V-Chat

So V had a thing with a girl when he was on the other side of the world. Well, not really but sort of....but it doesn’t matter because I am not really allowed to talk about it which is highly infuriating because he provides me with more material than I know what to do with.

Pause. Before I continue I feel the need to qualify that ‘with.’ That is one of my largest grammatical pet peeves. It is something I would, and have, written a guy off for, and yet I find myself to be ending sentences with a preposition more frequently than I would like to admit. And for that I apologize. I realize my spelling is less than stellar (Albert Einstein couldn’t spell either so I consider it a sign of intelligence) and that I tend to play fast and loose with the rules of punctuation, but for my misuse of grammar and for committing atrocities as heinous as ending sentences with ‘with’, I am deeply sorry. I will try to do better - though I can’t promise anything when wine and writing are combined.

Anyway.

I was sizing up his photos on Facebook while chatting with him online. “Is that her?” I typed.

“Yep!”

“I KNEW IT!”

“How did you know?” he was laughing at this - I know because of both the “haha” following his question and the emoticon.

“I am a girl - I just know these things. I spotted her from a mile away.”

“Well don’t go making comments about it and all. She might get mad.”

“Do you seriously think I would do that?! I am offended.”

“Of course not.

“Uh yeah - clearly you are working on us getting into a fight.”

V found this to be funny. Me, not so much.

“Do you hear “ha ha” comin’ from this side of the computer? You just got your name on the board.”

“Sorry it was me typing before thinking. Forgive me?”

“Nope...I am going to put for at least 10 minutes. Pout. Poute. Fuck me, I can’t spell!” (See, I am aware of my ineptitude.)

“Bottom lip protruding and all? Pout was correct.”

“Yes. That. Still you need to think better of me.”

“You know I do. Would it help you to know that you're the only person besides my momma that I bought something pretty for?”

“Yes. Indeed. That did help. All is forgiven. I am a slut for gifts.”

“I'll keep that in mind for future fights.” he wrote.

“Seriously, how do you think those other d-bags lasted do long.” This statement required lots of emoticons and a HAHAHAHAHHAHAH. “I make myself laugh!”

“Ouch. You just put me next to d-bags. I don’t like that place.”

“Don’t worry. You are just adjacent, not in the exact same local.”

Fake Dates

When I was a sophomore in college I went on my first Fake Date. It was with a techy theatre kid named Josh, who ended up becoming one of my favorite men on the whole planet. We sat in a coffee shop and talked for over 5 hours. Josh can talk. 5 hours is nothing.

He was kind of my first not so gay gay best friend. A guy who I temporarily fell madly in love with, who I often questioned in areas larger than his sexuality and who has been with me through thick and thin.

Josh attempted to break into my apartment on an evening of drama with some random ex who now bares little memory in the shadow of Josh, my Lancelot. He brought me a copy of "The Unbearable Lightness of Being," what has become my favorite book of all time and wrote a passage in the front that I still read anytime I start to doubt the beauty of the world.

He may have been the first and he is still one of the best but there have been quite a few fake dates since then, fake dates which always trump real ones.

I am a glutton for guy friends. No offense to my girl friends but I love, love, love a good night with the men in my life, shooting the shit about lord knows what, feeling loved and safe and comfortable in my skin.

I suck at dating. They all tell me this. I turn into girly Lyndsey, who is insecure and fragile and who would never rip them a new one the way their friend does.

"I hate it!!" I screamed at V over celebratory PBRs on our first Fake Date night since his return from the south pacific. (I think I broke his heart when I told him I had hit the threshold on my love of all things PBR - just goes to show all good things must end.)

"Why can't it be like this!! I want this - I mean not this but like this with sex."

But that right there is where a great fake date always takes a nose dive into crap. Meg Ryan may not have got it at first but the sex always gets in the way.

Rule number one: Don't let them fall in love with you. Rule number two: Don't fall in love with them.

