tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33829871506620817022024-03-13T14:17:36.166-07:00Marathon's MistressYou can run in circles, but you can't run from yourself. Commentary about D.C., dating, being a twenty-something young, single, female professional, running and everything else in between.Toddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06844041827618501741noreply@blogger.comBlogger117125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3382987150662081702.post-74660530223699969082021-12-18T16:51:00.000-08:002021-12-18T16:51:52.767-08:00The REBOOT<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg2mHYW9eG9zNMEUBKBZMuFcliSIPwdqpUIqlIiu4aA9q-_L0yiUdVR77Lk6bccIiITGiW0nEWBobXf6hhnSGwb9t_bPWnV66RK6CvKspwvJZDij_ZrT3zGRw_DKYi7my7w2kEgzRnlV9TTPcEXzj2Otuocykk8jxSPjYmPulHtTO_vJF_xsN6u9HCCVw=s275" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="275" data-original-width="183" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg2mHYW9eG9zNMEUBKBZMuFcliSIPwdqpUIqlIiu4aA9q-_L0yiUdVR77Lk6bccIiITGiW0nEWBobXf6hhnSGwb9t_bPWnV66RK6CvKspwvJZDij_ZrT3zGRw_DKYi7my7w2kEgzRnlV9TTPcEXzj2Otuocykk8jxSPjYmPulHtTO_vJF_xsN6u9HCCVw" width="183" /></a></div> Well....<p></p><p>Hello there, my old drinking buddies. Er, not old. But not exactly young either. I <i>like </i>to call myself young-ish and in the same breath know that I <i>have</i> to acknowledge that I am old-ish. Like, "I'm not young, but I'm not old either. I'm young-ish <i>and</i> old-ish." It's a mouthful, but accurate.</p><p>So, it finally happened. After, 18 months of teaching virtually at home in my English basement seeing no one but my parents. After popping Zinc and Magnesium and Vitamin D and Vitamin C like they were skittles. After returning to hybrid learning and then in-person learning and then back to hybrid then in-person, well - you get it. After eating outside at a restaurant for the first time, after going to my first outdoor concert, after my book group returned to in-person ladies that drink bottles of wine. After 11, yes 11 first dates (10 from online dating apps, and 1 from a guy I met organically at a friend's party), it finally happened. I. got. COVID. Ugh.</p><p>And now, here I am. Yours truly, Hot Toddy. Sitting in my English basement. Seeing no one, not even my parents. And I'm in quarantine for Christmas. I hadn't even gotten a tree yet. I hadn't even put up a single decoration. I haven't mailed any gifts or baked any Christmas cookies. I'm just stuck here alone, at what used to me my favorite time of year, feeling sorry for myself.</p><p>Now, my mother, the gracious, supporting, loving angel that she is, when I told her that I felt sorry for myself said "Well, I feel sorry for myself too." "Really, Mom? Really? I'm fighting off an infectious disease that has invaded my body and I'm coughing so hard that sometimes I pee myself a little but um, what do you have to feel sorry about hmm?" "Well, so many people were worried about Omicron that I had to cancel my office holiday party. I was so looking forward to it." Mmmm-kay. mkay. (Maybe it's not such a bad thing that I'm spending Christmas alone after all). At any rate, this, was not helpful.</p><p>So, I called up my friend Alice. I've always been able to rely on Alice. To buoy me. To believe in me. When others - (such as ahem, mothers) - could not. </p><p>"What should I doooooooooo?" I asked, in the most annoying, pathetic, I've given up, because I'm banned to a basement for the holidays whiny voice.</p><p>Without skipping a beat, Alice said: "You should watch all of Sex and the City." </p><p>"What?" "</p><p>Yes, you should watch ALL of Sex and the City. Then you can watch the reboot."</p><p>BINGO.</p><p>"Yes. Yeeeeeeeees. This is the first good advice that I have gotten.</p><p>But -- I kinda recall the very first episode being about how all single women over 35 should just give up on men and shrivel up and die. Right? Which didn't bother me when it came out on June 6, 1998, when I was 15 years old! But now that I'm 38 years old, it's a bit of a tougher pill to swallow."</p><p>"I mean, yes I noticed that. But, the rest of the entire show is about proving that wrong. They swan around being fabulous."</p><p>"Yeah, I guess that's true. Besides, I need some inspiration for 2022. Newly divorced. Online dating (*shudder*). So, I'll give it a shot. To dating in a post-pandemic world in my late 30's. To online dating even! (*shudder* *shudder*). To best friends who still love you know matter who you date or what diseases you catch. Because isn't that what it's really all about?</p><p>So, let's do this dear readers, dear drinking buddies:</p><p>IT'S TIME FOR <i>my</i> REBOOT.</p><p>Is it also time for yours?...</p><p>Love and Bourbon,</p><p> Hot Toddy <3</p><p><br /></p><br />Toddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06844041827618501741noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3382987150662081702.post-76610276042884651322013-02-15T12:51:00.000-08:002013-02-15T12:51:45.322-08:00It Could Happen<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpDdIkAMQiv-FKH3TQNltSzapYXYYYK26QRFZKPJjkpj2OX8_tGpge9zoZX4yOowjI-6kapFI4fS_wrmeg2g_4i98Oo364lPoCEuTXfbUAY5IxlqIOZwtaNsXH68hprhOpgSSCNg0VwbA/s320/it-could-happen_design.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpDdIkAMQiv-FKH3TQNltSzapYXYYYK26QRFZKPJjkpj2OX8_tGpge9zoZX4yOowjI-6kapFI4fS_wrmeg2g_4i98Oo364lPoCEuTXfbUAY5IxlqIOZwtaNsXH68hprhOpgSSCNg0VwbA/s320/it-could-happen_design.png" uea="true" /></a></div>
<br />
(Text messages):<br />
<br />
Me: Did Jack ever call you back yesterday or today?<br />
<br />
Alice: Ummm nope. Kind of pissed. Also confused. But I guess I don't want to be with someone like that anyway.<br />
<br />
Me: Oh man. I'm sorry. That sucks and def is confusing.<br />
<br />
Alice: Yeah, he was coming on so strong. <br />
<br />
Alice: I don't understand what the point of that was.<br />
<br />
Alice: I'm telling you. The universe just wants me to be single forever.<br />
<br />
Me: No it doesn't. You've met two guys lately that didn't work out. It's a numbers game.<br />
<br />
Alice: For some the numbers game takes waaay more numbers than others.<br />
<br />
Me: Stuff takes time.<br />
<br />
Alice: I have tons of friends here. The love situation is a whole different story. It's so hard for me to find it.<br />
<br />
Me: Loves overrated. Live your life. Have fun. Love will find you.<br />
<br />
Alice: Not sure why, maybe there's something wrong with me that people aren't telling me!!! <br />
<br />
Alice: I am living my life and having fun.<br />
<br />
Me: Trust me. Love will find you then you'll be sitting on the couch while Love eats his breakfast. He'll be chowing down his food like an animal that hasn't eaten in 3 days . Then he'll drop a huge bit of egg onto the couch. He'll look around for it not that hard. Not find it. Shrug his shoulders. Keep on eating and forget about it. This is what Love did to me this morning.<br />
<br />
Alice: Hahahhaah. That doesn't sound so bad.<br />
<br />
Me: Not so bad?? Are you kidding? He left a quarter size chunk of egg. He dropped it somewhere. Shrugged his shoulders and left it. Ahhhhhhhhhh. Argh. It's so infuriating!<br />
<br />
Alice: Haaahahah gross. Annoying, maybe. But a trade off.<br />
<br />
Me: Well you may think it's funny now, but you won't when you come over to our apartment in two months and it smells and you'll know it's because we leave perishable food in our couch and just leave it there.<br />
<br />
Alice: Fine. But that is still better than me being the creepy cougar at your and MT's house every Thanksgiving.<br />
<br />
Me: You won't be a cougar.<br />
<br />
Alice: Hahha we'll see. I would make a super hot cougar tough. I mean, I better be. I'll have been doing Crossfit for 10 years by then.<br />
<br />
Me: Look, you have to think about Missy. She's older than you. She's 31. Can you imagine that gorgeous, kind girl being alone forever? Because, I can't. It's impossible.<br />
<br />
Alice: No, she won't be. <br />
<br />
Me: Well, that's how we see you. You just have to see that for yourself.<br />
<br />
Alice: Aw thanks!! I mean, I know my friends love me, so someone else should.<br />
<br />
Me: Listen, maybe the universe knows you are meant to be with like the hottest Jewish Australian Crossfit Coach ever. So it is thwarting you now so that when you go to get certified or volunteer to referee a competition you'll meet him then. <br />
<br />
Alice: Yes! that sounds awesome! That would be worth waiting for.<br />
<br />
Me: His name is Cort, mate. And you'll be like, Jack who? And he'll be like come over to my house tomorrow. I'll throw another shrimp on the barby. And you'll be like thanks. And he'll be like no worries.<br />
<br />
Alice: Hahah. yess!!! I do want a hot crossfit guy. Or at least someone who cares about getting and staying in shape.<br />
<br />
Me: And Aaron will be there. But he'll fail his Level 1 certification exam because his stomach will make him unbalanced on handstand pushups.<br />
<br />
Alice: Hahahah. That's amazing. But really his stomach seems to be almost gone. Thanks to his like 2 days of paleo. the jerk.<br />
<br />
Me. Yeah, it does. But he'll fall off the wagon. Because he realized he blew it with you and he goes into a deep depression. Eating cupcakes and pasta and white potatoes...oh my!<br />
<br />
Alice: That's true. He will. Man I hope he realizes that. I would have been awesome for that kid.<br />
<br />
Me: Yes, but instead you're awesome for Cort and you open a box together. On the beach. Called Crossfit Sunset.<br />
<br />
Me: It could happen.<br />
<br />
Alice: I am in for that! It certainly could. Anything is possible.<br />
<br />
Me: See??? The universe knows best. Have a little faith.<br />
<br />
Alice: I'll try.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Toddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06844041827618501741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3382987150662081702.post-85503860218398212002012-10-11T21:15:00.001-07:002012-10-11T21:15:14.459-07:00Some People Just SuckYesterday a woman spilled her hot coffee all over my arm when the train lurched forward on the Dupont metro platform.<br />
<br />
"Geez, I'm sorry," she said fervently.<br />
<br />
As I rolled up the sleeve of my now soaking wet work dress I said: "I appreciate that, but it wouldn't have happened if you didn't have your coffee on the metro. You know, you're not supposed to have coffee on the metro?"<br />
<br />
She scrunched up her face at me and sourly retorted back: "It's tea. Not coffee."<br />
<br />
"What?" I said incredulously.<br />
<br />
"It's tea not coffee," she replied again, this time with smug conviction.<br />
<br />
"Tea. Coffee. Okay-you're not supposed to have hot liquid or any liquid on the Metro."<br />
<br />
"Whatever," she mumbled as she took a sip of her "tea" (glad we clarified that) and turned away from me disinterested.<br />
<br />
Um, yeah....sometimes people just suck. My arm was wet all morning. My soul might be angry forever.Toddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06844041827618501741noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3382987150662081702.post-36913270097363377132012-10-05T12:12:00.001-07:002012-10-05T13:01:02.393-07:00Rich BitchesWhy are women such bitches? And why does it seem that the richer women get- the bitchier? I mean, I could be completely wrong here and stereotyping. Maybe you are reading this and you've won the lottery or had family money or earned a shit ton through hard work and zeal and still you give money to charity and have fat friends and truly believe the best things in life are free. But for the most part- I'm not buying it.
