Soul Crushing 101

I have one patient right now who is a grumpy old man. He's actually nice, and I'd probably be grumpy too when I'm 94 and recovering from massive cardiac surgery, but when it comes to therapy he's ridiculously grumpy. Ask him to put on his clothes and consider getting out of bed at 9 AM and you get an evil look. Hand him a 1.5 lb weight and tell him to do wrist curls and you get a muttered "Jesus Christ." He does not want to be in rehab, and we are sending him home ASAP, but until then we are locked in a battle of grumps.

Anyway, today I was shadowed by the new OT on the other rehab floor. (side note, when did I become qualified to educate other OTs??? time flies!!) For the record, she is tall and blond (and on a professional note, seems like she'll be a great OT!). She was sitting with me and Mr. Crabby while we were playing this balloon batting game (works on keeping your balance while you're standing, makes you work your arms a bit, AND Mr. Crabby was actually smiling and enjoying himself, though he'd never admit it). We take a break, and he looks at her and says, "I don't see any rings on your finger. How does a pretty girl like you not have anyone claiming you yet?"

Let's move beyond the obviously old-school sexism here and focus on what is clearly the soul crushing part. I have worked with this man 90 minutes a day for a week and a half, ringless for the entirety. Has he ever--EVER--wondered why I am still single? Certainly not aloud. But give him 5 minutes with Julia, and he's all about the flattery slash lechery.

Is it the blond thing? Is it the fact that she hasn't made him suffer through the indignity of getting up halfway through the morning, thus is not a horrible shrew, thus becomes a mystery as to why she hasn't caught a man? Or is it a "pretty" thing, and I have been found wanting even before he had the comparison to make?

In any case, my little internal vanity flower crumpled like a "before" penis in a Viagra commercial. Just what I needed after a long day of work. Luckily, I am petty, and I have means of retaliation. Tomorrow, I'm getting him up at 8, and we're breaking out the 3 lb weights. Let's see who's wilting then!!! Mwahaha.

Is that wrong?

You Might be a Single Girl If...

You might be a single girl if you own more cat scratchers than pieces of furniture.

You might be a single girl if your bedroom's main color is pink, and the main theme is "flowers."

You might be a single girl if you have more than 1 pair of heels just lying in your car in case of an emergency.

You might be a single girl if you leave your bras hanging on the drying rack two feet from the front door until the NEXT laundry day.

You might be a single girl if you come home from work and blast Taylor Swift to unwind (although I refuse to download "Mine" because I think "you made a rebel of a careless man's careful daughter" is one of the silliest lines ever written and you refuse to support that kind of lyric. What?)

You might be a single girl if your DVR is full of HGTV, Food Network, and shows where the hosts or main actors are cute men.

You might be a single girl if your fridge is full of different Ben and Jerry's chocolate fro-yos just in case one day is feeling more "Phish Food" than "Half-baked."

Bucket List

This weekend I cam up with a bucket list for my thirtieth birthday, which is a little less than two years and two months away.

I know the age of 30 does not equal death, so a "bucket list" might seem a little overdramatic, but I've been thinking more and more about where I am in life right now versus where I wanted to be in life by now. Again, probably stupid, but I just can't help it. When I imagined myself at 27, I had elaborate fantasies of what I would be. A wife, a published author, working with kids or maybe even staying home with my own child. I read a quote once that said the act of growing up was the slow giving up of all the dreams you had as a child. Really sad, but as I sit as an adult woman, I start to realize how much this applies to me. What do I have? A job I am invested in but not really too passionate about. No husband, no book, no baby. While I have so much that compensates (wonderful friends, two really adorable cats, and all the things I am always so grateful for--family, basic health, a roof over my head, etc), it is a hard pill for me to swallow that I have not achieved what I always just assumed I would have--and what I still really, almost desperately, still want to have made for myself.

Some of this lack of achievement is due to luck or fate or whatever (which is another post I have percolating in my head), and part of it rests solely on me. I haven't tried hard enough, I've been too easily defeated, I haven't dared when I should have, blah blah blah and yada yada yada. You don't really want to read a narrative of my WHOLE psyche. But I'm tired of it. I'm getting too old to not be getting what I want. What I've always wanted.

So here is my bucket list. I'm an OT, and for each of these long-term goals there are multiple short-term steps, but I'll spare you all those gory details. But the two main ones are: by the time I am thirty, I will have had a work of fiction published, and I will be in a committed romantic relationship. Not too much to ask, right? Not unless you consider how spectacularly I've failed at these things before.

