More Than Friends

A lot has happened in the last few months. 

I dated four guys, two of which turned out to be users, and two of which are trying, diligently, to earn my affection. 

I'll tell you about each one. The first one is a fresh transplant, and the other is in the armed forces. The first one I'll call "Sam." 

Sam

Sam moved here recently from North Dakota. I think he's the first person I've ever met from North Dakota. In a former life, he was a hotel manager. At age 34, he decided to switch careers. He came here to dabble in real estate and flipping houses. I'm usually wary of people who are fresh to the area and who flip houses - they typically turn out to be flighty and are known to be party boys. This guy, however, seemed to have a solid five-year-plan, and he focused on me like a laser beam. 

We met on Bumble and eventually moved from the app to texting. Texting after a week turned into a date. I wanted to keep it light and fun, so I suggested a music event that was happening in the downtown area. Live bands would be playing everywhere, making for easy and accessible entertainment. It wasn't anything heavily romantic, and we could walk around and talk. 

I was having a great time with him. In fact, it was such a great time, I thought to myself, Well, he'll make a great friend. I honestly wasn't feeling any chemistry other than man-friend. He seemed pretty at ease, and then the conversation started to take a turn - he would insert things like, "If I get married once, I want it to be forever, like my parents" and things like "I love that you hold the same values as I do." 

Usually, I'd be jumping for joy to hear these things come out of a man's mouth, a man that I was interested in, but I wasn't feeling the spark in those moments. As the night grew later, and my stamina for staying up grew weaker, he walked me to my car. 

Then it happened. 

He gave me a hug as we were saying good night to each other, and right before releasing me from the hug, he held me, and started to lean in towards my face. 

Shit, he's going to kiss me, I thought. Okay, just see how it goes, maybe this is just what you needed, to see if you feel anything. I closed my eyes, and let it happen.  

It was like kissing my brother on the mouth. Bleh. 

He, however, acted like he had just tasted the sweetest nectar in the Garden of Eden. 

"Wow!" he said, looking into my eyes with a soft smile. It was at this point I started to feel awful. I wasn't having those same feelings, as much as I wanted to have them. After a moment, he went in for a second kiss. Again? I thought. Okay, don't be a bitch, maybe you'll feel a spark on the second kiss.

I felt no spark. I only felt a lot of guilt for not feeling the same fireworks that he was feeling. He was so excited. Since that date, it's been waves of daily text messages that culminated into him disclosing his intentions to me - he wanted to start a relationship eventually. I told him I wasn't in any rush and that I just wanted to go slow. I didn't have the heart to tell him that I felt no attraction towards him. I figured I would see how the second date goes, and if I still felt nothing, I'd let him down gently, and hopefully my offer of friendship will be enough. 

Now, let me tell you about the armed forces gentleman. 

David

David is also a Bumble catch. David is mixed race. Although his family is mostly African American, they are mixed with Dutch, explaining the odd last name that he holds. David is 40, tall, fit, and very handsome. His mother lives one town over from me, and he comes to visit her every few months. Although he is stationed outside my state, he has kept in touch with me faithfully since our first meeting in July. I enjoyed his company when we hung out in July, but didn't develop any strong feelings for him. I chalked it up to another friend in the books for me.  

Apparently, over our months of communication, he had developed feelings for me. We had our second date tonight. I wanted to go to another event in town that I thought would be fun, a local art competition that would allow us to walk around and view some interesting pieces. I told him to meet me at a Whole Foods, and then we could take my car and drive out in the same car since parking would be tight. Before we hit the road, he wanted to hug me. I thought it was sweet, and then he asked for my permission to kiss me. 

Kiss me? I thought. I thought we were just going to hang out! I figured, well, why not. Let's see what happens. He was a good kisser, but I didn't feel the fireworks. Maybe it'll develop, I thought to myself. I really wanted to develop feelings. I wanted to feel the spark. If anyone deserved that spark, it was this man. 

As we walked, we exchanged marathon stories. He had run the Marine Corps Marathon, and the week after, I had run the New York City Marathon. It was nice to be able to swap marathon stories with each other and to relate to each other in that way. 