So here's what happened....<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);">I'm vacationing on the West Coast with the bf. He's at a conference that work is paying for and therefore I get to stay at an amazing spa resort hotel that I couldn't afford otherwise. No complaints here. I have a view of the ocean from my room, a whole island to bum around on and all day to enjoy its treasures. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">I went down to the fitness center to take a Pilates class. As I waited in the aerobics room, they suddenly all appeared. You know- "them", "they"...those kind of women-"rich bitches." They were all in their mid-40s. But I don't mean normal people mid-western soccer mom 40s. I mean- Demi Moore, Jennifer Aniston 40s. About 8 of them. And they all seemed to know each other. All size 2 and blonde. Except for one who was brunette. But she was the hottest so I guess she got a pass to keep her hair color. Designer work out clothes, designer flip flops. Enormous rocks on their left hands. Gigantormous. All a little giggly. A little eyeing speculatively at me. How dare I invade their in-crowd with my Fila leggings and fat ass? </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);">They all talked throughout the workout. Whined when it got too hard. One woman left in the middle for her spa treatments. Another asked if it was time for a cocktail yet. Their hair was all down! And perfect! As was their make-up! Every one of these women were a bagillion times hotter than I have been or will ever be but they could barely do the work out. I was the only one who kept up with the instructor. And yet- I came to the end soaked in sweat, hair like a hornet's nest, makeup melted into ugly raccoon eyes. And they- we're unaltered. How do women do that? Is it magic? Are they modern day witches? It never ceases to amaze me. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);">After we finished, I looked around for a bottle of sanitizer spray to wipe down my mat. I didn't see one. I always wipe it down at yoga and encouraged the bf to do so as well when borrowing mats from studios. But I didn't see anything. I didn't think it was all that far fetched that at a fancy place like this the staff wiped the mats down themselves after every class especially when attendance is small, classes are few and far between and the clientele elite. All the women were sitting around talking and something about being in their presence made me severely uncomfortable and antsy to leave. So I rolled up my mat, put it back in its cubby and left. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);">That's when I heard them. "She didn't wipe her mat." "Eww that's so gross." "Well she was gross..did you see her...". By then I was out of ear shot. I wonder what specifically about me they found the grossest? Then I heard of barrel of laughter find its way up the exit stairwell. Reminding me of their presence. And power. And making me even more self-conscious. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);">Why are rich women bitches? Why did they have to comment in me at all? Why couldn't the women who noticed have kept her mouth shut? Why did she need to share? To belittle me? And if it was so important to her that I wipe my mat why didn't she see that I had not and say: "Hey-did you need a wipe for your mat it's right here?" We're they mean because they were rich? Or hot? Or both? In theory you could assume that people like that-rich and hot-would be nice. They're the lucky ones. By the grace of god and genetics and who knows what else they've hit the jackpot. A life of being treated better by others (because studies show people are nicer to good looking people) and a life of ease and comfort and experiencing luxury. Trips, treatments, food, wine, couture. The list is endless. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);">So why be mean to the poor, single girl with sweaty brown hair and big thighs? But it's always the </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">way isn't it?
Is it because they're rich or beautiful or both? In their 40s while I still have my youth?</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);"> Because they're unhappy? Maybe they married rich 40&50 year old husbands when they were</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);"> in their 20s and are now attached to wrinkly balls that work too much to show them attention so they take comfort in their tan legs and expensive jewelry? I don't have the answer. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">What's most concerning is that I cared. Really and truly cared. Looked myself in the mirror throughout the class finding myself wanting. Leaving the class feeling even more so and hoping I didn't run into them again. Cancelling a yoga class for tomorrow to avoid a repeat dose of humiliation. Guys don't treat one another like that. Complete cruelty and judgment. For cruelty and judgment's sake. To feed their own insecurities. Or at least not as much. Not to the same extent. And they don't care as much. Forgot to wipe down a yoga mat? Sorry-next time. He doesn't like me? Oh well I've got other friends. My mother likes me. I like me. Moving on...what were we talking about? I don't know why women are bitches. Or why it hurts so much. I only know that they are. And it does.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span"></span>Toddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06844041827618501741noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3382987150662081702.post-12005313035530342102012-09-25T08:31:00.000-07:002012-09-25T08:31:29.875-07:00Falling DownYesterday, during a run, I fell down. It was especially unfortunate that I took a tumble, since before that point, my outing had been one of the most successful I'd ever had. The fact is - I'm not a very good runner. It's not for lack of training, or lack of trying. I'm just slow. I always have been. No amount of long-distance treks or track work has seemed to change that fact. In twenty years. Maybe it's because I have hips. Or boobs. Or my right foot is slightly pigeon toed. Maybe, despite the fact that I've been taught proper pose form versus heel striking, I still haven't mastered the technique that would excel me to greater distances and faster times. But still, I run. Slowly, but surely, from here to there. And some days, are better than others.<br />
<br />
This was one of those days. I started out up a decent sized hill, knowing that the majority of the rest of the journey would be down hill. That if I could start out strong, I could finish with ease. And there's nothing better than the first few runs of the Fall weather., am I right? Cool and crisp and clean and full of possibility. It was just starting to get dark. People moved about around me like shadows. Home from work. Out with their dogs. Carrying their groceries.<br />
<br />
I made it up the hill with little trouble. And began to pick up speed as I turned the corner onto flatter, slightly sloping downward concrete. I went faster and faster. My pony tail bobbing in the wind. "I'm getting better," I thought. "I can do this," I rejoiced. I felt free. <br />
<br />
I ran down three more blocks and then rounded a second corner onto a steep down hill stretch. I might even have laughed out loud. This was a great run. A really truly great run. When your legs fly beneath you without effort. Like they aren't even attached to the rest of your body. But then it happened. I tripped on the elevated sidewalk and went flying in the air, somersaulting into the grass, and landing with a crash against the tire of a parked car. Thump.<br />
<br />
A guy who must have been running behind me stopped to see if I was alright. "Are you okay?" he asked alarmed and concerned. "Just go," I snapped, almost with contempt. "I'm fine. I'm fine. Keep going." And then instantly, in addition to feeling hurt and embarassed, I also felt like a shit head. I'd been unnecessarily mean and short with a stranger who simply stopped to assist me. To show some common human decency to a fellow person that may be in need. "I'm such an asshole," I thought to myself as I shook my head in disgust.<br />
<br />
But - was I okay? Yes. Skinned shin. Skinned and barely bleeding forearm. But I was fine. It could have been much much worse. Landing on my face or neck. Or rolling my ankle or landing on my arm. But no, I was fine. For some reason, I started to whimper anyway, then stopped myself. "No crying, you're fine." I got back up on my feet and continued to run. This time slowly, carefully, tentatively. I was fine. But really - I wasn't.<br />
<br />
When I got back home, I walked into the apartment and straight into the bedroom. "I'm just going to lie down for awhile by myself for a bit," I called to my boyfriend. "Of course, honey," he said understanding. (He's always understanding like that. It's almost annoying - since I never seem to understand anything.) I lay down on the bed on top of the covers, stuffing my face into the deep comforter and began to sob. I cried and cried and cried. And tried to comprehend why. I mean - I just fell down. But I was fine. Truly. Why did I feel so awful? Because I suck at running? Because I've always been slow? Because I've always been clumsy and stubbing my toe or tripping on a run is pretty much par for the course? Because it's just scary to lose control?<br />
<br />
My boyfriend called to me from another room: "Babes - do you know where the cell phone charger is?" "Didn't I say I needed to lie down alone for a bit?" "Yeah, but where's the charger?" (Sometimes its really hard to live with someone. Time alone, is never time alone. Especially when you really need it.) Something made me want to call my mother. What is it about feeling vulnerable or sad or hurt and needing your mother? I texted her. "I just fell down on a run. I'm fine but it sucks you know? How are you?" Was it not the greatest thing as a child to fall down and get a scratch or owie or booboo and have your mother kiss it all better? That is such a hallmark image of parenthood. Comforting the shaken child. Wouldn't it be great as an adult to be allowed to fall down and have someone always there to make things right again? And a peck on the knee actually made it all better?<br />
<br />
Now, I'm not saying I couldn't have called my boyfriend into the room and told him what happened and he wouldn't have been there for me. Told me he was sorry it happened. Offered to get me some water or tried to cheer me up. But I just wanted to sulk you know? Feel sorry for myself. Be a baby. I did pick my self up off the ground. I did finish my run and get myself home. I did wash the dirt off. Isn't that how the saying goes: "I get knocked down, but I get up again." Or how bout "brush your shoulders off?" But sometimes its hard to be an adult. Get up every day. And go to work. And feed yourself. And pay your bills. And take care of others. And go to the dentist. And the doctor. And grocery shop. And find parking. And be a good person. And fall down. And mess up. And fail. And then have to pick yourself up again. And again. And again. <br />
<br />
I want to end this on a more positive note. Something uplifting, but not cliche. A silver lining in the cloud. But nothing springs to mind. I think I just want to honor the fact that we all try really hard. And we don't always succeed. And yet we keep on forging ahead. And its okay to fall down. And feel really shitty about it. Because it sucks. Falling down sucks. <br />
<br />
Now...brush your shoulder off...<br />
<br />
-TToddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06844041827618501741noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3382987150662081702.post-55285884693503409612012-06-01T21:27:00.001-07:002012-06-01T21:35:51.224-07:00It HappensI stand in the hallway. The kitchen light illuminating the darkness of the quiet, empty apartment. In a blue negligee. Its too big for me. Not too big for my breasts but what else is new. It displays them perfectly, but the rest hangs off me. Over my waist as if it didnt exist, or my hips, I never imagined them obselete. And are there legs beneath? You couldn't know.
We were in the pouring rain earlier. We went for chocolate milk. Low-fat of course after our 5:30 Crossfit workout. Then we got groceries. Sweet potatoes. Asparagus. Salmon. Blackberries. Eggs.
The streets were flooded. I tried to cross the street, but my sneakers were soaked. The wind was strong enough to blow my umbrella inside out. We watched an episode of Good Wife while we ate. He closed his eyes half way through.
Sometimes he gets tired early on a Friday night and goes to bed. Sometimes he's a very old soul in a young man's body. Tall and lean and muscled. It used to bother me.
It is still in our apartment. Except for a car alarm several blocks away. And the party going on two floors up. But in our home, it is peaceful.
I think: my happiness has come. He's in the next room, sleeping. Breathing heavy. Already taking up my side with his never ending length and legs and limbs.
The man whose hair spikes when out of the shower. Whose glasses are bent. Who tells me he loves me more than three fuckin tons.
Every date was worth it. Every awkward first date. Bowling date. Drink date. Blind date. Fourth date. Dinner date. Group date. Regretful hookups.
We just found each other. One day. Like any other. And the onset wasn't always simple. Or easy. Or sure. But now, loving him is so much- almost too much to bear. Being loved by him is like a gift I don't deserve. But I am grateful for it.
