Lodi Dodi

I have a suspicion this is going to be a long blog. Calm down. I know you're excited.

I just had a delicious turkey sandwich from a local sandwich shop. Yummm. I love this particular sandwich shop because while you wait for your delicious treat to be served, one can catch up on worldy events kudos to the provided local newspaper. I never fail to find the most interesting ads while inspecting the classifieds at this particular eatery. A couple of months ago I fell upon the classic "To the person who stole my walking cane in Home Depot on Sunday - lawsuit has been filed" ad. What insightful ad did I gaze upon today? This is ver batim. "I have had a bad experience in buying some puppies. For details please call me at..." What's the issue? You're check didn't clear? The pup turned out to be a con artist and took you for all you're worth? I am considering making the call. If you're interested, I have the telephone number. To make my lunch experience even more delightful, I made a friend in the sandwich shop. Quite a talker that one. Just when I thought the conversation could go no further he surprised me with yet another question. Mistake number 1 - telling him I am in the market for a dog. Trust me on this, the communication was painful. Who knew one could retain so much knowledge about tail-waggers.

Moving along now.

Great news. The week of my 32nd birthday I will be on hiatus for 7 days in San Diego/La Jolla. Here's a bit of Josie trivia. Several years ago during my first trip to La Jolla I pronounced the "J" and "L's" in Jolla for 4 days until a good samaritan finally had the heart to tell me I was pronouncing it ALLLLL wrong:

Cali Local - "You're from the South? You don't say! Where you guys staying?"
Me - "This nice 2 bedroom condo in LA-JAL-LAAAA"
Cali Local - "Ohhhhh, goodness. How cute. It's Jolla. You know, as in Oscar De La Hoya. Ha. I've never heard that before. Hey John, get over here. This girl just said JAAAA-LLLLAAA"

Idiot.

I followed this up with a 2 minute death stare at my week long travel companion.

During my holiday I plan to do nothing but lay on the beach and soak up the sun for an entire week.

Due to stress and lack of time, I have found it difficult to post new blogs. It has been a challenge for me this week to find anything of interest to blog about. I asked my dear friend Shizzzle for blog topics and she said:

What about funny little anecdotes or stories about your childhood? Past loves? Growing up as a twin? Things you've learned over the years? Favorite things that don't cost money?

Childhood stories? Always an option. Past loves? How much time do we have and is defamation of character a legitimate concern? Favorite things that don't cost money. Only one thing comes to mind and it starts with an S and ends with an X. That's right, I am a big fan of the sax. It is one of my favorite passtimes - and you didn't even know! I can work the saxophone like no other.

I've had many conversations this week with someone special [meow] about past loves. He and I covered all bases from love to sex to relationships. One topic that came up is one night stands. Have I had one? To be honest I am not quite sure. Does it count as a one night stand if I did not know the indivdiual prior to the [blissful] act but became friends after-the-fact? Let me state for the record, I have no regrets. There were several standing ovations over the course of a couple of months.

More to TALE about past relationships but we'll save that topic for another time. I am going to take the bait on Shizzzle's suggestion and blog a bit about my life as a twin. READY-SET-GO...

Because Jess and I have been twins for 32 years now (33 if you count our shared time in the womb) it's clearly impossible to recount everything. The following is a synopsis, if you will, of some of my endearing memories as a twin:

***Twin and I playing "Peter Brady" which consisted of the two of us jumping up and down on the bed sparatically while attacking one another with tickles and scratches and, if my memory serves me right, chanting of some sort. During one (and probably the last) game of Peter Brady the twin scratched off a raised mole that was once located on my stomach. That sucker bled for hours. The following day a friend at school tormented me with the notion that a mole inadvertently removed from your body results in cancer. In the days that followed I was a walking time bomb. My mother would have to go into another room and hide her laughter as I lay on the couch, wrapped head-to-toe in a blanket, while religously studying a medical encyclopedia, waiting for my imminent death.

***Pencil and eraser. In pictures as little girls the twin always looked like a pencil standing beside me, the eraser. I always had some form of candy or treat in hand. The twin was always empty handed. While we don't remember for sure, we believe I abducted her treat and devoured it before anyone noticed. My parents have an 8-track cassette containing audio clips of the twin and I when we were very young girls. One of the questions asked was "what's your favorite food". The twin responds "I like chicken noodle soup". In a husky scowl I state for the listening audience "I like steak and bacon". Of course you do, fatty.