He then began to express to me how much I meant to him. He took my hand into his. I started to feel awful. He told me how beautiful I was and how thankful he was that I was in his life, that I was spending time with him, and how much it meant to him that I was even staying in touch with him. My heart started to melt. I looked into his eyes, and I saw pure honesty and emotion pouring out of them. Then, my heart started to break. 

"You need to know how beautiful you are, and how much you mean to me. I don't take this lightly. You need to know that I don't take this lightly at all. Most women wouldn't keep in touch the way you have." We had been walking, and he stopped walking and faced me. 

"I want to see you more. I really want this to have a real chance. I really believe in us. I'd like you to fly out to visit me." Oh my gosh, I thought. I wasn't ready for any of this. I wasn't expecting any of this. In fact, I hadn't even thought of him as more than a good friend at that point. And then I thought, If I visit him, that means he'll probably want to have sex! Am I ready for that with him? Am I ready for any of this? I was freaking out inside and feeling horrible, because he was such a sweet man, offering me the beginning of what was clearly going to be a great relationship. 

After the art competition, we decided to go get a bite to eat. I suggested a fool-proof cuisine - tacos. During dinner, he told me that he would be able to retire from the armed forces soon and what his plans were afterwards. He asked me about my career plans, and then hypothesized about how our lives could be united in one spot, rather than be lived in two states. I responded with a gentle smile, "We'll see how things go." I didn't know what else to say. I wasn't ready to think that far ahead. This was only the second date, and I didn't think we were at that level to be considering all of this. I went back to our text messages and phone conversations. How could I have missed these signals? Am I that dense? Or am I selfish? I felt like I was a terrible person. 

I agreed to fly out to see him, depending on my work calendar. Unfortunately, my case load at the firm has now almost doubled. I'm no longer working to keep up my billable hours quota. Now, I'm working to make sure my cases don't fall behind. We've been receiving cases at the rate of a tsunami. It's left me very little personal time for myself other than time to eat, sleep, and spend an hour going for a run or performing a work-out at the gym. 

During dinner, he took my hands into his. "I need to tell you something, though." He went on to explain to me that another deployment was on the horizon. He asked me how I felt about it. 

"I mean, it is what it is. There's nothing for me to say about it. Will you be safe?" I certainly wasn't going to abandon him. Then his tone became very serious. 

"Well, anything can happen, and most likely, I'll be going into a war zone." Afghanistan. I started to panic inside, but, like a true trial lawyer, I reeled it in. 

"I need you to know how much you mean to me. I really want you to understand that. You mean so much to me, and I am so thankful to be in your presence and to spend this time with you. To be able to kiss someone, and to hold someone's hand, and to feel that warmth is something that is so special to me, and you are special to me. I'm telling you this because if something happens to me, I want you to know how much you meant to me. It's really important to me that you know this."

I felt tears coming to my eyes. I felt even worse, and then I felt my heart split into two pieces. I couldn't tell him that I didn't reciprocate those feelings. I wasn't at that level, but the thought of any harm happening to him, or worse, dying, was horrific to me. I fought back the tears. I wanted to keep my composure because I didn't want to upset him. I started to beat myself up internally, Why can't you let yourself feel something for him?  

I dropped him back off at his car, but not before we shared a long hug and a gentle good-night kiss. Although I started to feel some attraction, when I looked in his eyes, I didn't know if I was trying to force myself to feel something, or if I really was starting to feel something. All I knew was that if anyone deserved to be with me, it was this man. 

To console myself, I vowed to give him a real chance. To see where it goes, but to make sure he doesn't accelerate anything. The problem is I don't know what my feelings are, and as much as I want to feel that fiery attraction, it isn't hitting me just yet. 

As awful as this sounds, I feel both men should get a fair chance, although I'm thinking that more likely than not, nothing will happen with either one. If I had to choose one, I'd choose David, but the problem is, can I really choose either one of them if I'm not feeling anything yet? Am I just a bad person? Have I become callous? 

Or do I need more time to develop a connection? 

Either way, I need to figure things out quickly, because the last thing I ever want to do is hurt someone as much as I've been hurt. The pain of a broken heart is a pain that I hope I never inflict on someone else. I would rather suffer than be responsible for another's pain. 

photo credit: Jason Mraz, album art "Know" 

Bullies

After the Parkland shooting, there has been a lot of talk about bullying and mental illness in schools. I never suffered from a mental illness, but I did suffer from bullying as a kid. 

