Waking Dreams

When I was younger I used to lull myself to sleep not by counting sheep, but by creating elaborate stories within my head the cast me as the main character. The setting might change; sometimes I would be in a secluded forest cottage, sometimes a single room in a city boarding house, sometimes at the top of a castle turret; but the part I played was always the same.

I was a damsel in distress, my long golden locks twisting in the wind as I stared off into the distance. Searching the horizon for the same, one thing: A man, my own Prince Charming (occasionally I went far enough to have him ride up on a brilliantly white steed).

These bedtime fantasies always took place in the "days of yore" time period. I harkened back to the 1700s and 1800s in my waking hours play too. I could often be found strolling around in the afternoon in my long princess dresses, flipping bikes upside down to pretend they were spinning wheels. These eras just appealed to me, there implied feminine daintity and grace alongside such stark male strength. I just chose to omit the downsides of these untechnological days--my tresses where always clean, and I never envisioned houses fraught with fleas and the lack of indoor heating or plumming.

My favorite story-line surrounded the "peasant girl all alone in the woods with so many dangerous animals and potentially harmful passer-throughs." The details of the story where fun to develop and taper to my mood, but the only crucial element that had to be established before I slipped into sleep was that by the end of the story, I would be in the protective, strong arms of a man.

It just seemed so easy back when I was ten years old. It all just fell into place. I was there, he happened across, it was love. He saved me.

It has not been so easy in reality. Perhaps I pick the wrong men, the Not-Quite Prince Charmings. They seem to fall either on one end of the scale or the other of the committment scale; severly phobic or stiffingly addicted. Maybe my whole fantasy notion of the man of my dreams (literally) was all wrong to begin with. I don't ever recall my "one love" ever speaking or having any kind of intellectual conversation.

I just needed his presence.

I fear that sometimes I jump into relationships simply to satisfy that need. To feel "wanted," or "chosen." Do I date only to fill a void?

This quandry had me seriously examining my life and frankly, it's not too bad; even at my current man-less standing.

I am blessed with a loving a supportive family, including a mom who doubles as my best friend and confidante. I have a wonderful friend who meets me weekly for coffee and gossip. Who holds my hand when I am down, and makes me laugh so hard that my face tingles and the corners of my mouth ache. I have a job I truly enjoy (most of the time!), cats who purr and curl up together in the mid-morning sunshine. I am educated, soon to retire my winter coat for the season (fingers crossed), and have amazing memories that have the power to envoke an incredibly wide range of emotions. I have a promising future and a host of people pushing for me to succeed; hands that hold me up even when my legs begin to buckle-maybe especially then.

Yes, potentially, and hopefully, my future will involve a partner, but as of right now, I think I'll just take care of those dangerous animals and mischevious passer-throughs myself.

My brothers three

I am surrounded on all sides by brothers. Three of them to be exact. This fact has always elicited some interesting responses....especially from boys on first dates....
I used to pretend that I wanted a sister. I even joked with a friend about trading one of her sisters for one of my brothers. When I was around 5 years old (okay, maybe for about 3 hours) I decided to skip the whole sister thing and just join in the male race. I insisted that my family call me "Noah," a name that I happened to have heard in church in reference to some ancient famous flood. I stomped around the house awhile in my new-found manhood...until the sparkles in my princess tiara caught my eye and I once again delved down deep into the world of insane girlyness. From then on, I referred to it as "Nora's Ark."

Truthfully though, I am and always have been, ridiculously proud of the strong, handsome men that I am fortunate enough to call my brothers.

Don't get me wrong, there were times that I certainly felt the brunt of being the minority sex. During our annual Thanksgiving football games my brothers squabbled over who would get stuck with me, finally agreeing that I came in a package with a mandatory touchdown. Mind you, I have always been athletic and not hideously butter-fingered, but I was still a girl.

And a girl I certainly was. Long blond hair, dresses and a favorite color of "rose red," I often found myself conning my youngest brother into playing barbies with me or putting on fashion shows....and if he didn't, well, I knew that he was afraid of the basement and the dark and I was not above locking him down there....or putting on a Halloween mask a shaking him awake in the middle of the night...

My younger is not the only one who has had to bear the wrath of little ol' me.

My oldest suffered through my incredibly palpable jealousy when he began dating his first serious girlfriend. I honestly was a new girlfriend's worst nightmare--the kid sister that just would not go away. I would linger around them, shooting poker hot glares at her and hissing indeterminable answers to her fumbling questions. Or not answering them at all and just turned my back to her with a huff and a exaggerated eye-roll. I was in love with every one of my oldest brother's friends, partly (or perhaps mainly) because they were close to him and I worshipped the ground he walked on. Unfortunately, this just manifested in my acting like a fool, giggling incessantly and applying pounds of make-up (their was one especially painful incident involving too much green eye-shadow and red lipstick).

