Incest

I've alluded to yet another gym employee that I've started "hanging out" with, so I figured now would be as good a time as any to introduce you--dear blog reader--to George. (Again, not his real name, but appropriate given he's from Atlanta, Georgia.)

George is what Miss Independent would call a "bro," except his southern roots make him a little more than that. Adopted by the Western culture, he has several tattoos and piercings, drives a 4runner, and works as a bartender on Mill Avenue over the weekends. His teeth are as straight and white as they come, and his eyes are big and blue. Immediately Miss Ind. picked him out as my type, but the truth was his personality made that so.

After feeling used and abused by a lot of other penises, *cough* McClimber, Boulder, Alejandro, David, and others that still haven't made the blog, etc. *cough*, what I wanted more than anything was a guy who could be a friend: someone who would spend platonic time with me, enjoy it, and not need more. George may be defying the odds with his timing and conduct.

That southern part of him made all the difference I needed. He seemed perfectly content just talking with me, climbing with me, and hanging with me. He paid for my lunch before I even ordered, and was actually excited to experience karaoke with me when he discovered I was a fan. To top it off, when we had the WORST date ever--ever, he behaved like something out of a chick flick.

(Let's sum up that bad date by saying he held back my hair several times.)

I titled this post "Incest"--not as some rude, obscure criticism of his southern upbringing, nor as a reference to a morally reprehensible secret affair of his--but as a comment on my own habits within the rock-climbing community: George makes the fourth employee of this one rock-climbing gym to know my kiss. (For those of you keeping count, there is one employee I still have not mentioned--Red--for the simple fact that our date was back in September and was the only date we have had or will have. We remain friends.) Let me state for the record that I find this behavior to be both risky and excessive. As my brother would put it, "LT, don't tempt fate."

Incest is a bad idea, no matter to which context it belongs. My only safety is in each of their word to not tell anyone. I've made both Boulder and George promise not to share. Even McClimber has sworn to keep our first day of "friendship" confidential. They don't understand why, but they're content believing it's simply for basic privacy.

Who knows how long I have before the proverbial shit hits the fan? Especially if I continue spending time with them. (Did I mention Boulder and I have since met for lunch, exchanged countless sexts--i.e. 'sexual texts,' and fooled around a little just this last Monday afternoon?)

Ah, yes.

George was crazy enough to swear up and down that he had a blast on our karaoke fiasco of a drunken date, and actually agreed to another date! We cooked dinner together, watched the better part of the classic move Legend, kissed a little, drank zero alcohol, and passed out. He even dropped me off at the airport the next morning (dark and early), guarded my car for a week, and offered to pick me up when I returned. Did I mention he kissed me goodbye at the airport?

We also agreed upon our next date for after I came back home: tonight I'm having him over for dinner. It's my turn to cook since the Thai food was mostly his doing.

Still no idea what I'm making. God knows that could easily be another disaster...

Anyway, the point is George seems pretty healthy so far. McClimber, it turned out, was far more abusive than positive, so I have since stopped speaking with him completely, despite seeing him at the gym and having consistent nightmares and whatnot. Boulder wasn't actively destructive like McClimber, but my reason for keeping him around came to not much beyond boredom and loneliness. That wasn't fair to him or me. So, I have since told Boulder we are not hanging out anymore for a while... yes, a while at least. I'm pretty sure he didn't care.

And George? Now, at this moment, he is the only one there I am currently focusing on romantically, but the irony of all ironies is that I'm not interested in romance. I'm not interested in dating. I'm not interested in fooling around. I'm not interested in commitment.

So what the hell am I doing exactly?

The truth is I'm not crazy about George. I adore him, find him attractive, enjoy his company, think he's a fantastic catch, but... I'm not crazy about him. I'm not interested.

Or, maybe, I'm not interested in disappointment. I'm not interested in hurting. I'm not interested in losing time or energy or effort or faith. I'm not interested in being wrong, again, about someone.

I'm not interested in being interested.

I guess what I'm "doing exactly" is playing with fucking fire. I was right to stop talking with McClimber, and right to stop seeing Boulder, and now I must be careful with George. Incest can, after all, produce some hideous offspring. I must stay protected. Tread softly.

