So This is What It Feels Likes to be Thirty...
Mood:  celebratory
Now Playing: Summer of '69 -- Bryan Adams
I had a birthday yesterday. Not just any birthday. THE birthday of all birthdays. And I celebrated quietly. I am now officially 30, the age I've been claiming to be for months now. And I'm way out of shape. This last bit of information is by no means breaking news. My birthday motivated me to do something about it. I went jogging. A block into it, I was rather winded. Another block, and I slowed to a brisk walk. I went a mile like that, two blocks of puffing along to every block of walking. It was eye-opening, and when I was done, I felt exhausted but fabulous and oh-so-proud.

I've set myself a few goals. I'm hoping to lose twenty pounds before Christmas. I'll settle for less, but I can't think like that. You see, anyone who really knows me knows that I am extremely hard on myself. I'm my own toughest critic. I see myself as much fatter than I am. This was proven to me two days ago when I saw a television show on the hardhips of being fat, and one of the girls got down to her bra and panties, and I thought, "She's not even that fat." And then I learned she's shorter and heavier than I am. What a shock! So I stripped and looked at myself for a while...and I thought about my weight/appearance goal in respect to where I am now and where I once was...and I realized maybe I'm not doing so bad.

But I still want to change. It's become a complex process now. It's about weight and appearance and overall health and emotional well-being. Without each component, I'll lose the battle. And that's just not going to happen.

He's Just Not That Into You
Mood:  happy
Now Playing: Extraordinary -- Liz Phair
I started reading this book, and it's already making me feel so much better about dating. Maybe it's not me. Maybe it's not even him. Maybe he's just not that into me. That would be okay. Not everyone can be into me. I'm certainly not into everyone I meet.

This common sense mantra passes as wisdom, somehow. When he doesn't call, it seems pretty obvious he's not that into me, but I make excuses and wonder if it's something I've done to make him change his mind. Silliness. He's just not that into me. If he was, he'd make the effort. No one's that busy.

I saw the sailor again tonight. And no, it wasn't a glorious ocassion. It was a bonfire. And he came with another girl he'd met at last week's party, a girl who doesn't even like him as anything but a friend. I know this because she mentioned him at volleyball this morning, and then, while she was sitting beside me, she called to invite him to the bonfire later. I kept quiet to her about knowing him, but when I saw him, I walked right up to him, and I was actually a little thrown off when he remembered my name and immediately said he'd meant to call. He said my phone number was still in his friend's phone. I didn't fall for it, and I wasn't at all upset. He's just not that into me. No offense to her, but anyone who finds her personality fabulous just isn't going to love me, and quite honestly, seeing that he's into someone who is so completely unlike me makes me "just not that into" him.

Don't cry because it's over. Smile because it happened.
The quote above is attributed to Dr. Seuss, of all people. Who knew a children's author would say the words that would one day become a better voice than my own? I've been trying so hard to explain my feelings about my shattered romance. More than a few tears have been shed, I'll admit, but overall, my most recent relationship was something that makes me smile. I was happy, truly content with who I was, more in love than I'd known was possible.

Lyrics to "The Dance" by Garth Brooks further support this emotion: "I’m glad I didn’t know the way it all would end, the way it all would go. Our lives are better left to chance. I could have missed the pain, but I’d have had to miss the dance." I'm glad I didn't miss the dance. The pain bends me on a nearly daily basis, but it has yet to break me, and I wouldn't trade any of it for the time I had with Greg. With him, anything seemed within reach.

Someone at my support group said something a couple of weeks ago that bugs me even today. She, like so many others, thought she was saying something helpful. She insisted I was better off without him, that he obviously never loved me at all. His actions were allegedly proving it. Of all people, I thought someone with an addiction problem herself would be more understanding of drug addiction. He loved me. For over a year, he loved me. If his losing the battle with addiction means that he never loved me, does my battle mean that I never loved him either? I think not. We loved one another, and we were each other's life jacket on more than one occasion. I'm sorry that he lost his battle. I'm sorry for him and for myself. But I don't believe for one minute that he never loved me. And how the hell would thinking it make me feel better? Knowing I'd spent over a year of my life with someone who never cared for me could only hurt more.

Nearly five months after his disappearance. Is he even alive? Will I ever know? Would learning that he's alive and not contacting me be better or worse than learning that he's gone forever? I can't say that word. You know. THAT word. It can't be true.

The dangers of looking fabulous...
Mood:  flirty
Now Playing: Popular -- from the musical
Gina made me her pet project. The annual Mixer Halloween party was last night, and she begged for the opportunity to do my hair and makeup. I don't know why I'd been fighting it for so long. I looked hot! My hair looked the best I'd seen it in over a year, and my makeup had never looked so good in all my life.

I dropped four friends off at the Mixer party, then drove up to another party in Del Mar. I would have skipped it, but this guy, Jon, had told me that he'd be there, and he's kind of hot, and we'd talked for hours last time I saw him, so I felt I had to test the temporarily gorgeous me on him. When I showed up, I didn't see him, but another guy I'd met before came right over and said hello, and he commented on my fabulous appearance. My feet were whimpering for a break from standing in three-inch stilettos, so I sat down for a minute, and in came Jon. He chose the chair next to me, but I convinced him to come sit on the bench beside me, and we talked. And talked. And talked. Still no exchange of digits, but we can certainly converse.

I left an hour later than I'd intended, arriving at the Mixer party just after midnight. Nearly everyone I knew complimented me! Maybe I should focus on my appearance more after all...but it took Gina, an expert on her own makeup, an entire hour!

Someone at that party asked for my number. He's someone I'd never met before. He may never call. If he does, should I get glammed up? Will he recognize my usual self?

The poodle was the pacesetter...
Mood:  celebratory
Now Playing: Tiny Dancer -- Elton John
I went jogging on Friday. My friend, Gina, wanted a jogging partner, and my butt needed to be jogged, so I suggested we start running together. I'm not sure what possessed me to volunteer. I need the exercise, but Gina has run marathons. We're not exactly at the same fitness level.

It worked out surprisingly well. She encouraged me to push myself. When we wanted to stop, we'd set a goal to keep going to a certain point. This especially pleased Gina's dog, who apparently never gets tired. I shocked myself by making it to that point every time. And we talked, more than I'd ever talked to her in the year I've known her.

When it was all over, I realized just how far I'd gone, and I actually felt more energized than I had before I'd begun. I want to keep this up.

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.