Together we'll break these chains of love...

It has been over a year now, since my heart was last broken. That scarcely seems possible, yet when I think about everything that has happened in this past year, it blows my mind even more. Said heartbreaker is now shacking up with the girl he ditched me for and although I am legitimately over him, there are still times when I feel a tug on the old heartstrings. I watch them kiss hello or hold hands and I think "at least he's happy" and I'm happy for him, but then I think "why haven't I been able to find the same thing?" It's as though he's moved on and so has everyone else from my past, yet I'm still kicking it in emotional limbo. My mind is still trying to tell me I don't want anything serious with anyone, but my body and heart are screaming for an outlet for my lust and emotions. (A healthier outlet than what I've been using, anyway-more on that another time).

Honestly, all it would take is for me to stop being an idiot and take a chance... Every Friday afternoon at work, I give myself whiplash looking out the window every 2 minutes waiting for a specific delivery truck, which has a specific driver (a.k.a. my future husband), so I can make sure I am the one available to sign for the order. The problem is, I have approximately 30-45 seconds each week to make him fall in love with me and I get so nervous, I end up sounding like a functionally retarded person with a stutter. Sure, I have a winning smile and an ass that won't quit, but one of these days I'm going to have to have a conversation with him. Then there's the cute bartender across the street, who unfortunately used to be pretty good friends with my ex. They don't hang out anymore, but I think it might still be a "bros before hos" situation. Of course, I'll never know unless I try, but I am too skittish to try.

The most absurd thing of all is I'm not sure what scares me more: rejection or acceptance. Rejection is a little easier to get over since you can't really miss what you never had. But, if something were to begin with one of these butterfly-inducing studs, I am afraid of what I would become. I don't always like myself in relationships. To paraphrase a quote from a movie I recently saw "...if we were in a relationship, I'd become this weird, scary version of myself I don't like..." I'd like to think I am far more self-aware now than I was in the past, but there is really no telling what I'm capable of given the right (or wrong) circumstances. My first serious relationship left me bitter, angry, resentful and mistrustful of most people. That man could ignite a rage in me I didn't know existed--to my knowledge, I'd never thrown a coffee table across the living room before meeting him, nor have I since leaving. My last relationship brought my OCD to new levels of weirdness. Since I felt so powerless in every other way, the only thing I felt I could control was my surroundings and they were spotlessly clean and organized.

Logic and experience tell me I would certainly spot the warning signs more quickly the next time and get out before getting too involved and falling in love, but I'm not 100% confident of that. Regardless, I'm going to start taking chances because if I don't find someone to snuggle with soon, I'm going to lose my shit.

Love the one you're with?

It has long been my contention that people can fall in love with almost anyone, given the right circumstances. I'm not speaking of the couples who meet, are attracted, realize they have various things in common, date for awhile and build a loving, lasting relationship together based on mutual respect. I'm talking about those who are tired of being alone, so they basically close their eyes and point. They decide (however subconsciously) to open themselves up to love with someone, not because that person is "right" but because they are "there". I've heard it explained with regard to men (though I think it just as easily applies to women) as the "Taxicab Theory". Men will go through life having fun, doing their thing, until one day they wake up and realize they want to settle down and get married, at which point they turn on their metaphorical "taxicab light" and whoever happens to hop in next, gets to be his wife. It's not a matter of who, but when. This depresses me to a point and would certainly serve to feed any feelings of inadequacy or low self-esteem one might already have. If I let it, this theory could make me the most paranoid future-girlfriend of someone ever. I would constantly be questioning whether he thinks I'm his soul-mate and can't live without me, or if he just really wants some babies and I happen to have good genes, a fine set of birthin' hips and, oh yeah, I'm standing in front of him.

But should it even matter? After all, isn't timing everything? I've often pondered whether certain exes and I would have worked out if only we'd met 5 years earlier, or later, or under different circumstances. If there is an attraction and commonality that is capable of growing into a lasting situation where both parties are happy, in love, and secure, does it make a difference that you don't see each other as soul-mates?

Last winter, I read an entire book on this topic. I read 2 books, back to back, actually. One called: Be honest, you're just not that into him either. The other: Marry him: the case for settling for Mr. Good Enough. Obviously, I blatantly judged these books by their covers and thought surely I would enjoy the hell out of the former and loathe the latter. Much to my surprise, Be honest... was cute and good for a laugh, while Marry him... had me thinking for weeks and recommending it to all of my friends as a thought-provoking read. The author basically states that most woman have this ideal vision of "the perfect man". They even make lists of qualities this person would and would not have and they refuse to even consider dating someone who doesn't fit their mental profile. (I do this. Although my "vision" is somewhat amorphous, I definitely have a list.)

She points out:

a.) How unrealistic it is to think you're going to find someone you consider "perfect".

b.) How even if you found this "perfect-on-paper" person, there is no guarantee there would be any chemistry, or passion.

c.) Who the hell are you to demand this sort of perfection from someone else in the first place, since we are all flawed and have idiosyncrasies.

I recently found myself fantasizing about how wonderful it would be if I could cut and paste things from all the guys I've known/dated and make a perfect little voo-doo doll of awesomeness. I'm sure guys wish they could do the same. Although my ex-boyfriends probably all enjoyed my odd sense of humor and my sweet ass, I am certain more than one of them wouldn't have minded slapping a pair of DD's on me, or removing my ability to belch/fart. The point is, perfection doesn't exist and "settling" is not a negative thing if you can find someone who makes you happy...lists be damned.

