The Big Plunge
Mood:  vegas lucky
Now Playing: Headstrong -- Trapt
I did it! I jumped off a platform and plunged 130 feet. I overcame my shaky knees, my racing heart, and the increasingly loud voice in my head that kept calling me a pussy. It thought it would be so easy. I've jumped out of a plane, for pete's sake! It's so different. Skydiving is almost surreal. The ground is soooo far below, it seems like you'll never hit it, so you're safe. I remember summersaulting off the plane, feeling only joy and weightlessness. Fastforward to last Friday night: I don't even remember the initial jump off the bungee platform. I think I blocked it out, a la post-traumatic stress syndrome. Haha. I was so excited to get up there, but once I looked down, I wanted to quit. I very nearly did. The crowd started chanting "Jump! Jump!" and I wanted so badly to do it, but I just couldn't. The guy up there with me got a radio call, informing him to come down if I didn't do it right then and there. And so I told him to bring me back down in the cage. He opened the gate, and I shuffled my tethered feet backward...and then my courage found me once more. I told him that I was going to do it...and so I did. I impressed the hell out of myself. Cerah has the moment captured in video on her cell phone. I wonder if she can send me that. I viewed it the other day, and it horrified me. I'm flailing. It doesn't look fun at all. But I DID IT. And I'm so proud.

And so they lay there, mocking me...
Mood:  amorous
Now Playing: A Better Version of Me -- Fiona Apple
I don't know why I bought them. They're so obviously meant to be shown off, and I've got no one to show them.

I was doing some non-holiday shopping, but there they were: black and orange panties with glow-in-the-dark print! I walked by without stopping, knowing full well that I had no use for them. But they stuck in my mind, and I came back for them. At the checkout, I came to my senses once more. But I HAD to have them. And so they sit on my dresser, silently mocking my lack of romantic involvement. I could put them away, but I know once I do that, they won't see light again until November or even December, and the mocking will be a shrill shriek by then. I simply must wear them in the next two weeks. And display them at some point, even if it means an uncomfortable moment on the volleyball court.

Confessional
Mood:  don't ask
Now Playing: Baby, It's Cold Outside -- Zooey Deschanel
I feel like shit today. No particularly horrible event has occurred lately. I'd thought I was going out of town this weekend, and I didn't, but that's hardly a traumatic circumstance. The weekend began with me in the role of social butterfly. On Friday, I went to a jewelry party with no intention of buying. Saturday, after my work shift ended, I hit the beach for a few hours of volleyball with friends. I came home for a shower, and an hour later, I was out the door again, to a happy hour, followed by an private Oktoberfest celebration. Things were going well. I didn't seem like I should be on anti-depressants. And then this morning came. After my shift, I lay in bed reading and watching TV, trying not to focus on what lies just below the surface of my oh-so-cool shell.

I nearly cried to my mother this afternoon. I was suddenly overwhelmed. I want so badly to tell her how imperfect I am. I want her to know that I'm sorry, and I can't even figure out what I'm so sorry for. I swallowed a good cry while pretending everything was okay. Then I went to a meeting.

I'm bulimic. I tend to use the word "recovering" before that word, but recovery isn't really happening so much for me right now. It's at the surface. It's an issue every day. Even when I win the battle, the fact there was a battle at all means that the war is far from over.

There it is. I've admitted there's a problem. I'm getting help. And I feel better for having talked about it, even if it's just to my computer screen.

Friendly, Overeager...or Psycho?
Mood:  d'oh
Now Playing: Can't Fight This Feeling Any Longer -- REO Speedwagon
I'm confused. Is something wrong with my approach to dating? I'll totally hit it off with someone, talk to him for hours, have a date or two, and then, mysteriously, he's terribly busy, too busy to call, e-mail, or hang out. Was I mistaken to think it was ever going well? Was my phone call hours after the date a sign of desperation? Is it my breath? I've been out of the dating scene a while, I'll admit, but it hasn't been that long, and it didn't seem so hard back then.

