately, dusting myself off and swallowing the lump in my throat.

But.

Something changes when you get hit in the heart by something incredible.

I’ve been used to stupid. Cheaters are a bore at this point. You have to get up awfully early in the morning to disappoint me after the litany of bad choices I’ve been determined to believe in over the years.

It’s a different situation when he’s noble and good. When you struggle to find a reason to hate him, it makes letting go of loving him a million times harder. I can’t imagine hating him but continuing to jump off the same cliff when you know it’s dangerous, is unhealthy.

I talk myself through it all, until I run into him and then it’s all over. You want what you want and for the record, your body is a damn traitor. Hugging him goodbye sets every nerve of mine, on end. I can feel his heart beating against my chest, his erection against my thigh and I want to light fire to every last good intention I have. The way this man smells could sell a trillion dollars worth of laundry detergent, soap or cologne. Whatever the hell it is, I can smell him on my skin after I walk away and I’m torn between tears and masturbating.

This beautiful heartache of mine has left me shook and I’m hateful and grateful in the same breath.

So I clicked on Bumble… and in minutes, I was given a menu of acceptable men to choose from. Sorry fellas, but I need a good volunteer to help me shake this off and remember how good it feels to be a girlfriend. Yes, he’s probably destined for rebound-ville, but I need help because I’m failing miserably on my own.

I wake up to a dozen “Good Morning, Beautiful” texts. I’m not bragging- it’s played out and I’m not impressed. Anybody who sends that generic tripe has a little half -moon by his name. I get that some of the women demand that stuff, but I’m not one of them. Call me when you want to tell me something. Show me your high school hockey pictures. Teach me how to fix the lawnmower.

Show me your man skills or move aside so I can learn another skill on my own. You’re either on my side, by my side or in my way.

He may have broken my heart and made every other man pale before him in my eyes… but he raised my standards and made it far less likely that it’ll happen again.

That has to count for something.

Or at least I hope it does someday… because for now… I’m craving every millimeter of him and there isn’t a man in the world that compares.

SO.

We’re internet dating to get over this shit. Enough already.

Brace yourselves. I’ve done this with 100% failure before. It’s always funny, but it isn’t always fun.

This morning I have breakfast with Jason, 45, a landscape architect with a fleet of tractors. (See? I’m getting smarter.)

Thursday I have dinner plans with Trevor, a 6’7″ college basketball player. He’s far too young and I should be worried about God striking me down with a big fat bolt of lightning for this one. However… I have fences to repair and all he’d have to do is stand there. Don’t judge me, a farmer’s gotta do what she’s gotta do.

andddd Saturday night after my little dumpling goes to bed, I have a dessert date with another obscenely handsome youngster. Clint is only a year older than my firstborn and I can feel Santa Claus pull his naughty list out every time I read an email from this kid.

This all reminds me of one glaring, obvious fact that I keep trying to kick back under the rug.

It’s not that I’m not good at this. I’m friendly, pretty and fun to be around. I’m an incredible cook, grow a million fun things to eat and will ruin a man sexually for other women. I have worked hard to be very proud of the woman I am and to deserve a man equally as exceptional.

I’ve worked far too hard to throw myself at someone who doesn’t realize how lucky he’d be to catch me.

SO cheers, friends.

… and …. sigh…

Here’s to getting my ass up, dusting it off and wiping those pathetic tears away. After all, I’ve got old men to disappoint, youngsters to corrupt and a smile that shouldn’t be wasted on the stupidity of a scared man.

30 Days of Truth, Day 1

Day 1 — Something you hate about yourself.

Somehow, by some innate failing as a human, I am incapable of taking my clothes off without turning them inside out. I realize this doesn’t seem like a big deal… but hear me out.

I spend twice as much time turning the laundry right side out, as I do washing, drying & folding, combined.

Much to my horror, I’ve also created a small army of children and adults who are equally as horrible as I am with the laundry. The Dumpling has the worst skill. She turns every single tiny sock inside out. I was spending quite a bit of time turning those socks, and finally enlisted her help. Tiny hands make much quicker work of turning tiny socks, and she’s working much harder to turn them the correct way when she takes them off.

Why in the hell can’t I learn that, if the baby can?

I shake my head at myself every weekend when I have to turn all my clothes before washing them. Tank tops, inside out. Jeans… also. WTAF. I’m so annoyed at myself, and yet… not enough to actually stop and turn them. I still kick off my jeans and yank my shirt over my head every time. They’re laying in the top of my laundry hamper and I can see the inside pockets of my jeans, if that tells you anything.

The Dumpling’s jacket is hanging on my bedroom doorknob, inside out.

Look at this mess I’ve made. 🙂

laundry