I went out to dinner with the Boss Lady tonight. I wish that we were on some reality TV show and people could TiVo or DVR or, dare I date myself and say “tape” our conversations because they are usually brilliant and never boring. We’re constantly surprising each other with agreeing on things – I think we just assume that since we were wired opposite of each other, we’ll disagree. But even though she likes to count to 100 in a sequential, orderly fashion and I like to skip around, we somehow each hit all the numbers. Does that make any sense?
Well, it doesn’t have to because that is not the point.
The point is, somewhere between the dregs of my first glass of Polly Fuisse and the first sip of my second, I had a series of epiphanies.
The first: We all have this lifelong “to-do” list. And we can prioritize the hell out of it and know exactly where we want to go and how we are going to get there and assign ourselves deadlines and everything. And, even if we have the most foolproof plan, it doesn’t mean that we are safe because Love Happens. Right time or not. Wrong person or right. It doesn’t matter. Love is like your supervisor’s boss’ boss person booming down onto your lonely coffee-fetching pee-on self and saying, “DO THIS NOW.” When that comes from your supervisor’s boss’ boss person, it’s a big deal. You don’t get any “ifs, ands, or butts,” suddenly, your priorities have been re-prioritized. You’ll push your previous priorities down the list because, let’s face it, you have a new Number 1 now and it must be satiated. This may lead you to making compromises *yuck* or worse.
That thought led into the second: When you compromise for someone you are taking love of yourself and depositing it into the “love of other” account. Eventually, you take stock at all of the withdrawals you’ve made and you have to see if they even out with the deposits from the “other.” If the answer to that is no, you realize that you will either let yourself die and just fade into them, or you will reclaim yourself and leave because you have just enough self-love to deposit in 3 months rent and groceries. You know you’ll get by and make it work.
At this point, she looked at me like “Oh, dear, get this girl some bread or something.”
But I was not done.
I took another sip of wine and told her she needed an internal power experience. She said that she had already had one – she climbed a mountain. I said, “Good for you. How long did that take?” She said “A day.” To which I replied, “Hm. Not good enough. I think you need like a year. Maybe two. You should probably sail across the Atlantic and travel around and do good things for people; you know, if someone is begging for money, invite them for coffee and a pastry, stuff like that. It’s important to know that you are doing stuff because you want to and you don’t have to answer to anyone else or meet their expectations.”
Then, food came.
The conversation defaulted to boys (as always). We were both raised not to be the kind of girls to like men with tattoos. We freaking love them. Nothing like a well-placed Tatt on some dude’s arm. She thinks it would be creepy if some guy asks me out after reading my column or blog. I told her it wouldn’t be creepy – it would actually make an awesome column “Using a Dating Column to Meet Boys.” Somehow, that led to my dating column making me famous and landing me a spot on The Bachelor. I doubt I’d last the first round, but you never know. Stranger things have happened.