There are other things with which I haven't been quite as unsuccessful at achieving. I want to be in good shape, I want to maintain my friendships and have nurtured others, I want to have saved up enough money to have bought a car or a condo or something equally adult-y, I want to be working in an area of OT I am actually passionate about.

There it is. out in the universe, which I ask to hold me accountable. A 30 year old bucket list. And I will certainly keep you updated as to which items I cross off!!

Single Lady Saturday Night Thoughts

For various reasons, I am at home alone on this Saturday night, being lame. And, as is normal, I am having thoughts.

One. My cats are defective felines.

I mean, they're super cute, and I love them, but they're defects, for two main reasons. First of all, they miss me when I'm gone. The joke always has been, what's the difference between a dog and a cat? The answer is a sense of time. If you leave your home but come right back in immediately because you've forgotten something, a dog is over the moon ecstatic. "Oh my god, oh my god, you've been gone sooo long, i've missed you soo much, never leave me again!!!" Do the same with the cat, and he looks at you with disdain, like, "You again?" This joke is not true with my cats. They miss me. I went to visit my parents for two days, and they were so excited to see me. They have been cuddly and needy and clingy since the moment I walked back in the door. I like having dog-cats, but I kind of have to fight the urge to tell them to act more catlike and ignore me.

Second of all, they SUCK at killing bugs. I've had a recurrent bug problem, and my cats are next to useless. Isn't one perk of domesticated animals like cats and dogs supposed to be their protective capacities?? Aren't cats supposed to be natural predators? When I got my furbabies, I assumed that since they were shelter kitties, they came from the streets. I thought they'd have mad hunting skillz. Oh, how wrong I was. This evening they sat on the window sill and watched this bug toodle all around them. Occasionally one would reach out a tentative paw and bat the thing ineffectually, but mainly they were just fascinated. I swear, this bug crawled right over Lulu's paw, and she just watched it. Name me one cat--or one creature even--that would sit and let a creepy crawly creepy crawl all over them. I can name you two. Useless excuses for protectors. Cute, but useless.

Thought Number Two. "Comfort food".

I read SELF and Fitness Magazines. I work in healthcare. I know what's good for my body and what isn't. And I try really hard to do what's good for it, not bad for it (most of the time). So when my sources try to convince me that comfort food is the enemy of my waistline, I try to listen. They tell me that comfort food is a mask for my emotional needs, that when I feel the need for chocolate I should find more healthy alternatives like talking to my friends or going for a walk. And I do try. But sometimes you just need to say "screw you" to awareness. And as I stood over my counter at 8:15, already in my pajamas, cutting huge hunks of brownie out of the pan and smearing it with peanut butter, that is exactly what I did. And I have not a regret in the world :)

Not fat, just fluffy.

In the last few days, I've gotten this comment no less than three times: "You look like you've lost weight!"

I am not sharing this to brag. I'm sharing it because of my prototypically nutsy reaction. The first time, I was pretty pleased. I definitely lost some weight as soon as I started working again, since both the sit all day in class/drink beer every night graduate school phase and the my mom is an amazing cook and I live at home and can't find a job so why not eat phase ended. And this summer I've been working hard to eat right and exercise every day, though I am not the best exerciser and Ben and Jerry's fro-yo is included in my "eat right" plan. But yes, I have dropped a little bit of weight. And since I carry all my weight in the tummy/chest area, I think it's more noticeable than it might be.

So when my coworker who has been dieting post baby said it, I returned the compliment and said, you know, thank you, yes i've been trying to be more body-conscious, and walked around feeling a little better about myself. Then a nurse said it, and then, today, one of my patient's daughters said it. And while beggars can't be choosers, I'm beginning to not be flattered by the comment.

I mean, let's think about it. The patient's daughter is the best example; we had a long conversation on Friday, about her weight no less, and she never said a word. I can guarantee you I have not lost weight since Friday, but she wasn't just trying to be nice--she genuinely believed I had. In essence, then, she and everyone else are basically telling me that they think of me as heavier than I am, that the me in their memory is porkier than the me standing in front of them. And everyone has said it with appreciation, so clearly the me in their memory is not as good looking as the me in front of them. And since I have no illusions that the me in front of them is but so great-looking in her boring rehab therapist clothes, I have real sadness for the super plain-jane me in their memory.

