I was driving along this afternoon with all the windows down—yesterday’s squall having blown the heat and humidity elsewhere, thank god—listening to Top 40 radio, and I realized
Of course, all it took was trying on two sports bras to crush my soul.
I’ll have to find my man some other way. Thinking I might build a trap.
With all my dating woes, people frequently ask what I’m looking for in a man, and remarkably (considering how generally wordy I am), I’ve never been able to put it into words, you know? I mean, I want funny, but funny’s not enough, as evidenced by a recent two-date sequence. He has to be physically attractive too, but my taste in what’s physically attractive is (1) not all that conventional (I ain’t got no problem with bald, and sometimes a big nose just works) and (2) varies widely (lithe rock climber, sure; Viking with a mead gut, also good). He should be smart but not an übernerd. Kind but not a pansy. I don’t know. I DON’T KNOW.
But then yesterday, I was stopped at a stoplight, and I saw this.
Pretty sure I could be down with any man who says, “Amy, you and your parts come first.”
Thanks, Sport Durst.
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Three years ago, I discovered that I was NCGS. That’s like NCIS but infinitely less badass.
Ran across a blog post today titled Worst End of School Year Mom Ever. I can relate. I think most teachers feel like bad teachers at the end of the year.
Main reason: standardized testing. It’s The Worrrrrrrrrrst. Bad for kids, sure, but as I tell the kids: “At least you get to DO something. I just have to SIT THERE.” In fact, read I Got Middle Schooled for a little taste of what teachers and proctors go through. It’s horrifying and hilarious.
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Three years ago, I shared my experiences with anti-depressants. The magic bullet I mentioned was amino acids—a monster truck load of them per day—which I took for several years, and they definitely helped. But they were super-duper-expensive and not-at-all covered by my super-duper-crappy health insurance. I weaned myself off them within the last six months, and I think I’m doing OK. I have my moments, but between CrossFit, food choices, and workin on mah shit, I’m maintaining a pretty healthy level of sanity.
Three years ago, I did laughter yoga. It was real dumb, and I kind of loved it.
I was lamenting the need to go pants shoppingtwo years ago, but I have come a long way, you guys. I went jeans shopping on Wednesday with Kate and Michelle (blog post surely to come), and I bought jeans, and I BOUGHT SKINNY JEANS WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAA?
You heard me.
To blog about dating or not to blog about dating: that was the question I was asking myself a year ago. Clearly the answer is uh durrrrrr, of course.
Ugh. Norovirus. Or food poisoning, or something. When I wasn’t exploding from both ends, I was curled up on my pull-out couch with the dogs, moaning. Moaning! I literally moaned for, like, 15-minute stretches. Then I would watch two episodes of How I Met Your Mother, and then I would turn it off so I could moan some more.
Picture me there behind Redford, moaning into his ear. He was very tolerant.
Seems to be gone now (knock wood). I’m vertical today, and I’ve eaten a banana and some Rice Chex.
In other news, my dad swung through town earlier this week. :)
Talking to my sister on the phone: “Amy picked me up in the middle of the melee at RDU. I was nervous because of the guy on the goddamn lawn mower going back and forth.” (It was a cop on a Segway.)
Amid bon mots, he said something about how I seem, here on the blog, “almost desperate for a relationship”. Isn’t that the worst word to hear about yourself? Desperate? Wasn’t that the ultimate high school take-down? “God, she’s so… desperate.”
But he’s right. I do seem, here on the blog, almost desperate for a relationship. I’d even take out the ‘almost’.
That’s for two reasons. First, both ends of the spectrum, the one that goes from “Victorious Is What Happened” to “Cyclone of Despair”, are compelling, but the middle? Not really, right? The “I Got a Solid Eight Hours So My Day Wasn’t Too Exhausting” and the “Grocery Store, PetSmart, and Home Depot in One Outing—High-five, Me” that make up most of my life, I mean, I’m pretty excited about them, but they make for vanilla reading. So, I’m going to write about the times when I’m either feeling a sense of hope or one of catastrophe. And granted, the latter happens more often and is usually funnier.
So that’s the main thing. You hear about my being desperate to be in a relationship because that’s what’s interesting.
The second thing is that I’m desperate to be in a relationship.
Not desperate. But yeah, kinda desperate. Two reasons, I like companionship, and I want kids. In the post I just linked to, I said I wasn’t an extrovert. But I am. I’m an extrovert. Being around people energizes extroverts (and saps the energy of introverts). I definitely get energy from being with people.
However, I’m shy. People say, “Isn’t that the same as introverted?” No. Shy means I’m scared of people I don’t know. Like, all of them.
I’m scared of people, but I need people—ain’t that the worst?
Anyhow, it’s got me thinking, that’s probably why pretty much all my dating in the last four years has been online. Because I don’t make eye contact with people I don’t know (because I’m scared of them) when I’m out in the real world, so it’s hard to connect. Maybe I should try that? Eye contact? With people I don’t know? My hands are sweating.
Two years ago, 70,000 people heard me tell a story.
A year ago, I was trying to control the controllables. Maybe making eye contact with strangers is controlling a controllable? Or maybe I try a different website. A friend recently sent me this one, which takes a sort of different approach to the whole online dating thing… I’m gonna go lie back down and moan some more.
I will admit, I am one of those people that says “Feb-roo-ary” and flinches an eensy bit when people say “Feb-you-ary”. I know that makes me an asshole because EVERYBODY says “Feb-you-ary”, just like everybody says “laying down” when they mean “lying down”.
[“Lay” requires a direct object. You can lay your keys down on the counter or lay your baby in a crib or even lay your body down, but when you head to the couch to take a nap, you’re actually going to lie down. Even more confusing, the past tense of “lie” is “lay”. (The past tense of “lay” is “laid”.) So you can say, “I lay down for a nap”, but that would mean you did it before right now. I KNOW. I’M AN ASSHOLE.]
I further know it’s only a matter of time before we reach the tipping point and the Grammar Mavens say, “Well, language evolves, and now ‘Feb-you-ary’ and ‘laying down’ are considered correct.” But that day has not yet come, so if you notice that I have a tiny facial tic this month, there you go.
You can blame my parents for the above (see my dad’s comment on this post from three years ago, which also explains why I use quotation marks the way I do).
Two years ago, I shared with you my magical pit-stank cure. Still using it. Still giving myself Alzheimer’s. But the ‘heimer’s hasn’t hit yet! Still sharp as a marble! Now where in the world did I lie my keys? I’m confused—I need to go lay down.
I “competed” in an Olympic weightlifting meeta year ago. I hit 79.2 lbs on the snatch and 107.8 on the clean & jerk. I’m proud to say that my clean & jerk is now 128 pounds, and I snatch 103. That’s right: I have a 103-lb snatch.
Three years ago I had twenty-one readers. Not sure how many I have now, but I’d say it’s at least twenty-nine. If you’ve never commented, leave your girl a comment! Let your voice be heard! (Seriously, if you don’t know me, and you don’t mind saying, I’d love to know how you arrived at my little corner of the internet.)
I went on a second date with Billy Joeltwo years ago, which led to a discussion of poontang management in the comments section.
Nowadays, if he insists, I do let the dude pay, but I tell him I’m treating the next time. And when I say ‘nowadays’, I mean ‘in the last year but not since the Dutchman debacle’, because actual-nowadays I’m avoiding every thought of dating, filling all emotional holes with dogs, and seriously contemplating single motherhood.
I was irrationala year ago. I KNOW. HUGE SURPRISE.