I don't doubt we'll have our challenges. But here, alone, in the silent darkness, I know, my happiness has finally, finally, come.Toddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06844041827618501741noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3382987150662081702.post-46195218529738656002012-01-09T15:43:00.000-08:002012-01-09T16:18:46.679-08:00The Express Lane To Romance<a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/thumb/9/99/Express_Machine.jpg/180px-Express_Machine.jpg"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 180px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/thumb/9/99/Express_Machine.jpg/180px-Express_Machine.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><br /><div>If you are a committed commuter like me, you just might ride the metro and/or the bus into work 5 times a day in and 5 times a day out. And then you might also have occasion to read the free edition of the Express paper during your ride. Today, I did, and it got me thinking - about HOW TO FIND ROMANCE!</div><br /><br /><div>Today's edition, was an especially full and interesting one, (If you have the chance go grab it at <a href="http://www.expressnightout.com/">http://www.expressnightout.com/</a>), and ran an article entitled <strong>"Occupiers Find Romance in Protest."</strong> It reports that: "a combustible combination of youthful energy, enthusiasm for shared ideals and tight living quarters has given rise to something else: romance. More than a dozen couples have merged after three months of outdoor living, including one pair who got engaged over the holidays."</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>It got me thinking....About-someone who commented on my last post, where I shamelessly gushed about happiness with my livin' in sin partner in crime boyfriend. This reader wrote: "You have what we all long for...cherish it." And it made me deeply sad to read those words. I remember longing for someone. Sometimes more than other times. And I know some people who want it so badly they can taste it. I wish everyone out there could find someone. And find someone now. And find <em>that</em> someone for ever.<br /><br />And it seems like all my single friends are trying. <em>Really</em> trying. Online dating. And off-line dating. Meeting people at the gym. And people at bars. Hooking up and hanging out. Getting hearts bruised and broken and having to start all over again. They want it so bad - they get downtrodden and defeated. They feel lonely. They feel hopeless. A birthday party out in AdMo has lost its luster. One group of girlfriends singles out a member because every where they go she's always "looking" for a guy and not just being in the moment. Not just being around people that make her feel good about herself and just having fun for a change.</div><br /><br /><div>I've given a friend this advice time and time again and I think its obvious. And you've probably heard it before. And I know it sometimes hurts coming from someone who has already got a guy. "Easy for you to say," she says to me. But its absolutely true. And the occupier romances show us its true.<br /></div><br /><div>1. ENERGY<br /></div><br /><div>2. ENTHUSIASM</div><br /><br /><div>3. SHARED IDEALS</div><br /><br /><div>4. TIGHT LIVING QUARTERS</div><br /><br /><div>1. Live your life. Go out there and do the things you like doing. That you are passionate about. That you enjoy. That you find fun, educational, stimulating, worthwhile.</div><br /><br /><div>2. Be positive. Learn to like yourself and even love yourself. If you can't, it will be hard for someone else to. Besides, no one likes a debby downer. People want to be around people who are happy. People are more apt to like someone who is happy. So get happy. Single, and alone and mateless. Imagine, if you have to live the rest of your life alone - are you going to throw your life in the trash? and live through it sad and sulky and depressed? or are you going to find a way to make it full and interesting and be content? </div><br /><br /><div>3. YOU WILL FIND SOMEONE. I PROMISE. PROBABLY SOMEONE WITH SIMILAR QUALITIES OR SIMILAR INTERESTS OR SIMILAR FRIENDSHIP OR WORK CIRCLES OR EVEN "SHARED IDEALS." I found my boyfriend playing kickball. The occupiers are finding companionship through passionate political protest. Maybe you like salsa dancing or volunteering at a pet shelter or retirement community. Whatever it is - if you are 1) being energetic and active in your life and 2) being enthusiastic and happy with yourself and others - then you WILL run into the members of the opposite sex that are potential matches for who you REALLY are.</div><br /><br /><div>4. MEN ARE EVERYWHERE. I know it doesn't seem like it much of the time since the male to female ratio is abysmal in DC but I promise - they are there. At the kickball games. And occupying Mcpherson's square. They're at a Cafe Citron happy hour, where, for example, a man name "Craig" met his now wife "Allison" back in 2008. (Again, see today's Express under the engagement/marriage announcement section).</div><br /><br /><div>I know this is starting to sound like a lame ass pep talk. But I've been giving a lot of rah rahs lately to a lot of single friends. Male and female alike. I don't know how long it is going to take. I don't. I wasn't single between the ages of 14-23. Then I was single for 4 LONG YEARS between the ages of 24-27. And I haven't been single at ages 27 or 28. It's a mystery maybe. But I remember being busy and happy and finding myself between 14-23 and I never had trouble meeting men. After a terrible break-up during law school at age 23 I never seemed to recover. The doom and gloom overshadowed my love life and I believe - drastically hurt my chance to find someone new again soon. When I finally decided to be happy alone at 27 and made conscious and active steps to be satisfied to be single - I found one man immediately thereafter and then another only days after the first relationship fell apart. I was going to parties. And being with friends. And being myself. I was in the places I live and enjoy doing the things I find fun, with the people I find to be decent and kind human beings. Is that a recipe for romantic success? Perhaps.</div><br /><br /><div>Good luck out there. Maybe there is no Express Lane or Express Way to Romance. All I know is, there seem to be a lot of lucky ladies (and gentlemen) listed in the Express today who found someone special. You are next. I feel it.</div><br /><br /><div>Cheers,<br /></div><br /><div>T</div></div>Toddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06844041827618501741noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3382987150662081702.post-50287564709949293442012-01-02T10:55:00.000-08:002012-01-02T11:24:48.162-08:00A Buddy Day<a href="http://web.mit.edu/bbuddies/www/Pics/bblogo.gif"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 329px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 259px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://web.mit.edu/bbuddies/www/Pics/bblogo.gif" border="0" /></a><br />January 2nd. The day after New Year's Day. A national, federal holiday for most - meaning a day off of work. But not for those in the private sector. Not for most lawyers I would guess. Certainly, <em>not</em> a day off for me. A lowest, of the low, bottom of the totem pole, nobody-special, young, struggling esquire trying to make my way (or more importantly just make rent), residing in my beloved DC.<br /><br />We cuddled in bed. Our gorgeous, fluffy, cloud-like comforter, dark blue blanket, soft white sheet encapsulating dreamy marshmallow likeness of a <br /><div>bed. His arms wrapped around mine. His breath warm on the back of my neck. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>"Okay, just five more minutes," I said insistent this time. "I have to go to work."</div><br /><div>"Don't go in," he said. "We can have a buddy day." "A buddy day? What's a buddy day," I asked. "Well..." he said, (coming up with a response on the fly), it's a day where best buddies do buddy things." "Is that so? And what do buddies <em>do</em> exactly?" I curiously questioned. "Buddies do things like make sandwiches. And watch TV. And make each other happy." Aha. Genius. A buddy day. Why didn't I think of that?</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>"I can't. I just can't. You know that. I have to go in. But I wish I could." (And I really wished I could.)</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I got up and reluctantly got dressed, brushed my teeth and packed my purse. I searched for my work keys, first in panic that they weren't where they usually hid but was relieved to find them hiding behind a large green candle on the dining room table, that was only brought out for the holiday party we'd held the week before. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I went back into the bedroom and kissed him several times, though he was still half-asleep. "Have a good day," he told me. "Get some rest," I said. I closed the front door to our apartment as softly as I could, even though he wasn't entirely asleep, so as not to disturb him. Then I stepped out into a perfectly quiet, city morning. The air was very chilly. But fresh. The sun beamed down from the sky, full and bright. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Call me crazy, but I like working on holidays. Making the brisk walk to the metro without any traffic to dodge. A few people out walking or jogging, but only a handful of the crowds that are usually emerging from their houses in the early am hours. You can hear the breeze. You can hear the silence. It doesn't happen around here often. It's hard to describe. It feels peaceful. And full. A big space filled with quiet happiness. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>The train was equally empty. As were the streets when I emerged out of the subway once again. Only a few of my coworkers had beat me in. It was nice to see them. To exchange new year pleasantries. To know that most of the building was empty. That I could plod along with my work - Relaxed. Easy. Without distraction. Without the tension of the masses emitting from floors above and below. I like working on days like this.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>And my mind keeps drifting to the man back at home. To the new year. To what I have and don't have. I don't love my job. I don't have job security. I don't have a lot of money. And yet, I live with and love my best friend. My best buddy. And we make sandwiches together, and watch TV together, and take walks together and make each other happy. And that is everything.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I don't know what 2012 will bring. But I'm excited. And I'm content.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Cheers,</div><br /><div>T</div>Toddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06844041827618501741noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3382987150662081702.post-92207352656298959492011-11-01T15:53:00.000-07:002011-11-01T16:06:10.961-07:00Moving In Together: Part 3<a href="http://fabulouslyfrugirl.files.wordpress.com/2011/08/moving_in_together_c.jpg"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://fabulouslyfrugirl.files.wordpress.com/2011/08/moving_in_together_c.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />MT got a text from his buddy who had agreed to help us move in on Saturday. "So you just about picked the worst day ever to move. I'm on my way."<br /><br />And he was right. Saturday was not the ideal day to move as it was the first snow "storm" of the late fall and early winter months. From pouring rain to what I'd call pouring sleet, with a little bit of actual wet snow mixed in, it was wet, it was chilly and it should have been entirely unpleasant.<br /><br />But it wasn't. Moving is hard. Some pieces are harder to move then others. Awkward to carry. Heavy. Can't get out of the apartment, down the hall, into the elevator, fit into the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Uhaul</span> and then into the new apartment front door and through the hall and to its new rightful spot within the layout. But despite the normal setbacks and difficulties, this move went as smooth as it could possibly go.<br /><br />Just me, my MT and two of our guy buddies, the four of us packed up <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">MT's</span> place, and then my place and then moved us all in jam packed into our new place. Phew.<br /><br />MT still has way too much stuff. VHS tapes of The <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Houseguest</span> and Dumb and Dumber when neither of us has a VCR. Electrical cords to long gone devices. Shirts he's never worn. Books he'll never read. Things he'll never use. And there will come a time that he will need to purge.<br /><br />But that day wasn't Saturday. Or Sunday. Or today.<br /><br />We are just happy happy happy. We sit on his coach (now our couch!) in our apartment. Looking at the granite <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">counter tops</span> on the kitchen across the rooms. Staring at the people coming and going on our charming tree lined city street. We look at each other and think how lucky lucky lucky we are to be young, in love and in this adorable home, right in the thick of Adams Morgan.<br /><br />We'll figure out how to organize the closets - soon. But for now, we just can't believe we live together. And can't believe how right it all feels.<br /><br />Cheers,<br /><br />TToddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06844041827618501741noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3382987150662081702.post-50996046473299391812011-10-28T13:52:00.000-07:002011-10-28T14:00:12.574-07:00Moving In Together: Part 2<a href="http://fabulouslyfrugirl.files.wordpress.com/2011/08/moving_in_together_c.jpg"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://fabulouslyfrugirl.files.wordpress.com/2011/08/moving_in_together_c.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div>The Math Teacher and I are moving in together....tomorrow.<br /></div><br /><br /><div>The Uhaul has been rented. All smaller items moved. The bedroom is sort of half painted a blue that he picked out. There is a lot to do.</div><br /><br /><div>Hunting for an apartment was exhausting. Finding the right one was exhilarating. Moving will likely be trying. And living together???</div><br /><br /><div>Well, I'm starting to think living together will be insanity.<br /><br /></div><br /><div>I'm not going to lie. I am nervous. Really, REAAAAALLY nervous. Like cold feet nervous. Is this how brides feel before the jaunt down the altar? Now I see why some are the runaway kind.</div><br /><br /><div>I'm excited to live with him. I think we are going to have fun. And fight. And be happy. But...</div><br /><br /><div>Living apart makes it easy to keep parts of ourselves and our lives and our routines apart too. His mess annoys me, but before it was his mess in his place. Now it'll be his mess in our place. In my place. But still his place. He has so many pieces of big, bulky, ugly, do not match, old furniture and I hate them all. I feel as though are apartment doesn't have room for all his stuff. But then I know I need to make room in our apartment for him - and his stuff. ahhhhh. What if we fight all the time about cleaning and chores and forgotten locked doors or money and I become a nag and he becomes resentful? Or he doesn't understand it when I just want alone time? Or we can't decide what to watch on tv? Or I do all the cooking and he does all the eating?</div><br /><br /><div>I was thinking of this as a no brainer. We spend all our time together. We want to be together. It's convenient, its fun, its exciting, its an adventure.</div><br /><br /><div>But the reality has sent in. And I am nervous. And I am scared. And I am definitely having second thoughts. Eep.</div>Toddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06844041827618501741noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3382987150662081702.post-63292770660019161972011-10-05T13:05:00.000-07:002011-10-05T13:29:03.513-07:00Moving In Together - Part 1: Boys are Dirty<a href="http://fabulouslyfrugirl.files.wordpress.com/2011/08/moving_in_together_c.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://fabulouslyfrugirl.files.wordpress.com/2011/08/moving_in_together_c.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div><strong>As if moving in together didn't have enough challenges, I'd like to grope about two things:</strong></div><br /><br /><div><strong>1) Boys are Dirty</strong> - this morning I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth. MT had already left for work. And there they were -- teeny tiny 1/8 centimeter hair clippings from when he'd trimmed his beard or shaved his neck or both. All. Over. My. Toothbrush!!!!!! Ahhhhhh!!!!! And what is a girl to do? MT is a regular guy. A guys guy. He's not the grossest. He's a little more grown up than that. He does <em>try</em> to clean. But his cleaning just isn't up to par with my cleaning. And he doesn't notice stuff like hair particles on toothbrushes. But still...its a problem. How am I going to deal with this when we are living together on a daily basis? When my toothbrush is constantly in jeopardy? I don't want to come off like a big nag or his mother. But I'm clean, he's not. This isn't something that's going to go away. It's something he needs to get better at and I need to get more easy going about-- but how to approach the discussion? how to change or adapt your ways? how to compromise? Should he have to pay for the replacement toothbrushes? Ick, ick, ick....</div><br /><br /><div><strong>2) We haven't even found an apartment yet!!!</strong> And we've given notice to our current apartments as of October 1st to be out October 31st. Yikes! We had little choice given the fact that evil apartment complexes often won't let you move out early or pro-rate your rent when you do. And since after MT and I decided to move in together, we saw about 10,000 apartments posted on craigslist in 5 days and went to almost as many open houses in a week. It was, to be blunt, exhausting!!! But we were just oh so certain we'd find something in the next 5 weeks that we might as well tell our landlords so long suckers!</div><br /><br /><div>We put in an application to live in the basement apartment of one townhouse owned by a nice professional 30-something lobbyist who lived upstairs with a roommate. I think the two of us qualified in the sense of criminal, credit and income background checks but I think she just clicked better with another potential tenant. </div><br /><br /><div>Now we've put in another application since last Friday with a property management company of a very small building on a gorgeous town-house and tree lined street in the Dupont area that is slow, slow, slow. They just don't seem to have their shit together. And we want to move in! I'm so excited about painting the walls and hanging art and figuring out how to fit all our stuff in the tiny closets. We want it!! Let us in already!!</div><br /><br /><div>And what if they deny us too? Then...Back to the exhausting, drive all over town, write a million emails to craigslist address that don't ever get returned- drawing board. Hmph.</div><br /><br /><div>Wish me cleanliness and apartment approval. Until then...</div><br /><br /><div>Cheers,</div><br /><br /><div>T</div>Toddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06844041827618501741noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3382987150662081702.post-23485859006176274122011-10-03T10:04:00.001-07:002011-10-03T10:13:39.654-07:00The Math Teacher: The Prologue<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bellas.wikispaces.com/file/view/math-calculus-diagram-DHD.gif/42983827/math-calculus-diagram-DHD.gif"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 460px; height: 261px;" src="http://bellas.wikispaces.com/file/view/math-calculus-diagram-DHD.gif/42983827/math-calculus-diagram-DHD.gif" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-size: 130%;">"Math is a lot like love - a simple idea, but it can get complicated..."</span></strong><br /></div><br />Oh my dear readers,<br /><br />How I abandoned you. And how I am sorry. I kept putting writing off about the Math Teacher because sooooo much was happening and sooo much was happening so fast. The trip to New York City. The shared athletic team meet-ups. Trivia and karaoke nights. Bbqs and camping trips.<br /><br />He met my parents. I met his siblings.<br /><br />And then he said I love you one morning. "I love you," he said first thing when I woke up and looked at him. "What?" I said in utter shock and disbelief. "I love you," he said back at me. And I like a complete flabbergasted idiot said: "Well, that's a nice thing to say." Gaaaah! I later apologized and said that I was just surprised. "No one was more surprised than me," he told me back.<br /><br />And then I said I loved him back.<br /><br />And then I started staying at his place twice a week instead of one and then 3x a week. Then 5. Then I hadn't been home in 9 days and now....<br /><br />We are moving in together!<br /><br />I wish I could have articulated ever kiss. Every wink. Every heartfelt confession. Or described how someone becomes your best friend when you aren't watching. Your confidante. Your rock. But maybe I was too busy being happy to write. Or life was too busy being lived to stop and observe it.<br /><br />Whatever the case, instead of trying to relive the past, I will try to find you again by contemplating the future. Maybe some of you are still out there to read me, maybe not. But I'll try to re-emerge and find the words, for all those things for which there seem to be no words.<br /><br />I've missed you all and Cheers,<br /><br />Toddy.Toddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06844041827618501741noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3382987150662081702.post-32741978730226748972011-07-28T18:31:00.000-07:002011-07-28T18:53:49.828-07:00The Math Teacher: Part 8<a href="http://bellas.wikispaces.com/file/view/math-calculus-diagram-DHD.gif/42983827/math-calculus-diagram-DHD.gif"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 366px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 309px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://bellas.wikispaces.com/file/view/math-calculus-diagram-DHD.gif/42983827/math-calculus-diagram-DHD.gif" /></a><br /><br /><div align="left"><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">"Math is a lot like love - a simple idea, but it can get complicated..."<br /><br /></span></strong>Once you decide to give someone a chance, to let someone in, to be vulnerable....and more importantly not to put pressure on something...that it be <em>this</em> or <em>that</em> or mean <em>this</em> or <em>that</em> or that <em>he</em> be <em>the</em>...sometimes things just fall into place quietly, softly, subtly...without your even knowing.<br /><br />I don't think I realized how much I liked the Math Teacher. I refused to call him by his real name. I referred to him as simply "The Math Teacher" or "MT" to even my closest friends. "You don't name the puppy," I would often say (a lesson I learned from an oft lovesick girl friend). "You don't name the puppy....otherwise you'll feel like it belongs to you. It is someone. It means something to you. And then you'll want to take it home with you."<br /><br />Even though I had committed to giving him an honest to goodness shot at really dating, I really didn't let myself think I liked him all that much. But I must have liked him enough...<br /><br />When it came time to visit New York City for a friend's birthday, I couldn't help but invite him along. "Taking a trip together eh?" one friend asked. "That's kind of serious this soon isn't it?" "Not really," I replied nonchalantly and shrugged. "He's just....he's just....<em>good company.</em>" And I meant that. I did. He really was....good. company.<br /><br />But what did that mean? That I thought he was good company. That he was good company, for me. That I wanted him to come with me. That I somehow knew I wouldn't have as good a time without him.<br /><br />And so we went to NYC. We met at the Chinatown Bus pickup point on H street near Gallery Place Chinatown metro. He had a small bag of luggage and so did I. In a way it was strange that we were going on a trip together. And in another way, it wasn't strange at all. It just made sense. He was good company and therefore we were travel companions.<br /><br />I wish I knew how to explain the feeling of what happened next. But its hard. The ease. The comfort. The laughter. The perfect contentment. It was the shortest 5 hour bus ride of my life. After getting on we commenced our talk, talk, talking. Because you see, with us, there is never a shortage of conversation. The topics flow and stop and start and intertwine. No subject matter ever really finds completion. No inside joke ever loses its original wit. I told him I was an avid scrabble player and that I'd recently become obsessed with playing Words With Friends on my phone versus friends in real life and virtual friends whom Id never met. He was intrigued.<br /><br />He doesn't have an iPhone so it took some time to figure out how to download WWF onto his phone. And then it also took some maneuvering to figure out how to challenge each other to play. You see, we weren't even facebook friends. I don't know why. He thought this was funny and thought we should remain facebook strangers. So instead we gave him a twitter account. (he didn't have a twitter account!!!) and he found me and was able to challenge me that way.<br /><br />We played WWF for hours. Trash talking. Concentrating. In silence. And then not. At first I kicked his ass. But slowly, word by word, game by game, it became apparent that The Math Teacher, might not just have a nack for numbers. He had some background in Latin. He had an extensive vocabulary. The mathematics training helped him see patterns in the letters. It was almost ironic how he, the MT began to demolish me beyond all humility, beyond all reason. It made me angry. It made me intrigued. It made me turned on. There was more to this guy than I realized.<br /><br />When our phones died we created our own version of taboo mixed with charades and made funny faces and gave hysterical word clues and laughed and laughed and laughed. We arrived to the City as if we'd only been commuting from just outside. It was - the easiest, most pleasurable bus ride of my life.<br /><br />What could that mean? Or did it mean anything? It couldn't <em>not</em>. </div>Toddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06844041827618501741noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3382987150662081702.post-25576654674458520052011-07-14T11:13:00.000-07:002011-07-14T12:09:49.648-07:00The Math Teacher: Part 7<div align="center"><a href="http://bellas.wikispaces.com/file/view/math-calculus-diagram-DHD.gif/42983827/math-calculus-diagram-DHD.gif"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 460px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 375px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bellas.wikispaces.com/file/view/math-calculus-diagram-DHD.gif/42983827/math-calculus-diagram-DHD.gif" border="0" /></a><br /><strong><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:180%;">"Math is a lot like love - a simple idea, but it can get complicated..."</span></strong> <br /><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="left">After the Math Teacher left the Chinese restaurant for a friend's bbq I was pretty deflated. But at some point I had to get over it. I had to work the next day (Saturday), per usual and the following day (Sunday) per usual. Which is to say, because I work so much, I have to get my jollies in while I can. I need to be around my friends and tried to decompress. So even though things with the Math Teacher weren't going as well as I would have liked, and even though he had left, now was the time to have some funwhile I still could. Even if I had to rev myself up to do it - to convince myself I was actually happy.<br /></div><br /><br /><div align="left">"Let's get to the karaoke place," I told my friends. "I want to....EMOTE!" "Emote?" one friend said. "What do you mean 'emote'?" "I <em>mean</em> I want to SING my soul. I want to belt it out. I want to feel it. I want to -- EMOTE!!!" "Okay then, whatever you say," my friend said and waved their arm wildly in a gesture to the group that seemed to round them up and head them all towards the door.<br /></div><br /><br /><div align="left">When we got to the karaoke place, things were in full swing. A large group of drunken friends, out for a birthday or some other event were really going at in on the small stage in the back. My friend Jenny and I did some espresso tequila shots (don't ask, just know they are delicious) and settled into the bar stools as we perused the song menu.