A Better Frequency

If love were as green and easy as eating a scoop of ice cream, we’d all be in a glossy-eyed state of jaded bliss. Love takes work, faith, maturity, courage, and a lot of other branched out things.

I was actually worried about the weight thing. I think my friends were upset as I was about the weight thing. I was sitting there, thinking that I was going to have to risk my relationship to be healthy. I was mad with a stress headache, upset that I was going to lose my man. Confused that if he loved me as he said he did, then why would my losing weight be unattractive? I know he likes bigger women, but I don’t intend on being as big as I am now for the rest of my life. It’s already hard enough for me to find shoes that fit. Yay, cankles.

So, we talked.

At first, I didn’t even want to. He asked me about the text I sent, which collided with mushy feelings he wanted to express. So that got put on hold. What I didn’t like was that he kind of didn’t respond for half a day, but, whatever. Independence Day. He asked about it, and at first I just said let’s not, because I decided that I had to be selfish on that. My health determines whether or not I’m actually here to be loved. I decided that instead of asking, I was going to do. If the chips fell, and people couldn’t handle it, maybe it wasn’t meant to be.

I told him how I felt. I pretty much said that instead of asking, I was going to do. I would hate to risk things, but my parts are sums of my existence. There’s more to me than parts. The love should be there. He’s telling me he’s worried I’m going to “get Nia Long super skinny”, and I’m squinting like….no. 145-150 is my goal range. And I’ll still be curvaceous with the perks of what he likes about me. But I don’t intend on being some kind of nutty gym rat who drinks smoothies from a bowl. What I want to do is incorporate better habits and lots of movement into my life. I want a natural, happy experience.

I don’t know what kind of experience he went through, but I don’t plan on losing my head or myself in a sea of vanity. I’m conceited and a little self-absorbed now, and people have a problem with that. I mean…I spent all my teen and tween years sitting in the corner all sad and moused up. I want to sing the body electric and celebrate the me yet to come, damn it. I am 31, and I’m seeing a lot of things in my life with a greater clarity than I thought I ever possibly could. I want to live as much of that as possible with my mate, and myself.

I think he understood, and hope he found assurance. I don’t know if he lost someone because of that, but the only think I can think of that would make me leave is if he cheated on me. That’s an automatic game over.

Then he goes deeper.

The idea of cohabitation attracts him. How he hated how the month was over before it got good, how I took care of his house…and him. He liked that feeling, and starts telling me what I can do to help with my part of the rent. It’s all music to my ears, and I find myself missing the noise of his open-mouthed snoring, and the way he looks when he’s deep in thought. I miss the itch of his facial hair against my face, and the warmth I feel when he takes me to one of his special places. I feel myself itching closer to the idea that life without him is not worth it. I can’t live without him.

Yes, he gets on my nerves sometimes. We confuse each other, we have long talks to find clarity….

But he’s teaching me about accountability and the razor sharpness of the world, while I would like to think I show him tenderness and the coolness. And I think with time and polishing, we could be great.

I knew I loved him long before he did, and accidentally said it. I felt love because he gave me concentrated hope and a different way to see things. He has given me the ability to find grounding on shaky terrain. Despite my wacko shortcomings, he has faith in me. He wants a life with me, and is willing to help me step up to get there.

Where has he been all my life?

It’s so hard to stay mad at him, because we talk things out. We figure things out. I write to get shit out, but for the most part we talk. (Sometimes bark and bite)

When the smoke cleared, I felt better. When he told me he wanted me there, so many things rushed through me. Warmth, happiness, ambition.

I want to pull my weight, of course, but to be in paradise with him and not have to go back to Paris (TN) or Chicago….I would be so happy. Starting a life with him would be absolutely amazing. I’ll take whatever job I can get to support the effort.

That’s a wacky scene change, I know. It really was, but the way he understood me as soon as I laid it all out sort of made the transition. As soon as we left that topic, he began expressing just how much he wanted a life with me. I know that was the answer to my question if I mean more to him than…what I am. I mean, I know he’s got a type. I also know that sometimes people use you and sort of target you.

When A was telling me he wanted me to live with him, and that he wouldn’t mind if I had a part-time job, I realized that yes…this man is nuts about me. It’s more than what he did for me when I came to visit–he wants me around permanently. He wants to make a little love nest with me, and not these now and then trips when we can see each other for a week or a month at a time.

When we moved on to that topic, he talked to me in such a way that let me know that I mean a lot to him. And even with crazy debt, he wants an “I” to be come “us”. I sat there, spinning, thanking the universe and myself for being patient. Sad, yes. Depressed sometimes, yes. But never truly giving up on love. And even if I lose it all tomorrow (PLEASE NO), I will have loved and been loved. I waited, I suffered, I felt like no one would or could ever love me…

Then he comes along.

Here’s love, snark, friendship, GOOD AND AMAZING SEXOLA HOLY CRAP, nerdship, Blerdship, good political talk….razor sharpness….but the maturity and reliability I’d been asking for and praying for all along.

It’s….odd sometimes, but it’s pretty damn great most of the time.


Mixed Signals

I know he likes big women. I know he has been with bigger women than me. He can’t shut up about that part when it comes up. Still, knowing that I could lose him just because I want to lose 60 pounds and keep going until I am 150 pounds….that hurts. And this is what he has said to me. He will no longer be attracted, and that he wants me big. “We will find a happy medium”.