*** Twin and I physically fighting. Typically this involved her pulling my hair, me scratching her face, and a lot of dual somersaults on the ground. My mom would act like she was trying to break up the brawl but in reality she sat back and enjoyed the show. I remember one time in particular when the twin and I were 16 years old my parents had to place us in separate rooms of the house. This didn’t stop the name calling. Here is another example where my parents tried to lay down the law but simply couldn’t keep from chuckling over our relentless blows.

*** I am not proud of this tidbit. I use to have twin do all my dirty work. This includes running tedious errands at odd times of the day. For example, a midnight Doritos run and I mean literally a run because neither she or I had a car at the time. I also would have twin return mundane and difficult to make phone calls. “I don’t want to go out with Brad tonight, will you please call him and pretend you are me and say something came up”. It took a lot of work but eventually the twin would fold.

[more to come]...

~ JOSIEEEEE

WHOOP, THERE IT IS!

There is no logic behind my blog title today. I just wanted to stick a very annoying tune in your head for the remainder of the day. Don't deny it. It worked.

Listen up guys I need your attention. I am in the market for a bicycle. I came to the conlcusion during the drive to my office (after consuming a delicious greek wrap for lunch and making the purchase of an adorable vintage dress) that it is not conducive towards a healthy lifestyle for me to operate a motorized vehicle. My mental health is being corrupted daily. Every time I get behind the wheel I am taking precious hours off my life. Not only am I certain I irritate other drivers on the street, I am starting to annoy myself. I once had a boyfriend threaten to have the horn removed from my vehicle. I am ashamed of my behavior at times. I am waiting for the inevitable day I inadvertently honk at-flip off-verbally abuse my mother, my boss, or neighbor. I become a mad woman. In case you haven't had the pleasure of having me chaffeur you around the town, let me tell you that I am always right when I drive. This translates to I am always going the perfect speed, I am always in the lane that was paved for me no one else, and when fellow drivers see me coming they better get out of the way ("oh, here comes J get over, get over"). I also cuss like a sailor. I am terrified of the day I accidentally dial a friend, and without knowing and while friend is on the line, have one of my driving tantrums and have to later explain to friend why I am so unbelievably crazy when I am on the road.

I envision a yellow (yella to you southern folk) cycle doning a basket [duh] so I can tote my purse and other nessitites. When I get a new puppy he or she will commute with me via the basket (are you humming the tune from the witch scene in Wizard of Oz, too)? "I'm frightened Aunti Em, frightened." [my fav line from the movie]

It's Friday. I'm a very happy girl. I will talk to you guyz and galz lata...

MCSASSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSY

Guess You Could Say I Gave You My Edge

I wish I could live free
I hope it's not beyond me
Settling down it takes time.
One day we'll live together and life will be better
I have it here yeah in my mind.
Baby, you know someday you'll slow.
And baby, my heart's been breaking.
I gave a lot to you.
I take a lot from you too.
You slave a lot for me.
Guess you could say I gave you my edge.

Bloggers and friends, it’s been awhile so I decided to start things off with the above lyrics from an Interpol song that has been played continuously on my ipod this week.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!
That was me screaming, by the way.

What a day, what a day, what a day.

Ohhhh, the things we girlz do for beauty. It's been a year since I have had a brazilian wax. For those of you shaking your head in bewilderment, here is the definition of a brazilian wax kudos of wikipedia:

Brazilian waxing is a type of waxing involving the bikini area. This procedure involves the complete removal of hair adjacent to the anus, perineum and vulva (labia majora and mons pubis). It can be thought of as an extreme form of bikini waxing. Some forms of Brazilian waxing leave a small line of pubic hair above the vulva; most do not. en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brazilian_wax

My girlfriends are well aware that I undergo this procedure regularly during the summer months so I don't feel weird ranting about it. In fact, I want to talk about it. Why? I feel I have earned the right to talk about my waxing adventure absent being awarded with a medal of honor. Shoot, I will settle for a first place ribbon.

I am not one to toot my own horn but let me preface the following by saying I have a pretty high pain tolerance. As I recall, my last brazilian wax was a nuisance but far from intolerable. Today's affair generated the most pain I have possibly endured in 31 years.

