I Am Saying Goodbye

A few years ago I was in a relationship with this guy, a relationship that lasted about a year and a half. He was 12 years older than me but I did not care. I thought he was a great guy. When he broke it off, I was really devastated. It took a while to get my feet back on the ground. Truth is; I still miss him now and then.

Anyway, when the dust from that relationship settled and I thought it was time to get back into the swing of things, I decided I would try OKCupid, the dating website. At that same time I had also been thinking about starting a blog. I wanted to have a blog where I could say my silly stuff, but I could also write about personal things that were more private. I then got this bright idea to combine both the blog and my OKCupid account. I figured I could put my blog address in my OKCupid profile, that way if someone wanted to know a little more about me, all he would have to do is go to my blog. It seemed so brilliant, but in reality it was perhaps not my best idea.

The problem is; when I meet someone I have contacted through OKCupid, that person knows of my blog and where it can be found on the Net. Consequently if I were to write about the person, he might very well read it. That’s okay when the skies are blue, but sometimes the skies get cloudy and dark, and I want to write about those rainy days too. And that’s just it; one thing my blog cannot do is hurt someone. When it comes to my blog; that is the only thing that is absolutely taboo. A few months ago I decided that I would never again mention someone in my blog who knew of the blog. That’s been an easy promise to keep until recently. I could write my feelings about my ex-boyfriend Chris because I never told him of this blog. 

One week ago today I went out with a guy I met through OKCupid. We had a great time playing pool, and so when he called and asked me if I wanted to do something on Saturday I told him I most certainly did. I would have loved to display my silly giddiness in this blog, but I would not allow myself to do that because he knew of my blog. And what that means has now become very clear; it means that I cannot be true to what I need my blog to be. That simple reality hit me on Wednesday when I deleted a joyful blog entry about my date. 

So, I see only one answer. I think this entry will act as the blog epilogue. I have enjoyed writing my idiotic entries, the personal ones and the not-so-personal ones too. My sadness is tempered by the fact that almost no one read this goofball blog, and that I may start another blog someday, perhaps someday soon. Of course the next time I will make sure that anyone dumb enough to read my nutty thoughts is not, and will never be someone I might come to know personally. It will be a blog just for my eyes, and the eyes of any anonymous, unfortunate person who happens to read it.

I live and learn.   

A "Holly Golightly"?

About a year and a half ago I was going through kind of a romantic down patch following the end of a fairly long relationship. I was visiting a friend of mine when her father sympathetically told me that I was a “Holly Golightly”. He said that there is a type of guy who finds Holly Golightlys interesting, and perhaps even attractive, and that I had nothing to worry about. I did not know what he was talking about, but I figured it was more of a compliment than an insult. I probably thought that a Holly Golightly was a type of holly that turned a brighter shade of green in the summertime and he was using it as a kind of metaphor. Still, even though I found what he said confusing, I never quite forgot it.

A few evenings ago I was over at my parents’ house and when I arrived, my mother was just starting to watch an old movie. The film was Breakfast At Tiffany’s. With nothing better to do, I sat back on the sofa and began watching it too. I figured I’d stick around for a half hour or so and then head back to my apartment.

Somewhere in that first half hour I heard the name of the main, female character. The name sounded familiar somehow, but it really did not register for a while. Then suddenly the proverbial light came on and I recalled where I had heard “Holly Golightly”.

To put it simply, Holly Golightly was an energetic, fun-loving, somewhat airheadish woman who wanted both romance and independence. In the end she found she could not have both so she chose romance. I would know because I sat right there next to my mother and saw every minute of that movie.

When the movie ended I felt really weird. I started wondering if I really am a Holly Golightly. Now a few days later I have come to the conclusion that perhaps there’s a little of Holly Golightly in me somewhere. I should just be glad I wasn’t compared to that crazy woman in the movie Fatal Attraction. I’d still be freaked out.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CvhBU--hP1w

A Hoot To the Head

Most evenings I will go outside for at least a few minutes to get some fresh air, gaze up into the sky, and for a moment or two glance around without my eyesight being restricted by four walls. Last night, about 9:30 or so, I put on my coat and stepped outside. I had not been out for a whole minute when I heard the hoot of an owl. Perhaps once or twice a year I will hear an owl hoot coming out of the darkness.

