Thoughts On… ch.4

Thoughts On…

A Question.

It was what I thought, an unusual question: “how do you know if you like someone?” In regards to whom asked me this, it was someone my very own age, not a 12 year old as may be presumed. But the inquiry was legitimate, as I would come to find out in but two weeks’ time.

We sat across from each other in an unimportant location at an unimportant table, sipping our unimportant drinks. And just like every other time I have found myself with this specific view of a specific someone (of unimportance), their eyes peeping above the plastic lid of their white paper cup, I think. Mostly I think on what they are saying or on their choice of length in hair, but sometimes, like this unimportant day, I think about liking him.

Just mere weeks prior I was tackling the answer to my dear friend’s question in regards to liking the opposite sex; in my humble opinion there must be a match, and a sacrifice. At the time it all seemed so simple to me and maybe too complex for my friend. I explained that core values, stuff of importance, life goals – these things must be compatible between two potential daters. However, I also went on to say that most times there is also sacrifice; sacrifice to say that maybe it is not all too important if Mr. So-And-So does not share my passion for helping the disabled, eating Ben & Jerry’s, or writing. It would be extreme to assume that all things would match up just so. As I said, all was easy to explain but much harder to consume.

For here I am, in said friend’s same predicament, and my own answers will not suffice. It has come to a matter of attraction, and not physical attraction as one would assume. This is a more convoluted attraction, one that involves… And my mind draws blanks. What is it about this individual that makes me think I might like him? Could it be our shared sense of humor, his thought provoking discussion topics, or possibly just that shirt he wore last Sunday? At times, when looking at him, I see nothing more than a friend, a leisurely confidante, not anything resembling a spouse or potential suitor even. But once, every couple of days, my heart skips a little; I see him in a light of attraction that hits in just the right way. Where this new light is shining from I cannot figure out nor can I predict its visual perception magic.

In searching far and wide for the true feeling, the right answer, I have come up empty handed. My previous advice all mashed up and uneven, nothing making sense to my timid heart’s ponderings. Yet, I feel on the brink of clarity, one step away from knowing what this all could mean. And I am possibly pretty certain it means we are simply just two, love-longing friends. Just friends.

Thoughts On… ch.3

Thoughts On…

Confidence (part one)

It is a lot less jazzercise looking when she dances; my sister has groove. My sister has confidence, and for anyone who has the pleasure of watching her bust a move at a dance party knows that she ain’t scared. In the privacy of our shared apartment, me and my sister occasionally crank up our mixed CD (appropriately titled “West Coast Dance Party”) and dance (her moves get even better when it’s just the two of us!). When my sister is out of the house I dance by myself. While I am fairly free spirited when dancing in the company of others, nothing can really compare to the dance moves produced when by my lonesome.

Confidence Tip 1: Dance

I prefer to dance to hip-hop music, although my moves will probably always display more of a drum circle-meets- jazzercise type of style. But that’s not important, because when you can practice exuding free spirited confidence in the privacy of your own home, it eventually runs off into normal (public) everyday life; confidence makes stupid look cool. Also, the plus with dancing is that it burns calories, raises your metabolism, stirs up the chemicals in your brain that make you feel good, etc. etc. etc. (and if you’re like me, all those things make for stronger confidence). It is important when dancing in your house to spend some time in front of a mirror, and other times, dance where you will not catch a glimpse of yourself. When in front of a mirror, check yourself (that move you always do might not look nearly as good as you think it does). When away from your reflection, do whatever you feel like – jump, flail your arms, do jumping jacks – let it all out. In extra distressing times (like when I emailed my ex husband and he responded back like only he can do) I didn’t feel like dancing, but there was nothing else to pull me up; so I danced. It was by far the grandest, flailing-est, hardest hitting moves my body could output, but afterwards I felt my confidence rise.