I don’t want that.

I mean, yes I said I was his and my body was his. But consider the context of that. Spiritually, as partners. Physically, as lovers. I’m still in charge of my body. I want to be healthy so that we can have kids. So that I can live my best life, not tied down to asthma or gout. So that I can feel better about myself. Sometimes I feel great, sometimes I do not. This is a personal battle, but now I have to consider the fact that I could lose this guy, because “one of the reasons” he chose to be with me is because I’m big and tightly stacked?

The fact that I’m kind, funny, passionate, wacky, and full of empathy means nothing? The fact that I’d do anything to love, honor, and protect means nothing? The fact that I took a chance to be with him, despite the distance….means nothing? If I lose weight, it’s all over?

I guess this confuses me, because at the same time my weight and physical ability has been commented on by him. He didn’t believe me when I said I had an asthma attack going up that huge hill to take out the garbage. Granted it was good exercise, I could have passed out. His nonchalant response was to get over it and do that one little thing he asked…even if it was uncomfortable. Then he laughs and jokes about me being allergic to healthy food because certain granola (the one in KIND bars and Honey Bunches of Oats) makes me itch. THAT HURT. I love fruits and veggies. He kept joking about that, but got hurt when I quipped about him thinking he was a guru because he works out.

At one point he even talked about wanting to see me healthier. But when I talk about direct goals? Oh no. That’s too much. Why should I stay obese? Because nobody else could possibly want me? Because if I’m fat, I won’t go anywhere? And although he told me my long profile is what attracted him, and he wouldn’t have done all he did thus far if he didn’t love me….

The weight loss comments have me screwed up.

I want to lose weight.

How is that a threat or a risk to our relationship? If we are really in love here, none of that should matter. Me losing weight to be a steady 145 or 150 should not be an issue.

If you love me for me, and not for what I look like.



Why Do You Want That?

Writing is love, writing is life. Writing is the reason I’m still here, choosing life. I mean…sometimes it’s a real struggle, but writing (and Nichiren Buddhism) have kept me going. So, I can’t help it if I have a few dreams up my sleeves about it. It would be NICE to come up from it, but even if I don’t, I would never stop. So obviously between the dreams, the “projects”, and the questionable poems, I would imagine myself having a “space” or an office to live out my dreams. I also have several backup plans. Teacher, Social Worker, Grant Drafter, Admin. Hell, I’m looking at Chicago to take some coding classes while I visit.

I have about 40k of student debt, so it’s not like I’ve got the ability to be super flighty and ultra dreamy. I mean, I’ll always be somewhat like that. I’m my mother’s kid. But I’ve become realistic about some things. Not all persons who have the talent to write become great, established writers. It’s upsetting, but I’m okay with that.

I feel like my jovial nature gives people the idea that I’m in great denial or something. That the goal is to be a writer without a 9 to 5. That, you know, it’s straight to the finish line with no questions asked. I think about the fact that this writing thing may not work out all the time. Still, I want it. I want a part of it. I won’t turn my back to it. I’ll probably die at a computer of old age, trying to complete a novel I started at the age of sixteen. In any case, I would like for the people in my life to realize that I’m aware it might not work out. I’m aware that I need plans B-Z to survive this world.

I also need people to understand that my dreams might just be that. Dreams. Let me have that.

What I have always wanted is a “writing space”. Which technically could be anywhere I have my laptop or pen and paper, but I mean a space like Carrie had in her apartment in Sex and The City. A space like Claire had on The Cosby Show to enjoy herself. I have been dreaming of this space for the longest time. From job to job, poem to poem, and boyfriend to boyfriend. Writing is one of many loves in my life, and I’d like to have a place to set her free.

The idea was always going to be some small country thing. Doesn’t have to be a barn, for frack’s sake. Some tiny little ranch house that’s so small, it can only be an office. Some hole in the wall in the backyard, set up as I see fit, financed by me. I would never force anyone else in my life to finance desires that I’ve been building up. First of all, because I WANNA DO IT. Second of all, if it’s not agreed upon, I ain’t forcing anyone to pony up dime one.

That’s super defensive.

And I mean it to be.

The dream of my writing space is sacred and special. Deeper than a man cave or a chick cave. Or whomever’s cave. It’s a space outside the world where I can sit, open up, get it out, and not be distracted. That’s the main part! Not to depart from the world forever and ever, but devote some time to the one thing that brings me joy. Now imagine if I gave side eye to someone I cared about, if they had a similar dream.

I would get chewed da funk out.

The writing space is an extension of me. I may never get my ranch house. I might have to settle for a corner of a room, or an office. That’s fine. Dreams change as my life has changed. But in my mind, it’s always been somewhere down South. Always either been a shed or a bigger space. Always been covered in cute stained glass windows, wind chimes all over, and crystal things.

I can always relocate. The South isn’t the only place with a countryside. And why should I silence my dreams, anyway? Because someone else thinks they’re too airy or too stupid? Or whatever, for that matter?

Smash your own dreams but don’t come for mine.

What else do I want?

Nothing that big.

A dog. A cat. Some kids, and a decent ass life. I don’t have to have a million damn bucks. Just the kind of comfort that gives me some kind of hope in this world. I would like to be happily married, you know? Just keeping it nice because I never needed a big production to be satisfied. Just let me have my writing. Let me dream of my office space. Doesn’t have to be forced. I’m not demanding it!

But alas.

It’s all a dream.