Speaking of the clothes, the daughter today and I decided maybe it was just my outfit; being a Sunday, I went a little casual, rocking some jeans and a dark t-shirt as opposed to my standard issue shower-ready khakis/shirt combo. So my aura of being complimented quickly faded as I realized that I had just learned my weekday attire makes me look fatter. I shouldn't be surprised, I tend to think of flattering clothes as unprofessional, especially for my profession. Which is not a big deal, except now I'm going to obsess over whether I look chunky as I get ready for work.

Sigh. I'd ask if I'm overthinking this, but I pretty much always know the answer to that question. It takes a special ability to be this neurotic, and I'm sure everyone's jealous they don't have it :)

Secret Single Shopping Behavior

The title of this comes from an episode of Sex and the City; Carrie confesses that since Aidan moved in with her, she's missing her Secret Single Behavior, including spreading jelly on saltines and eating them standing up at the counter. Sometimes it seems like my whole life is Secret Single Behaviors, but the one that came to my mind today was my Secret Single Shopping Behavior.

I got paid yesterday, so today I went shopping. Woohoo! First of all, let me confess that I am totally shallow--shopping makes me happy. REALLY happy. My friend once asked me what I was on when I called her immediately after buying three pairs of shoes. Screw occupational therapy, give me retail therapy anyday.

The one thing, though, is that I don't really like shopping with other people. I mean, I'll go to H&M or DSW with my girlies, but more often than not, I go alone. I tend to get self-conscious about my shopping style and/or what I buy--yes, I can be insecure about ANYTHING, it's a really great quality I possess--and I kind of feel like I don't want anyone to be exposed to my weirdness. I was reminded of this when I got in my car today after my three hour shopping marathon. Let me tell you what I buy at Target (one of four stores I went to--I'll spare you the other stores to preserve some sort of an image) to make myself happy. Three collage picture frames, cat litter, body lotion, a bra, a new water bottle (to use while I soak my other water bottle in bleach to prevent mold, true story), a new yoga mat (I learned the hard way that yoga mats have an irresistible texture for cats looking to sharpen their claws), and Frizz Ease smoothing serum. I unloaded these treasures into my trunk, got in the driver's seat, and turned on the car. Miley Cyrus's Party in the USA came on the radio right as I turned the key, and I made the following noises: "Oooooh, yay!!"

This, I quickly realized, is Secret Single Shopping Behavior. Buying a crazy random assortment of things and being so excited about it I get pumped about singing along with Hannah Montana.

So I know that if I ever live with my boyfriend or get married, they will see everything I buy, and if it's the right person, he will love me anyway. On the other hand, shopping will always be on my list of things I'd like my partner to never have to see me do, along with such lovely moments as clipping my toenails or organizing my tampons. Because I still think that, especially when it comes to me and my habits, love means never having to say "let's go shopping."

"If Life Was a Romantic Comedy" Moment of the Day

We have a pool at our complex. I don't go that often, since it is usually full of screaming children. The last time I tried to go, I couldn't get in the door. They'd added a new childproof lock, and a new key fob unit, and I tried three times to open the door with no success. Tail between my legs, I turned around and went to sun on my balcony.

This morning, recovering from a migraine, in desperate need of some Vitamin D, and seeing from my very belated rent drop off (whoops) that the pool was empty, I decided to try again. This time I went through the clubhouse and down through the gym entrance. I had a small problem with that door too, as it is also childproofed, but, blessed with no watching eyes, I managed to figure out how to pull up the knob and pull (not push) the door open. Great success! (thought in requisite old-school Kazakhstani accent).

For the next hour I talked on the phone, listened to my "chill" playlist on my ipod, and burned my poor pigment-less skin in perfect happiness. About ten minutes before I wanted to leave, a group of people I have seen there before showed up. Three very hot, built men, and two gym-tiny, perfectly bronzed women. They travel in a pack, sit and drink beer out of dixie cups, and loudly discuss how their last significant others (S.O.s) weren't quite hot enough to be worth their time. Charming, and the perfect storm of how to make Annie feel inadequate.