Let me take you back to the year 1989. I was in kindergarten. I remember the first day of school. I was a little sprocket, holding my red backpack while my mom walked me to the bus stop. I was dressed in one of my best dresses. My mom always sent me to school in a beautiful dress, and I always had a bow or a flower in my curly, dark brown hair. 

The night before, my mom read me the story of the Bernstein Bears and their first day of kindergarten. I was looking forward to meeting my teacher and starting school. I asked my mom to pack me a peanut butter sandwich like in the book. I thought my first day would be just like in the book.

I stepped up on the bus and turned back to look at my mom. She stood there smiling at me and told me to have a great day. She blew me a kiss. As I made my way through the packed bus, I saw that there was a pair of girls with an empty seat behind them. I sat down in the seat and looked out the window. There was my mom, still smiling. I started to feel sad because I was leaving my mom behind for a whole day. My mom saw me start to frown, and she motioned for me to smile. She blew me  more kisses, and I blew her kisses back. She made the sign of the cross and I crossed myself. Then, the bus started to pull off. I was on my way to school. 

I watched my neighborhood turn into a motion picture of flowing scenery, streets melting from one into the other. I wondered what my classmates would be like. I wondered what school would be like. My thoughts were interrupted by a "HEY YOU!" 

I looked up to see both of the girls in the seat in front of me leaning over me. I didn't say anything. 

"Who are you?" I replied with my full name. I started to feel scared. Why were these girls being so aggressive? I had just gotten there. 

"You know you can't sit there, right?" 

"Um, no." I didn't know what to say. I didn't realize that there were rules to the bus. They didn't talk about that in the Bernstein Bears book. 

The girls started to laugh. "You can only sit where we tell you to sit!" 

"Okay." What else was I going to do? I didn't want to make trouble with people I didn't know. I was 4 at the time, about to turn 5. 

The school day itself was magnificent. Kindergarten was a blast, and I loved my teacher. I got into the habit of bringing her a rose from my family's garden while our rose bush was in bloom. Every day started with a hug. It was wonderful. 

The bus ride home, however, was another story. Those two girls were waiting for me, and they made every ride home unbearable. They would laugh at my clothes, at my hair, and any little thing I did. Not long after that first day of school, I started to cry to my mother. 

"What's wrong?" she asked me. You need to understand this about my mother's voice - it's one of the sweetest sounds you will ever hear. She also has an adorable Spanish accent. 

I looked up at my mom and started to cry. I told her about the two girls on the bus. My mom told me to fire back at them. 

"Those girls aren't better than you! Stand up to them! Tell them that their words mean nothing! Be proud of who you are!" 

And I did exactly that. The next day, when they started to laugh at me, I started laughing at them back. They thought I lost my mind and asked me what was so funny. 

"You are!" 

They paused for a moment and looked at me. Then they started laughing at me again. 

"She's crazy! Stupid girl! Stupid girl!" 

I got upset. My mom's trick backfired. My face got hot and I started to fight back the tears. As we pulled up to my bus stop, I looked anxiously for my mom. I went straight to her and I started to cry. I told her that the master plan had failed. 

My mom got angry. "This is enough! Tomorrow, I want you to show me who these girls are!" 

And I did. The next morning, my mom came with me to the bus stop. She got on the bus with me and I pointed out the two girls to her. My mom demanded their names. Wide-eyed, the two girls told my mom their names. 

"I am going to find your parents and tell them about your behavior! You do not treat people this way! Do you understand me? You do not act this way!" 

After that day, the girls left me alone, but I encountered other bullies in school. 

Kindergarten and first grade went smoothly without incident. I had a friend, Danielle. We spent so much time at each other's houses. She was a Jewish little girl and she was one of my first best friends. Around first grade was when I learned that I was Palestinian. We would see the news and we wouldn't understand why people couldn't be friends like us. 

After first grade, Danielle was moved to another class. It was a living hell without her, and by fifth grade she had left the school. Fifth grade started to get better but not by much. 

In second grade, there was a boy that, for some reason, really hated me. I always tried to be nice, but he and his friends used to make fun of me. I thought by being nice, they would stop being cruel. I was starting to get a little chubby, so my weight was a prime topic for ridicule. My hair always used to be pulled back in a half ponytail. 

