He compared my recent dating travesties to a person substituting a McDonald's filet-o-fish sandwich for fresh seafood. No matter how good of an idea it seems to be at the time, it's really NOT a good idea. Whatever it is I'm looking for, I have yet to find it. And all these substitutions will only leave me with a bad taste in my mouth. Regrets. Stomachaches. Heartburn. Heartache, rather.
Today, I explored a sunken ship. It was a German warship from the second world war. The captain of our diving boat said the crew sunk the ship themselves after being refused fuel in foreign waters. What they left behind is now an ancient, gnarled bit of debris: evidence of a war, which initially began with some really poor decisions. None of the crew survived. A waste? Or a warning?
I keep forgetting things. Like, who I am, for example. Months will go by. I'll make lists. I'll save money, plan trips, set goals – and most importantly, post sticky notes everywhere with little reminders. Still, one by one, storms will rush in, and at once, I will lose all the data – data, which has taken months to record, gone in moments.
All because of a pretty smile. A timely word. An idea that seems, at the time, good.
I've observed all the couples this week. Honeymooners. Lovebirds. People celebrating anniversaries. I have to wonder what it is that causes two people to leave everything behind and commit. Forever. What is it that sets one person apart as the ideal companion? The till-death-do-us-part perfection that is supposedly found only in one other being on this earth? What is idealistic and romantic also sounds a little nuts; and as a skeptic of most things, I just have to wonder: when women gush over finding "the one," do they really believe that? Is there someone for everyone? And if so, what percentage of couples have interrupted one such fate by taking the plunge…with the wrong person?
It was really big and shiny. I'm a sucker for shiny things. So, for 24 hours, I wore it on my left hand, but I never showed anyone. I couldn't do it. I couldn't admit that this was what I wanted, what I needed, or – as some put it – my destiny. No. No, no, no. I meant to say no. It was bad timing. Worse. It was a bad idea. Far worse. It could have been avoided.
My fingernails have been growing lately. Mom asked me what kind of vitamins I've been taking to make them grow, so I told her there are no vitamins, but a new lifestyle: it's that I'm suddenly anxiety-free. Lately, I sleep at night, I'm considering becoming blonde again, I'm even thinking of singing. I feel so awkwardly normal – myself – and it seems so new.
I had the best birthday ever. I recall saying the same thing last year, as I spent the evening with my family and was entirely content with being single.
Some people, people like my best friend Ashley, are perfectly organized at all times. They cannot stand the feeling of things being out of place, so they make every necessary effort to keep things tidy. There is never a dish in her sink. It seems so peaceful in her home. Other people, people like me, make really big messes. Every time, it takes a great deal more than my clumsy house-keeping efforts to tidy things up again. It always appears to be tornado season in my life. And it is not the fault of another or of the weather; I have received no bad hands but the ones I've dealt myself. It's all mine: the mistakes, the filet-o-fish wrappers, the wreckage.
I'd like to keep it clean this time. I went to an imaginary landfill recently and dumped all my garbage. From this point on, I will not look back. I will not give into ideas that appear to be good without first examining them.
Even though the trash is where it belongs now, my hope is that the ruins I've left behind will serve as reminders - to myself and others - of how quickly disaster can infiltrate. I wish for no repeats. No sequels to these dastardly mistakes. Organization is all about damage control. It begins with some serious cleanup; but it is maintained with consistency.