When you're 20-something you don't have much beyond your relationships and dreams.

"But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet,
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams"
--W. B. Yeats

... Please... tread softly...

I'll keep you posted.

The Last Hurrah

Once McClimber and I decided officially that we were over for good, he expressed interest in maintaining a friendship.

"I'm going to need time," I said. Time to pretend you don't exist. Time to forget you. Time to fool around with other people. Time to move on. Because the time would come when McClimber would suddenly be spending an awful lot of time with another girl, and I needed to be the friend who had no problem with such a thing.

I'm not a glutton for punishment.

A month seemed like a generous amount of space for me to take, in my opinion, and it turned out Boulder jumped me up to ready-in-two-weeks. Two weeks of not seeing McClimber, talking to him, texting him, checking his facebook--nothing--and I felt I had successfully achieved "out of sight, out of mind." Ready for friendship.

So I contacted him.

We began talking and it seemed as though he was genuinely interested in being a friend. He asked what was happening in life and actually listened to the answers. It was easy to find stories to swap and laughs to share. So far, so good.

But then I saw him.

The gym is an unavoidable place for run-ins. McClimber was working out with his shirt off, as he often does, and it seemed he had lost another five pounds. The guy can't possibly get leaner. It didn't phase me at first.

He was hesitant around me. I wasn't sure why until I asked if he wanted to grab a smoothie with me after climbing.

"Yeah sure. Sounds good," he said.

"Yeah?" I asked.

"Yeah." --cue long pause-- "I've been having lots of dreams about you."

ARGHHHH!!!!

Suddenly the change in his behavior made sense, and suddenly I felt it too--like someone had reached inside my chest, sped up my heart, and squeezed my lungs. Only feet away from the front of the gym--feet away from two other gym employees who had taken me out on a date, Boulder not included--and inches away from each other, shirtless McClimber confessed he was still extremely attracted to me. I still wanted to be friends and to hang out but... this was going to be a problem.

The end of the night came and I told McClimber I was ready for a smoothie. He agreed and went upstairs to get his shirt and shoes and stuff. I followed him, bored and hungry at this point, and then I saw Boulder upstairs too. He and I hadn't really spoken much since we hung out, and I assumed he was bored with me after satisfying some curiosity, but when I turned to leave with McClimber he called me back.

"Go say goodbye," McClimber said, as we both looked at Boulder waiting, his arms outstretched for me.

As Boulder and I pulled away from our hug he asked, "So when are we hanging out again?"

McClimber was too far away to hear.

"Whenever you'd like," I said. I mean it too. He wasn't bored with me yet after all...

Finally McClimber and I made it to the smoothie place and all of his facial expressions became familiar again: frustration being his favorite look. He rolled his eyes at me. Laughed to himself.

"What?!" I asked, finally.

He rolled his eyes again. "It's just... You're here giving me those looks of yours..."

Suddenly I realized he is frustrated--sexually frustrated.

"Are you dating anyone?" he asked, like it's any of his business.

"No. But I've gone on a couple dates, yes." Four dates in one week with four different men, to be exact. One of those men being Boulder, and a second man being another employee at the climbing gym. (I'm not proud--no judging.)

"Oh Tessie," he shook his head.

"You?" I asked, taking the bait.

"Nope. Just lots of climbing. I haven't had time for a girl."

If I said that didn't give me a huge sense of relief, I might be totally lying.

We left and I offered to drive him home rather than make him ride his bike. We got to his house and I decided to come inside, without his asking. We continued talking a little bit more and I lifted up the very bottom of my shirt to explain some story I was telling (don't ask what story--I certainly don't remember and I'm sure lifting my shirt was not actually a necessary part of the telling). McClimber rolled his eyes again and threw a look of exasperation my way.

"Tess, why are you showing me your stomach when you know I'm dying to kiss you?"

I pulled my shirt back down. He really wasn't kidding about being attracted to me.

