meow.

I went shopping again this weekend, with the RJM. I don’t even like shopping. Not that much. I love clothes though. I love clothes so much and I love trying stuff on and having it fit and looking at myself wearing small sizes (not that sizes even mean anything these days. Vain!) I like to pretend this will be the outfit I’m going to wear on the first date I have with my next true love.

It wasn’t always like this though. Nope. Because I used to be fat (You nevir FAHT, just overvayt, RJM interjects, which honestly sounds a million times worse than fat. Like here is the NORMAL weight, and you are OVER that, WAY over, so why don’t you just go stand OVER there. Ew.) Cute clothes were always something other girls got to play with, and I got to play the smart one who was good at drawing pretty girls, instead of being one.

This isn’t a pity post. I’m glad I used to be a fatty, because as God as my witness I will never be one again. No ma’am Miss Scarlett. And I know all the tricks of the trade.  Not like the effortlessly skinny-when-they-were-young-girls, who now bloat over a doughnut and panic over a bulge that never used to be there (cardio, tons of water and no eating after 4 p.m. You’ll lose it by Friday. You’re welcome.)

My latest conquest in the shopping world is a pale silver Michael Kors mini-dress, with two front pockets and a faint leopard print pattern. I love leopard print. I can’t help it. Eastern European roots run deep. Maybe I’ll get my next true love to take a photo of me in it and I’ll post it here sometime.

another night with cabiria.

Being thrown off the proverbial cliff always feels worse when it’s a gentle-eyed lover doing the pushing (if you haven’t seen it, go and rent Fellini’s Nights of Cabiria right now. Don’t even finish reading this post until you do.) If it feels like someone is toying with your emotions, they probably are. Even if it’s not on purpose, even if they don’t have malicious intentions…if something is feeling off, there’s probably good reason for it. If it feels hot and cold from the beginning, a deep freeze is about to set in.

It’s so easy for me to just leap when I like the person. Not that I just fall for everyone. I’m more of a thinker, always in my head. Walls are up. Pleasant and breezy, and hard to know. But when I meet a new someone, it’s either yes or no. I like you or I don’t. I’m not myself around the ones I like. I feel comfortable around the ones I don’t, and distance myself immediately. Too extreme. I keep looking for the balance and keep falling off the beam. Young soul, too new to remember the last disappointment. Wishing on lucky pennies and 12:34 on the clock. I told you I was 12.

Everytime I say, no this time will be different. I’m going to go slow and let him prove himself to me. I will not wear my heart on my sleeve. Everytime it’s a yes I like you, my ice-princess intentions melt in an instant. Lines drawn in the sand are so easily washed away. 

I want to be the tough street girl. Instead I’m easily hypnotized with romantic potential, until I’ve managed to sweep myself off my own feet. I want to grow a thicker skin, but all the hurts and snubs just soak right through.  They’re all right there, not visible yet barely contained, until suddenly I’m staring out the window on a bus ride home and realize that some guy stopped at a red light is watching me cry from his car. Too soft, too understanding, too hopeful that his heart will open soon.

Will it actually be so much different next time? I tell myself I’ll be more careful, but I don’t know if I’m even fooling myself anymore. If I’m going to go for something, I’m going to go for it all the way, and hope that next time there will be someone to catch me. Maybe that will be the difference.

quote of the weekend.

22-year-old guy: How old are you?

Me: How old do you think? (here’s where I figure out if I’ve been getting enough sleep)

22yog: 21 (don’t get excited, he’s drunk and it’s dark)

Me: No, I’m 29.

22yog: No way! But you don’t look like there’s anything wrong with you!

I am so moving to Europe when I hit 40. I’d much rather be considered a hot old-lady slut, than have little pipsqueaks counting my crow’s feet.