So, someone who really knows me, do me a favor and clue me in. Is it me? Do I get progressively boring as you spend time with me? Do I come off as desperate? (Trust me, I'm not!) Do I stink? What's the deal? What is keeping a girl who can wrangle a dozen dates a month from snagging even one third date with the same person?

The 29-Year-Old Virgin
Mood:  flirty
Now Playing: The Blower's Daughter -- Damien Rice
Sex is a funny thing. Well, sometimes it can be comical, but I'm not even referring to that. I mean, sex can be casual or breathtakingly momentous, a way to blow off steam or a way to connect, and it can bring two people closer or further apart.

I used to dream of having sex with only one man in my entire life, and so I saved myself for Mr. Right. Well, shit happens. And Mr. Right can turn out to be Mr. Not-Right-At-All. And yet, a part of me still wishes the dream were a possibility. Wouldn't it be amazing to have that knowledge, that the only person who has known your beloved intimately is you?

Numbers. I once made a list of all the men I'd had sex with, and let me tell you, it was somewhat surprising. I'm not a skank, and even at my skankiest, I had some standards, yet the number was somewhat alarming. What made it even worse was the realization that I was still single, and that meant the list would grow even more.

Why did this even bother me? I was raised Catholic, but I've been away from the Church over a decade now, and I have a healthy enjoyment of sex. It's fun, it's exercise, and you can do it in almost any mood. You're happy? Have sex. Sad? Sex. Mad? Sex. Horny? Lots of sex.

But sex gets you in trouble, and I'm not just referring to infidelity. No, the sex you had five years ago with your then-girlfriend could cause a problem with your new girlfriend today. Why do we do it to ourselves? I've done it myself. I've asked how many partners my ex had before me, and his answer disappointed and even angered me. I felt less special, as if his having been with someone before me meant he didn't really love me, or some nonsense like that. I asked what he liked, and his telling me somehow made me picture his doing those things with other women, and I hated those images.

So I've learned my lesson, thanks, in part, to some experience, and in part, to a friend of mine. He's had sex with only three women. What a coincidence. I've had sex with only three men.

Three decades of life will do that to you...
Mood:  amorous
Now Playing: My New Philosophy -- from "You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown"
It's flattering. I get told all the time that I can't possibly be my age. Despite the disbelief, it's true. I'm 29. Nearly 30. And I've got proof. I noticed a new set of lines on my face today. My forehead is finally showing the results of years of eyebrow raising. Maybe I should have kept some of those quizzical looks to myself. And last month, just an hour before the wedding of one of my best friends, my hairdresser told me she'd found a grey hair. I nearly cried. It was a hard day already. I love my friend, and her husband's awesome for her, so I was thrilled for them, of course, but the wedding took place only two months after the man I thought would one day be my husband had disappeared, and it took serious effort to prevent myself from being consumed by self-pity. And there I was, just an hour before the ceremony, being told that I wasn't getting any younger or more attractive.

And what if getting older is the biggest reason I can't lose weight the way I did a few years ago? The summer of '01, I lost about sixty pounds, courtesy of "Protein Power" and a lot of willpower. Maybe I lack willpower these days. Something's changed. I've tried everything, it seems, and I just feel fatter. In actuality, I'm still much lighter than I was back then. I've become more obsessed. I love my personality and my intelligence and even parts of my body (like my hands or feet), but I'm growing increasingly unhappy with my weight, even as it decreases.

Part of the problem is the weight loss itself. I didn't like my appearance, so I lost weight. Losing weight reduced the small breasts I had to begin with, and left me with hanging skin. Yeah, I know. You don't want to think about it. I don't want to look at it! It's hideous! I'd almost rather be fat(ter) again. I'm extremely self-conscious of the skin, especially in my thigh area. I refuse to get naked in the light. I believe this is for the good of all mankind.

So, I'm getting wrinkled, grey, and fatter. I'm mostly okay with getting older, really. It's barely noticable. But if some hairdresser reminds me again, she's fired.