I apologized and got to rambling about how excited I was that we were going to be friends. I told him all of the fun things we could do because we miraculously have a ton of interests in common. As I went on and on, he walked back to his room and started undressing because he was meeting up with a friend after I left. Time to get out of his gym clothes. I foolishly followed him and continued talking, and not even a minute later he stripped down to his boxer-briefs.

The hallway outside of his bedroom is narrow, and I was leaning against the wall opposite his door. He turned the light off in his room, so only the light from the kitchen barely illuminated the tight space we now occupied, and unabashedly pressed his boxers-only body against mine and the wall.

I froze.

Wow had I missed him.

He began kissing my neck. I still couldn't move. Trapped between him and the wall in this narrow hallway, and trapped between doing what I know is smart and giving in to the way it felt, I really couldn't move. But when he went to kiss my mouth, I pulled away.

What do I want??? What do I really want right now?

Have you ever had moments in your life when you ask yourself those questions? McClimber didn't want to date me, care for me, love me--he wanted to screw me. It's crass to say, but honest too. I knew that. I knew that then, frankly he told me so more or less, but the problem was I couldn't decide how important all that was. A part of me--a loud part--wanted to kiss him back anyway.

The Last Hurrah is a common, almost essential part of the dating process. It's the encounter post-break-up when you're still not sure if you don't want what you had. The allure is stronger, and the desire for familiarity is suddenly coated in the desire for the unattainable. What could be harder to resist than that?

Did McClimber and I resist the temptation for a final hurrah?

A good author never tells.

Keep you posted.

Those men a girl can just have "fun" with too...

One might call it a "rebound," but I think a more appropriate name is simply some fun. In all the time McClimber and I were seeing each other, he never doubted my affection for him. Nor did I doubt his trustworthiness. He established in the beginning he didn't want to see anyone else, and so neither of us did. I saw him practically all the time anyway, but even when I didn't, I still was content just being with him.

Only ONCE did McClimber get jealous--three days before we were over.

Another climber at our gym, Boulder, provoked lust-inspiring thoughts since the moment we met. Unfortunately we had a difficult time exchanging more than a couple words with one another. He was quiet in a dark-and-twisty sort of way, with a constant, blank, evaluating expression. I guess it's somewhat fair to call him shy.

Aesthetically he wasn't too impressive, but there certainly wasn't anything wrong with him. He's shorter, borderline handsome, perfect T-shape body, and strong. Brown hair, brown eyes, and a murky demeanor; you're never too sure what the hell is going on behind his perpetual poker face. Boulder found his way to my darker fantasies with his subtle, mysterious intensity... And the more he discovered, the more it began to annoy McClimber.

Although Boulder and I often had nothing to say to each other, and possessed a mutual sentiment that the other was plain-old weird, there was an odd thing that kept happening between us in private company: we cuddled.

Um, weird? Ha. Yeah.

The two times we were at a mutual friend's house, with Miss Ind. in tow, he and I seemed unable to keep our hands and bodies to ourselves. No one said anything about it, certainly not Boulder or I, but there it was.

After a bit of whiskey with McClimber, I confessed that the last time Boulder and I were hanging out he spoke openly and sexually with me. (Keep in mind this last encounter with Boulder had happened when McClimber and I were in our first week together.) Boulder even demonstrated a particular activity he found erotic--using me to assist the demonstration. How I conveyed this to McClimber is still a little murky to me, but McClimber's response was loud and clear: "Well, Boulder is single now. You should go out with him."

Bitter much?

At the time, I of course had no interest in anyone but McClimber, so his worries were unnecessary. But, once I was single again, things changed.

Before I knew it, Boulder and I had each others' phone numbers. We texted randomly and promised to hang out. We were even a little less awkward at the gym together. Then, two nights ago, Boulder decided he was bored and wanted to hang out... alone.

Dun dun duuuunn.

He came over at midnight and all that sexual tension that had been building in the last half-year couldn't contain itself for long. I put the movie on that he brought over and I went to sit down next to him. He put his arm out. I wasn't sure what he meant at first but then he grabbed my hand, pulled me down next to him, and wrapped his arm around me. Our bodies immediately intertwined with legs wrapped around and between. I had one hand resting on his rock-hard chest, the other on the inside of his lean thigh. Mmmmm yummy. Probably not even fifteen minutes into the movie he lifted my chin toward him and kissed me.

