The stuff that is happening right now is stuff that's pretty good

Ever since I had the stomach flu three weeks ago, things have been on an uptick. There's just something about sitting on the can, voiding both one's bowels uncontrollably while simultaneously vomiting into the bathroom trash receptacle to really, I don't know, purge all the badness from one's person, both literally and metaphorically.

There was even a moment we could call religious, where, realizing I had but a moment to get back to bed before I was going to pass the fuck out, I wound up flopping, just barely, onto said bed, only to wake up I don't know how much later, face down in my blankets, legs half off and nearly touching the floor. Even in my sickly torpor, I laughed at the situation I was in, and crawled up to my pillows to fall back asleep. Three hours of this, about every twenty minutes to half an hour, and the worst of it was over, but it would be four days before applesauce, saltines, Sprite and bananas weren't 90% of my diet. I tried ravioli on the third day, it was a mistake.

I feel good. The weather seems to be, as of yesterday, in the mood to be more of a summery spring than a wintery one, and as can be expected, it's done wonders for the moods of everyone. I'm wearing a flimsy tank top today. I have a cardigan in my bag, but I don't need it. Praise Jesus.

I am continuing therapy, even though I am now feeling stable and content and like I can tackle shit without the bolstering effect of someone impartial to talk to. Mostly because, despite this stability, the problems are still there, in theory; I need to learn how to be better in a relationship. Less anxious. Less tense. Less nitpicky. And I need to learn that keeping some things to myself, in terms of the intensity of my feelings, can be kept to myself, for weeks, even months at a time, without it being "lying." This is the point we covered last session, and when my therapist laughed at me, I laughed too, and quite deflated in my chair. It's the simple realizations that cover the most ground, and it kind of floors me every time. Not being forthcoming about EVERY thing that I think doesn't mean I'm lying to someone. Bah.

This came about after I told my therapist about a friend who went on a date with a fellow she'd liked form afar for some time. Their date went very well, and basically from that moment, she was like, "He's the one, I'm done," but she didn't say that, for, I think, FOUR MONTHS. And now they're married. Had she said it in the first week, or first month, like I do, he probably would have freaked and ran. But she didn't. And she wasn't lying to him, she was smart, she kept it to herself, let him catch up to her. Why can't I do that? It's one of the many little things I do to sabotage my relationships. Every time. We came up with the obvious metaphor of letting things stew for the other person, letting them feel out the full flavors of me and the relationship before I dump the intensity of my feelings on them. DUH, really, Sarah. And in the meantime, I might find that my feelings are infatuation, or that I don't really like them all that much. But the way I do things, I dump out all that's in my head and expect the other party to be comfortable with that, and also put myself in a position to be overwhelmingly attached to them because of the word LOVE. But they never catch up, not to the level that I found from the beginning. Other women are smart. I need to be like them. A little mystery, girl.

In other news, celibacy and emotional distance are still the name of the game. I had a very handsome, charming, 6'5" college football coach hitting on me in a very adult and gentlemanly way at a literary event last week, but while the first meeting was purely charming, and mildly piqued my interest, when I ran into him at another lit event this weekend, it was determined that he has crazy eyes. Also, dad jeans. Dad jeans, unfortunately, are unforgivable at this stage in my life. I am too old to be teaching a man how to dress. Which is good, because the night I'd met him, and gave him my number after he asked, I woke up at 4 a.m. in a full blown panic and could only get to sleep after I convinced myself he'd never call. He did text the next day to say, adult and gentleman like, that it was a pleasure to have met me. And when I ran into him Saturday, something was off. His charm was now plasticine, his eyes a bit shifty. None of us who had borne witness to the charm four days prior could pinpoint what had changed, but the change was there, nonetheless. I am relieved. I am not ready to date, or even think about it, as is evidenced by my 4 a.m. wakeup in fucking heart pounding fear mode.

But I do have a pleasant, harmless crush that helps me pass the time. We play Words With Friends games and chat about Morrissey. He is too young, too slight of build, and too much the brother of a friend (and too much, again, living in another city), but it is so safe, I can use it as an experiment, and have been. Not a whisper of seal has been broken on the crush. Our talk is very vaguely flirtatious, but no admission of any attraction or interest has been broached in the least. I've never done this before. It's been a month, and I am proud. In fact, I sincerely doubt, when I see him again (given he lives in the city I'd like to relocate to in the fall), that I'll allow it to become anything else. Too young, too slight, too brother. I see those red flags, y'all, and they are not worth the trouble it would be to put another notch in my bedpost. Land sakes, might I wind up with a friend that I find attractive, who finds me attractive, that I never engage in physical activity with?