Despite this reaction, I am a girl who appreciates scenery, so when I went to leave, I decided to go through the main entrance so I could walk by and get a closer view of Headband boy (who makes sure to do a Baywatch worthy pool dive, rise out of the water, and slick his luscious chesnut locks away from his face every twenty minutes) and Clark Kent (who comes in wearing his glasses but takes them off the same time he reveals his six-pack with a graceful toss of his wife beater). This entrance is the one with the door I had not yet deciphered, but I decided to risk it anyway. I mean, it had to be easier to get OUT of the door than in, right??

So I did my walkby, went up the steps with my own little ploy of letting my hair out of the ponytail (since I got a cute new haircut and blowout on Wednesday, I knew it would--for once!!--fall down in perfect waves just like a shampoo commercial), and headed towards the door. With the structure of the pool, the door is directly above the pool deck, so it is blocked from viewing but still close enough to hear what is going on. I get there, and with confidence, pull up the knob, and pull. Nothing. I pull up the knob, and push. Double nothing. Which, as you math geniuses know, is still nothing.

It's hard to be subtle as you push and pull at a heavy metal door, clanging it against its hinges, for five minutes, but I did my best. And as it became increasingly clear that I was indeed as locked in as I had been locked out, I started to consider my options. This is when the "if life was a romantic comedy" (ILWARC) kicked in. ILWARC, I would have gone back down the stairs around to the other entrance, say something cute and endearing about my issues to Headband Boy and Clark Kent and intrigue them enough to garner me an invite to the next Dixie Cup bitchfest. Or, ILWARC with me as a clutzy heroine (which it should be--it would make my clumsiness worthwhile), I would have gone with my second plan, clambered over the gate, and tripped into the hot guy on the other side, forcing him to catch me in his beefy arms and make a sexy joke about angels falling from heaven.

If I haven't mentioned before in this blog, I read alot of romance novels. And write them as well in my free time. This is because my mind works in this way, all the time. And it is nice to be able to create a world where all this wonderful potential situations can actually happen. Is that just me?

Then, as I set down my pile of stuff to give one more attempt to unlock the mystery of the childproof lock, an honest-to-goodness hot guy walked by. Done up in workup gear, headed to the gym on a Saturday morning, no less. He walked a bit past, then, clearly realizing I wasn't pulling on the door for my health, backtracked a bit. Wait, I thought. Maybe life IS a romantic comedy! I sent him my best cute/sheepish grin, and said, "I'm sorry, do you know how to get out? I have issues."

Silently, he passed his own key fob over the fob lock, pulled up the knob, and pushed the door towards me. Then, even as I opened my mouth to thank him, he turned, and walked on.

Nope, he didn't say a word. Never even took the earphones out of his ears. He did manage not to sneer, but that was about the only positive.

Well, I thought as I slipped through the door and headed towards as home, just another reason my life needs screenwriters.

When Nature Attacks

On the Saturdays when I'm not too scheduled (which, let's be honest, are most Saturdays), I entertain myself with terrible movies on the Syfy channel. I love Syfy. Ghost Hunters is one of my favorite shows EVER. And on Saturday, Syfy shows these horrible films, which either failed epically in the theater or were produced for about $5 for the channel itself, many of which are about nature gone wacky. This Saturday I watched Lake Placid 2 and 3 as well as Frankenfish. I get such a kick out of being able to predict the plot twists. Obviously, only the best looking cast members will survive, and if you have more than two very goodlooking cast members, it's a fun guessing game to figure out what flaws the characters have that will lead to their deaths despite their good looks. For example, in Frankenfish, there were three young beautiful people, and I wasn't quite sure which ones would fall in love and thus ensure their survival. Then, one of the women admitted that she was a lesbian. Bingo! I knew she was next! Sure enough, ten minutes later her head was blown off by a shot from a rifle that had been sitting in a fire caused by a gas tank overturned by one the gigantic mutant piranha-like fish. Good times!! Anyway, I admit to this habit only to help you understand the mindset in which I faced the events of Sunday and Monday, namely, the Battle of the Grasshopper.


Sunday I went walking on the Jefferson Parkway. It's a nice little trail about a block and a way from my apartment complex that leads you from Route 20 up towards Monticello, about 4 miles in total. Being a flatlander (seriously, the majority of Norfolk lies below sea level. Anything more than a 1 foot rise makes my calves scream), I find the moderately gentle incline to be a good workout for me. And it wasn't too miserably hot for Charlottesville, and I had to clean the bathroom. So I went for a walk. :) When I arrived back to the parking lot, I opened my car, climbed in behind the steering wheel, and was immediately attacked! This grasshopper jumped from the pavement onto my bare leg!! I don't blame it, the asphalt had to be ridiculously hot. But this thing was huge. At least three inches long. And green. And leggy. And, did I mention, ON MY BARE LEG. I responded like any sensible, well-educated woman would: I screamed my head off, shook my leg like a dog having a seizure, and jumped back out of the car.