<br /></div><br /><br /><div align="left">What followed is what usually follows on a karaoke night out with friends. Some good singing, some bad tunes and then also a few memorably horrific performances. Beers and mixed drinks and a round or two of shots quickly becomes a shitshow of botched harmonies and hipthrusts and somehow you end up telling everyone there, even those you've never met how, much you love them, man. Except sometimes something out of the ordinary happens....<br /></div><br /><br /><div align="left">I don't know what time he got there. He could've been there half an hour or five minutes. But the Math Teacher came back, a friend in tow. A <em>guy</em> friend in tow, not to worry. I tried to make small talk with the friend but I was a little wasted. Or a lot. Frankly, I hadn't expected the Math Teacher to reappear so I had gone ahead and let myself go. Pretty literally. But seeing him was having a sobering effect. I was glad he had come back. And I couldn't help but wonder if he'd come back especially for me.<br /></div><br /><br /><div align="left">After MT's friend left we sat down on a couch up against the wall, crammed in between two of our other friends. It was cozy. (To say the least). I don't know at what point we started making out. But we did. And then one of us got up to get a drink or go to the bathroom, but somehow we were separated. I went over to talk to my friend Amanda. "He's pretty cute isn't it?" I said more than asked. "Yeah, he is," she agreed." "I think I like him," I admitted tentatively. "Good," she said. "He's a really nice guy." "I know," I said.<br /></div><br /><div align="left">And then I talked to my friend Spencer who had been there the night that I first hooked up with MT. Spencer and MT were friends before I knew either of them all that well. "You've gotta tell me," I started to Spence. "Honestly. You've gotta tell me if he's playing me," I pleaded with him. "He's not playing with you," he said. "Honestly." "He never was." "Then why did he go home with me that night?" I asked more impatiently. "I don't know," he said. "He thought you were fun. And cool. And hot. But it doesn't matter. He likes you now. He really does." "But how do you know?" I almost whined. "Because he told me. He likes you a lot. He's just worried he's the rebound guy. He doesn't want to be." "But he IS the rebound guy. I mean, isn't he?" "He doesn't have to be you know." "But he just IS!"<br /></div><br /><br /><div align="left">"Is he?" Spencer finished just as MT was coming back over to meet us. "Whether or not he <em>is</em> or <em>is not</em> the rebound guy, is entirely up to you you know."<br /></div><br /><br /><div align="left">And then MT was by my side again -tall and handsome, gentle and kind. He smiled at me, leaned over and kissed me on the side of the face. It felt nice. Comforting. He took my hand in his and whispered in my ear: "Do you want to get out of here?" I nodded.<br /></div><br /><br /><div align="left">I don't remember saying goodbye to anyone. I just remember leaving. With him. Hand in hand. We waited outside for a cab on the sidewalk.<br /></div><br /><br /><div align="left">And I was nervous. Because somehow, some way, after losing my self-believed Mr. Unicorn and having my heart shattered completely, I had found a way to open myself up again. To the possibility of someone else. To the possibility of loving again. And to hoping and wanting and wishing, that someone great, just might fall in love with me back. I had fought my feelings for the Math Teacher for a long time. I wouldn't let myself get too close. I wouldn't let myself feel anything for him. But sometimes the heart is smarter than the mind. Or at the very least, its more stubborn. The Math Teacher had weaseled his way in and I didn't want him to go. I was going to give him a chance. <em>This</em>, a real chance. I wasn't sure if I was going to love him. Or could love him. Or wanted to love him. Or if we were right for each other. But I was going to stop fighting it and just let things happen.<br /></div><br /><br /><div align="left">I guess I was taking some shallow breaths because MT asked me if I was okay. "I'm okay," I said. "I think I'm just nervous." And then he said something, I would have never expected: "What makes you think I'm not nervous too?". Which surprised me. Because I think he actually meant it. It had never occurred to me (after all the pain and disappointment that men had caused me) that he was taking a chance on me too. That he wanted to be with someone too. And though this didn't calm my nerves, it did make me feel less alone.<br /></div><br /><br /><div align="left">And so we waited. In the warm spring air that lazily drifting by as it headed towards the summer. While the possibility of our new romance, thickly hung all around us.</div></div>Toddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06844041827618501741noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3382987150662081702.post-79544818533747639752011-06-29T14:00:00.000-07:002011-06-29T14:23:55.871-07:00The Math Teacher: Part 6<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bellas.wikispaces.com/file/view/math-calculus-diagram-DHD.gif/42983827/math-calculus-diagram-DHD.gif"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 460px; height: 375px;" src="http://bellas.wikispaces.com/file/view/math-calculus-diagram-DHD.gif/42983827/math-calculus-diagram-DHD.gif" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">"Math is a lot like love - a simple idea, but it can get complicated..."<br /><br /></span></strong></span></div>I was nervous about seeing The Math Teacher that Friday afternoon. After all, I had blown him off the night before when we were supposed to have a dinner date. And it wasn't the first time. It was the second. Eeech. Not good. Everyone was convinced that I didn't really like him. That he was just a distraction. That I was convincing myself I liked him. Maybe I was. But then again...<br /><br />I got off work at 4pm. Pretty much unheard of at my office. But I didn't care. This was more important somehow.<br /><br />I met him at the metro a few blocks from my office. And he looked goooood. There's one thing about this guy that can't be denied - he is an attractive man. Tall and lean. Tan. Longish, roughed up hair. He even has nice fingernails and feet. It's a little intimidating.<br /><br />He was quieter than usual. I'm sure I confused him. I'm sure I had hurt him. I'm sure he didn't know quite what to make of me. But neither did I you know? I was a mess. A tired, stressed, overworked, overcaffeinated, recently dumped mess. I didn't know anything. Least of all anything useful about who I was at any given moment or what I wanted.<br /><br />We road the train to Clarendon to meet our friends. I was nervous and talked too much. He smiled and laughed appropriately but wasn't as giving of himself as usual.<br /><br />We got to the Chinese restaurant before our friends. We took two stools along the bar and ordered beers. Despite the slight awkwardness, (being the elephant in the room that was my repeated cancellation of our dates), the one thing that had always been there between us (an ability to talk about anything), once again saved the day and before long we were chit chatting like old friends again.<br /><br />Then our friends came along. One by one, and three at a time and then a half a dozen at once. We sat apart from one another and caught up with our friends on our own and in our own time. But there were glances. From our friends at us. And from us at each other.<br /><br />Before two long, MT got up. He started saying goodbye to people. I wasn't sure exactly why he was leaving. He came over to me last.<br /><br />"I have to go," he said. "Oh really?" I said the disappointment apparent in my voice. I did mean it. I really did. I didn't want him to go. "Yeah, I have a friend's barbecue thing. I'm trying to set up my buddy with an old college friend." "Oh," I said, still disappointed. "Will you come back?" I asked hopefully. "I'm not sure," he said and I could see and tell that he was hurt and confused by my recent behavior and that being around me might not be as fun as it should be if we were dating on mutually, respectful ground.<br /><br />"I'm really sorry you know?" I said out of nowhere. "Are you?" he asked almost bitterly. "Yes. yes I am," I said sincerely. "I feel like shit." "Do you?" he asked, again still sounding unconvinced. "Yes, I really do feel like shit. I wanted to go to dinner with you last night. I really did. I just couldn't. I'm sorry." "Listen," he said, a little kinder - "maybe from now on if you want to do something with me, you should call me."<br /><br />Ouch. That one hurt a little.<br /><br />"But you don't want to. Do you?" he continued. "Of course I do," I said. He shook his head slightly. "I gotta go," he said finally. "Try to come back," I said. "We'll see," he said and gathered his friend and said a last farewell to the group. He walk out the front door and I watched him walk away from the restaurant and then around the corner through the restaurant's glass windows until he was out of sight.<br /><br />And I felt regret in my stomach. Had I blown it? Had I thrown away this great guy who treated me amazing because I was a complete brat? Because of Fuckface David? Because I didn't know how to love the right guy? Because I didn't let the right guys love me? I wasn't sure. I did know that I felt awful.<br /><br />Everyone at the table knew something was wrong.<br /><br />My friend Mike who can be a bit crass said: "What are you so upset about for? Isn't he supposed to be the rebound guy?"<br /><br />"He was," I said and then paused. "But he just won't bound. He just stays."<br /><br />"I'd love it if some girl wanted to use me as the rebound guy. I tell her - 'no problem, just let me know when you're done with me and I'll be on my way'."<br /><br />"Wow, that's great Mike. Very helpful."<br /><br />But I actually like him. <span style="font-style: italic;">I think.</span> But I've blown him off and treated him poorly and now he's really pissed. I didn't even know MT could get pissed. I don't know anything...<br /><br />And so I sulked for a little bit, deeply lost in my own thoughts. Was I upset because I wanted to like him and didn't? Or was I upset because I liked him but wasn't ready for him? Or upset because I liked him and was pushing him away for reasons I couldn't fathom?<br /><br /> It just wasn't clear. Nothing really was. Except that the Math Teacher had left the restaurant without me. And I wished he hadn't.<br /><br />To be continued...Toddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06844041827618501741noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3382987150662081702.post-30618014915112522112011-06-22T04:29:00.000-07:002011-06-22T05:21:31.183-07:00The Math Teacher: Part UNKNOWN<a href="http://bellas.wikispaces.com/file/view/math-calculus-diagram-DHD.gif/42983827/math-calculus-diagram-DHD.gif"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 460px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 283px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://bellas.wikispaces.com/file/view/math-calculus-diagram-DHD.gif/42983827/math-calculus-diagram-DHD.gif" /></a> <br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:verdana;">"Math is a lot like love - a simple idea, but it can get complicated..."</span></strong></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>We set out into the dusky muggy, drip-droppy drizzy Dupont night to find some food for the Math Teacher. He had recently had dental surgery and the diet of soft and liquid food was starting to wear on him. </div><br /><br /><div>"Where can I take you?" I said to him aloud. "What do you feel like?" I asked him. "Soup is probably a good idea" he said and kind of shrugged, his arm wrapped around me casually. "Ooooh, I know," I told him. "I've got the perfect place."</div><br /><br /><div>We strolled along 18th street along the east of the Circle talking and laughing and making faces at one another. He kept trying to kiss me with his tender or perhaps even gross post-op mouth and I kept pulling away in horror and laughing.</div><br /><br /><div>Amidst the normalcy and fun and yes, for the first time in a long time, giddy happiness, I realized, with dread, that we were approaching an unhappy spot. The spot where I got <strong>dumped</strong>. Just walking toward it. Closer and closer and closer... </div><br /><br /><div>Isn't it amazing, and even unfortunate, how a location or smell or person or activity can make the vividness of its corresponding memory flood back over you? All the details. All the pain. The look on his face. The way he tried to rub my back but I pulled away. The things he said. Him walking away. </div><br /><br /><div>"We're having such a nice time. I don't know sometimes whether I should tell you stuff or not. But then sometimes telling you the bad stuff makes it less bad you know? I can sort of <em>throw it away</em>? Or at least you just know all about me. The things that I've been through."</div><br /><br /><div>"Just tell me..." he said. So I did. He put his arms around me tighter. "That's tough," he acknowledged giving me a little squeeze.</div><br /><br /><div>We went on to dinner at the deliciously Korean, spectacularly serviced <em><a href="http://www.mandudc.com/">Mandu</a></em> where we sat and talked and ate and laugh and lingered with no sense of anywhere to be anywhere else anytime soon. I ordered the spicy soup, "extra extra" spicy and we all were hesitant as I took my first bites. Both the waitress and the MT were hoping I would be in for disastrous consequences for ordering my soup "kill me hot," but I prevailed. "It could be spicier," I commented nonchalantly and gave a "hah" look at them both. Then, I cut up MT's dumplings into baby bite size pieces with my chop sticks so he could better handle them with his "injury" and we both told stories of how we love driving and road trips and one time where he got stuck driving near a cliff and had to call AAA.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>When it was time to go we headed down the street, the drizzle a little more prevalent. "You realize you're carrying a little leopard print umbrella?" I asked him entirely amused. "If I were by myself, it might seem a little strange," he admitted, "but with you I can get away with it."