I should be sleeping; my body is completely drained of its energy stores; I ate popcorn for dinner tonight because anything else seemed too difficult to microwave. Yet, I find myself in bed with my mind full. I hope the snow falls silently all night, giving us a delayed start at work tomorrow – it’s going to be hard enough to get moving after another sleepless night.
As seen in Exhibit A, people like to give me advice. Everyone has something a little different to offer – it’s all contradictory and something I usually take with a grain of salt. Sometimes, I gain deep insights into myself; sometimes, I jump on the defensive; and sometimes, I fall into a suspended reflective state…
Everyone thinks I’m going about finding “the one” in the wrong way. I can’t tell you how many people have sat on my shoulder and whispered in that knowing voice, “Maybe you should stop this writing thing. It’s just too much.”
Friends tell me that I might want to keep some of my more personal sentiments in check; strangers tell me I’m trying too hard and men can sense desperation.
I take issue with all of the above.
Let’s start with the “desperation” aspect of my lifestyle. I’m not desperate. I’m just single. It’s ok. It’s not a terminal illness. We don’t need to race for the cure on this one.
I do honestly expect to find a good story and I live for the story. I will always choose the story. I’ll write it in mini notebooks, scribble it on the scraps of napkins or the back of a receipt, and etch it into the back of my hand or crook of my elbow. Then, I come home and blog it.
I know I’m not Emily Dickenson, Sylvia Plath, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Anais Nin, Louisa May Alcott, Jane Austen or any of the Bronte’s – but that doesn’t stop me from want to be just like them. Lock me in an attic – just please give me something to write with, or I’ll be carving the chronicles of my deepest imaginings into the walls with my fingernails!
I write. I don’t think I’m a writer really – but I am someone who writes. I have to write. It’s how I make sense of things that don’t make any sense to me – like love and heartbreak and emotions and the injustices I see around me!
Here’s the deal: I accept that I might be “doing it all wrong” to attract men – but that’s ok! I’m not looking to attract all the men! Not even Marilyn Monroe won the hearts of all the men – some only had eyes for Jackie-O!
If my column turns men away, good! It’s weeding out all the wrong guys and I won’t have to go through that awkward rejecting process again. Even though this guy was practically illiterate and this guy was shorter than me and this guy was a total creep-a-zoid, I still did not enjoy rejecting them! I’m not mean, just usually awkward and sometimes confused and much more vulnerable than I’d like to admit.
Because, even though I don’t expect to entice all of the men in the world, I do hope that there is one who takes an interest.
Admittedly, I want to attract the right one. And the right one will understand that I won’t stop writing; that this writing “thing” is more than just a silly phase I’m going through. I’ve been writing since the 2nd grade and I’m nowhere near done. I’ll always write about my life – it makes things real to me. It’s like my emotions are not real until they are inked into paper. I don’t believe “I love you” until I see it written down – scribbled on a cocktail napkin with a small bunch of hand-picked wild flowers.
“The one” will encourage my writing – he’ll respect the fact that I will write about him, but that I do follow an internal code of ethics (to be published in conjunction with this week’s dating column – dun dun dunnnnn).
He’ll laugh with me, he’ll feel for me and he won’t judge me.
He’ll accept me.
He’ll love me because of me, not in spite of me.
Because Love is all we really need – and I’m not the first person to say it, right John and Paul?
Nothing you can do, but you can learn how to be you in time. It’s easy. All You Need is Love. (John Lennon/Paul McCartney)