Confidence Tip 2: Wear It Proudly

I wear some pretty odd outfits, this I will admit. But I wear what I like. I wear what I feel like wearing, and I almost never consider what other people are going to think of me. I am confident in what I wear. However, some things, like high heels and dark lipstick, make me nervous. Oddly enough, these are the two things I have been interested in donning lately. Due mostly in part to the fact that high heels and lipstick make women look confident, my attraction to them and my interest in that kind of feminine poise is growing. Lesson learned – do not wear high heels in public until first conquering them in private. And by “conquer” I mean, walking, standing, dancing, and going up and down steps. Regardless of what you wear though, wear it proudly for clothing can portray confidence like nothing else.

Confidence Tip 3: Look People In The Eye

Looking back, I wish I would have known the importance of this earlier. Better first impressions at jobs, friends feeling like they were listened to, ex spouses knowing that I am serious about them taking my name off of the car title, and securing a second date with that guy who will probably never call me again, are just some of the benefits of looking people directly in the eye (or on their forehead between their eyes as I have found some people prefer). Need I say more?

Confidence Tip 4: Shake what your momma gave ya, aka- realize that you are made in the image of God (sorry, finding the relation between that interchangeable title might be difficult for some, but think about it…)

This tip should probably be cut and pasted up at the top of the page, made into tip #1, as it is pretty much the grounds for all of us being completely and utterly comfortable in our own skin. None of us were made by accident; none of us were accidently made with the wrong physical appearance or an erroneous personality (this does not mean we don’t have things we need to work on…hence my running shoes I recently purchased and my accountability partner who I am slightly loathing this week). I am not one able to preach on this area of confidence as it is something new to me and took me 25 years to figure out, but know this: God does not screw up or have days where his artistic creativity is off. Embrace the fact that you were made in His image and that you have nothing to prove to anybody.

As I write this, my toes are starting to feel cramped in my high heels, but I can say that I am almost 62% comfortable with my ability to dance in them (well…I mean, I haven’t twisted my ankle yet). The “West Coast Dance Party” CD is almost loud enough to bother the tenants living below me. But my roommate (my sister) is still gone, and I (crossing my fingers) know that eventually I will get asked out on a date, or at least, hear of a dance party sometime soon; so with head held high, I whip out that tube of red lipstick.

Adventures In… ch.24

Adventures In…

A set of twin size sheets.

The yellow and pink floral print was just too delicate and sweet to pass up. The $15 price tag made it impossible to walk away without. New sheets were much needed for the twin size mattress I recently started sleeping on. Face another step, learn another lesson; and somehow it is all just about a set of sheets.

Yet it is so much more. Underneath my brand new sheets lies a borrowed mattress. I previously possessed a queen size bed, a queen size bed and someone to share its pleasant roominess with. Now I have downsized and fittingly so; the horizon leading to the edge of that large bed would have held nothing but a skyline of loneliness. The twin sized mattress and its compact size and lack of far horizons somehow still leaves room for loneliness though. My small dog and cat take up my leg space, the three feather pillows create mounds of stuffing around my skull, and the oversized down comforter creates a mass of weight on top of me; yet somehow, somewhere, there is a grand emptiness that envelopes me, a space so vast beside me each time I lay down.

These twin sheets were everything I had been wanting for my new bed. Their “Victorian era roses – meets – 1970’s color palette” screams shabby chic in a mustard yellow and Barbie pink sort of way. The excitement produced from the discounted price of my purchase nearly beckoned my legs to skip as I made my way home up Cyprus Ave. Two and a half weeks later, however, and those sheets still lie in my wicker laundry basket at the foot of my small bed. A deep seeded belief, the belief that stripping my twin mattress of its oversized linens, lies at the back of my mind, and I fear that the minute I place the appropriately sized twin sheets on I will be forced to except reality.

Reality can be bittersweet. Today it lends more bitter as I pep talk myself into doing laundry. Step 1: wash the sheets, step 2: make bed with previously mentioned sheets, step 3: except that no matter what size the sheets, no matter how small the mattress, the empty space beside me will continue to linger.