You must understand it is not like me to go and kiss every guy I meet, particularly every guy I meet in one particular venue (both McClimber and Boulder work at the same gym I attend), but something odd is happening in my life.

It's the curiosity of 20-somethings. We have the freedom, we have the time, we lack the ties, and we have the drive. It's the perfect set-up for disaster.

The problem lies in societal and social standards--although I have a squeaky-clean past, my recent activity may provoke an unflattering label. And, why? Does my kissing Boulder devalue me? Does it make me less loving? Less desirable? Less worthy? Less... me? Or does it not really change a damn thing?

I still live with the aim of bringing joy, and not destruction. I still abide by rules of common courtesy, respect, and integrity. I still mean well, and still love. So is it possible for a girl to have a fun experience with a boy and let it remain just fun?

Passion is hard to come by, and those moments when we lose ourselves entirely in the moment are valuable too. Kissing Boulder let me do that. When I was winding down from holiday stress, winding down from a failed relationship, winding down from a new job hunt, and winding down from my own unmet expectations, there was this guy kissing me with his eyes closed. Kissing me slowly, passionately, intensely. Oscillating between dangerous roughness and heartbreaking tenderness. Physically there, and saying hardly anything at all.

It was better than chocolate.

Although I understand the concept of "slut," I have a question: If my "secret" encounter with Boulder hurts no one, is it bad?

Or, just fun?

Waiting...

There's this fantasy I have: I'm attending a family dinner--dressed well, clean, potentially in heels and earrings--and the doorbell rings.

I've just been chatting with someone about my recent relationship, a lovely look of melancholy on my face, describing briefly how it ended merely a day or two ago. At the ring, I set down my wineglass and offer to see who could possibly be at the door. Heels click across the wood floor, laughter echoes behind me from the kitchen, and a small door lamp illuminates the familiar figure beyond the beveled leaded glass of the sidelight window. My breath catches in my throat and my chest tightens as I turn the handle and pull back the door.

There he is.

The now-ex stands with white knuckles around a bouquet of flowers and bags under his agape and waiting eyes. His free arm hangs at his side as though failing hope for another embrace drags it down. He hasn't fallen apart by any means, but something meaningful has happened to him.

I ask, "What are you doing here?"

"Here," he hands me the flowers, "These are for you."

"McClimber, what are you doing here?" I ask him again. He looks away, searching for words and courage.

I come outside and close the door behind me. The noises from my family inside cease, and night's twinkling silence takes its place. "Tess," he starts, "I've... I've been thinking... Listen, I don't want to go back to life without you in it."

I'm finally beginning to accept that he is in fact here, asking if I'll let him care for me again.

"I messed up," he continues, "I was scared. I don't want to be scared anymore." My eyes water as a wave of unimagined relief washes over me.

He came back.

This fantasy of mine, colorfully articulated for dramatic effect, is filled with details that change for every new failed relationship, but remains essentially the same nonetheless. The basic premise is always: girl gets left, girl begins to let go, boy comes back like the frickin' prodigal boyfriend.

I've become strong enough, finally, to give things a chance. I fight for a try--a real try--to create and nurture a connection between myself and another person. This is why I've been in so many damn relationships this year. The problem has been I am the only one willing to try. So, inevitably, I am left because the other has given up.

There was a time when I would have criticized this fantasy and called it a childish and disgustingly inappropriate desire, but these days I understand it with more compassion.

When I was a little girl my father left my mother for another woman. He left us. Sure he was there Wednesday nights and every other weekend, but he left. Do I blame my father or hold any of this against him? Hell no. Why would I? I love my life. BUT the fact still remains--one of the first things I learned as a little girl was how a man leaves.

Oh I know I'm getting all dramatic on you, but hear me out.

The thing is I developed this fantasy that one day one of those men who made a false promise would come back and hand over his white flag. I'm waiting for the guy who will stick around and grant me a sense of temporary permanence.

McClimber was my most recent relationship, and it was a flimsy one at best. We started at a sprint and burned out in a similar fashion without beginning to know each other. But there was potential. There were these little things he did that put him a couple notches above the rest--particularly Alejandro.

