To be clear, I’m writing this right now to try to get a song out of my head. Yes, the walking human iPod from hell has struck again. For the past two hours, while I read a great book, I’ve been humming

So, the phrase “why I’m single” was texted to me, not about me, earlier this week.

Context: a snapshot of a text exchange between the texter and a person that had exchanged numbers with the texter at some earlier point. It was not a good text exchange. We’ve all had it. You give/get someones number- perhaps in the moment it seemed like a good idea, but the next day/week/month, you stare at your phone and wonder “why the hell did I do that, or rather, who the hell is this?”

Been there. Done that.

It got me to wondering, “why am I single?”

Why the hell AM I single?

If you asked some of my friends, they would say I’m too picky. Others would say that I’m too lazy. Others might say that I’m ambivalent about finding the whole happily ever after.

I’ve been in love. I thought I might have had a shot at the happily every. It didn’t work out quite as expected (obviously, otherwise, why would I be writing this particular crapifesto?) Despite being in love at least thrice, I sit here, jetting my way towards the land of Prince, lamenting my own particular spinster singlehood.

Side note, a few rows in front of me, I just saw the sweetest action – a guy just helped his lady friend readjust her neck pillow. You could see his genuine desire to make sure she was comfortable and happy. That is awesome. They don’t necessarily match- she is about 5 inches taller than him, different races, but man, do they grin when they look at each other.

SECOND SIDE NOTE: WHO THE FUCK BRINGS FRIED CHICKEN ON A 6:35am FLIGHT? For the love of all that is good and holy, early morning is not the time to eat fried chicken and corn nuts on a plane.

Back to the point of this, if there is one. Why am I single?

Is it because I’m old?

Is it because I have a mouth of a dirty drunken pirate hooker?

Is it because I obsess daily about random offbeat songs that I hear/pop in my head?

Is it because I’m easily distracted?

Is it because my ass and boobs are out of control?

Is it because I’ve somehow ended up living in the middle of the suburbs surrounded by married people and families with VERY few ACTUAL AVAILABLE,  datable men in the mix?

Or is it just because I’ve not yet found the right one for right now? (I’m leaning towards this option.)

Note: I’m very focused right now on writing this and chewing gum. We are starting the initial descent, and I’m only 40% sure my ears might explode. The pressure is getting really really obnoxious.

Man, the flow of this particular entry is incredible isn’t it?

I have a laissez faire approach to dating/finding “Mr. Doesn’t Suck too Hard”. Either it will or won’t happen, but I’m not going to kill myself in an effort to make it happen. Maybe that is why I’m single?

Who knows.

Right now, I’m more focused on getting away, on a jet plane, and making it without my ears exploding!

……………..

Flight one done. No issues. There is hope!

Sticking to a semi-regular weekly blog posting schedule has allowed me to sort out my thoughts in a way that I’ve lost track of over the week. Throughout the day, I’ll think “oh, I should write about this,” and then forget what I was thinking about.

Hell, these days I am forgetting more than I remember. This little reality is especially obnoxious for me as I historically forget NOTHING, and yet, I can’t remember who I spoke to on Friday night.

Today is a quiet day here at the house. I’ve been reading the news, listening to Theresa May’s condemnation of the terror incident last night in London and reviewing other leaders responses- some more measured than others.

I’ve been puttering around while listening to the Sunday shows, trying to make sense out of what is happening.

Bottom line, I’m out of words today. I had words and forgot some of them. The other portion of words that I remember, feel ill-timed in light of what is happening in this world. Navel gazing and pontificating is a special skill of mine, but today it just feels petty.

Go forth and do what you need to do today. Be aware, be kind and be a part of the solution.

If all else fails- go clean something.

It’s that time of the year again. That gutting realization that it’s time to shove your body into a piece of spandex/lycra and pray to the deities that everyone around you is either a.) blind b.) drunk or c.) fatter than you. It’s bathing suit season.

The magical time of year when women start losing their proverbial shit at the idea that multitudes of people are going to see them in a hell of a lot less clothing than they normally wear.