The woman who administers my waxes, we'll call her J, is a very sweet asian lady and is the only human being I can imagine being comfortable with performing such a personal task. A rule of thumb with the brazilian is you must leave all modesty at the door. J sees and touches me in places my very own gynocologist does not. Second rule of thumb, stretch beforehand. J will have me in a number of backbreaking positions before all is said and done. "Lay on side and pull leg behind head" or "put right arm on left leg pull skin like this". I feel like I am playing a solo game of nude Twister. J offers optional paper panties upon arrival but really those suckers aren’t on for 2 full minutes. Basically they serve as a gateway into your own personal comfort zone. J seems equally as awkward with the whole scenario as I do. At times I feel like I am trying to put her at ease. Regardless, when it comes time for that first rip you buckle up and hold on for dear life. The anticipation of the rip is agonizing. The most excruciating rip occurs in the pelvic area at the top of the hairline. Without warning, J rips the bad boy off and applies pressure to the area that is now as soft as a baby’s bottom while she whispers "you okay". No, in fact, I am not okay. I want to hit you. I want to scream for days. I lay there, fists clenched, my teary eyes glued shut, body tense and quietly mumble "yeah, I'm good" followed by an exhale and a disappointing grimace. This process is repeated 25 times. It doesn't get easier. I will admit certain areas are bearable (such as the "backside") yet in conclusion I have to announce this is one of the most tormenting circumstances I have voluntarily put myself through. Not even voluntarily. I pay good money for the abuse. At times I focus on the enchanting lullabies playing in the background but it hardly improves the atmosphere. My disposition is not good. I try to find a spot on the ceiling to focus on (today I noticed teeny cob webs in the far corner of the room) but this didn’t diminish the immense suffering going on down below. At one point I turn my attention to the right side of the room only to find my reflection in the glass doors of J's accessory cabinet. At best, try to refrain from getting a peak at how you look while receiving a brazilian wax. It's far from pretty.

J informs me at least 5 times during the course of our endeavor "this be last one" but it never is. I call her a liar in my mind. At one point I could not pull my skin taut when asked to do so because my hands were too sweaty. I learned long ago not to eat prior to brazilians. While I have not had an accident to date, I can easily see how one might occur. When that rip takes place, you relax everything going on down below in an attempt to release the pain.

J's attempt at pleasant conversation is cute but not welcome. I am trying to concentrate for gods sake. J tells me "you finish" and rubs anti-inflammatory/soothing oil all over the scene of the crime. Blissful. I am trying to picture how an outsider would visualize this scene. Here I lay naked from the waist down legs spread, J rubbing oil all over my private area while I release sighs of relief and thoroughly enjoy the rub (in a nonsexual way, pervs). Let me state for the record, after the hell I had gone through, it was euphoric.

But then J says "I do clean up, okay. This not hurt like tweezers just few hair". You're pulling my leg, right? No. My stinging body says back off. Imagine if you will the worst sunburn you have ever experienced and someone applying a large strip of duct tape to the burning area, rubbing the tape in for good measure, and ripping it off in one quick second. This is my life for the following 2 minutes.

J is walking over to her accessory bowl now and I am thinking to myself if she grabs the tweezers I am out. As soon as I complete that thought J says "I just get one hair it ingrown just one, okay". Guys, I am all about getting what I pay for and I fully expect a first-rate job here, but at some point a line will have to be drawn. I am so tense I feel blood rushing to my sweaty head as I squeeze my eyes shut and prepare for the pinch. OOWWW! I'm out. I got my money's worth. Lead me to the door.

"You no wear nothing now skin red 3 day". It's been 3 hours and I am still in pain. Every time I get up from my chair my dress sticks to my crotch. Yet, I feel free and I feel clean. Awww.

Is it worth the pain, probably. Will I endure the humiliation and suffering of a brazilian in the future, more than likely. Let this serve as a warning for you ladies (and just to be fair – gents) taking this procedure under consideration. It’s no walk in the park.

I'm out. More to come later. Josie

god help me...

My day started off bad when I became extremely irritated with a woman I work with. Her title? Office manager. Typical moaner. Always “up to her eyeballs” with work. Thoroughly enjoys holding the “office manager” title yet fails to commit to the required work. She has a habit of picking fights with those she believes she can control but really she has no control at all. I had all I could take of her belly-aching, stepped up to the plate and stood up for the underlings she tries to manipulate . The fiasco threw me into a terrible mood and my demeanor has been negative as a result. The woman is a fucking idiot. That’s harsh, I know. But, I mean it and you know what it feels good to say it. Please allow me to provide you with an example of her ignorance. During one of several bashing sessions between my co-workers and I, it became known to us that this blockhead is considering knocking down the file room walls during her spare time over a weekend in the near future. Why? No clue. It was one of those "brilliant ideas" that came to her during the middle of the night. A male co-worker pointed out that when she goes “under construction” with this ingenious idea, the ceiling will cave because the walls serve as support. Can’t wait.