Home sweet home...

I have always wanted to live in a Pottery Barn catalog. The problem is, I'm always drawn to older homes that are "eclectic" and "have character". Oh, how strange that the bathroom sink is in the kitchen and there is a random door that leads nowhere, but look at that 1930's crown molding!! It's been a constant struggle to find a happy medium, until now. I recently moved for what is hopefully the last time for many years. I got out from under my previous landlord, who I am fairly certain has narcissistic personality disorder/bi-polar disorder (thank you web m.d.) and is clearly not diligent about taking medication for either. The weirdness began when I moved in a year ago and steadily escalated until he professed his love for me 4 months ago. Ick. As a Cancer and a woman, it's crucial for me to feel safe and comfortable in my home, something I never achieved living there. Now I have a cozy little cottage, tucked away in the trees, where I feel so protected I rarely want to leave. The best part about it, is not having neighbors on either side with nothing but poorly insulated, paper-thin walls separating us.

I've long believed that apartment dwellers know far too much about their neighbors' lives, often not by choice. I'll never forget a place I lived in years ago... It was a smaller rental house tucked between 2 larger homes owned by some middle-aged couples. It was on a quiet, side street near the mountains, so we got our share of wildlife in the yard from time to time-skunks, raccoons, the occasional fox. One night, however, I was lying in bed on the edge of unconsciousness, when an unfamiliar noise outside my window startled me into lucidity. I listened carefully--it was close by. It sounded like an angry bear stalking a frightened bunny. My heart raced and I strained to hear which way they were headed. When I finally got out of bed and peered cautiously out my window, I realized it was neither a rabbit nor a bear. It was my middle-aged neighbors having something resembling sex, very loudly, with their windows wide-open.

Then there were the hipster kids that lived below me at my next place. Now, I am a night-owl and as such, I try to be quiet and respectful of the fact that my neighbors often aren't. These kids enjoyed having "band practice" at 3 a.m., and when I say "band practice", I mean they would sit around with their hipster friends sampling old Atari and Nintendo music over guitar and keyboard tracks. I think I even heard a kazoo once. Ear plugs only muffled the nonsense and if I were a more confrontational person, I would have gone downstairs, slapped the clove cigarettes out of their mouths and smashed their Casio keyboard into a tree. Instead I suffered in silence.

Most recently, I lived in the middle apartment of a tri-plex. On one side, was a 20-something hippy dude who smoked copious amounts of weed, played excessively loud music and had a girlfriend who I feel confident was faking her orgasms. On the other side, was a quiet 30-something couple who likely hated me for similar reasons. I often wondered if, when I ran into them at the mailbox, they were secretly judging me for listening to nothing but Kelly Clarkson for 3 days straight. Then I realized I didn't care; Ms. Clarkson has the voice of an angel. It soothes me and I've had a rough year.

More from the "What-if" chronicles...

This week marks 11 years since I packed up all my worldly possessions and lugged them, my cat and myself, 2000 miles across the country to start a new life. As much as the "what-ifs" annoy me, they also provide hours of contemplative amusement. When I pulled into town over a decade ago, it was with an open mind and a hungry soul. My best friend had driven the U-haul behind me and stayed a few days to get me settled in before flying back east. We were a couple of carefree 22-year olds, making what was a somewhat bittersweet trip as exciting and fun as possible. (Doesn't everyone almost get arrested in Kansas??) After she boarded the plane to fly back home, reality hit as I realized I didn't even know how to get back to my new apartment from the airport. I burst into tears and although I found my way after an hour or so, my excitement had already morphed into fear, trepidation and regret. "What the hell was I thinking moving so far away from everything I've ever known?" Obviously, as the days went by and I became more comfortable with my new surroundings, I perked up. But that is a lot of stress to put on ones' body and mine reacted accordingly. Before I'd left home, I had sowed a few last minute oats in the spirit of closing that chapter of my life. One particular Oat and I had a condom-related mishap. It took me 2 weeks of settling into my new life to realize I was 2 weeks past due for a rather important monthly occurrence. Panic set in and I booked down to Walgreens to purchase my first ever pregnancy test. Clearly everything was fine and my life went on to become what it is, but waiting for that pee stick to show me a 'minus' sign was quite possibly the most intense 60 seconds of my life. When I look back now and play the "what-if" game, it is almost unfathomable that if it had been a 'plus' sign instead, I'd be sitting here next to a 10-year old child. How different would the last decade have been? Would I have met and fallen in love with either of my exes? Would I have gotten right back into that U-haul and returned home to deal with it there? The possibilities are endless. Not to mention, would I have told the father? I saw him recently at a wedding for the first time in 8 years and he has since married and had 2 or 3 kids with his wife... how different would his life be if I'd had to make that epic phone call?

Lately, much to my utter shock and chagrin, I've wondered if maybe I do want kids, or at least kid. I seem to have these nurturing instincts I don't really know what to do with. Don't get me wrong, when I hear children screaming at work I want to bang my head into the wall, but then they stop screaming and I look at their cherubic little faces and think "Hmm. Maybe." I'm clearly in no place to be seriously considering this, but the prospect no longer terrifies me to my core. I'd call that progress.