If I could go back and keep those best guy friends who got all weird when tingly feelings got in the way I would do it in a heart beat. I miss them.

"Lyn, that is the risk you have to take." I could say who said this but it wouldn't matter. All of my fake date boys who have made it through the gauntlet of dating with me and have come out the other side all say the same thing. "Don't you want to find someone to be up to you knees in wing sauce with?"

"Eww." Wait, maybe I made the wing sauce comment and they said "eww". It is hard to remember at this point.

I love friendship. I love guys. They are great. I just haven't figured out how not to be a moron when you pull the fake label off of dating.

Hmm....

I should be packing. Or cleaning. Or working. Or doing one of the million things on my to-do list that I MUST accomplish before I take off for a month of sun and creativity.

I am procrastinating.

Thinking about life and love and killing time.

Do you ever think that things happen for a reason? (Cliche I know. I will pretend you are not mocking right me now.)

My high school english teacher made us do a research paper on our theories of life... destiny versus free will. He was the same man who gave me detention every day for refusing to tuck in my shirt. Clearly I had made my choice.

Sitting here, procrastinating, having collapsed on the couch after spending the better part of the hour dancing around my apartment in my underwear, philosophizing on all that has been and could be, I am not so sure.

If we wove all the little moments of life together like the quilt my grandmother made me before she died which has since been lost, all those moments of love and loss, conviction and collapse, I bet it all those might make sense.

And in the future when we choose to jump or we hesitate, maybe those moments will all make sense too.

I am seriously overworked... and obviously a little delirious and even reading this back to myself I am pretty sure that it is just a bunch of ramblings. But I am going to post it anyway - because I am exhausted and hoping someone else will regale me with their theories of life for a change.

Come on...fill me in...I'll take notes.

Journals

From the days when it was easier to paste the words down than to say them out loud.

The opening line

"Let's make a deal. You don't ask if what I am saying is true and I promise not to leave out one single dirty detail."

Please don't fire me

There is terror and then there is finding out your boss reads your blog. Normally this news would just run a close second to finding out that your bible/gun toting grandfather figured out that you shacked up with a dirty hippie, but when you are confronted with it pre-coffee, sans Maybelline war paint, it easily catapults to number one in theline of trauma inducing realizations.

My blog is soooo not job approved. The fact that he said he liked it or rather that it "was me" didnt make me less horrified. My boss read my man-bashing ramblings and therefor must think I hate his kind. I don't I swear!!

I curse, I judge, I talk about lots of things that are not sanctioned by office politics. And as I type these very words I know that someone, somewhere who sees me in my attempt to be a grown up from the hours of 8:30 to 6 is getting a whole different perspective.

I am a little mortified. Flattered that someone was interested enough to read my ramblings but hoping to dear lord something I say in this, my place of digital catharsis, doesnt offend someone.

I am pretty sure I need to curb my use of the word fuck.

They're having a baby!

I just found out that two of my best friends from college, are
pregnant. Well more specifically, she is pregnant but he's the dad.

I know this sounds crazy but I knew!

I haven't talked to them since last summer. They are the type of
amazing friends where event though we don't talk that often I know I
could drop in on them tomorrow and it would be like no time ever
passed.

They were next door neighbors in the apartment building where I spent
most of my more blurry evenings camped out on her couch. We were all
friends and when they fell in love it took me by surprise.

But it just made sense. He adores her. She is amazing. And their
wedding was just as beautiful as they are.

I love them so much and a couple of weeks ago I started thinking about
how I hadn't talked to them in a while. I was really missing then and
I just thought, I think they are going to have a baby.

It was like my first moment of psychic intuition ever, even though I
guess it isn't that psychic since she is pretty far along.

They are having a baby!!!! Oh my god we are grown ups. Well, they
are grown ups. It is just the most amazing news!

--
Lyndsey Ogle
213.804.3550
www.lyndseyogle.com

Courage

I can’t sleep. I am getting ready to take off for a month to write, to write something. And I am completely freaked out, which just assures me of what many have long suspected - I truly am f-ed in the head.