Baby Baker

Welcome to the world, tiny one. You were a joy to meet this evening. A beautiful creation, you are. Daddy Baker claims you are going to be a supermodel and a millionaire and I have to tell ya, I bet he is right.

Momma and daddy Baker, I've never seen either one of you happier. It was a thrilling experience to share this day with you both. You will make fantastic parents.

I love you all,

J

An Open Letter to The Bitches Who Love Drama and The People That Hate Them

Dear D-RAMA QUEENZ,

My ears are bleeding from your relentless bellowing. What a debilitating existence you lead. A life consumed with drama, always on the lookout for your next victim. You crave the need to cause a spectacle. Here's a suggestion, take your act to the stage. No one wants to play a part in your show. Perhaps if you tried putting a little effort into enjoying a life of your own you would be less inclined to dwell in the shadows of those you envy. You are convinced that your brutal attacks make you leaders, but all I see are a couple of weaklings starving for attention. You live under the influence of others while lacking an ounce of individuality. You live in a world of hypocrisy. You are a drain to society. No one can stand to occupy your company. You are trusted by no one. You've burned bridges and have destroyed relationships by your antics. Negativity is drawn to you. Your bite is venomous. You live to point fingers instead of trying to fix your damaged lives. Serenity drives you insane yet you're bewildered by the incessant hysteria. Your happiness derives from creating displeasure in others.

Your vicious ways will lead to your demise and I will enjoy the show this time.

Jimmy crack corn, and I don't care...

~ JOSIE

~ JOSIE M

grins & giggles

This is for you, Ohio. Lord knows I don't wish to steal your thunder. I considered consulting one of my attorneys prior to posting this blog just because I don't want to ruffle the feathers of a "trend setter" but I threw caution to the wind and decided to take a chance. Here is a bit of trivia for you all. My dear friend Ohio designed and put to use the expression "Damn Skippy" which was later stolen and used by society.


You have to find joy in the mundane things in life. That's what life is all about. I was at dinner last night and, while eavesdropping, overheard a restaurant patron ask the waiter for a spoon. Logical question, right? 5 minutes later the waiter returns to inform the young woman that they "have no clean OR dirty spoons available". Where the fuck did they go? Clean or dirty. My dinner companion and I were immensely intrigued. No spoons. Really? None? At all? The waiter left no room for debate. "You have soup? Should have ordered the chicken soft taco now get off my back lady." I pictured the Mexican busboy pocketing these dirty spoons and sending them back home to Mexico where his 12 brothers run an illegal spoon operation from their family camp selling the stolen goods at $1 apiece. Do you have any better ideas?

Moving on.

My next project we're going to call:

AN OPEN LETTER TO BITCHES WHO LOVE DRAMA AND THE PEOPLE THAT HATE THEM

a moment

"I believe you have a difficult time saying no to anyone BUT me."

Magical. Wouldn't you agree? You read it here first, folks. Someday students around the globe will be analyizing this proverb, wrting thesis papers based on this amazing philosophy wondering who was this man?

This is not ver batim. The genius who authored the above-referenced quote stated the delicate words in a FAR more poetic way. So much more that I am ill equipped, being the amatuer writer I am, to convey the poetic statement as brilliantly as said author stated it, but throw me a learning curve, would ya please.

I can only say, it was a moment.

For the record, this amazing and clever scripter is incorrect. His statement, while awe-inspiring, is totally false. Because truth be told, there is not another I'd rather say yes to. ..

Goodnight.

I want a mini horse

"Keep your eyes open on Thursday for a special opportunity"

Yakety-yak. Last night I was at a minor league baseball game and me and a couple of friends were discussing the sexual innuendos associated with candy. It became a fun little game for the evening (in lieu of watching the game we paid money to see). One can pretty much associate sex with anything if you put your [sick] mind to it. Here are a few of my favs with candy. Feel free to add if you can think of others:

• Almond Joy
• Fun Dip
• Good & Plenty
• Oh Henry
• Whoopers
• Jawbreakers (seriously!)
• Mounds
• Skor
• Big Cherry
• Bit O Honey
• Butterfinger
• Hot Tamales
• Moon Pie
• Pay Day
• Salted Nut Roll
• Snickers (Always satisfies)
• M-n-M (melts in your mouth...)
• Sugar Daddy

I don't know about you but just writing about these suggestive treats gets me all...........hungry for something sweet. Mindless entertainment. Isn't it quaint?