My second brother and I often fought like alley cats attempting to mark as much territory as possible. We would deliberately peck at each other's weak spots until one of us cracked and our fiery tempers would spill like hot lava in a direct path towards the other. The object to burn, perhaps even leave a raw red scar.

But, when I have needed them, they are there, each offering my something different and so valued. My oldest brother's guiding advice and calming voice of reason; my second brother's sense of adventure and fearlessness; my little brother's goofy charm and giant bear hugs.

They are what I value most in life. My boys.

in a few words...it's all gone

How do you respond when the man you've been dating for the last seven months, whom you have invested so much time and energy, patience, acceptance and emotion into tells you-
"I just don't see a future together?"

How do you respond when he tells you he is still trying to find that "connection" with someone, that you are not his "match." News flashes to you and all that you had believed.

But, here's the consolation prize: "I've had so much fun with you."

Was I "just a good time?" I'm so tempted to ask, but I am so afraid of what the answer might be. This statement comes with the implication that my name should be scrawled on the yellowing walls of some public restroom. A roadside rest-stop or a small town diner, perhaps. Above a urinal in blatant, unforgiving, thick black marker. Maybe a snide remark or two encircling my phone number.

It felt like I was in a bad movie. Standing out in the parking lot by our respective cars, warm early spring sunshine in my face and tears trickling down, slightly blinded as I looked into his dry eyes. Classic statements like "Is it me?" flying around. His assurance that it is not that.
But, is it? I honestly wonder if it is just that simple, me. Am I not smart enough, pretty enough, witty enough, fill-in-the-blank enough. For some reason I can just not let myself think that perhaps it really is just him.

Today my eyes feel like swarms of tiny wasps attacked them. Puffy, red and sore. Heavy to keep open, as though little weights are hooked onto my eyelashes, dragging them down. I close them, but it feels like sand grinding together. I have seeped out so much water that my eyeballs have become two small parched deserts.

I am fragile feeling, but I sense a strain of anger creeping in. I wish him well and happiness, but secretly I curse him with heartache and swollen eyes along the way. What is that saying, "hell hath no fury like a woman scorned?"
Part of me wants to try and sting him back,
but a greater part just wants to hold him again.

Should I have held back from discussing the future with a man I knew feared, shied away from, commitment? I could have had a few more moments with him. Or would that have just been prolonging the same conclusion by another day, week, month? Worsening the impact because of those extra shared times?

What is an unbelievably painful realization to me is that as much as I want him back, I have no doubt that he could have erased my number from his phone as soon as we parted yesterday. If he can't see it, then I am no longer there.

I lamented out loud this morning how I truly thought we had been making headway in our "relationship" (though I am at a loss for what I really should call it right now). He seemed to be putting in more of an effort; suggesting things to do, calling back. My mother bluntly said, "He just wasn't as busy. He had more time right now."

Perhaps I was just an item to pencil in.

Everyone keeps telling me the classic line, "you deserve better." Someone who will love and care for me equally. Who will meet me in the middle and hold my hand between both of his when we get there.

They tell me, "Nora, you are only 22 years old. There are plenty of other guys out there. You are young, you have so much time to meet someone else."

I understand all of this. But no matter if you are 22, 52, 92, Infinity2: A heartbreak is still a heartbreak.

And it hurts something awful.

Saying thank you

About an hour ago I sat in a memorial service for a family friend of ours who was murdered last week.

His murder makes no sense. He died at the hands of man he had been helping get back onto his feet. He died doing the very thing he had spent his entire life doing, trusting. His service was one of beauty and community and promise. Everything that he truly was.

I don't recall the very first time I ever met Robert, I'm not sure if many do. He was just "there." A warm, inviting presence that will be severly missed. He never met strangers, he always met friends.

One of Robert's oldest friends spoke of his humor and his ability to bring a smile to anyone's face. He told the story of when they had been walking home from grade school, probably around 8 or 9 years old, and Robert had said:
"Hey Henderson, what's green, grows and has wheels?"
Henderson thought for awhile and finally said, "I don't know Robert, what?"
And Robert replied: "Grass. It's green and it grows. I lied about the wheels part."

I hope that I can live my life in such a way that when I die people from all walks of the community come together to celebrate my life. Not mourn it, but rejoice in it while eating cake and telling stories. Maybe they'll even wear party hats and play music and hold each other oh-so-close while swaying to the beat. This sounds right to me.