I have been awarded a house on the beach for a month and the freedom to create. This is an amazing opportunity and yet I am terrified that when I get there and I flip open my laptop to resurrect this monster of a manuscript, I will have nothing.

I have spent the last hour or so scanning over old photos of Moscow, where I got over heartbreak, where I learned to be a badass, who could flip and bend and scale tall buildings in a single bound...almost.

The badassedness may have since passed, but there under grey skies and perpetual snowfall, I started to find the me I am today.

On my last night in Moscow, the Russians told me I had found my “charm” - that illusive thing that made me, me. All I needed, Natasha said, was the courage hold on to it.

“COURAGE, WOMAN!!” Do whatever you have to do to find - and keep - your courage.

My life changed that day, in the mahogany paneled office of Anatoly Smelianski.

I don’t know. Maybe that is too dramatic, too nostalgic of a time when I was sad and broken but learning to be free.

I wrote a book about that time and it feels like so long ago that when I read it, it is hard to relate. Was it really that life changing or was it just something everyone goes through and I just happened to do it in a leotard at the Moscow Art Theatre?

The girl on the page feels like a stranger.

....And then I get scared. I feel insecure and vulnerable and I close my eyes and I am right back there, houndstooth coat, red bag, teary-eyed.

It’s not the same, I know that, this is a whole other kind of freaked out but I wish that on

the moments like this, when I am worried and channeling the darker parts of my Moscow memories, that they were here, my Russians, challenging me, daring me to be brave.

V is home!!

They say you don't know what you have until it's gone. Well, I might
not be that deep but I know how freaking excited I am to have my
NSGGBF home.

Like bouncing off the walls, can't wait to give him a great big hug
and interrogate him about every detail of his trip happy.

You never realize how intertwined your relationship is with someone
until you can't talk to them. My V is an awesome friend. There is a
reason why he has so many women in his life. He is who I want to tell
all my adventures to - the ones too indecent to blog about.

I have never been so excited for a Monday before. I may have made a
few new guy friends in his absence but there is only one NSGGBF.

And he is never allowed to go anywhere again without picking a big
fight with me first.

Walk the line

Ok, blog. You and I have come to an impasse. I fear we may have to break-up.

The problem with our relationship is that it isn't just about you and
me. Our exploits are on display for the world to read and unfortunately we are rarely the sole personas featured in our subject matter. Rightfully so, I feel, given when we are it tends to be introspective dribble.

When our banter is good, I mean, when we enter into the really, really hot part of our relationship, it always incriminates our cohorts and gets me in trouble.

That's right blog. You got me busted.

This isn't the first time.

There have been episodes in our tumultuous past when the stories we
share about our friends, foes and the activities that engulf our lives
have come back to bite us in the ass. When the featured characters in
stories of drunken debauchery, in appropriate courting, or parental
discourse have resulted in irate voice mails, charging, "I can't
believe you wrote that!"

V called it slander. But to be fair I did call him a pansy. Wait...
maybe that was just in my mind.

Blog, you and I are a pair of catty gossipers, cackling at life with
our dentures off. And not everyone likes the joke.

And so we have reached the fork in our digital road. We have come to
the point where everything that I want to share with you get stashed
on my hard drive to protect the not so innocents.

My attempts to protect the subjects of our tales, just make readers -
and often, the subjects themselves, confused.

I suppose, if I spelled it out clearly, there would be a lot less for
them to read into and a lot less for them to speculate on.

It's like my ex used to say, "Just spit it out! Dancing around your
thoughts just makes it so much more infuriating." But then again, he
was a dick.

I can't. I just can't. Not given the current parameters of our
relationship. It feels like some kind of violation.

My girlfriend's boyfriend sat in the audience at my show and I had to
stop and persuade him that these stories were enhanced for
entertainment value. Let's hope he bought it.

So blog, we are stuck. Living somewhere between the adventures I am
sure you would like to share and the fear that I might get text
messages that make me say the truth out loud.

Lord knows I can write what I don't have the balls to say.

Let's sleep on it. Maybe in the morning we will find a way to walk that line.

Dull

I went to the bookstore tonight. I flipped through dozens of book jackets - which is what I do every time the world and I cease to get along.

On the days when my mood is blah, when I am not particularly happy but I can’t figure out why, I get lost in the brief synopses of other people’s clever ideas.

Some seem insightful, some banal, but those bite-size glimmers of what might just be genius always make me feel better.

It has been one of those weekends. Not bad but not exceptional either.

Just there. Maybe faulting on the side of glum.

I think I might be loosing touch with reality just a little bit. Writing has skewed my view of the world, of people. I have lost the ability to tell the difference between the good times and the bad because all I see is plot points and story lines.

Everyone and every moment summed up like a cliff noted book jacket.

I am on this endless quest to be intrigued with life and I am too easily bored.

Last night I went to this charity event. It seemed that everyone I was with had caught the malaise. It wasn’t a bad time, just not noteworthy.

I had really thought it would be and I suppose I was a little disappointed when it wasn’t. It was fine but nothing to write home about.

My mind is tired. I think so much - too, too much - and I have a hard time excepting that an uneventful night can be just that, just not all that special.

I look for ways to give it value, make it something. I really have to stop. Sometimes a dull storyline is just that.

It doesn’t all have to be dramatic and exciting....right?

God that just sounds dull.

Sue

Last night I met a woman named Sue at a wine tasting with the girls
(more about that to come). Sue was a sexy woman hitting her stride at
60 and she was on a date with Dick.

Somewhere between sampling Malbecs and Malbec blends, the subject of
my my blog and various dating exploits came into conversation.

"Oh honey," she said, "It's not just an issue at your age. Let me tell
you about this internet date I went on...."

Sue had gone out with a man in his late 60s who was recovering from
prostate cancer. Within in minutes of their first date he had informed
her about his condition. She did not want to be callous but was a
little off-put tone of his admission.

"Just so you know I am 75%." he assured her.

"I couldn't help but wonder, did 75% mean 3 out of 4 times or did it
mean..." With that Sue crooked her finger and raised her left eyebrow
to the sky.
"I felt for him but..." she grimaced.

"That was awfully presumptuous of him, don't you think." one of my
friends chimed in.

We roared.

Dick tried to come back into the room at the sound of all the
laughter, but Sue just shoo-fly-ed him away again. She would do this
repeatedly throughout our conversation and each time I liked her more.

I told her I just had to have her number. I was smitten.

Girl talk knows no age limit and with the proper quantity of vino, new
friends can be found just about anywhere.

Inked out retrospective

This afternoon, I had a phone interview with Sarah Benson from the KC Star/Ink Magazine.  She was interviewing me for part of their Valentine's Day issue.  

It wasn't until I got off the phone with her that I realized that I had never been interviewed about my work before and that I had absolutely no idea what I said.

I rambled though, I know that much.

Ask a girl who has been dumped in the shower, cyber stalked by mad men and propositioned by a pachoulli wearing Jermey Piven and she is gonna give you some stories.  

My only worry is about the one's that weren't told.

Sarah asked me why I moved to KC and I tried to give her the short version without too much skirting of the issue.  She also asked me if I ever worry about people reading my blog. 

Now I wonder if I lied when I told her no.  

I don't care, not really,  that is kind of the point.  But if there is one person I would rather not read this it might be him- you know, the impetus for midwest relocation.

As strange as it sounds I worry that it would come across as mean.  Shit didn't work out - C'est la vie.  I can actually say that without it being bullshit.  But I have got to say, if someone started a blog called The Chick Fast after we broke up, I would be seriously wounded.  

I would freak out, wondering, "Was I so awful, that I caused him to swear off my entire sex?!?"

Obviously, if he read it he would see that that isn't really the point, but still.

I realize that it is completely narcassistic and self-involved to be having such thoughts - I mean, I doubt that I cross the pages of his mind, let alone his computer screen with any real regularity, but when Sarah asked me about how I ended up here and how it all turned out (duh) I couldn't help feeling slightly apprehensive that he might read my response on the pages of some magazine and that it might come across as bitter, or overwrought or even, well, considered.  

The beauty of letting go is that all that stuff goes with it.  Unless of course a reporter asks you about it and then you have to dive it due thought in order to formulate a response that sounds neither flippant or like new age crap.

I am a little scared, and I hope I don't come off as a completely self-involved shrew. 

Sarah wouldn't do that to me....right?

--
Lyndsey Ogle
213.804.3550
www.lyndseyogle.com

Bus O Blood

I cannot stand to be told how to feel. It makes me irate. I dislike it so much I could almost say I hate it. But I won't. I don't like to hate things.

We all do it. I know I have. We 'should' each other.

"You shouldn't feel like that." "You should let it go."

In my family there are no shoulds. There are demands.

"Don't say that!" "Don't think that." "Don't feel that way." Comments typically made in regard to my self-deprecation.

It is enough to make a person want to swallow their feelings but, unfortunately, I am heart on the sleeve kind of gal.

Tonight, I went with a friend - who shall remain nameless as I have yet to determine his clever pseudonym - to donate blood for the Haitian relief effort.

Why I thought this was a good idea I am not so sure but I felt like there was no way to say no to those images, even though every time I get blood drawn it is a minor disaster. When I was in the hospital I swore I may have driven the nurse in training to give up her profession after her attempts to load my i.v. sent me screaming from the pain.

My veins don't take to kindly to being poked.

It didn't end up working. The veins said no. They didn't care about the wait or the good intention. One nurse said something I interpreted as having jello blood. Another said she probably went straight through the vein.

It was fine. I felt a little guilty but it was fine.

But then someone on the bus-o-blood said something and I just wanted to cry. It had nothing to do with donating or the tiny compartment, which even on my best day would give me an anxiety attack.

It was an innocent, meaningless directive and without time or reason I was immediately transported back to the fifth grade, having just been sent to Sister Jackie's office for using the word 'bitch'. I felt so worthless in my metaphoric plaid skirt.

If I told you the words or the whys you might just tell me I shouldn't have felt that way. But I did and all I wanted to do was get out of that damn bus.

Wanda Sikes does a pit about being gay and how basically you are a dumb-ass if you think it is a choice. I feel that way about feelings.

Sometimes you just feel the way you do - despite the shoulds. I think my therapist would agree with me, conditionally, except to say that the manifestation of those feelings is where we have to do the work.

It felt icky and sometimes, for reasons that would be far too difficult to explain to someone not living inside my head, I feel like that, like crap. We all must. Sometimes.

But I rebound quickly, when given enough air and space and room to breathe. And in a moment or few, I felt better. The lower lip of the incarcerated fifth grader inside of me was still quivering but it would recover. She'll come around in her own time.

I cried

I haven't cried in a while. Not the good hard kind of cry that cleans the system, the cry that I enjoy for the solitary reason that it makes me feel alive.

I bawled tonight. I finished watching "Julie and Julia" and I just bawled. It touched me in a way that nothing else in a while has.

It wasn't because it was superb film making - it was decent enough, I thuroughly enjoyed the movie but it was the love.

I don't think we get enough examples of rich deep love, the love of people who still adore each other after decades of marriage, or who stand by each other through the rough times.

We watch stories of conflict - conflict, after all is entertaining, but to watch a story where a husband deeply loves his wife and she him, well that just made me cry.

Sometimes I feel like I am over all of this, the fast, the 'me' time. I think that having someone to share my life with might not be so bad.

I watch people who love each other, just as they are, and I think, that, that is what life is about.

I cried a lot tonight, in a way I haven't in quite sometime. It felt good. It felt like the end of something, though what that is I am not quite sure.