One day, I was late to school. I went rushing to my classroom, and I saw the boy in the hall. He was heading towards our classroom and was quite a distance ahead of me. I don't know why, but I greeted him. "Hi, Colin!"

He turned around in a rage. I never knew little boys could become so vicious. He started to run towards me. "I've had enough of you!" 

I froze. Enough of me? I just got here.

He grabbed my shoulders and slammed me into the wall. I started to cry. He then grabbed my hair and pulled really hard. I started to shout. "Please help me! Someone please help me!" He took my head and slammed it into the wall a few times. It hurt so much. After what seemed like an eternity, a teacher popped her head into the hallway and saw the two of us. 

She rushed towards us and ordered him to get away from me. Another teacher came, pulled him off me, and ordered him to go to principal's office. They felt the back of my head. It had big knots. After some time icing my head in the nurse's office, I went back to my classroom. Some of the kids that were friends with the boy asked me why I got him into trouble. They told me I should've just kept quiet. The rest of the school year I was an outcast. I remember one day, one of the kids told me that nobody in the school liked me. I snapped at her. "That's not true. I have a lot of friends. You're all just not one of them!"

And it was true. I had friends outside school. I was friends with the kids of family friends, but my best friends outside school were the neighbor kids. To summon each other after homework was finished, we would stand outside in each other's yards and shout each other's names. "HEY KELLY, YOU WANT TO COME OUT AND PLAY?" Eventually, we started to use telephones instead of the intense volume of our voices. 

And when we would come out of the house, it was a celebration. We were anything we wanted to be. I was a warrior princess. I was an ecomancer. I was a Native American princess. I was a sorceress. I could fly. Hide and seek. Dragons. Unicorns. Pegasus. Magical creatures were everywhere. Plants were mystical and had special powers. 

We would set off to explore the neighborhood on our bikes, except our bikes were magic carpets or horses. In the summer, we were mermaids and we'd swim until our skin became so wrinkled that it looked like we had aged sixty years. My favorite memory is running so fast through the unfenced backyards of the neighborhood that it felt like I was unstoppable. Those were some of my happiest memories.  

Third and fourth grades I was still basically an outcast. Bringing Arabic food to lunch didn't help either; they thought it was alien food. Imagine bringing stuffed grape leaves to school where the standard fare was a hotdog. "What is that?" the kids would say. And then I would explain the name in Arabic because I didn't know what the names were in English. This further added to my weirdness. "How do you eat that? That's so weird! You are so weird! Look at what she has! Freak!" 

Danielle was in my class again mid-year in third grade, but it didn't help much. I was always the kid that got picked last. Nobody wanted me at their lunch table, but everyone wanted me to sit next to them for tests because I was always in honor roll. 

I might have been chubby, but I was damn smart, and I knew it and they knew it. Eventually, I started to use my smarts to my advantage. I would bribe kids to be nice to me, but it didn't always work. I remember one time during class, a kid shouted at me that I was a fat pig. I remember how my eyes welled up. Danielle was sitting next to me. 

"Hey, don't listen to him. Do you know what you are?" 

"What?" 

"Unique. You are unique." I still remember her smile in that moment. 

I pondered the word the rest of class. Later that day, I turned it into a bookmark. Danielle left our school after fourth grade. I didn't know what I would do without her. 

Luckily, I made a friend in fifth grade. I was still heavy and I still wanted to be accepted by the kids. I tried to act tough, but it still hurt every time I was picked last or every time someone said something mean. My friend at the time, Michelle, would ward off some of the kids, but it was never enough. The worst was when we were at physical education (PE) doing scooter races. Every kid that raced got loud cheers. When it was my turn, everyone was silent as I clumsily made my way on the scooter. I remember the teached clapping for me, telling me what a good job I did. It didn't help. I felt humiliated. 

I remember one day, at PE, I pissed off one of the boys. He started to advance towards me. Recalling how Colin slammed my head into the wall, I decided to avoid the confrontation and started to run. 

"GET BACK HERE NOW!" he shouted at me. 

"NO!" I yelled back. 

