My darlings, I have to apologize for being tardy with my posts, however, a lady does have a life to lead at times which takes her away from her keyboard.
One of those things is tequila, and the other is younger men. Guess which one I’m going for tonight, on the Eve of our nation’s birthday? Oh hell, why choose only one?!
As I’m busy perfuming and grooming, I will give you a quick list of ways to celebrate your day-off-in-the-middle-of-the-week. But you must start now darlings, as it’s only one day off, with three more working days to follow. Yes, I know, sometimes life just isn’t fair pussy-cats, but we must persevere.
WHAT TO DO WITH A MIDDLE-OF-THE-WEEK-DAY-OFF
1) If you really are tapped, and have no energy, go for a long, hot soak, a glass of chilled white wine, and an early night in with your favourite chick flick.
2) If you have a little more energy than that, head to your local patio (walk, or take a cab), and down some Canadian Club and soda as you welcome Canada Day.
3) Entertaining in your pink and white’s is always an option, and since you have tomorrow off, it’s ok to be very naughty. Light some fireworks of your own! Put on your favourite playtime playlist, and pour something wonderfully strong and decadent to share with your lover-of-the-hour. Better yet, entertain a luscious piece of man-steak from another country, and introduce him to our fair charms. If your lover does not hail from a foreign land, make him speak with a foreign accent, and have him call you mistress. Just a suggestion.
4) If you have no lover on the horizon, or black book to back you up, bake a red velvet cake, ice it with white frosting, and pig-out in front of your copy of Bridget Jones’ Diary. Yah, it’s ok to take a fabulous break. Just don’t let it bleed into the rest of the week.
5) I also strongly suggest…..
……uh-oh! Gotta run! My foreign-born man-steak is ringing la bell….
My credentials have been questioned lately. I’m not just talking my CV either folks, I’m talking about my very value as a woman.
Yah, I know, right?!
We all go through it though. When you get promoted, colleagues ask, ‘What does she have that I don’t?’. When we get dumped, we ask the same thing.
But at some point, regardless of our title, or our marital status, we come to realize our own value. That’s when, “BAM!”, we hit Alt Ctrl Delete and reboot our own self-worth.
I was chatting with a younger colleague the other day who asked about my qualifications. I quickly ran through the list, and his response was, “Holy smokes, you’re stacked!”.
“Yah, I guess I am.” I said.
I am? Yes. I, um… Ok, sorta, yah…. I AM!
So when it was time to move on at work, and do some much deserved and desire climbing, I didn’t hesitate to go after what I wanted. It took two years, but it’s been good.
After thinking about my little encounter and impromptu resume quiz at work, and later a very wussy pile of whining from a lame excuse for a man, I decided my little black book needed a refresher as well.
I’m known as a lover of men. I love every delicious bit of a man when I’m with him.
In the past I’ve hung on too long to men I’ve known were not the one. Life becomes shorter and even more precious as the clock ticks. I’m proud to say I’ve been able to hit DELETE on my contact list a lot faster, with a much shorter moping-in-my-moo-moo time. It’s all so much easier now that our black books are digital.
This time, there was no moo-moo-moping-time-at-all.
Whenever he turns out to be definitely-not-the-one, I’m always a bit disappointed. But I’m learning to listen to my intuition the first time, rather than waiting for an all out attack from my what-the-hell-was-I-thinking voice.
In our time of managing contact lists, hitting DELETE is quick and painless. It’s the most effective way to manage a lonely-moment-texting-weakness, and wash that man-wanna-be right out of your hair darlings.
If you’ve got a parasite hanging around who doesn’t make you happy, DELETE him.
My younger self used to say, “They always call.” Meaning; they always call My older, wiser self says, “Who cares?”. There’s nothing better than not recognizing the number of the wrong man.
Unless it’s for Christmas decorations, special baking ingredients, or helping my kiddo pick out something he really wants, I’d rather be a zillion other places.
The stop at the shop was a fly-by on my way home from day twenty-something in a row at work.
In the harsh direct lighting of the fitting-room cubicle, I was left alone with my naked self, and worn out panties.
There’s something about being naked with myself that shakes me down. All of a sudden, I am face to full-length face with a three-quarter, panoramic view of my bare tushie. It makes me sweaty and anxious. Not ideal.
I wear suits to work, and jeans at home. Rarely do I do anything any more that doesn’t involve work, sports-mothering, or getting cozy with my keyboard, and literary obsession. When it comes to love-making, unless I’m in a relationship, sex-o-the-day seems like a waste of wardrobe. Light candles and answer the door naked is my philosophy.
But I’m getting off-track darlings. Let’s go back to the stale air of the fitting room cubicle. I have to travel next week. For work. It’s a casual environment, but not so casual I can wear my yoga pants and Parrothead t-shirts.
In the harsh light, with one knee high rolled half-way down my calf, and my spare tire glowing in the fluorescent lighting, I let myself admit just how tired out I am. “I’m dehydrated, tired, and coming down with a cold“. Immediately my internal therapist gave me permission to go home and rest.