One night several weeks ago I felt the oncoming rush of senseless feminine emotional insanity. McClimber could tell I was angry, but didn't seem up for a conversation about it. More than anything he was frustrated, and even more frustrated that I couldn't talk to him about it. When he left me in the dark bedroom to go play video games with his roommates for a couple hours, my feelings of cheapness and vulnerability sky-rocketed. Suddenly the tears flowed like the Mississippi as I sobbed to my girlfriend about the indifference McClimber afforded me in the face of metaphoric and literal nakedness. Didn't he understand I was worth the effort he wasn't showing?

As I wiped my face with a roll of toilet paper, I thought this was surely the end. This was the same way Alejandro ended, and these were the same feelings. This was the point where my efforts weren't going to make any damn difference. This was when I had to face that McClimber didn't really give a shit.

Suddenly, in the middle of a loud irrational complaint, the door opened. From the light of the hallway he entered the room, closed the door behind him, and sat on the bed behind me. He wrapped his arms around me.

"I don't know what to do. I wish there was something I could do to make it better."

"You came back," I said in relieved disbelief.

And that was all I needed.

A few weeks later McClimber and I did in fact stop seeing each other, but that night was the first and last time I cried during our relationship. That simple, unexpected reassurance was in fact all I needed.

When we were officially said and done though, the doorbell didn't ring. No one came to the door with flowers and said "I need you." No one asked me to care for him again. No one said, "Hey Tess, I was scared--let's give it another try."

I said, "We're not seeing each other," and McClimber said "Let's take a step back." Then he ran for the door to never return.

That's the reality.

But is the fantasy so bad?

As long as I know it's a fantasy, and not the reality, I can understand something about myself I didn't before: I'm waiting to love someone.

McClimber wasn't the guy--and love was never part of the equation--but I guess it's possible someone will stick around. Someone will be ready. For some reason I am waiting for the man who will let me, simply, love him.

I can wait for that. It doesn't rule my life or consume my thoughts--it's merely a gentle breeze blowing through the back of my mind. So I'll keep on going and enjoying every day. There are always those men a girl can just have "fun" with too.

But when it comes to love, I'll be waiting...

Because life isn't about the ones that go, but about the ones that come back.

Out of the Blue

"Hmmm I think he's hot," Miss Independent said.

"Really?" I answered.

"Yeah. There's just something really attractive about him."

"... Well, ok, you can have him."

And that was how it all started.

McClimber didn't register anywhere on my radar when I first met him. He was just one of the roommates living with Miss Independent's Ex (mentioned in previous blog posts), and another climber at the rock climbing gym we regularly attended. The first time we met I didn't give him a second thought--it was the first time I was meeting the Ex, so that was clearly the more important issue. McClimber watched as Miss Ind. and I struggled with a particularly difficult ascent. When we asked for the beta (i.e. the most effective sequence of moves), he proceeded to tie himself in to demonstrate. Without skipping a beat, he approached the wall and began climbing. His phone rang. He answered it. Then he proceeded to finish the entire ascent while on the cellphone.

That was McClimber--this glasses-wearing, narrow-mouthed, dorky, freckled guy, who awkwardly and unapologetically flowed through life. He embraced his own self-effacing humor, periodically making fun of himself and others, and never seemed riled by anything: especially not a climb.

I didn't know much about him, but Miss Ind. kept in touch so I learned vicariously through her. He spoke and behaved as though he were climbing Casanova, and spouted ill-informed opinions wholeheartedly without hesitation. He was passionate with a laid-back disposition, and arrogant without overcompensating for insecurity. But the more important facts were that McClimber had a real thing for Miss Ind., and thought I was hot too.

One night, after a chat with Miss Ind. about her disappointing Ex, I saw McClimber was on Facebook and decided to send an instant message. Although he flirted with me, he did make clear that he thought Miss Ind. truly was different, and that he was different from most guys as well. He was looking for something real and was just nervous because he had his heart broken into a million pieces by his Ex... blah blah blah

Despite his personality quirks, I decided that perhaps he was sincere when it came to my girl. Perhaps this geeky guy had character and integrity somewhere beyond his funny walk and unintentionally baggy clothes.