Last night as I lay in bed, I considered rearranging the room. The bed is pushed up against the wall, fitting snuggly into one of the four corners of my room. It is not producing the cramped feeling I had originally hoped for. While imagining a new layout it occurred to me that the bed in the middle of the floor, far from all walls and corners, could ironically create much needed boundaries. The edges of the bed would be much more prominent as I toss and turn at night; the fear of rolling off onto the carpet below would essentially create conscious confinement.

Reality can be bittersweet. A mattress like an island in the midst of a vast sea, drowning in its oversized bedding and two too many pillows is pathetic. No matter how I position my bed, no matter where I lay, the reality of this great void remains. No matter how many twinkling stars shine bright tonight I will no doubt feel the emptiness that is created by the awareness of the sky’s great expanse.

So I will tuck those sheets on tight tonight; I will pull down the covers and be welcomed by the refreshing floral pattern. I will remind myself that these sheets are a temporary thing. And as I take one last glance out the window I will know that somewhere out underneath those same stars is someone else looking up, someone else longing for a bigger, more crowded bed; someone waiting for me.

I’m Just Being Honest…ch.1

I’m Just Being Honest…

About Exercising.

The shirt fit incorrectly leaving the word “dreamer” in an awkward crease, almost invisible and unreadable along my ribs. I frowned at the pathetic fabric placement, staring at my reflection in the large dressing room mirror. The five pairs of exercise pants hung giddily on the wall, holding the potential for me to get back into shape after the post-post-divorce 6lbs I had recently acquired.

Pair one; I pulled them on realizing the 6lbs directly affected my pants wearing ability in regards to the standard U.S. sizing chart. It was all I could do to not laugh out loud as I stared at my unenthused reflection hunched over in a pair of “yoga” pants. I am not one to enjoy working out, let alone shop for the prescribed clothing for such an event. Pair two; the laughter subsided and a slight denial kicked in, could it be at all possible this mirror was playing tricks on my visual perception? Pair three; I am pretty sure spandex is not supposed to fit this tight. Pair four; if my workout pants make me look this bad will it motivate me (every time I wear them) to get into shape?

Maybe pants, accentuating what is already much too accentuated by my daily ice cream intake, are just the ticket (with a quick glimpse in my mirror) to get me from couch to feet. Could motivation be found in unflatteringly showing off what should definitely stay hidden at home on my couch?

I sat down in the dressing room to contemplate this sudden idea and stare at the other lovely pieces of clothing hanging beside the workout pants. I considered calling my mother to inquire about her opinion on the subject of articles of unflattering, grey spandex, but eventually got up to try on the last pair.

Pair five; this pair was different in that they were not of the trendy style, nor where they made of a particular stretchy, show all material. Pair five was sweatpants. I am talking about real, tight-at-the-ankle, grey sweatpants. Think: Rocky running along the beach. Now that is motivation. So with the anticipation of exercising in an outfit from a previous decade, while also completely avoiding the chance of seeing myself in a highly unflattering fabric, I chose the sweatpants.

In high hopes, these sweatpants will transcend me to workout aficionado; or at least inspire me to speed walk a bit faster. Yes, speed walk. Far from an Olympic sport (or anything that my sister triumphantly does at the gym every morning), speed walking is my choice for physical exertion (yes, I DO insist on putting the word “speed” in front of “walking” in an endeavor to beef it up).

I prefer walking (oops, I mean “speed walking”) through a nearby neighborhood as it is quiet and the lawn décor lends me distraction. I have been informed that if I do not walk fast enough or with arms swinging, I look like a creeper; I am hoping that the sweatpants make me appear more official.

Three days after purchasing my grey sweatpants and they are quietly nestled, tags still on, in the bottom of my dresser. I have no doubt that they will very soon make an appearance on the sidewalks connecting Victor to Hartnell Avenue. I have no apprehension regarding my goal to walk, walk, walk. I do not feel like I made the wrong choice by purchasing the baggier, softer, and more forgiving of pants. Besides, they will be a lot more comfortable to eat ice cream in…

I’m just being honest.