I started to run as fast as I could towards the soccer fields where there were games actively happening. I knew I couldn't run too far into the games, but I couldn't face this boy either and risk getting beat up. I did the only thing I could. I stopped running immediately and I ducked down into a ball. The boy fell over me. I started running back towards the teacher station. I figured if I got near the teacher, he couldn't do anything to me. 

I looked over my shoulder, and there he was, still in hot pursuit. Eventually, I got to the teacher, out of breath. The teacher asked me how I was doing. 

"Oh, me? I'm great. Great." 

The boy stopped chasing me once he saw that I was next to the teacher. He left me alone the rest of that class. 

I remember my main goal for middle school was to avoid being picked on again. I wanted to go to a whole new school, where nobody knew me and I could reinvent myself. I did reinvent myself, but middle school had its own set of misery. High school was mostly fine until 9-11, and I faced some hatred in college and even in law school. As I got older, I would want to kill myself. I've had many dark nights. Instead of committing suicide, I would cry and pray, and I would think of how my mom and dad would react if they found me dead. I couldn't do that to them. I didn't live for myself, but for my family. 

As I look back on my experiences, I realize that I never had the urge to pick up a gun or a knife and hurt the people that were hurting me. Instead, I wanted to get away from them or show them that I was better than they were. I made it my life's mission to outdo all of them... and I think it's safe to say that I did. 

I didn't let them get the best of me or turn me into something ugly, and that's how I won the war. 

photo credit: https://wallethub.com/edu/best-worst-states-at-controlling-bullying/9920/ 

Hospital Learning Lessons

Pictured above is my IV site. Yup, I was in the hospital.

It all started with what I thought was a bug bite. I had a red bump that spread (and felt) like an itchy wildfire. My upper legs and upper arms were dominated by waves of red bumps and rash. The bumps and rash spread to the rest of my body in patches before finally decorating my hands in bumps. When I started getting sores in my mouth, my family begged me to go get checked out. Getting checked out lead to getting checked in to the hospital. 

It didn't stop there.

Every joint in my body started to ache until it reached full-blown agony. It hit me in the middle of my first night in the hospital. I was in so much pain that I was in tears. I called the nurse, begging for some kind of relief. My right arm was going numb and I couldn't feel anything in my right hand. Through my tears, I begged the nurse for answers. She told me that they were running tests and reassured me that everything would be okay. She offered me medicine to help me sleep, which I accepted. 

Later in the night, I woke up again and tried to go to the bathroom. I was found on the floor. A throng of medical professionals came into my room. A man with a beard and glasses introduced himself as being from critical care. I was in a haze. I didn't really remember exactly how I fell, just that my vision suddenly went black and I felt myself hit a wall. It was like my legs fell apart. I didn't have sensation in my arm. I was panicked to see so many medical professionals in my room.

"Are you okay? How did you fall?"
"I don't know, I hit the wall. My vision was splotchy. I got dizzy. I don't remember. I don't know." I started to cry because I didn't know what was happening to my body. I was freaked out.
"It's okay, hun. Okay, now, I want you to squeeze my fingers as hard as you can." He held out his two index fingers. I tried to squeeze as much as possible but I felt so weak. This wasn't me. I was someone that ran 5 miles before work and lifted weights for an hour at the gym, not someone who falls in the middle of the night in a hospital room. After a few more exercises, they determined I was okay. My nurse asked me if I needed anything else. I told her I would try to sleep. My nurse told me not to get up again without getting her assistance, and I promised her that I would call her next time. I managed to sleep for a couple of hours. 

The next morning, my doctors came to see me. I broke down in tears again because I was still in so much pain. I hadn't slept well. I just wanted to be normal again and go home. The doctors examined me, asked me a few questions, and then theorized among themselves about what I had. I felt like a real-life episode of House. They told me they had to keep me in the hospital longer because they weren't sure what virus I had.  I was frustrated; I just wanted to go home and get back to work, but I knew I was in no condition to work. I agreed to stay. 

Later in the day, I was finally given pain meds intravenously. I was flying. My pain was almost gone. I could move my hands again. I had feeling in my right arm again. My parents came to see me. I felt so great that I even went for a walk around the hospital with my mom.