Of course, the very next day, Miss Ind. informed me she was no longer interested in McClimber at all, but still completely and irrevocably in love with her Ex (still McClimber's roommate. *sigh*). That late-night and somewhat serious IM conversation between McClimber and I gave him the liberty to speak comfortably with me when Miss Ind. and I would run into him at the gym. He would ask why she didn't answer any of his texts anymore. He would ask if everything was alright.

I would make up an excuse, like a good friend does.

Time passed and Miss Ind.'s 20-something birthday came around. She and I went out for sushi and one drink, ended up bar hopping for four drinks, and embarked on a serious bout of drunkenness. Our last stop was an Irish Pub within walking distance of her house. Another drink in, she decided it was a great idea to invite her Ex, McClimber, and their other two roommates to come out with us. Four boys and us? Yup, sounds about right.

Only McClimber responded though: "The other guys are busy and I'm not sure I can either..." he texted. I asked Miss Ind. for his number--time for hot intervention.

"McClimber, you need to see 'friendly Tess' in action. Come out," I texted.

Thirty seconds later he sent Miss Ind. a text saying he was on his way.

Friendly Tess is, unfortunately, an appropriate nickname for my drunken alter-ego. I tend to do relatively inappropriate things in an inebriated or slightly inebriated state. Once McClimber got there, I didn't care that he struck me as goofy when we met--he was a man who found me attractive that Miss Ind. no longer wanted. That's all that mattered.

***Cue the things I'm not proud of... ***

It didn't take long for me to really catch his attention. (Grabbing a guy's thigh under the table is a good trick...)

ANYWAY, the skinny is that somehow Miss Ind. and I ended up at McClimber's place, where the Ex and the other two roommates were playing beer pong with the Ex's date (ouch!). I kept trying to tell Miss Ind. that I needed to leave ASAP, before I did anything stupid, and she was not listening/off in her own world. So I contacted a friend from work and asked him to pick me up.

As he and I texted, McClimber led me to the front door--conveniently the front door is protected from view by lots of greenery.

"What's your address?" I asked.

"Why?" McClimber said. "Are you asking someone to pick you up?"

"Yes."

He told me his address. "What are the cross-streets?" I asked. Now he had me up against the door.

"Farmer and University," he said. He leaned closer and kissed my neck. My eyes widened. I tried to concentrate and to text the cross-streets.

Then McClimber lifted his face toward mine and kissed my lips. Suddenly the muscles in my shoulders loosened and fell forward into his hands.

"Those aren't your cross-streets are they?" I asked, my heart pounding.

He chuckled, "How did you know?"

He kissed me again, then opened the door. Right around then, my guardian angel on the other side of the phone texted back, "I'm on my way."

As it turned out, McClimber's most redeemable physical qualities were the ones you wouldn't see right away. That freckled skin, for example, was addicting to the touch. His narrow mouth wasn't really all that narrow, it just seemed so because of his dramatic Johnny-Depp-esk cheek bones. Those tragic glasses were actually hiding a pair of the most incredible blue eyes with heavy lashes I had ever seen. And, to top it off, his unintentionally baggy clothes masked the climber's physique hidden beneath them.

"God I hope this isn't just because you're tipsy," he said. "I've liked you since that night we talked online. My god you're incredible..."

But my guardian angel did come...

McClimber walked me outside and kissed me goodbye. When I was getting ready to sleep later that night I thought about how surprised I was by everything. Even more surprising, I saw McClimber the next day, and the next, and the next, and the next... it was as though once he kissed me we couldn't stop.

McClimber was completely and totally out of the blue.

It's about damn time I had some fun.

Second Thoughts

Don't spit where you eat.

That's not exactly the saying, but it's close enough. This author update delves deep into the drama of a new job. Repressed sexual frustration finally surfaces and smothers itself all over unsuspecting coworkers... Damn.

Is the benefit worth the risk?