Adventures In… ch.23

Adventures In…

Dating.

I am exhausted. I spent the day listening to boys talk about girls. I spent the day talking to boys about girls. I spent the day trying to figure out boys. And the only good all this did was make me tired. A soft love song lends me a little peace, melting the exhaustion into rest.

When did going out for coffee become so complicated? My Christian dating experience has been nothing short of confusing as it seems people won’t go on a date unless they have thought through the idea of marrying the other person first. This might seem like a nifty idea, but driving home tonight, alone and hungry, made me wonder otherwise.

Dating is not my ideal pastime. I can think of many other ways to make it through the weekends. Ruling the hobby of dating out leaves me with: 1) a quick dive into the world of marriage after only a brief attempt at courtship (been there, done that, and I DO recommend it, however only with caution as the first year of marriage can be an adventure at best, but a nasty discovery at worst) or 2) marrying a best friend. I like option #2 as it seems comfortable, cozy and invariably safe.

So I need to make more male friends (and quick, seeing as how some friendships can take a while to bloom). But upon this insight do I uncover a much more fear inducing realization – acquiring male friends can be tough. It isn’t difficult in the “hi, my name is…” kind of way, but rather in the “hey, let’s go get coffee…” sort of way, for as it turns out, getting coffee means many different things to many different people.

Today seemed to be the day to discuss dating as everyone I had a conversation with ended up talking about the complications of coffee dates, the dreaded points of relationship defining, and what “dating” really entails. Or maybe it was just me. Regardless of how it came up, it is a disappointing fact that the topic was even discussed on such a beautifully sunny day; a day that evolved into a cold, starry night. Saturday should not be Dating Gripe day, but yet it was, and nowhere new did it leave us. Just as confused am I now as I was before the sun went down.

We are all resembling zombies, walking around in a daze as we desensitize the mysterious and perplex evolution of relationships in regards to dating and love. In an effort to make Christian dating simple we tend to drown out the fun, the interesting phases that can dictate a bond. In no way am I referring to the delicate intimacy that should be wholly saved for marriage; no, I am pondering the ways of approach, the first few months, the “hey you, I like you” stage.

I refuse to freak. I will not use my label as “Christian” as an excuse to write off dating. In all the confusion, in all the “do I like him just because of his hair?” moments I will not disregard the underlying feelings, the giddiness of the potential, or the uncertainty of whether or not the hot beverages we shared equate a date or not. I refuse to be ashamed that I might like a boy and he might not like me back. I like undefined. I like the questions, the hits and misses, and the friendships made along the way. I prefer daydreams whisking me away into starry nights, the sunny day’s memories telling of less talk and freer spirits. I am making friends with dating.

Adventures In…ch.22

Adventures In…

Coffee.

Define coffee. To be more specific, define what “going for coffee” means. And I am requesting this sarcastically. Tomorrow I will be seen at the local café sipping a large decaf next to an ingeniously handsome young man. Onlookers may question, good friends might whisper, the cute barista I am currently eyeing might get the wrong idea. However, having coffee should never be defined.

Everyone (more specifically, young and single Christians) seems to have an opinion on this much talked about event. I have sat in on private discussions of “going for coffee,” I have walked away from heated debates of such a thing, and I have had the very privileged advantage of sitting in on a conversation between three boys concerning the male perspective of “coffee.”

I personally have never taken part in such a caffeinated yet chill, male-female happening. Regardless, I do have my opinion on the topic. There are those who say “going for coffee” should be defined as two people of the opposite sex drinking hot beverages and getting to know one another. This group claims that “going for coffee” should never be considered a date. Then there are the people who say the very opposite is true – that “going for coffee” is most always a date (they follow this sentence with “depending on…” which is another topic for another day) and needs to be handled with care. I on the other hand disagree with the whole entire thing altogether. I have recently, after much thought and a couple conversations, have decided “going for coffee” should never be defined.