<br /><br />We continued on, until <em>that spot</em>, <em>the dumping spot</em>, was in my sights again. "Ugh," I thought, "if only I could get passed this. Him. The Dumping. <em>The dumping spot.</em> All of it." Then I got an idea...</div><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div>"I want you to help me make a new memory of this spot," I said. "Because its otherwise such a lovely place and I pass by it all the time." "Okay," MT said. (as willing to do whatever I asked or needed or wanted as ever.) "What do you want to do?" I walked over to the rock ledge that I had sat on while being told exactly why I wasn't the right person for and by the one person I had ever thought was <em>the </em>right person for me. I stood on it this time and gestured MT to come near me. "Kiss me" I said with my arms stretched out wide overdramatically. "O" -"kay" he said with gusto. He came over and put his arms around my waist. I leaned into him and gave him a sweet, gentle kiss. And then...</div><br /><br /><div>We both looked over toward the street. There was a young guy (maybe 20?) in the backseat of a car with the window rolled down taking our picture. What?</div><br /><br /><div>"Hi guys!!" he said waving with one hand still taking a picture. "Hi" I said hesitantly waving back and smiling confusedly as he and his friends in the front seat burst into laughter and then drove off.</div><br /><br /><div>"What <em>was that</em>??" MT looked at me incredulously. "I don't know!" I responded bewildered. "Were they high," he wondered? "Or drunk?" I added. "Although they didn't seem that drunk," I continued... "Maybe they were on a scavenger hunt?" I pondered hopefully. "Come on!"he said with a crooked smile, "a scavenger hunt?" "Okay, okay, I don't know then. We weren't kissing crazy. We aren't dressed crazy. We don't look like a weird couple do we?"</div><br /><br /><div>"You know what I think it was," I finally determined. "What?" he asked me seriously. "A sign," I said. "A sign not to take life or one's self too seriously. You sit on a ledge you get dumped. You stand on a ledge kissing someone and some crazy teenagers or scavenger hunting frat boys take your picture. It's just all a little ridiculous."</div><br /><br /><div>"Well one thing is for sure," MT said. "What's that?" I asked him. "You wanted a new memory and you got one. Now it's the spot where the creepy dude took your picture."<br /></div><br /><div>And he was right. A new memory. And lots of other new memories that night too. Because you never know when a creepy dude is around the corner to make you feel a whole lot better about a whole heck of a lot....<br /></div><br /><div></div><br /><div align="center"><em><strong>To new memories and cheers,<br />T<br /></div></strong></em><br /><div></div>Toddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06844041827618501741noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3382987150662081702.post-73768500277994519112011-06-13T14:18:00.001-07:002011-06-13T14:40:38.819-07:00The Math Teacher: Part 5<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bellas.wikispaces.com/file/view/math-calculus-diagram-DHD.gif/42983827/math-calculus-diagram-DHD.gif"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 460px; height: 375px;" src="http://bellas.wikispaces.com/file/view/math-calculus-diagram-DHD.gif/42983827/math-calculus-diagram-DHD.gif" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />After jolting from MT's bedroom like steam from a kettle, I might've thought about what that all meant if I didn't have to work a 10 hour day on a Sunday the following day. Hungover. Okay...really hungover. And then the 12 hour work days Monday through Thursday blurred together like one and the same until five days had gone by without even thinking about the Math Teacher. Or David either for that matter.<br /><br />Then Thursday arrived and I was supposed to have dinner with him. He had texted at some point and suggested a little Middle Eastern place he'd been wanting to try and if I was up for it did I wanna go? I had said yes, but as the day arrived, I grew more and more tired. I was EXHAUSTED. I am ALWAYS exhausted it seems.<br /><br />"I think I have to cancel for tonight," I told my co-worker Amber. "Not again!" she almost shouted at me. "You cannot cancel on him again." He will NEVER go out with you EVER again if you do this to him twice. It's not cool. It's not nice. Its....RUDE."<br /><br />"I know, I know it is," I whimpered. "But I could barely keep my eyes awake in that meeting. And we have hours left to go in this day. I hate being this tired. I hate it. I <span style="font-style: italic;">really am</span> this tired. I swear!"<br /><br />Then I told my co-worker John about my plan. I needed a second opinion: "I'll just say I was stuck here. Stuck in a meeting. I couldn't leave. And say I feel really REALLY bad about it." "I mean, it doesn't really matter what you say," he replied. "It's obvious you just don't like the guy. Obvious to me. And it will be obvious to him."<br /><br />But hearing those words. I realized it wasn't true. Because if I <span style="font-style: italic;">really</span> didn't like the guy, I wouldn't be trying to think up the perfect excuse. I wouldn't be worried that he'd never go out with me again. I would assume that he <span style="font-style: italic;">would </span>think and assume I <span style="font-style: italic;">didn't like him</span> and stop asking me out and I'd stop going out with him and that would be that. But that's not how I felt. I felt REALLY, really, <span style="font-style: italic;">really</span> conflicted. Conflicted between my complete and utter exhaustion and inability to do <span style="font-style: italic;">nothing</span> and my desire to go spend time with him. I really did want to have dinner. So much so that I was still considering going - despite my growing weariness and hopelessness at life.<br /><br />"If you're gonna bail, tell him now," Amber said. "It's not fair to him." "I know, I know, I know," I said. But what if I feel better later and change my mind?" Amber just looked at me. With that bitchy, no-nonsense, handle your business look of hers that said: "Tell him now. The end."<br /><br />So I texted him. That I was stuck in a meeting and I was REALLY disappointed but I wouldn't be able to make dinner that night. But that I knew our friends were getting together for happy hour and then karaoke the next day (Friday) and that I was hoping he was going and that we could go together. Perhaps he could meet me at the metro near my office. I usually get off work between 7 and 8 but I would get off at 4 and we could get there before anyone else and spend some time together before the whole gang arrived. How did that sound?<br /><br />He said it was really too bad about dinner. But he would meet me. And we would go together. "Thank you for understanding," I told him. But I could tell, he wasn't <span style="font-style: italic;">as</span> patient and unaffected as he had been the last time.<br /><br />I got off work at 8pm. I was too tired for the walking and the metro and the bus so I hailed a cab and paid the $15 to get home just a little bit sooner and without any effort. Just sitting there. Defeated. Downtrodden. Disjointed.<br /><br />I did not stop Go. I did not collect dinner. Or a conversation with the roommates. I went directly to the bedroom and collapsed into the pillows - my own kind of heaven, but my own kind of jail. I couldn't escape my confused thoughts and my put-upon heart. I lay there, thinking "damn." "Damn, damn, damn, damn." "I should've gone to dinner....there's something about him..." And I was worried, for the first time - that I might lose him. This amazing guy who had grit. Who stayed. Who never faltered. Who let me be me. And liked me. And who was so good looking that no one would ever kick him out of bed for eating crackers. And I started to get the sinking feeling that I had ruined something that could be something - maybe even something good.<br /><br />To be continued...Toddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06844041827618501741noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3382987150662081702.post-33602655125986735412011-06-08T14:00:00.000-07:002011-06-08T14:33:07.526-07:00The Math Teacher: Part 4<a href="http://bellas.wikispaces.com/file/view/math-calculus-diagram-DHD.gif/42983827/math-calculus-diagram-DHD.gif"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 460px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 375px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bellas.wikispaces.com/file/view/math-calculus-diagram-DHD.gif/42983827/math-calculus-diagram-DHD.gif" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><br /><a href="http://en.thinkexist.com/user/personalAccount/helpdesk/contact/ticket.asp"></a><br /><strong><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;">"Math is like love - a simple idea, but it can get complicated."<br /></span></strong></div><br />After being outside in Baltimore at the Preakness Horse Race all day, my group of friends continued on to another bar to party. After hours and hours of being there, I was tired and a little sun burnt and a little drunk. The Math Teacher and I looked around and realized that all of our friends had left us and gone home. I wasn't sure if they had even said goodbye. We had gotten lost in conversation for who knows how long.<br /><br />We left the bar and got a cab. We decided to go to his place, with the understanding that I was in fact tired. burnt. and <em>nothing</em> was going to be happening. And he was fine with it. But by the time I got to his house and into his sport clothes (which happen to be super baggy on me and completely ridiculous looking) and lay down in his arms, I suddenly felt suffocated and trapped. I had to work the next day (yes I work on Sundays, every Sunday, fml) and I wanted to go home and shower the dirt and suntan lotion and long day off me and go to bed - ALONE-. And get some real sleep. And get up in the morning surrounded by my clothes and my things before heading into work inevitably hungover.<br /><br />"I'll give you a shirt in the morning, " he said. "And you can shower, just relax."<br /><br />He is always saying that to me. "just relax." But I don't WANNA relax. Or maybe I need to. Or should. Or just can't.<br /><br />We went through his closet and I tried on everything he owns that I could wear over jeans to work on a Sunday. Button down shirts mostly. He is 6'3 and I am 5'7. Needless to say, I was swarming in stripes. I looked at him and shook my head. "You know this isn't going to work right?" "I know," he said. "I'll walk you down and get you in a cab."<br /><br />And he did.<br /><br />Things just hours earlier had seemed so right. So easy. What was my problem? Why couldn't I just lay down in the arms of a man - who seemed to truly be that - a. man. And let him hold me. And care about me. The whole night through. I wanted so much <em>to want</em> to be with him. I wanted so much to be over David. But some days, are just so much harder than others. And confusing. And at that moment in time, I had to get out of there and be alone.<br /><br />There's nothing I can do about it. The sadness ebbs and flows. The new found feelings for MT come and go just the same. And I seem to have control over none of it, but instead, I am victim to the unpredictable tidal waves of feeling that continue to wash over me without any relief.Toddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06844041827618501741noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3382987150662081702.post-51203124920470432632011-06-06T20:14:00.000-07:002011-06-06T20:37:34.806-07:00The Math Teacher: Part 3<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwTSyjHKzRD298qa3FENhQt2zLxe0WIHYNXdd1s5sqZPo1G_lRDQN7zZVJwYdlQltNBX5T5b_kxy1SCsAQAdxy5Oyw3E8EghHZhw93VDW0mfD6vfdUXD2Z6edWbosim0KljNW7UAzX0ZQ/s400/blackboard_math.gif"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 182px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 187px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwTSyjHKzRD298qa3FENhQt2zLxe0WIHYNXdd1s5sqZPo1G_lRDQN7zZVJwYdlQltNBX5T5b_kxy1SCsAQAdxy5Oyw3E8EghHZhw93VDW0mfD6vfdUXD2Z6edWbosim0KljNW7UAzX0ZQ/s400/blackboard_math.gif" /></a><br /><br /><strong>“Math is like love -- a simple idea but it can get complicated.”</strong> "<br /><br />After bowling, I felt guilty about the way I'd been treating The Math Teacher. It wasn't who wanted to be as a person in general and certainly not the way I wanted to treat someone pertaining to matters of the heart. Particularly when someone else so recently had been so careless with my own emotions.<br /><br /><br />On the following Saturday we went to the Preakness horse race with a large group of our friends. The girls wore sundresses and the guys wore shorts. We drank beer and rum and mimosas in a grassy spot by the race track on the infield. I lay on a blanket in the sunshine and took in deep breaths of warm air. It was the most relaxed I'd been in months.<br /><br /><br />The Math Teacher sat down beside me. Put his arms around me and we fell asleep.<br /><br /><br />We woke up some time later. Our friends laughing at us and teasing us saying some such nonsense or another. We sat up half-awake brushing hair and blades of grass out of our eyes and hair.<br /><br /><br />"Why don't you admit that you like each other?" our friend The Canadian said.<br /><br />"What do you mean? We do like each other," I responded.<br /><br />"Well then what are you?" The Canadian said.<br /><br />"I don't know. We don't know,"I said. Which was true. I didn't know how he felt about me. I didn't know how I felt about him. We were nothing. Yet we were something. It was all a bit strange.<br /><br /><br />We got up and walked around the park holding hands - me with my Math Teacher and caught wondering how things can change so fast. Who you hold hands with. Who you like or don't like. How you feel. And I guess that's a good thing. Even when it's not.