This is the question seldom asked when it's actually vital to do so. Your coworker is attractive, charming, slick, can sex you with his eyes, etc., and the farthest thoughts from your mind are the consequences. Yet you know that when co-workers date it almost always ends badly. You even have personal experience in this mistake.

One night off you and MidWest flirt with the idea of hanging out. But, luckily, you're exhausted and didn't drink tonight (despite the protests of others), so your judgment is relatively clear. You both decided it's too late to meet up, and Sleep is the responsible choice.

"You home yet?" he asks.

"JUST. Why?"

"Oh I was having second thoughts," he says.

Second thoughts... Second thoughts are where the trouble starts. No dating anyone at work, I decided. But those second thoughts invade my better judgment when MidWest wraps his arms around me or shyly confesses "You're sexy."

The best part is his hesitation: he still isn't sure he believes you like him. But you have to hide your nerves too--what if he doesn't really like you? You've been wrong before. It's impossible to know. And the biggest problem is assessing the real risks involved when you're so unsure of the benefits. What exactly does MidWest want? What exactly do you want?

Breathe. Time will tell.

Except when you spit where you eat you have nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. No room for poor decisions... Less room to breathe. Less time to make up your mind.

MidWest isn't your boss, he isn't dating anyone, and he specifically is not dating your boss's sister (tell you that story in the next blog). So... there he is, telling you he really wants to hang out, and hesitating... Hesitating...

It's those second thoughts. Damn second thoughts.

And when we're sitting inches from each other? Talking, hanging out, looking at each other, wondering...

That second before you make contact is your last chance; last chance for second thoughts. Because the moment you touch, the moment that line is crossed, you experience the only thing more dangerous than second thoughts:

No thoughts at all.

Keep you posted...

Who Am I?

"I feel like I'm falling apart." Miss Independent (a previously-mentioned friend of mine) earned her name by being a solid individual, so experiencing a serious bout of self- uncertainty was beyond unnerving. "Everything I once wanted, everything I thought was important... I don't care about any of it anymore," she said through an onset of tears.

But what was more upsetting was the realization that embracing anything radically new or different inevitably meant leaving some things behind... including some people. Including some of the more important people.

Being 20-something means a crash-course with reality. All the dreams and aspirations of our youth now have to intersect the effort and resources it requires to bring it to fruition. That idea you held onto of your identity is suddenly put on stage under a blinding light and forced to prove itself. It is forced to be more than a mere idea.

When we make a commitment to our true self--to the person we wish to become--we have to break up with old things: old dreams, old notions, old habits, old friends, and old lovers. A disparate existence chafes against the soul, as communal as we are, so a sense of Self, Identity, and Unity is imperative. Your relationship with YOU is one truly monogamous relationship we all must embrace for the sake of joy.

As Miss Independent struggled to climb a 5.10c at our gym through doubt and frustration, she slowly began the essential purging process of her individual dwelling.

"¹¹ When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things. ¹² For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part, but then I shall know just as I also am known." (Corinthians 13). That part of the famous love passage was always lost on me. I hoped one day I would understand better what it meant. I think now I just might.

In our 20-somethings we are finally faced with the task of "putting away childish things," and of seeing "in a mirror, dimly, but then face to face." We finally have to create our Self, and see our Self. It doesn't always feel good, but love--even (or especially) self-love--is much more than a feeling. And this universal struggle is as unique as the individuals experiencing it. Saying goodbye to her ex and finally accepting him as a childish thing is a task far more difficult for Miss Independent than I can really understand. But, perhaps, it will actually mean saying "hello" to much more.

For me, your author, I have to say goodbye too. Nervousness impedes my process of accepting responsibilities beyond serving liquor, answering phones, avoiding writing, flirting, shallow relationships, and doubt. But the time has come to dispel doubt, to reject nerves and (dare I say it) fear. Miss Independent has realized an overwhelming sense of isolation. And, as extroverted as she is, there is perhaps nothing more upsetting. She feels alone, separated by her differences and by those desires and ambitions that no longer fit the norm. The irony, and perhaps greatest comfort, is that she is not actually alone at all. I am right there with her.

And if you're twenty or thirty-something, chances are you are with her too.

Who am I?

While the answer for all of will certainly be different, the question is still the same.