He was a great horned owl. I’m no expert, but I know the difference between the call of a great horned owl when compared to either a barred or screech owl. It’s weird but a whole series of thoughts came through my head when I not only knew the creature was a great horned owl, but that I had that particular knowledge.

My first thought went back to the 8^th grade. When I was an 8th grader I went through an “owl phase”. It lasted a couple of months. It was right after my horse phase and right before my butterfly phase. During my owl phase I was keenly interested in owls. I did a lot of owl research. We lived in Columbus, Ohio at that time and I actually talked my father into taking me to a metro park evening owl program. Those memories went through my head because of a hooting owl. But my chain of thoughts did not stop there.  

I recalled how I used to draw owls during art class, or at least I tried to draw owls. I had a terrible time drawing an owl face. With their two eyes looking forward, my owl etchings always looked too much like a human face, and an ugly human face at that. I remembered the art teacher asking me as to why I should be motivated to draw an old woman with a prominent nose. After that unintended insult, all of my owl renderings were of owls in flight with their wings extended, just to avoid any confusion as to the subject.

Finally, I remembered just a few years ago, my mother showing me some of my drawings of  butterflies composed during that phase. My mother had saved them because she thought they were hysterical. When I saw them a couple of years ago I could see immediately why my mother thought they were so amusing. Most of my butterflies looked something like actual butterflies, but a couple of them looked more like something else. Fortunately I did not have an art class when I went through my butterfly phase. I would have probably been expelled for vulgarity.

It’s really weird, the thoughts and memories that can go through a person’s head in the chilly darkness when there is an owl hooting, a hooting great horned owl, to be precise.   

Sweating For a Chimicanga

I think I eat a little too much for my height and frame. I put in too many calories. It’s not just that I eat too much; I eat the wrong things too. Every week I consume a fair quantity of Pizza Rolls, these little bite-sized pizza morsels that come in a bag. I love them. I’ll bet I down two dozen a week. I like microwave burritos and chimichangas too. Two or three evenings a week I will pop some microwave, buttered popcorn and then eat every kernel while watching TV, even the ones that fall to the floor. More often than I care to admit I will buy frozen White Castle cheeseburgers at the grocery store and then eat about three of them for dinner. I microwave them one at a time at 1/3 power for three minutes. For some reason they are not as tasty when microwaved at full power for one minute. I don’t know why. Anyway, I gobble them down with catsup. 

Since I know I eat a lot of questionable foods, I try to offset it with intense exercise. About four times a week I will visit my fitness center where I will do a lot of aerobic work. I used to do mostly elliptical workouts, but in recent months I have gotten into jogging on a treadmill. Sometimes I will start off on an elliptical, go to the treadmill for a ten minute jog, and finish by doing five strong minutes on a stationary bicycle. Those really intense workouts are usually done on Saturdays, following a Friday evening of high calorie food with a glass or two of wine.

This is going to sound crazy, but very few women at my fitness center actually break into a sweat. I think it sounds odd because I equate exercise with sweat, especially for men, but for women too. Many of these women work-out on resistance machines, so there is less perspiration involved. Others will get on a treadmill and walk. I will do a few push-ups and some sit-ups, but I seldom actually do intense resistance exercises. My goal is to burn calories, and burn them quickly.

When I’m on some aerobic exercise equipment, I start feeling warm in about five minutes or so. I can tell that the heart is pumping, the blood is flowing. My face is probably getting flushed. Somewhere around the ten to twelve minute mark I start to perspire a tiny bit. If I am not getting a little dewy at the fifteen minute mark, I figure that I’m not going fast enough. If I get through a half hour workout without my top getting a little damp up around the neck, I was either not trying hard enough, or the fitness center thermostat was set at 60 degrees.

What’s really goofy is that I am basically incredibly lazy and hate to do anything that takes any real effort. To be honest, I’m really not sure how I ever got into the habit of driving to the fitness center four times a week. Maybe I’m not as lazy as I think I am. Or maybe it’s that I really like microwave burritos, and I want to eat them without guilt. Yes, I’m pretty sure that it’s the latter of the two, because I’m definitely lazy.