Like static cling
Mood:  hug me
Now Playing: still "Animal Cops"
I've been feeling kinda down the past few days. I don't understand WHY, exactly. School's going great. I feel awesome about myself. I've been researching for my trip to Scotland, and that usually excites me to no end. But lately, I'm just not feeling the love. I'm sure it's just one of those cyclical things, and I'll feel great soon. In the meantime, I've gotten clingy, and that can't possibly be helping me any. I need a hug. (Are you reading this Chris? I'm coming over for my hug! If you're not around, I'll hug your hubby! Or your dog!) It's a hug, or I call everyone I miss about seventeen times a day, until they start ignoring my calls. Please, someone, hug me already!

Overediting has become my new addiction
Mood:  accident prone
Now Playing: no music, just "Animal Cops" on TV
I keep wanting to edit that last post. I feel like I overexposed, but I can't find anything I'd really like to delete.

Nothing's perfect, right? And I don't intend to take away anything from our relationship. Greg changed my life in so many positive ways, and when the time comes to count up all the people I ever loved, I'm confident his name will be toward the top. So why do I feel so horrible about letting those words stay as they are?

Turning the page
Mood:  celebratory
Now Playing: Sex and Candy -- Marcy Playground
It finally hit me, all in a rush. After 90 days of Greg's absence, all the emotions that I've been afraid to feel came at me like a tidal wave, and after a moment of anxiety, I accepted it all...and further moved onto a much happier self.

I got angry two nights ago. I decided that if he cared about me more than he cared about himself, he would have called by now. And I said aloud (to myself, but still aloud) that he made me lose a piece of who I used to be. His lack of responsibility made me more responsible, and while that could be construed as a good thing, I can't keep pretending it didn't bother me more than a little. I'd save every nickel I could for some distant vacation, only to learn he was still enjoying his daily Starbucks or weekly scratch games.

We argued. A lot. More than I've ever argued with anyone else.

I blamed myself for that, wondering if I could have asked him in a nicer way to try harder to save, to help around the house, whatever. He'd complain about never having any fun, and that hurt. I thought we had a lot of fun, and I knew he believed that too, but when he was mad, he'd say whatever he wanted and rarely apologize for it later. I learned to ignore those comments, instead of starting yet another argument.

I've spent so much time defending him these past three months that I didn't allow even myself to see the bad. I wanted to convince everyone else that our relationship was perfect, even though it wasn't, not by a long shot. I had doubts. Yeah...I had lots of them, and I'd talk to him about them, and he'd reassure me that we'd work through everything.

He's gone, and I miss him, especially when I'm out. I see a truck like his, or someone on the street, and I look closer. But I think of him less with each passing day. I feel a little bad about that, even as I acknowledge it's healthy.

And now I'm interested in someone else, and I feel guilty because I don't feel guilty. I like this person for who he is and for the way he makes me feel about myself when I'm around him. He's not a replacement. He's just possibly the next chapter (or only a page?) in the book of my life. He's fabulous, and I hope he doesn't get scared off when he reads this...because I like him. A lot. And when I'm all alone, I picture his smiling face...and that's weird...because it doesn't feel weird at all.

I'm not an addict, just a junkie.
Mood:  loud
Now Playing: Hanging By a Moment -- Lifehouse
What is wrong with me? I created this blog early last year, and I rarely remembered to use it. Now I find myself in the shower, in the car, at work, thinking of things to write. Do I really think I'm that clever or witty? No. I'm just trying to get my thoughts down somewhere while I'm experiencing this momentous change. My world is constantly in motion, and I need to organize my thoughts, even the silly ones that only make sense to me. And so I write. I open myself up to criticism and scorn, and even worse, PITY, and I just realized, this could affect any future relationships I might have. Think about it. When you meet someone new, you stay on your best behaviour for a while. You wear your best outfits, try to curse less, even spend more time in front of a mirror. Well, I don't do all that, but most people I know do. I rely on my personality, so I try to keep that sparkling for a few weeks after I've met someone new, but this diary is a reflection of both the good and the bad thoughts in my head. That could be a problem.