<br /><br /><br />Cheers,<br /><br />T<br /></div>Toddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06844041827618501741noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3382987150662081702.post-76742631629110668002011-06-01T22:23:00.000-07:002011-06-01T22:48:20.561-07:00The Math Teacher: Part 2<a href="http://school.discoveryeducation.com/clipart/images/mathtchr.gif"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 232px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 319px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://school.discoveryeducation.com/clipart/images/mathtchr.gif" /></a><br /><br /><div>I can't sleep tonight. Usually it's because I'm thinking about the Ex-boyfriend. Usually it's because I can't believe things didn't work out with David. But tonight, I'm thinking about the Math Teacher. Surprising, I know. I'm not sure how I feel about him. I'm not sure what will happen. Of course I'm not ready. And I wasn't ready. And I won't be ready. Not for awhile anyways. But I think you should know the truth about him. The truth that he might just be... a good guy.</div><br /><br /><div>So - we went bowling. Two Fridays ago. Or maybe it was three. Time when you are working like a dog, 7 days a week, 11 hours a day and your heart is full of lost love can be an impossible thing to keep track of. I am tired and I am delirious. And I thought of canceling (for the second time) on the Math Teacher. But I didn't. How could I do that? That would make me, well, just an inconsiderate asshole. So - I went bowling.<br /></div><br /><div>Now I did of course share a bottle of wine with my coworker Amber before I headed to meet him at Lucky Strike at the Verizon Center in Chinatown. And I did of course pop into Clyde's to down a glass of white wine like it was really my job and I was billing $300 to drink it. I was a little tipsy for this date. A little sedated. Because as we all know by now, I wasn't ready. And yet - I went bowling.</div><br /><br /><div>And he was there waiting. As always. On time. And he paid for our shoes and for our games. Even though it is CRAZY expensive to bowl at Lucky Strike. I know its a cool place with a bar and music and food and ambiance but still...its bowling people! some things should remain pure, but I digress.</div><br /><br /><div>And we played and I was awful. And he was slightly less awful. And it was fun. Actual, pure, non-sexual, not even that romantic --- fun. It was just nice you know? To hang out with someone. To do something stupid and random and silly and whatever. Bowling is always good for that. Isn't it?</div><br /><br /><div>He bet me that if he won I had to eat a pickle. (I hate - HATE - pickles with a passion. Ask me about it some time). I bet him that if I won a game he would have to wear this translucent white shirt he owns from his days in Miami out with our friends some time. Betting is fun. Flirtatious. Pointless. Delicious.</div><br /><br /><div>Some of you have wondered how it is that I've treated him so poorly...I think its just that I'm so flippant and ambivalent and lackadaisical. Like when we were done I just handed him my shoes to return without saying thank you and said I was going to the restroom. That's not like me. I'm nice and polite and considerate. And treat people like human beings. Instead I treated him like my waiter, my meal ticket, my doormat. Just in my attitude. In my words. In my subtle actions. I'm not proud of this. But it is true.<br /><br />He said he was hungry. He is ALWAYS hungry. But he is SUPER TALL and very fit and trim and so I can see how his metabolism is like that. I wish my body were like that. I eat nothing and am not hungry ever and yet I still carry the pounds. It sucks. But I digress again...</div><br /><br /><div>We went downstairs to Thai Chili. I love that place. It was my suggestion. I said I wasn't hungry but then I proceeded to eat half his Pad Thai without asking. (I know that is SO annoying for guys). We each had a beer. On four square I saw that my friends were nearby. I told them to join us.</div><br /><br /><div>Let me repeat that in case you didn't get it - I invited two girls to join us on our date. hah. Our third date. The four of us. Classic. </div><br /><br /><div>They showed up and I acted surprised to see them. They said they were going to Rocket Bar across the street. I said "OF COURSE WE ARE COMING!!!" I didn't even ask him. He paid the bill and followed me like a puppy. We went across the street. And I in drunken enthusiasm caught up with my two girl friends and one guy friend who joined us for the first time in a long time. Mostly we talked about the boy problems the two girls were having. For once, I was glad that they boy problems weren't my own.</div><br /><br /><div>The MT sat there and listened. And asked questions. And engaged. He was nice. Really nice. I don't even know if I spoke one word to him for hours. I hadn't even noticed that he was still there. Finally he got up and said he was leaving. It was late and he had to get up. I didn't even stand up to hug him or kiss him goodbye. I didn't even say thank you. To put it bluntly... I was a bitch. I waved my hand in the air nonchalantly and said " Okay...BYE!"</div><br /><br /><div>When he was gone my girl friends gushed and gushed about him. They said I had taken a step up in every way. In looks, in personality, in the way he treated me. "But he's just the rebound guy," I said with no feeling. But they could not be persuaded to believe that, though it was true. Then we talk and drank for what seemed like hours. I got completely sauced and I remember them asking me if I had money and putting me in a cab.</div><br /><br /><div>It was marvelous. Really and truly. I know all this drinking and abusing men isn't healthy. But it was good to see old friends. Friends I'd seen less of to spend time with David's friends. Friends who think I'm fun. And nice. And worthy. Friends who have an opinion on who I date. Friends who don't judge. And who put me in a cab and tell me it's time to go home.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>And I remember thinking in the morning what an ass I was. And also, that maybe, just maybe, The Math Teacher...was actually...a good guy. </div>Toddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06844041827618501741noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3382987150662081702.post-81273106155913366402011-05-19T14:53:00.001-07:002011-05-19T15:17:50.044-07:00Why I Don't Hate (and Kinda Like) the Math Teacher<a href="http://image.spreadshirt.com/image-server/image/composition/15727357/view/1/producttypecolor/376/type/png/width/378/height/378/i-think-i-like-him-date-shirt-female_design.png" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 378px; height: 378px;" src="http://image.spreadshirt.com/image-server/image/composition/15727357/view/1/producttypecolor/376/type/png/width/378/height/378/i-think-i-like-him-date-shirt-female_design.png" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />So maybe he doesn't sound like the greatest guy. But then again, you don't know the whole story...<div><br /></div><div><u>Sunday</u></div><div>After having been dumped by <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Fuckface</span>, sad and upset and drunk, and blowing off some mad steam, I hooked up with the Math Teacher. It was my decision. I stand by it. He seemed like a nice, fun, harmless guy in my group of friends. He told me I was beautiful and sexy about five million times. Super validating. When I decided it was time for me to leave, he wanted me to stay. But I wanted to go. He walked me down to the street and put me in a cab. And <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">texted</span> me to make sure I got home safe.</div><div><br /></div><div><u>Wednesday</u></div><div>When out with all our mutual friends, he didn't act like anything had happened. He didn't kiss and tell. He said nothing. That - while should be the way people always are with personal, private matters such as these - is not the way they often are. He didn't brag. He didn't try to get more out of me. We talked like friends. We laughed about Sunday. We walked down the street together at the end of the night. I got in a cab. I went home.</div><div><br /></div><div><u>Friday</u></div><div>Out for a friend's birthday two days later, the whole gang went crazy all over town. We drank and danced. I was too drunk (again) and tired and sad. I made out with the Math Teacher half the night. And danced with him. At the end of the night, I said I wouldn't go home with him. I told him - I'm tired. And I'm sad. "I don't want to hook up with you." "That's okay," he said. "Come over anyways...I'll take care of you." And he did. I went over and nothing happened. Not even more kissing. He held me ALL night. ALL night. I don't think <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Fuckface</span> ever did that. He was always too hot or too tired or couldn't get comfortable. In the morning he made me breakfast and we watched a movie. A "Rock" movie. Random. He walked me down to the street again so we could get a cab. "Maybe we should go on a date?" he asked. I thought this a really weird, unlikely turn of events. "Sure," I had said. What did I have to lose? What else did I have to do?</div><div><br /></div><div><u>Wednesday</u></div><div>He took me to Founding Farmers for dinner. The conversation was random and funny and good. He paid. I had a moment in the restroom where I was looking in the mirror and for the first time in awhile now, I was having fun. I felt good about myself again. We had the lamest, worst peck of a kiss outside a cab and I went home alone.</div><div><br /></div><div><u>Sunday</u></div><div>He hadn't called. Or <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">texted</span>. Or emailed. Oh well, I had thought. I guess he didn't like me. It doesn't really matter, because I didn't like him. Not really. I mean, I don't even know him. And I'm a heartbroken <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">trainwreck</span>. We'll just be friends. No biggie. But I saw him out, with all my friends again. He was attentive. He asked me if I wanted to go bowling the next week. I said: "You wanna go out with me again?" "Why wouldn't I?" he asked incredulously. "Didn't we have fun?" "Yes. We did." I said back. And that is true. We really did - have a good time. "But you didn't call me," I said casually. "OH," he said for a moment. "Well I knew I'd see you here." "That's not good enough," I said. "You have to call or text after a date." "I'm an idiot," he said. "I can text you. I'll text you all the time." "Alright, we'll go bowling," I agreed.</div><div><br /></div><div><u>Monday-Friday</u></div><div>He <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">texted</span> me. A lot. Every day. All day. About nothing in particular.</div><div><br /></div><div><u>Friday</u></div><div>I blew him off for bowling. I was too tired and depressed in reality. I told him I was sick.</div><div><br /></div><div><u>Saturday-Tuesday</u></div><div>He <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">texted</span> me all day every day. Asking me how I was feeling. What symptoms I was having. Was I eating anything? Tuesday he rescheduled our date. Instead of bowling we had dinner.</div><div><br /></div><div><u>Thursday</u></div><div>Dinner at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Darlington</span> House in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Dupont</span>. Again he paid. Again the conversation was good. We went back to his place and watched some <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">tv</span> and made out a little. Nothing major. I told him that I thought he had the wrong idea about me. Because our first encounter was so casual. And that on top of that I was a mess and just broke up with someone and didn't know if I was able to really do anything with him. He said he didn't expect anything. "But I'm a mess!" I urged him to comprehend. "You are kind of a mess," he said. "I'm not fun right now," I said. "Let me decide what is fun," he said.</div><div><br /></div><div><u>Saturday</u></div><div>He told me he stopped seeing another girl (a girl I knew he was also seeing, I just didn't care) because he wanted to be with me. I told him he didn't have to do that. That I hadn't asked him to do that. That we weren't ANYTHING. That we were "cool." "I don't wanna be cool," he said. "But we are," I simply repeated again.</div><div><br /></div><div><u>Sunday</u></div><div>I was hanging out with our mutual friends. "What's going on with you and the Math Teacher?" one mutual guy friend wanted to know. "I don't know. Nothing," I said. "You hang out all the time," the friend came back at me with curiosity... "He actually likes you. He's just worried about being the rebound guy." "But he IS the rebound guy. Isn't he?"</div><div><br /></div><div><u>Tuesday</u></div><div>We rescheduled our bowling date for Friday night.</div><div><br /></div><div><u>Friday</u></div><div>Tomorrow night we're going bowling. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>In short, I don't know why everyone reading this blog hates him so much. Yeah we hooked up. Maybe that was lame of him. Yeah I'm sad and depressed and often drunk and maybe not ready to date. But I was honest with him. And you know what - we've been SORTA hanging out/dating for 5 weeks. 5 weeks! And I haven't done anything but 13 year old PG kissing since that first night. And he's still dating me?????!!!!! Maybe I'm the greatest hookup he's ever had in his life and he MUST HAVE A REPEAT OR DIE (which I find really unlikely) or maybe he likes me??? I don't know guys. What I do know is:</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't give a shit. I'm tired of being tired. I'm tired of being sad. I'm tired of being alone. I'm tried of having no fun. He is fun. And funny. And nice. And a distraction. And treats me WELL ENOUGH. And did I mention he was TALL and HOT???</div><div><br /></div><div>So there you go...don't hate on the Math Teacher. Because I don't.</div><div><br /></div><div>Cheers, </div><div>T</div>Toddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06844041827618501741noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3382987150662081702.post-5400518140029445332011-05-17T13:41:00.000-07:002011-05-17T15:05:12.601-07:00Why I Hate the Math Teacher<div align="center"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 276px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 324px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieu39EgyvCCiX8Uvk69lmyrchJbiDFkC0vVEb4lEoRFn_9gXLvpWR7mPEUSqNdfRuwanAER39MFHC-flvUYZ-RdesC4keDYnbsS7Pn6qYUbdu97tXFERbGGKt3acuy8O3x_ngy_Gw1YgTW/s1600/math_teacher_pi_poster-p228905639579058414t5ta_400.jpg" border="0" /><br /></div><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">WHY I HATE THE MATH TEACHER</span></strong></div><br /><div align="center"><strong>GUEST POST BY ANDY WHITE</strong></div><br /><div align="center"><strong></strong></div><br /><div align="left"><span style="font-size:85%;">*</span><a href="http://twitter.com/andywhitedc"><span style="font-size:85%;">@andywhitedc</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> is a DC resident, author and social media manager. His first guest post depicting yet another bad date and entitled </span><a href="http://themarathonsmistress.blogspot.com/2011/01/guest-post-layers-by-andy-white.html"><span style="font-size:85%;">"The Layers"</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> can be found </span><a href="http://themarathonsmistress.blogspot.com/2011/01/guest-post-layers-by-andy-white.html"><span style="font-size:85%;">here</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;">. His second and third posts, also about a bad date (see any patterns here hmm??) </span><a href="http://themarathonsmistress.blogspot.com/2011/02/guest-post-muted-lights-small-city.html"><span style="font-size:85%;">"Muted Lights, Small City"</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> and </span><a href="http://themarathonsmistress.blogspot.com/2011/04/twos-company-fours-bitch.html"><span style="font-size:85%;">Two's Company, Four's a Bitch</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> can be found </span><a href="http://themarathonsmistress.blogspot.com/2011/02/guest-post-muted-lights-small-city.html"><span style="font-size:85%;">here</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> and </span><a href="http://themarathonsmistress.blogspot.com/2011/04/twos-company-fours-bitch.html"><span style="font-size:85%;">here</span></a><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-size:85%;">. In case it wasn't obvious from the entry's title, Andy doesn't like the new guy I've been dating. It's not serious, I'm completely on the rebound and I don't even treat him well. So</span> I'm not sure why Andy's so against him but here are his thoughts on Mr. H anyhow...</span></div><br /><p align="left"><br />Why 'the teacher' is everything that is wrong with men in today's society:<br /><br />I recently posted a comment that indicated my dislike for 'the teacher' in succinct and somewhat blunt terms. A 'Heather' responded indicating a desire to see this blown out into something more substantial Heather, this is for you:<br /><br />The teacher represents a crawling manifestation of everything we seek to avoid as we traipse through the human experience. At first, and in small doses, this man is amenable and sometimes even affable. He is at the outer extremities of your group, the type of rogue with whom you would never hang out 1 one 1, but he's always there, always looking. Angular and awkward in construction, there's a sharp movement in his step, as though always ready to slip his hand somewhere unwanted.<br /><br />He will go for the weak and the vulnerable. Recently broken up, emotionally damaged, desperate for affirmation of their beauty; that they are thin, that they can get over it, that they do actually like giving head, really, truly. That's his specialty, that's his wheelhouse.<br /><br />In this particular instance our villain knew of the pain dear MM was going through. This was out in the open and it was clear and it was very true. He sat there, he said the right things, he put a consoling hand on a damaged knee. He saw a girl that was at her very lowest ebb, a girl that needed an arm, a hug, words in her ear to let her know everything will be alright. Really. She was desperate for someone to push $20 into the hand of a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">cabbie</span> and send her home. She was desperate for someone to care, for someone selfless, for someone who didn't think with his vile wick.<br /><br />He was none of those things. He was her worst nightmare that night.<br /><br />Lest we forget the group of friends that were present that evening, and I for one will never forgive, never forget. They saw first-hand his moves, his lines, his darting tongue and thin words. They could have surrounded MM like on the Serengeti and ushered him back to the dark visages of his mind, from where he came and where he will ultimately return. But they didn't. They were complicate. They pushed MM into the waiting clutches of a man designed to suck the life out of those around him because he knows of nothing but pain.<br /><br />That's probably why I hate 'the teacher' and everything he represents. Scum. </p>Toddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06844041827618501741noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3382987150662081702.post-86974416424390179122011-05-17T09:48:00.001-07:002011-05-17T09:53:35.623-07:00The Math Teacher - Part 1<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieu39EgyvCCiX8Uvk69lmyrchJbiDFkC0vVEb4lEoRFn_9gXLvpWR7mPEUSqNdfRuwanAER39MFHC-flvUYZ-RdesC4keDYnbsS7Pn6qYUbdu97tXFERbGGKt3acuy8O3x_ngy_Gw1YgTW/s1600/math_teacher_pi_poster-p228905639579058414t5ta_400.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieu39EgyvCCiX8Uvk69lmyrchJbiDFkC0vVEb4lEoRFn_9gXLvpWR7mPEUSqNdfRuwanAER39MFHC-flvUYZ-RdesC4keDYnbsS7Pn6qYUbdu97tXFERbGGKt3acuy8O3x_ngy_Gw1YgTW/s1600/math_teacher_pi_poster-p228905639579058414t5ta_400.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />A mutual friend - "He actually likes you."<br /><br />Me - "He does?" <br /><br />The mutual friend - "Yes he does. He's just afraid of being the rebound guy."<br /><br />Me - "But he is the rebound guy."<br /><br />Friend - "Sometimes a rebound guy becomes a not-a-rebound guy."<br /><br />Me - "But, I'm a mess."<br /><br />Friend - "You are kind of a mess."Toddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06844041827618501741noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3382987150662081702.post-60660361638030482262011-05-09T14:37:00.000-07:002011-05-09T14:59:46.601-07:00To Date or Not to Date - Part 2<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrUEPCNK5OPUsG-x0MiJW7oIb9WWh1kk6VgLlMu5IEJimo2uVzmxvUAeBACP_tcGKWhw4Aj12szb_kGEOX7WB_fo8WNkGOCYvphe64cWuxE2cyCV3tiX_hIcN6qxOCo1NzIrcX3Wt0_1k/s400/nice+guy.jpg"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 299px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 299px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrUEPCNK5OPUsG-x0MiJW7oIb9WWh1kk6VgLlMu5IEJimo2uVzmxvUAeBACP_tcGKWhw4Aj12szb_kGEOX7WB_fo8WNkGOCYvphe64cWuxE2cyCV3tiX_hIcN6qxOCo1NzIrcX3Wt0_1k/s400/nice+guy.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>What did I decide to do? Drum roll please....</div><br /><div>Not to Date.</div><br /><div>Fail.</div><br /><div>Anyways, I sent the Math Teacher a text message around 2pm (about 6 hours before our date) on a Friday night stating the following: "Hey, hope you are having a great day. I hate to cancel on you late notice but I'm totally exhausted and not feeling great and so I'd rather reschedule."</div><br /><div>What did I do instead? Nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing. I was completely lame. And boring. And, well, lame. I wore sweatpants, ate pasta and drank wine. I am not proud of this fact, but it is what it is. I also watched 10 episodes of a British miniseries on Netflix. Which makes me quadruple-ey lame. I know. </div><br /><div>At any rate, I had to work again on Saturday from 9-6. I came home and did NOTHING yet again. And then Sunday I had a long day of taking care of the MOM with brunch (it was FANTASTIC at <a href="http://www.701restaurant.com/">701 </a>outside overlooking the National Archives building and the Navy memorial equipped with fountains and a temporary ALS association art/advocacy exhibit <a href="http://webfl.alsa.org/site/PageServer?pagename=FL_PiecebyPiecetoDc">Piece by Piece </a>which is AMAZING!!!!) and then the National Portrait Gallery and then shopping at Macy's. (i got a bright blue dress that is killer!) But I digress...Back at work bright and early this Monday morning I still feel tired. So I think I made the right decision. If only for my physical, emotional and mental well being. I am - to say the least - worn out. Worn out because of this breakup, my job, my life, being me. Depressing no? I'm thinking of planning a ridiculously extravagant vacation for 3 months from now when this hellish project I'm currently working on is over.</div><br /><div>Anyways, you don't care about my troubles do you? What you really want to know is - how did the Math Teacher respond? And let me tell you...he was soooooooo nice. So freaking nice. </div><br /><div>Here's what he said: "Don't worry about it. Everyone feels bad sometime. We'll try something when you feel better and more up to it." </div><br /><div>Soooo nice right? He proceeded to text me several times on Saturday and then most of the day on Sunday. Saturday: "How are you feeling today?" I admitted I was pretty much bumming around the house watching youtube videos and other random stuff online and catching up on The Wire from the beginning via Netflix. I mentioned the Jimmy Fallon video <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nH12aIXTfJw">parodying Charlie Sheen</a> and the Steven Colbert and Jimmy Fallon <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E1t3npMeHnA">performance of "Friday</a>." And a bunch of other stuff. And you know what he did? He watched them. Every thing I said I thought was funny - he'd go and watch it and report back. Not like that's hard or anything but - he actually listens to me- and engages. He doesn't get a medal, but he gets props. That's all I'm saying. </div><br /><div>Sunday he was out with all our friends and they had a few too many drinks. Yet he still texted me to check in and chat every half hour or so. Finally, one of our friends got mad at him for being on his phone instead of paying attention to the group. They didn't know he was talking to me. </div><br /><div>"So stop texting me!" I urged him. "I don't want to stop texting," he told me. "So what are you up to now?"</div><br /><div>And its official - I'm still in love with David. This whole thing still sucks. I'm still a sad, moody, hot mess. But I also like the Math Teacher. And I also want to date him.</div><br /><div>Unfortunately, my last minute cancellation has confused him a bit. He asked our mutual friend T (a very good girl friend of mine) to help him "figure me out." Oy vey!</div><br /><div>But what is there to figure out? He asked me out, I went out with him. We had fun. He asked me out again, and while I did cancel (because I honestly said I didn't feel well), why can't we just go out again (rescheduled) and see what happens?</div><br /><div>Why must we, in the beginning, know exactly what's going on, what's happening or figure someone out? Why must I be a 100% over my last boyfriend? Why must I be anything at all? Why can't I just exist and see what happens?</div><br /><div>So there you have it friends. I like the Math Teacher. And maybe, just maybe, he likes me...even if I am quadruple lame. I guess we'll see.</div><br /><div>Happy Monday and Cheers,<br />T</div>Toddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06844041827618501741noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3382987150662081702.post-85010489395999139822011-05-06T09:40:00.000-07:002011-05-06T09:52:19.356-07:00To Date or Not to Date<a href="http://joanharvest.files.wordpress.com/2008/08/too-tired.gif?w=418&h=390"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 418px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 390px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://joanharvest.files.wordpress.com/2008/08/too-tired.gif?w=418&h=390" border="0" /></a>That is the question. Because I'm supposed to go out tonight. On another date with the Math Teacher. Bowling.<br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><div>In theory, I want to go out on another date with the Math Teacher. But in reality I have NO INTEREST IN GOING OUT TONIGHT. OR BOWLING. </div><br /><br /><div>My whole body aches. Everywhere. My back, neck, shoulders. My face. My eyes behind the eyes. My quads. My hamstrings. The soles of my feet. Maybe I'm just tired. Maybe I work too much. (Well I KNOW I work too much - I even work a full day Saturdays so a six day week). Maybe I'm getting the flu (some of my coworkers were out sick this week and my mom has also been afflicted). Or maybe I'm just depressed. Two run-ins with the ex (yes I DID run into him AGAIN on my way to work yesterday. More on that some other time maybe...) in the last five days and its just too much. It's all too much. Or maybe I'm just dehydrated and need a glass of water? Who knows...</div><br /><br /><div>I told my coworker I wanted to cancel. I told her I feel like shit and I'm exhausted and we have to work all day tomorrow too! And then Sunday I'm spending the whole day with my mom for Mother's Day doing fun stuff she likes like an early morning walk outside, documentary movies, art exhibits, brunch etc.<br /></div><br /><div>My coworker was kinda mean to me in response to my lack of luster for living it up. She said: "What are you gonna do then? Go home and put on your sweatpants and watch TV?"</div><br /><br /><div>I said: "Um, yes. Exactly. And drink wine." (Don't try to tell me that's not bliss). The truth is: I wanna be alone. I don't feel like myself. And its even MORE exhausting and stressful trying to PRETEND to be me. The me everyone likes. The fun, bubbly, nice person that I just am not embodying right now. Because right now I am angry and tired and bitter and sad and exhausted and stressed and lost.</div><br /><br /><div>But I know how shitty it is to cancel on someone. Especially if they cleared their schedule to hang with you and therefore didn't make other Friday night plans. And then maybe he won't ask me out again. And I DO want to see if something is there with the Math Teacher. He IS a nice, interesting, cool guy. But I DON'T want to see if something is there tonight. Though I don't want to blow him off or hurt his feelings or give him the wrong impression.</div><br /><br /><div>I don't know. Ugh. I'd said TGIF. But I work Saturdays. Fuck my life. Just fuck it.</div><br /><br /><div>Tell me what to do lovely readership. You decide. And I will listen. You always say the right things. Which is why I write to you out into the abyss. I get more out of it, then you do. I'm sure.</div><br /><br /><div>Tired, tired T.</div>Toddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06844041827618501741noreply@blogger.com19