I had lunch with a very good friend of mine this afternoon (this friend happens to be 39 weeks pregnant and is expected to pop any day now and I could not be happier for her.) Following a delicious meal at our favorite local Chinese eatery (which provided me with the fortune quoted at the top of today's blog) my friend stopped by a department store to pick up a wedding gift. It was my desire to sit and wait in the car but my friend insisted I go in to take a gander at the shoe sale. Sigh. "Let's go." [wink wink]

The second I make my presence known in the shoe department I am hounded and stalked by not 1 not 2 not even 3 but 4 hungry shoe salespeople. Lets call them vultures. Each, as if reading directly from a script, ask "hey there young lady can I help you with a pair of shoes on this fine afternoon" and in return I snap back "just looking". Here is a trick. Never make eye contact. "Well my name is John and if you need anything I will be sitting over here in the corner watching your every move". Intense. I am not big on chatting on the cell phone in public but if ever there was a good time for it - SHOE SHOPPING. Those bastards won't ride your back like a circus monkey if you appear distracted.

I am not in the market for a pair of shoes. I have plenty of perfectly suitable pairs of shoes I hardly wear resting on the floor of my closet. But there was this remarkable sale being paraded in front of my eyes and I stumbled upon a pair of carmel Gianni Bini heels that caught my eye. I discreetly try on the size 6 pair that were on display (my size) and become smitten with them. Tempting, but here is the thing. The older (and wiser) I get the less inclined I am to binge shop. Two years ago I would have snatched the shoes in seconds with a follow up shopping excursion for the perfect outfit to go with the shoes. Not today my friend. I set the shoes back where I found them and walk away quietly. Sale or no sale I don't need the shoes. I am not an impulse shopper. I will go home and if I can't sleep without the shoes tonight I will return tomorrow. Sounds reasonable , right?

My friend had witnessed my private debacle and began persuading me to buy the shoes. "They're only how much", she says. "Get them! Oh, and they're so cute. When are you going to be able to buy a pair of Gianni Bini shoes at that price again? Oh, and they'll be perfect for summer and you can carry them over into the fall. They'll even work in the winter." Sold.

Here's where the real fun begins. The second you make the committment to finalize a deal at this particular shoe store it is impossible to find a store clerk. Poof. Gone.

I notice two saleswomen chatting away directly outside the register hut. They were yakking away about things I couldn't care less about. I simply wanted to get my pretty shoes and get the hell out of there. I began to click my debit card against the counter relentlessly. Saleslady I threw me a "can you please stop clicking your debit card against the counter" look and selfishly returned to her draining conversation with Saleslady II. Guys, hey, uh guys hi. I would very much so like to purchase these shoes, um please. Where did everyone go? Am I in this store alone. After practically breaking my neck looking around the store trying to make sense of the situation while throwing gestures and making sounds, Saleslady I looks at me and says "did you need something". Oh, so sorry to interrupt your FUCKING conversation but yeah, I'd like to purchase this pair of SHOES in this SHOE store SHOE clerk! Did I say that, no. Instead I politely say "yeah, I would like to purchase this pair of shoes, please kind lady". Saleslady I, who is very irritated, looks around, rolls her eyes and says "OOOOkayyyyy".

What's the problem? I didn't ask you to solve a math equation, I asked you to do your job. She considers assisting me for a second before suspicously asking "Who exactly was helping you?" You bitch, you are helping me. I choose you. Now take my debit card, ring me up and I will be on my merry way. As she approaches the counter leaving saleslady II to wallow in her own misery I sense a small fire starting to burn within me. I can't help it. The urge is too strong. I am trying to bite my tongue. But no, too late. "I can do that, right? I mean this is where people pay, right, at the register for shoes that I picked up in this store?" She didn't like that. "Wellllllll [sigh] I asked you earlier if you needed help and you said someone else was helping you". NO I DIDN'T! I absolutely did not say that. I don't LET people help me. I want to shop for my own damn shoes. Does that mean I am not allowed to purchase them? "No, ma'am, what I said is no thank you, just looking. Now can I purchase the shoes?" Is she going to need to seek approval from a mangement team? "Well, we work on commission here". Fantastic! Good for you. Ring me up and you'll make, what, like $2 off this sale. Still feeling the need to bite back, I take the bait "yes I know, I worked here years ago. I know how the system works." It's true. I had worked for this particular department store when I was a young girl and desired supplemental income. I didn't care about commission then and I sure as hell don't care today. I could tell she wasn't impressed with my attitude.