Years ago, it would have been a very different internal voice. years ago, I would have berated myself for not living up to the physical ideal that we know all ‘worthy’ women hold themselves too.
Years ago, I made a quick stop into the mall between work and going home. I had the rare, single-parent luxury of working late (please don’t miss the irony in that statement). So depressed about my own body image, I made myself stop for a glass of wine.
I was so tired out, the wine made me tipsy, and when I get tipsy, I get happy and giggly. Suddenly all was right with the world, and the shopping mall I was in. I was feeling so good that I meandered into Godiva and treated myself to one of my favourite things in the world; a milk-chocolate covered marshmallow.
I then made my way to A favourite store. When the unsuspecting saleswoman asked if she could help tipsy ol’ me, I took her on a tour of the shop, pointed to everything I liked and instructed her to bring it to me. All in XL.
I sat my naked body down in the fitting room and savoured every bite of my milk-chocolate covered marshmallow. When the saleswoman timidly asked how madam was doing, I managed a slurred and sticky, “Splendid”, between licking the last of the melted chocolate off my fingers.
I’ve become a whole lot more comfortable in my own skin since then. That drunken evening of not-giving-a-rat’s-petunia in the fitting room was a turning point for me.
If you’re a happy drunk, I highly recommend tipsy-toodles shopping as step one in your quest for fitting-room-freedom. It’s a whole heck of a lot better than berating and hating yourself.
Today I happily made my purchase (sober), and then drove home with the windows rolled down and the dulcet tones of Willie Nelson blaring full-blast. I’ve come a long way since that day I felt so sad and unworthy that I needed some hooch to get me through the whole fitting-room ordeal.
“Who is that blonde-haired, well-turned out woman with the awesome taste in music,” I could hear the man in the jeep next to me thinking as he eye-balled the Willie-Nelson-mobile while we were stopped at red light.
“She’s a woman who’s come a long, long way“, I thought to myself as I stepped on the gas. It was time to go home and rest. This old bod has been good to me, and it’s time to love it back.
I wish that I could say that this post was inspired by a deeply intellectual article that I read. I also wish I had that damn article, so I could quote it accurately.
But I don’t. You are stuck with my inadequate muttering. As much as this post was inspired by the article on commitment, it was very much inspired by my carrousel-like love-life.
The article was about turning the idea of ‘commitment’ on its head.
In other words, instead of associating commitment with discipline, patience and exertion, it argued that commitment was the most freeing thing in the world. After all, once you’ve committed to something, you’re committed. There is no more weighing benefits and drawbacks. You don’t have to double-check your black book or worry that lover #1 is calling whilst you are endeavoring to be romantic with lovers #2, 3 or 4. Once you’re committed, you’re committed.
This was an incredible idea for me, the goddess-of-all-things-commitmentphobe. I can’t even say the ‘C’ word without stuttering and choking a little bit.
This idea was as illuminating as my friend Ms. M’s ever-ready question about men behaving below standard, ” If this is what it’s like in the beginning, what will it look like at the end?”
Wise Ms. M. Very wise indeed.
Just as wise is my own firm belief that should a man wish to be in your life, he is. It’s as simple as that. It’s easier to shake a hungry dog off a pork chop than an interested man from your life.
Men who want to be with you make extraordinary efforts to be with you. They don’t put it off for a week, or a couple of weeks, or even a day. If they’re hot for you my delicious gal-pals, they will be present. They will be proper and they will be thorough.
There shall be ‘good mornings’, ‘good afternoons’ and ‘sweet dreams’, communications daily.
My looming business trip should be punctuated at both ends by romantic gestures, even if it’s just sending a text to let me know he’s going to miss me and then dropping by as soon as I get home. Enthusiasm gets rewarded with enthusiasm gents.
You see, another piece of wise advice that has filtered through the poo-poo this year is, ” You don’t get married on the first date.”
In other words, you don’t have to make a commitment to everything all at once. You can commit in little bits over time.
I believe trust works the same way. Trust is not absolute, it’s elastic. There are levels of trust, and someone proves their trustworthiness over time.
But I’m a woman known for her fire, her passion, her decisiveness in business and life. I recognize that my greatest strength is also my greatest weakness.
I visualize this just as one would visualize jumping into a pool. I leap with the great expectation that I will dive deep, push up from the bottom and burst through the surface to take a delightfully deep breath of fresh air.
Sometimes however, I skitter across the pool deck, stub my toe, spill my drink, and bonk my head on the way down, only to be saved by my incredibly buoyant lady-parts.
So, as you may have guessed, I’m currently in a state of relationship ‘yo’ (“when your heart says yes and your mind says no, is the magical state of yo” – thank the Smothers Brothers for that one).
Admittedly, I’m a romantic, flighty, soul-mate wanting, twenty-first centuray hippie woman. I have also been betrayed and heartbroken in ways that would unstuff the average bear. Perhaps some time away is just what the to-commit-or-not-to-commit doctor ordered.
So, I will consider all of the advice I’ve been given, dished, and sought. Commitment is indeed the greatest freedom. Right now, I just don’t know which way it’s going to go.