I miss V

He needs to home now. Our pinata got stolen and our foursome is meeting for drinks this week - but without him our foursome is a threesome and that sounds a lot less dirty.

Crew's got Talent

When I was in LA, I played on a softball team with guys who made porn. They had their own company. This wasn't too surprising since I did live in the Valley and you could throw a rock and hit a low grade porn star. I would frequently find myself at the gym next to one of these women on a stairclimber wondering how it was aerodynamically possible for them to stay upright on the machine with breasts the size of basketballs.

During this time I also hung out with some of my girlfriends at a bar called Sardo's. It was a karoke joint that once a week held "industry" night. The first time we went on a Tuesday we were more than a little confused when a man sauntered over to ask my friend to ask if she was crew or talent.

We hadn't realized what industry "industry night was referring to.

Tonight as I raced around the gallery, hauling chairs and barking out orders to my oh so wonderful friends, I had a flashback to that conversation.

Talent's got it easy. Show up, do your thing, get the praise, leave. Crew, that is where the work is. And no, I am not talking about porn anymore.

The show tonight was a blast and I hope it continues to be for the next two performances. It was a ton of work but it never would have been possible without my amazing friends: Kira, Helena, Vi, Kerry, Nathan, Trish, Marcella, Chris, Tony, Mommy, Scott, and so many other wonderful people.

It takes a lot of people to get a one person show off the ground and I really appreciate all they did!

Ahh! Me as Dalton Trumbo

Finally.

It has been a crazy week and weekend and for the first time in what feels like weeks instead of days I have had time to sit, in my favorite spot (the tub), with my Mac propped up on a table next to me (not smart, I know) and write about my day.

Preparing for the show has been more consuming than I thought, not just in time but in brain power. I have no energy left to feel glib.

But I am feeling good right now, Dasani in hand, thrilled to have the most supportive family and friends in the world. Counting down the days till not so sunny Florida and some time to do just this - be alone with my thoughts and my muse and hopefully come up with something great.

We'll see.

Until then I will just say that my friend Kira kicks ass. She is probably cooler than you and I am sorry about that but if you come to my show you will see why.

My mommy is the bestest

My mom has made multiple mentions in the last few months that I don't write about her in my blog that much.

Admittedly this is true, but I haven't had much to say. That sounds bad. What I mean is there is no drama there, no real story or hook.

All I could really say was that I didn't think she liked my blog that much but I have explored that topic before (and with new fervor in the live version).

I think part of the problem is that we haven't had much time to bond. We are both busy - and happy - and without a real catastrophe or heap of drama there hasn't been a ton to discuss.

"How are you?" "Great." "How are you?" "Great."

A good problem to have but I think we were both aching for a little mother - daughter time.

On Friday, I had a mild panic attack. Not a real, full out, blast from the past type attack but a 'oh shit' even if I have time to do everything I need to in the next week - which I don't - I don't know that my brain will survive it. Melt down seemed eminent and I wanted to curl up and hide. I wanted my mommy.

I sent her a text around one o'clock saying, "Do you want to come up and help your only child for the weekend." She immediatly agreed. She is a damn good mommy.

When she called on Saturday morning in the middle of my frazzled technical conundrum, I wondered if close proximaty to another human being was really such a good idea.

I tend to turn into a hermit crab when I am working. But mom came. And she had a focused plan of attack, an agenda to accomplish what I am not so sure.

I cannot remember the last time I have worked as hard as we did this weekend. From 2-2 and 8-11 we talked about little but the show.

It was so much fun! It felt like a true team effort. Mom even posed for leg shot (I keep telling her she could do leg modeling but she isn't biting). It reminded me of trying to put puzzles together as a kid.

I kept saying over and over again how glad and thankful I was that she was there although it didn't feel like I could say it enough. It was the type of effusive gushing that is typically reserved for getting the staring role or making a big play or having one of those "hands down, the best night of my life" nights.

I had my mommy. For 48 hours, it was team us, and we kicked ass.