I had my annual freak out this morning when I was starting to gather some crap to run away for the weekend. I tossed a few suits into the pile and thought out loud “maybe I’ll just skip the pool.”

WHAT?

Screw that.

I am a water loving, sun-worshiping human. I feel better when I’m floating in a pool/lake/river/ocean. I’m nicer to everyone if I get some sun. I feel better about life when I get a little float time.

I am not, nor have I ever been, a super model. I have never had a body that stopped people on the streets. I mean, maybe if I was particularly cleavy, someone might pause and say “put those things away”, but I’m not one of those people that have a “banging body.”

I’m clearly ok with that, otherwise, I would dedicate my life toning/firming/surgically improving ALL of the things.

I realized this morning, that I still care, but I’m certainly not going to miss out on stuff because I’m afraid to let my big ass be seen in public. Or my thighs. Or my boobs. Whatever.

Life is short.

I was raised in a house that was the opposite of a naked house. Literally. We covered all of the things up. My mother has never in my life worn a skirt, shorts and certainly not a bathing suit. She has never enjoyed her body, always finding fault, and by default, has extended that to others. She has vocalized many times over the years that I should not wear revealing clothes because “no one wants to see that.” I literally wore baggy clothes, sizes larger than me until I was in college. Nothing makes a teen girl feel awesome than having your mom drag you to Lane Bryant so that you can buy jeans that don’t “hug your butt.” No one knew I had boobs until I was out of the house- I hid those under layers and layers of baggy clothes.

Over it.

Life is too short to hate your body.

Mine is far from perfect. I get that. I”ve known that forever. I’m not going to hide though. I’m going to find a suit that is comfortable, doesn’t ride up the butt cheeks and hoik the girls up enough that I don’t look like a photo from National Geographic. I realize that I might not be everyone’s cup of tea, but there have been at least 2 dudes in the history of me that have tolerated all of “this.” I think it’s going to be ok.

Onwards to the pool. Hand me a drink and some SPF… It’s summer time!

Yesterday, I was lamenting, loudly, to anyone who would listen to me about the fact that somehow I’ve landed and become fully ensconced in suburban life.

This is the longest I’ve lived anywhere since I was a kid at home. Even then, I think I’m breaking records with the exclusion of the first 12 years of my life in GC.

I’ve got the itch. I’m starting to feel somewhat smothered. My friend Caren said it’s the siren song of the spring, to want to pack up life and head to the island for a summer of slave labor and debauchery. That was 20 years ago. Why is it that I still feel the strong urge to pull up stakes and head somewhere else?

When I came back to DFW, it was never in the plans to be permanent dwelling. I came back to recover from the last life failures, figure a few things out, and then onwards to the next place. I started traveling heavily with a fair amount of time being spent NOT here. I honestly fell into this life without really trying. It just organically came to fruition.

Now, years later, I sit on my front porch on Lavender Lane. I stare at the gardens, the porch, the rocking chairs that need to be refinished, and I feel a strong apathy to all of the things. Yesterday, I walked through the house thinking about what crap I actually would keep versus just easily donate if I wanted to make the next move.

The next move feels closer than it has in years. My head isn’t in the game anymore. The one thing I have done right in the past decade is to build a career that isn’t dependent on being in an office. Instead, I can work just about wherever as long as I have a computer and a decent WiFi connection.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve always thought I would pack up my stuff and move back to Michigan at some point. Reentry into whence I came. It doesn’t feel right anymore. It feels like a step backward instead of a step forward. Perhaps at some point, I will actually commit to having a summer house in northern Michigan, but at this point, I daresay that the move back to the mitten has a low probability of happening.

I have a short list of places that I would entertain relocating to. None of them feel quite right yet. Clearly, my head isn’t quite there yet, but it’s not quite here either.

It’s as if I’m in a perpetual limbo just waiting to determine the next “where.”

I’m ready for my next adventure. My next gypsy journey. In the meantime, while I figure out where I want to be, I’m going to be hitting the road often. To clear my head, to gain some clarity. Onwards to Austin, North Dakota, California, Michigan, and Colorado. I’ve got some exploring to do.

I can’t help but add this monstrosity: