Where to Draw the Line

It's been awhile I'm afraid. Not that I haven't had things to say, but finding the time, and a reliable internet connection has really cut back my posts. And honestly, things aren't much different now than they were a few months ago. Most girls will stab you in the back if they are given half a chance. Most guys will sleep with you and tell all of their friends. People will talk, even if what they are saying isn't true. But, despite all that, I have managed to find some true friends. People who do have my back. It seems, first impressions are definitely not always accurate.

So now, after reevaluating my opinions and views of the people around me, I find myself with a dilemma. I've been "The Other Woman" a few times, a few times too many. But never where an actual marriage was involved. In this life I'm currently living, where long distance is the name of the game, is crossing that line allowed? I used to live a very black and white life of right and wrong. I live in grey now. But even so, I'm not sure what to do here. Most would say, run away, as fast as you can. I'm pretty sure I don't have the guts to go through with it. Pretty sure.

Wuthering Heights

I got back from work to find a book in a plastic bag on my bed.

Must be my roommate’s.

I opened the bag and found Wuthering Heights.

Definitely NOT my roommate’s. She doesn’t even read.

I went down the hall to Erin’s room.

Did you get me a book at the mall?

No, why?

Someone got me Wuthering Heights.

It didn’t take me long to figure out who it was from. The only person it could be, the only one I had spoken to about Wuthering Heights, and literature in general, Ben, my co-worker and next door neighbor.

He is so unpredictable. He barely speaks to some of us, is currently seeing another girl after hours, has really dorky habits, always does favors for me, and apparently, buys me Wuthering Heights, arguably one of the most romantic and tragic books in English Literature, then denies he did it.

I still can’t believe it. But it makes me smile when I think about it. It’s always nice to be thought of when you aren’t there. And presents are always nice, especially from cute boys. I could get used to finding surprises on my bed.

The Men

Although I'm 25 and theoretically could have slept with half the country by now, there remain only a handful of guys who have had a lasting effect on my development.

One, Jake, my non boyfriend from high school, and a little dalliance in college, and also this summer. He has been there, somewhere, usually in the background, for the last ten years of my life.

Two, Alex, my non boyfriend from college. He slept with everyone, except me, because I wouldn't let him, despite all his charms. And that killed him. If there is one thing I've learned from my experience with Jake and Alex, it's that when a guy doesn't really love you, the quickest way to get rid of him is to sleep with him. And if you don't, he'll be there forever.

Alex is still around, whereas Jake has finally moved on. I'll let you do the math.

And third, there is Aidan, my first non-non boyfriend. My first everything really.

There are others, mostly one night drunken fumbles. But recently I've been thinking about how my relationship with Alex in college has possibly effected my behavior more than I realize. Alex was the guy that wanted to be a lover, wanted to do the pleasing (and then go love and please someone else).

And at nineteen, I didn't know a lot, but I knew that those things should be a two way street. So, with all of his skill and practice, I never let him truly please me. It was a power struggle, almost a game. I know part of me wanted the player to get played. There was a night when I decided that I was done with him--he got so upset, he fell down the stairs trying to get me to stay.

I know I felt powerful then. Like I had turned the tables. And even now, I know he'd cheat on his girlfriend if I'd let him. But I'm not nineteen anymore, and there's really no chance of that. I don't want a part of it.

But what I'm wondering is this: back then, all those years ago, did I somehow distance myself from sex and the emotion and feelings that go along with it? And if so, is that why I have not problems exactly, but issues with it now? Have I somehow made it all about power and not about love? And have I become a little more like Alex himself. I mean, not by numbers of conquests, but have I become the lover, the pleaser, the impervious one? And if so, what will it take to change that?

Lesser of Two Evils

I don't know which is worse:
Not getting a response to a message, or
Getting a 5-6 word response.

When I was in high school, my non-boyfriend went off to college and started up emailing me, presumably to keep the option open, should he come home on a slow weekend. Things progressed and eventually he was signing off with "love". Now to a naive seventeen year old, that's a pretty big deal. And ever since then, I've paid attention to how people end their emails. I don't know if that's common or uncommon, it's just what I do--and I especially take notice if the sign off changes as time goes by. Eventually, of course, the "love" dropped off the end of the emails and then, the emails too, dropped. Such is life at seventeen.

Or apparently at 25. Not that there was "love". But there were "xo's" and "miss you's" and other such nonsense. And there were also timely responses, and that was when he was also traveling!

I conclude that for basically the first time in my entire life, I went for it, all in, consequences be damned, and I ended up no better than all the girls I've tried my entire life not to be.

Part of me wants to call and talk and clear the air. But I'm not sure I'd be able to make it anything except a conversation about nothing. And then the sensible part of me knows that if his last message meant anything, it was that we meant nothing--at least now that the moment is over.

I'm trying so hard not to reply. I don't know if I'll succeed.

Compliments

Most guys tend to think that if you call a somewhat attractive woman (which is exactly what I think I am) beautiful, she'll probably be more willing to sleep with them. Maybe it's the guys I knew growing up, but when a guy tells me I'm beautiful, it pretty much does one thing: makes me suspicious. Beautiful is not the compliment I want to hear, what does it really mean? "You look really good, and because of that, I want to be with you." Woo! Hooray for me.

No, beautiful is not what I want to hear. Instead, call me an artist, call me talented, and most importantly, mean it. Be impressed by what I can do, what I can make, not by what dna made.

A man I view as extremely talented recently told me about our first meeting and his impression of me.
"I thought you were an art girl. Talented. I didn't think you'd be interested in me."

"An 'Art girl' is exactly what I wish I was."

And after that, of course I kissed him. How could I not? It's one thing for people to see your outsides. It's another for them to not only see your insides, but see them as YOU want them to be seen, hope them to be seen. I'll give the other girls, "beautiful" and keep "artist".

Bad Girl

The last week has been a whirlwind of crazy, complete chaos and above all, spontaneity. And I loved nearly every minute of it, most I can remember, a few are a bit fuzzy. I feel like something snapped a bit in my brain and I almost wasn't me anymore. I don't know if it was a permanent tweak, or just a temporary one, and quite honestly, I'm a little scared to find out.

I've always been such a good girl. Painfully but also realistically good. I'm no nun, no stereotype. But by society's standards I've spent the first quarter of my life playing it safe. Really, really safe.

Which is why, when I woke up the other morning and remembered the shocking things I had done the previous night, after drinking more than I needed to, I was highly amused. I giggled to Charlotte about all the uncharacteristic things I had done. Then later, I started to get embarrassed. Mostly because most of the guys I was with didn't know me very well. And while I don't mind being thought of as wild, or fun, and just a little bad, there are so many negative words for the type of girl who pulls a guy into a dark corner of a bar for a little making out. And I am not those words.

Totally Freaked Out.

Last week, Kate dated a guy who ended up to probably be a homeless alcoholic. This week, I've got a guy who has turned out to be un-happily married, wanting me to spare him an hour of my time. Un-happily married, with children. He came to see me at work tonight--twice. I don't even know what else to say, except that I'm totally freaked out.