After a quick check to see no one was in shouting distance, I approached the car again. I looked around, gingerly but thoroughly. My opponent seemed to have vanished. My car is not huge, and it's beige, so I assumed a gigantic green mutant bug would stick out. Seeing nothing, I climbed back in the car, closed the door, and drove off. The whole time I expected the creature to pop back up and was talking myself down; "You will not freak out if it lands on your leg. You will drive safely no matter how many legs are touching you at one time." I once rear-ended someone because a gnat flew in my face, so my fears were not totally unfounded. (I'd say that was another story, but there's not really much else to tell). I made it the three minutes home and went inside, confident my battle was over.

Obviously, I should have known better. Don't I watch Syfy? Don't I know these things always have a second act? On this Monday morning, when I was absolutely DREADING going to work due to my difficult patients that make me feel like I am not qualified to be an OT, and had already broken my tea cookie pot (it's a cookie pot I use to hold tea. And it's shaped like a bunny. Aaaaaaannyway....), I got into my car without a lot of enthusiasm. Pulled out of my lot, turned onto Route Twenty, same old same old. Made it through the first stop light. Stopped by the second. Looked up from my glare of aggression at the stupid light to see the freak-o-bug, sitting on my window about five inches from my steering wheel. Twitching it's antennae merrily.

I'd like to claim credit for being brave and not screaming, but, really, it was all due to my mood. Of course. Of course there was a gigantic grasshopper ready to attack me and make me scream and crash my car on this already accursed Monday. But he'd made one fatal flaw. He'd shown up too early. Clearly, he had underestimated me, and the power of my annoyance. Rather than scream, I gave him hairy eyeball for hairy eyeball and said, "Oh hell no."

Yep. Said it. Aloud. In my car. To an insect. This is why it's better I not carpool.

When the light changed, I pulled off onto the side of the road. Opened my door, and used my handy-dandy romance novel (I carry one in my car at all times, you never know when you need a dose of timekilling optimism) to brush my enemy out towards the street. He fell, helpless and twitchy, to the road. And I closed my door, and drove off, with only the smallest pang of guilt for perhaps leaving him to death by redneck tire crushing. Victory was mine!!! Take that, Syfy movies, I am one of the attractive castmembers!!!

Cue me at work, about ten minutes later. My coworker Kathy walks up to me, and says, "Was that you I saw on the side of Route 20 this morning?"

"Oh, yeah, that was me," I answered, smiling sheepishly.

"I thought it was!" She exclaimed. "I didn't realize it until it was too late to stop, I'm sorry I didn't! What happened, are you ok?"

Victory was no longer quite so sweet. Face turning the delicate shade of tomato cream sauce, I replied, "I'm fine thanks. I just got attacked by a grasshopper."

27 and Single: This is Your Life.

Hi. My name is navelgazer, and I'm a neurotic.

I started this blog almost a year ago. Now I'm back, and promising to blog bigger than ever!

Not sure who I'm talking to, no one has EVER read this. But maybe I'll publicize this time?

I was inspired by a conversation I had on Friday. I'm an occupational therapist at a inpatient rehabilitation hospital. Our dedicated purpose is to serve persons who have had strokes or TBI, but we also work with people with orthopedic issues. I'll blog more about this later, but I needed to give you the setup as to why I found myself at 8 AM Friday morning helping an 88-year-old woman with a severely broken left arm out of bed.

I asked, as I always do, who she lives with at home. She responded, "My husband. He's wonderful but he's useless. Husbands often are, aren't they? Do you have one?"

I responded, "No, I don't have a husband yet."

She stared at me in absolute shock. "You don't?? But you're so cute!!" Then those wide eyes narrowed and she squinted intently at my face in the prototypical nearsighted way. "Wait," she said. "Where are my glasses?"

As you might imagine, this deflated the little bubble of self-esteem her first reaction had created. For the record, I distracted her from the glasses til we had moved on to safer subjects. If you think I was going to give her a chance to retract the compliment, you're gravely mistaken.