Saleslady I proceeded to complete the transaction like a sourpuss. No pleasantries were exchanged. My friend nonchalantly walked around the store acting as if she was shoe browsing but she wasn't. She was enjoying the show. 30 painful minutes later she and I walked out of the department store and me with a new pair of shoes. I didn't walk out of that store with the "whatta deal" feeling. I earned those shoes.

Speaking of idiots and shoes, I once went all day wearing a new pair of shoes on the wrong feet. True story. Prior to making the humiliating discovery, I placed the pain blame (and blood) on them being new.

Here is a recent picture of my twin sister and I.




Ladies and Gentlemen, good day and good night.

Josie

Love Will Tear Us Apart

Dedicated to the twin...

Living under the impression that you are only having fun and will not allow yourself to “let go” is easier said than done. It's a self made bluff. When you finally cross the threshold to the other side it’s one of the most invigorating and scariest feelings known. We all are familiar with the old adage “it is better to have loved” yet sometimes I wonder. In those early stages of falling in love I live in a mixed state of anxiety and bliss. I find myself questioning whether the joy is worth the ambivalence. I falter between living with hope to losing faith. When all is said and done and should the romance fail (whether it be early on in the relationship or years down the road) what do you have left? Memories? Memories that are often too tainted to reflect upon? Memories that leave you jaded? Do we ever move on completely?

I have been known to employ the use of protective measures. This has included holding everything close to the vest while never fully exposing myself and generating lists of pros and cons. By not opening myself up I felt had nothing to lose. Adopting the use of a “cons” list served as a reminder of all the wrong reasons we were together should the romance fail. Truth is none of this really works. As we all know the heart dictates the mind. It doesn’t matter what the mind knows as long as the heart is involved.

Don’t get me wrong, I have not been a saint. I’ve agonized during my role as the victim and I have consumed myself with guilt over my selfish role as the villain. Each role harvests sadness, guilt, self-doubt, questions of integrity and questions of what now. I can say with assurance that I have been heartbroken. I realize as I grow older that a few of the times I thought I was heartbroken I simply did not get what I wanted in the moment and maybe in retrospect that was what I needed. Who doesn’t loathe rejection? When the hurt is real you feel it in everything you do. You live it, walk it, taste it, and dream it. Do I believe you ever completely heal from heartbreak? I believe you heal enough. You lick your wounds, move on, and tuck away that small dose of pain somewhere to never be dealt with again. That is one cruel thing about life. As if rejection wasn't tough enough, every time you lose someone significant they take a little piece of you with them.

Love. How does one truly define love? One of life’s most sought after treasures. During a lifetime love is constantly second guessed and doubted. Love varies for everyone. For me it means finding that someone who can fill the role as your partner, allowing you to keep your individuality while never giving up your edge. I am picky. I have always been picky. If I don’t feel something instantly with someone I bail. I have been coined everything from chronic dater to man-eater. The pattern is predictable. I am smitten and giddy during the first three months. Then something happens around the 3 month period where I go through a transition (which is typically the time most men are ready to broach the “commitment” subject). I start nit-picking. Finding (searching) for reasons to cut loose. At the end of the day I realize the bottom line is I simply wasn’t ready or willing to settle.

In the past I have fought the urge to succumb to what I define as the closest thing to real love I may be offered in my lifetime. It’s a battle between the sense that being alone is better than living a life of misery with the wrong person to fearing the imminent devastation over the realization that I am old and alone and I lost my chance. I discussed this topic with a male friend of mine recently and he provided me with what appears to be the best (and obvious) answer. It is never a good thing to settle. If you are alone there is always the possibility of finding someone special. Once you settle, you have sold your soul, left to wonder and live unhappily ever after. When faced with the anxiety-inducing combination of growing old and being alone, that is a tough pill to swallow.

Until my next rant,

McSass