I was sad she had to go.

Countdown to The Man Fast

Now is the time I start begging. Looking for pimps on every corner.

The show is less than 10 days away. The script is funny… I think and I think I enjoyed creating the video images just a little too much.

There will be a piñata on site to direct traffic and I am told the bartender will be a male model.

All in all, I think it should be a damn good time. Come. Bring friends. I'll buy you a drink afterward, hell, maybe during depending on how nervous I am.

Just don't get lost – if you see this thing on the street you know you are in the right place.

And I am sticking my tongue out too!

V left me. 

 

I am pouting.  He has gone and left me alone on a Monday night.  How dare he?  Is Thailand really so much cooler than me????

 

Okay, it probably is, but the thought of two months without not-so-gay-gay-best-friend chat, PBR and waffle fries makes me a little dismayed.  Who else can I snort in front of or berate for being too damn nice?

 

I told him I was going to have to find a new guy to date, get dumped by, become best-friends with, get into huge fights with only to not speak to for weeks at a time and make up in a disgustingly sappy manner that makes all of our other friends sick.  And I told him I was going to do this all while he was gone.  

 

I am in desperate need of a substitute- substitute man in my life.

 

That will show him for going off to explore far off lands! So there. (And yes, I really did just stomp my foot.)

28B

The hair dying needs to stop. I realize I am bingeing. It is like discovering the wonders of $7.99 box dye has opened up a whole world of indecisive mania.

After 15 years of professionally dyed $200 blondness I have discovered an entirely new antidote to boredom or regimen.

People are starting to make comments. My organization’s executive director stops by almost daily to see what color it will be.

The shades have not varied that much, at least not into the realm of audacious purples or greens, but I, like my hair, have grown to loath consistency.

The only tolerable constant is change. With February a mere eye blink away, I am bracing myself for change and all that this month of landmarks will bring, ones for which I fear even Loreal box 28B can not prepare me.

My show is written. Now I just need to figure out how to get people in the seats. I have a slew of work related projects to prepare for while I am away and several arts proposals to get out if I hope to have opportunities to perform when I return.

Even more flummoxing is not knowing what the trip will hold or the affect it will have on my return.

I fear it might make Kansas City feel like my old blonde hair, attractive, safe but mundane. After 28 days of Box 30 Cinnamon bliss, will regular life ever feel the same?

Coffee, Country and Closure

A year ago, on New Year’s I sent out my regular massed “Happy New Year’s” text message.

My ex-boyfriend, who I had not spoken to in months, was a recipient.

So we can blame it on the text message - the one last horrah, the one last shot to give it a go.

This morning as I sat curled up on my coach nursing a pot of coffee, not from a hang over as I was exceedingly well behaved on New Years but from chronic sleep deprivation, I could not help but reflect on last year and feel really lucky for how badly that turned out.

I don’t mean to sound like a bad country song but sometimes that man upstairs really has a better plan than you do.

I may have had a bad break-up, which signaled the final end of what seemed like an endless on again off again mess but I also got my freedom. This time instead of breaking up and hurting and waiting for another round to launch, I didn’t feel anything. Not really, not like before. Not hurt or anger or ill-will but just peace. I had discovered that mythical state of closure.

I can’t help but think about that closure this morning and of all the great things that came out of that break-up. It was like relationship swag, a parting gift for the road. Hasta la vesta drama and hello great new friends, a new outlook on relationships and a whole new angle to write about.

I think maybe I drank the happiness cool-aid as the ball dropped, because when I finally pealed myself off the coach to pick up my girl-friend and drive her to her car, which she had stashed a few blocks from his home last night, I stopped to send him a silent thank you, not for the time we spent together, that he knew, but for letting me go.

This year, who knows, I might just take a little break from the fast - it is starting to feel like it is time - and I know that none of my future romantic happiness, which will find me when it is good and ready, would be the same if it was not for all of the trials that came before.

So I am thankful. And ready to stop listening to quite so much country music.