As I thought about the conversation later, I realized how many things were touched on in this brief conversation. First of all, does it seem to any of you other ladies that one of the first questions you ever get asked about yourself is about your romantic life? True, this was a grandmother, the worst offender with the "do you have a boyfriend?" question, but I think it's the case with almost anyone you'll talk to. I understand that such a question often only indicates that the person asking it is attempting to get to know you, and I also understand that romantic relationships are a crucial part of life that most people are just dying to talk about. These are the realities of life, and I try really hard to not take the realities of life personally. However, as a single person, I'd like to register the complaint that this seemingly innocent question can in fact be very loaded. Even if it's not actually said in implication of your total failure at love (sidenote: I'm a bit dramatic), it can hit you that way, especially if you're already a bit defensive about the subject (sidenote 2: defensive? me, DEFENSIVE?? NEVER!!!) Helpful hint to everyone out there--many of us are quite defensive about the subject. Maybe don't ask? Just in case you ask one of us who will get so upset they'll write a blog post about it.

Also, in my experience, this question is almost always asked of a woman. Part of that is largely because men aren't as likely to want to talk about their relationships, although maybe I'm wrong to generalize the whole gender. I would still argue that the major reason is cultural bias. I would also still argue that even today a woman's ability to attract and keep a romantic partner is rated as more important and more central to her life (and to our judgments of her life) than a man's ability. I don't believe that we'll ever resolve the question of whether this is true because women instinctively care more about romance or because women have been taught by society to care more about romance, but I believe it is true.

I am a professionally fulfilled (mostly; again, more on that later) young woman with a fantastic group of friends and a wonderful family. I attended both a woman's college and a largely female graduate program, and have had the message of a whole life drilled into my head for years. I do genuinely believe that my life is about more than whether or not I have a boyfriend (much less a husband, Ms. Friday Morning Patient) and yet there is rarely a day when I do not feel at least a moment of inadequacy about my singleness. I can't help it!! I can rationalize myself out of a paper bag, and I can set my considerable willpower towards convincing myself that I am above that doubt, but my stupid little heart will not shut up about it. "I'm--sob!!--alooooone" is something I feel frequently, even though I know--I KNOW!!!--it's not really true (see above friends, family, etc) and even though I know that even if I were actually "alone" it does not make my life meaningless.

Part of the problem is of course the reactions you get when you answer that fatal question. Most people who ask, again, are of course well-meaning. And when you say you're not committed, they launch into statements of how the single life is the way to be, or change the subject, or, if they're clueless, move on to the equally dreaded "Oh, how is that possible?" Sweet, but I'm always tempted to respond, "well, most guys can't get past my vaginal deformity" and see what happens. (sidenote 3: as far as I know, no such deformity exists.) But the Smug Marrieds of Bridget Jones' Diary are all too plentiful. One of my best friend's boyfriends asked me if I had a boyfriend, and when I replied I wasn't seriously dating anyone, he exclaimed, "Well, you need to fix that!" The Smug Married arises from the natural competitive instinct. Let's face it, we all feel insecure about something or the other, and a really easy way to try to find security is to fixate on finding people who in your mind should have even a bigger reason to be insecure. "She might have a prettier face than me, but her thighs are huge!" "My boyfriend may not be cute, but at least I have a boyfriend--unlike her!" It's petty and ugly and high school, but I shudder to think how often I have these thoughts.

As I read this back, I realize some of this seems neurotic, but I'm comforted by how many of my friends feel similarly. This is where competition comes into play in a positive way. With the social "stigma" of being single, it's easy to start feeling like you're that way because you're not good enough. Maybe you act too awkward around the opposite sex. Maybe you're emotionally unavailable. Maybe you're only cute if you're an 88-year-old woman not wearing her glasses. But when my beautiful, marvelous, intelligent friends have the same feelings of "why am I single?" it's easy to see 1, that they are amazing and their singleness is from no fault of their own, and 2, that their singleness diminishes nothing of how amazing they are. And then slowly apply that realization to yourself.

So, anyway, that's kind of enough about that. I wish I had some nice point to end with or some uplifting moral, but eh, not so much. Just a bunch of musings. And a vow to remember to JUST CHILL and enjoy my life for what it has in it, not what I think is missing. Hopefully you can do the same or enjoy your sig other...and remember not to ask anyone their romantic status :)

Much love.