The mind reels.

A Middling Poem On My Current Goings On

I'm afraid I've not much to say.
The demons are at bay;
I ache from work*, not from play.

I see my friends, I drink a little wine,
I catch the eye of a cutie from time to time**.

It's all nice, it proves to suffice,
And I sleep soundly in the winter's rime.


*Temp job at a hospital through the end of the month; will at least pay my bills for the rest of this month and rent for next, methinks.
**As a function of said job, I was at a hardware store with a medical supply rep trying to get 504 plastic dividers cut to spec. Cutie was cutting our dividers. Definitely a spark there, we smiled and made googly eyes at one another. Medical rep took me back to the hospital so I could get started on assembly, and he told me he was gonna get me a date with this guy. ha. In the end, he wound up cutting his finger and had to be taken to get a stitch by his boss. So med rep guy asked the lad's coworkers about him; 31 and single. I've got an apology bottle of Rogue's Dead Guy Ale in my fridge to take him tomorrow, along with a note including my phone number. He makes me wish I had an Econoline van. He's definitely "If this van's a rockin' don't come knockin'" material.

I think it's time to get back on the old saddle and have a proper shag partner.

Virgin Boy Blood, Anecdote #1

I was about to retire to sleep when the vagaries of my life closed in on my little brain and I became so incensed I had to get up and take care of some business. Namely, move a bookshelf. Why I felt so incensed that I had to move this bookshelf is unimportant, as the new location of the bookshelf is actually much better than the first. It is now sitting next to my desk, with my lamp upon it instead of my desk, thus freeing valuable desk space. There is also, upon this bookshelf, a photo of my boyfriend, Andy.

Yes, Andy is once again my boyfriend; it happened officially on December 14th. Things are as they should be, yays all around.

But, this is not what I wanted to come and write about. No, I came to write about a scrap of cloth lying upon my desk that I've had upon my desk for months, intending to write a blog about it. I want to write about it because, you see, it is SOAKED WITH VIRGIN BOY BLOOD.

There was no rite performed to extract this blood. Okay, that's not true. Making out is a rite of some kind, yes? Yes.

The skinny is this: When I was 21, I dated a 17 year old. A soft skinned, dark eyed, mullet sporting (a good five years before the ironic mullet at least) beautiful 17 year old who drank too much Mountain Dew and played too many video games, but who got dewy eyed when I talked about things that moved me, would leave flowers taped to my apartment door, who was a virgin in nearly every way. I gave him his first blow job at the lake cabin of a mutual friend, as we laid drunkenly on the bottom bunk on a set of bunk beds. Little did we know, our friends downstairs were about to mount a paparazzi onslaught and would soon bust in with a video camera and bright-as-shit light. I still haven't seen that tape...

A week or two later, this boy and I were making out in my bedroom. I'd just moved into my first apartment and didn't yet have a bed, so our fondling went down on a weird fold out chair device (it was basically like sleeping on couch cushions) on the floor. The lighting was dim to non-existent, and suddenly, everything became very wet.

I couldn't believe he'd have come so quickly, he said he hadn't, so I got up and turned on the light.

There was blood. Blood everywhere. All over what I was wearing, all over my boyfriend, all over the quilt my grandmother had made from my father's baby clothes (irony?).

Turns out the lad had had an improperly done circumcision and the skin was too tight, and when there is vigorous making out, rubbing, or anything of that sort, the skin rips a little and bleeds like a mother fucker cuz the dick be full o' bloods. He said, "This happens sometimes. It doesn't hurt." That's the sort of thing a gal might wanna hear about before the making out occurs, kiddo.

Aaaaah!

Anyhoo. We had sex a week or so later. It was his first time. For me it was meh. Except for the virginity eatin'.

A couple years later, we had sex again, at the very same cabin this all started. He'd learned a few things in that time. It was no longer meh.

He stopped talking to me shortly after. But that's a different anecdote altogether.