I pride myself in liking the mysteriously awkward moments of dating life. Perhaps I am alone in this enjoyment, but I blame it on my creatively romantic side. I like not knowing what is going to happen, in believing that my best friend could unexpectedly become my boyfriend, in the thought that sipping coffee may or may not be the end all to my singlehood.

I find it fairly easy to live in a state of anticipation as I am also pretty blunt and honest when need be. If a boy wants to know whether coffee with me is of a romantic intention, they need to ask and I will no doubt tell. If I dress up for coffee does it make it a date? If he pays does it make it a date? I do not know, and I prefer it that way. If every little aspect of dating had an agenda and definition I am not sure it would be very amusing. It is disheartening to think that a person will go out for coffee only after they have defined their feelings towards the other person. This seems backwards and controlling. (And in regards to my loud vocal declaration I made yesterday concerning the fact that I will never under any circumstance go out for coffee with any of my male guy friends, I take it back. To whom this may concern, I will go to coffee with any of you. And that is all I will say.)

What I do know for sure is that coffee is good, I tend to talk too much, and I always wear lip gloss. What I do know is that love happens most often when you least expect it. Relationships blossom quietly and emotions are sneaky. I do not think the heart of the matter is defining “going for coffee” but rather it is a matter of learning to speak up, learning that life is short and love is surprising.

Careful: The Beverage You Are About To Enjoy Is Hot.

 

RE: hello

The instrumental bluegrass strums on, the quiet melody creating an absolutely perfect backdrop to the words across my screen. The one line of tiny, black letters eventually resembles little ants as my eyes stare hard enough to distort my vision. If it weren’t for the movement of the song I would presume my world had stopped, time losing all steam and collapsing before the finish line.

I forgot what his voice sounds like, making the words supremely hollow and cold. Yet, the stupid, generic email font that his name is written in feels too personal, as if the “J” is in his very own handwriting. I study each letter, each word, each dot looking for his voice, looking for familiarity. But it is empty. I do not know what I was expecting.

My mind races through snap judgments, and I have a hard time not cussing or cursing silently under my breath. I dissect every single piece looking for something, something other than not-quite-generic-but-slightly-too-awkward phrases. Four to be exact; four phrases, a name, and a whole lot of dots (and all I can say is thank God for bluegrass). The banjo distracts me with its fancy fast tempo, keeping my mind on its toes.

I wanted to journal something humorous this afternoon, but instead I get this. I wanted a love to last a lifetime, but instead I get an orange desk and a small café chair, a few words and a whole lot of emotion. The apartment is cold and quiet, the sun sets, and the mandolins sing an eerie song. No one magically appears at my door to comfort me, and the chair is only feeling harder and smaller beneath me.

And here, like every other moment in the past year of my life is that line. That straight, white line that beckons me to choose. To stay behind the line would look like me crawled up on my couch, a tear stained pillow, a lot of “why God?” type laments, too much pity and not enough victory. Crossing that line would be walking into the kitchen to make some coffee, fixing my mascara and heading out for church. Crossing would mean flinging my arms out to the side in surrender for the 1000^th time, it would be me remembering that I am truly loved, that I am here to adore my God, and that all of this is just the stuff of life.

I let the bluegrass play on, but I cross that line. I make the choice (once again) to do what I know I need to do. Signing off from my email account, letting it be, I go on with my evening. Life is bittersweet, I will never have enough answers, but God is always good; and for this I go on. Sing on sweet banjo, sing on.

Subject: hello

This song makes me think of our relationship; the loss of our friendship. What am I doing here? I sit in this cold and hard chair, my back to the rest of the world; all I can see are the words in front of me. I type a letter then delete four. And so the process of trying to say “hello” proceeds. The clock ticks on and yet here I still am: type and delete, type and delete. All I need are five letters to say what is on my mind.

The next hurdle heightens my awareness of fear. It is all in a name, the last word on the page. Melissa, Mel, M…: not many options, but enough to make me question my identity, or rather your portrayal of me. Is there a formal way to not sound formal, a loving way to not sound in love? You never called me Mel, and M is too intimate, reserved only for people who know me better than I know myself.

“Send” looms persistently on the top of the screen. My eyes start to hurt as I stare way too intently at the little, white cursor resting gently on top of those four letters. My pointer finger just barely graces the button that would fly this short note hastily through cyber space. How can the word “send” trigger my body to freeze, my mind for a moment shuts down to keep from lingering to memories past.

This is a big deal being made over a small gesture of friendliness. My intentions are pure, having been filtered several times over in the last couple of days. It is impossible to not wonder of your well being. Your well being used to mean the world to me. People ask about you and the realization that I have no clue if you are ok, if you are even out there somewhere, makes my heart hurt.

And if you respond, if you are out there roaming this great world and happen to stumble upon my short note, how will my heart react? Will the sadness deepen upon realizing that we are no longer a part of each other’s lives; upon the realization that “outta sight, outta mind” is an absurdity?

I sit here and try to force a tear out. In the event that you would email me a response I want to be prepared. Tears do not surface and all that is produced is a clenched face, a frustrated soul. I am not sad anymore about your absence, aggravated for sure, but not miserable. I wish we could be friends. I wish that the mistakes would disappear and we could share our lives, if only briefly.

And now I am crying. Because that is all I want, that is my only intent. I am not interested in your love life. I am not longing to love you the way I used to. I just miss YOU. I miss the way you knew me, and I miss our inside jokes, I miss the laughter that can only be produced between two intimate souls.

I have gotten over my love for you. I have moved on, conquering as I go, forgiving every day. But I will always miss our friendship. And that is what I am trying to say. I just want to say “hello.”

Adventures In…ch.21

Adventures In…

“Casserole Eyes.”

The damp green grass felt cold against their feet as the warm sun trickled in through the branches of orange leaves. The riverside was a fitting place to test the waters of love. Their eyes met and she decided it was time to try on vulnerability. Her lips quivered as she looked deep into his shiny brown eyes. But as her mouth attempted to verbalize her heart’s poundings all hope was shattered. In a short moment, the dreams of life together, of a vacation home on the coast, of small, bare footed children running around carelessly all disappeared. For it was in that moment, as she looked into his eyes, into the depths of his soul, that she knew his response. No words from him were needed. She knew. And turning around in passionate sorrow, she fled. As she ran up the grassy hill the wind flowed through her skirt, her hair entangled around her face, the tears dripping in slow motion down her cheeks. She looked back to catch his silhouette against the cattails and purring river, against the confusion and setting sun.

Sometimes fairy tales don’t go as planned. Most of the time, sunny afternoons surrounded by nature’s bliss, only stoke so big a flame. The heart can be led by pretty pictures and quaint ideas, but when reality seems illusory the mind tends to wander back home. And while I sit on my bed, commitments made to never day dream again, I am impatient. Desires are unleashed when day dreams are permitted, but patience and sound mind have a tendency to run out on me.

I am so ready to write a good story. Thoughts of pathetic beginnings and sad endings are not welcome anymore, yet it is becoming dreadfully difficult to keep them at bay. Lazy days on friends’ couches are cherished for sure, but my heart is so restless. The young ones flutter around carefree and in perfect ease, but I have found no peace in pretending that love and companionship were never mine.

My sister and I were discussing boys and their eyes and their feelings and their souls and, as romantic as it all sounds to be, we chose to discuss the sadder end of the tale. Whether it is in a moment shared between two friends, or maybe a date (whether it be the 3^rd or 12^th), or even between two strangers, there is a moment when in their eyes everything you do not want to hear is seen. For me, those things said through the gaze sound like, “Thanks mom, now go make me a casserole,” or “I could tell you anything ’cause you are like a sister to me.” As much as these could seem like compliments at times, they are inappropriate at best (and heart wrenching at worst) to be heard when your eyes are trying to scream “I think I could love you!”

My sister and I call the look of unreturned and unmatched love “casserole eyes.” It is a look that lets you know nothing more will ever come. It reminds you of what you already suspected but somehow hoped to be completely false. It sets a boundary and makes the idea of friendship seem like a painful limitation.

To say that this is how I feel would be to dramatize my mundane life. However, I have felt the slight burn this look can cause. I am currently restricting myself from looking deep into every male’s eyes so as to guard my heart from unsuspecting feelings. The desperate seeker in me runs from face to face trying to find someone who will feel for me like I want to be felt for.

And it is here I realize that to refrain from desperation I must dream. I must dream of fairy tales, of all my hearts desires multiplied alongside a scenic river bend. A scene of embrace and romance instead of half hearted dreams where the girl runs away (or on some days, runs right into the river…).  When I surrender my heart and let go of everything I think I know about love and boys and relationships, when I let go and freely dream, is the moment I stop looking around desperately for an affectionate glance. My dreams call for surrender, patience flourishes in surrender, and someday it will all tell a story of happily ever after.

Adventures In…ch.20

Adventures In…

Desperation.

I am not desperate (despite the ever increasing common opinion). I am not desperate for the love and affection of man, nor am I in dire need for a Friday night date. However, I am catching myself more than frequently making jokes about how I would like a boyfriend or about how I “need” someone to take me out. Phrases from my mouth such as, “We should get married” and “If any of you proposed to me I would say ‘yes’” may grant me immediate access into desperation’s club, but it is all just in fun. Or is it? Here I sit, and my mind keeps whispering “there is truth behind every joke.”  I dissect my heart for the deeper meaning, concluding that while singlehood is swell, deep, deep, down (yet arising at an increasing speed) I long to be in a relationship.

To expound on my enjoyment of singlehood helps me to remain positive and light hearted. I cherish being able to chose what I get to do on weekends. I delight in the anticipation of knowing that Mr. Right could be the mister right around the corner. Getting to spend my free time with a pack full of guy friends, feeding them pancakes, giving them rides to church, all this would be slightly prohibited if I was in a relationship. Learning how to trust boys, surrender to God, and in this unexpected season practice patience, is important to me right now.

Yet, then there are those moments when I am getting dressed up (for no one), or sitting in church without an arm around me, or wishing that “Fish Taco Tuesday” was actually a real tradition with a boy who automatically came over at six without me having to call him; these moments, even if they just last a second, are causing me to admit that not only am I ready to date again, but that I long to date again.

I am not dwelling on what I do not have; I am not throwing myself a mini pity party. Rather, I am stepping up and bluntly (hesitantly and painfully) admitting that I want a boyfriend. Now, before every male in my life goes running, know that this does not affect my pre existing relationships. This does not mean I want my mother to search the congregation on Sunday morning, scoping out arranged marriage potential. No, this is just my heart attempting to be honest with my brain; this is a declaration that after 1 year and 2 months of my marriage dissolving, I am now, for real this time, wanting to date.

Maybe to some people “1 year and 2 months” seems but a short time, or maybe to others it is considered lengthy. However, it is not the days, or weeks, or months that I count. My heart beats to its own clock; the hands of time being the seasons of life, the numbers are the monuments of growth. I am not desperate, but the clock is ticking; my heart is ready. My heart is longing.

While I would like to use this space to toss out my phone number, my height and eye color preferences, my favorite hobbies (think-long walks on the beach), I will hold back. Admitting my deep, and for some reason, somehow embarrassing desire to date is liberating me from desperation and its tempting games. My mouth is mum, from this point on, to attempt marriage proposals on each of my unsuspecting male friends. No longer will I grasp for straws. I will not ignore that empty space where an arm should be wrapped around my shoulders; however, I will refrain from anxiously combing the church for a potential suitor. This is trust. Trust that God will bring me the desires of my heart. Trust that God will restore my label as “Susie Homemaker.” Trust that “Fish Taco Tuesday” will happen. Trust that hanging out with my guy friends on Friday nights is exactly just as simple and beautiful as it should be.

I am not desperate.