My final in-hospital examination with the infectious disease doctor was somewhat humorous. I could hear him and a resident outside my hospital room, discussing me.
"Now, this case is fascinating! It started very weird, with a very weird rash. And then..." I heard my doctor describe my symptoms to the resident, and the resident replying, "Oh, my! That is very interesting!" When they came in, my doctor introduced the resident to me and got my permission for him to examine me as well. I consented - after all, if I was that fascinating and interesting, I might as well let my misery be a good learning opportunity.

Later that day, a volunteer from one of the local Catholic churches came by and offered me Holy Communion. I was so excited for it. She stayed with me and chatted with me for a short time. It was a nice experience.

When everything was stable, I was finally cleared to be released from the hospital. My joint pain wasn't so bad - the pain meds I was on were amazing.

That is, they were amazing until they wore off. I originally wanted to go home to my apartment, but my parents wanted me to stay at their house, just to make sure I was okay. I begrudgingly agreed; my mom's look of worry on her face when I refused broke my heart. The last thing I want to do is worry my parents. I'm glad I listened to them. The pain returned, not as awful as the first night, but still pretty bad. It hurt to move, and I couldn't close my hands. Eventually, after a cocktail of pills, I was able to get the pain under control. Today, for the first time, I could actually cut my own food.

This whole hospital experience made me realize a few things:

(1) My family is amazing. The way they all rallied around me and visited me during my hospital stay made me see how much of a blessing they are. I didn't realize how much I enjoyed the company until their visit was finished. Not only that, but they all came together to help me when I was out of the hospital. Seriously, how many people can say they have a family like mine?

(2) My friends are amazing. One friend in particular who is very dear to me, the minute she learned I was in the hospital, came running. She wouldn't let me tell her that it wasn't a big deal or unnecessary. To her, it was necessary to come see me, no matter what I said. It warmed my heart to know that she cared that much to come see me, to see for herself how I was doing and spend time with me. The rest of my friends, after I broke the news when I was close to getting out of the hospital, also checked in to see how I was. It's nice to know that I have friends that actually care about my well-being.

(3) My health is serious. Looking back, when the virus was first taking hold of me, I refused to give in. I kept going to work and I kept billing crazy hours for my law firm. I was putting my work ahead of my health, and I probably should not have done that. I probably should have allowed myself to get medical help earlier. When I was checking into the hospital, I even brought my work with me. Once I was in the hospital room, I set up a corner as my workspace. It worked until I was overcome with pain and then high on pain meds. I wonder if my recovery would have been faster if I had given myself the rest when it was originally due.

(4) Hospital volunteers are precious. I was lucky to have family and friends, but not everyone is that lucky. The woman from the Catholic church was kind, warm, and friendly. I think that for lonelier hearts, her visit might have been powerful enough to make up from the lack of attention from family and friends. Seeing her in the hospital when I was in a vulnerable state made me realize that volunteers, people who take their own time to give it in service to others, are exceptional people, and they can add some brightness to what might otherwise be a very dark experience. I hope she continues her work, and I hope that more people will join her.

(5) Thank your doctors and health care professionals. Around the clock, I had a team of people working on me, checking to make sure I was okay. Don't underestimate the value of their work. It's a noble profession to be in, and I'm glad I had a good team working on me.

Tomorrow is my follow-up appointment. I'm hoping to find out what this mysterious virus was. It's too bad that House isn't filming anymore. Maybe I would have made a good episode.

Billables and Fire

Ever since I came back from Japan, I've been billing my ass off to every single client in my law firm. Unfortunately for me and the thousands of other lawyers in private practice, we make our bread and butter off billable hours. Associates need to bill a certain number of hours every month. Over the course of the year, as an associate, you're expected to make your quota.

Needless to say, my little trip to Japan has left me scrambling, especially now since the firm has instituted a new crackdown on attorneys who underperform. Talk about pressure. 

I still managed to squeeze a date in this weekend. I accepted a date from a pretty hot firefighter from Bumble. He had a shirtless photo in his profile, and it lit me on fire. 🔥

He suggested that we do something different from the usual dinner and drinks. I suggested that we go for miniature golf (hey, it's wild enough for me). He picked a course and also suggested that we go for tacos and drinks afterwards. It sounded great. I was looking forward to the date. 

I started my Saturday off with a run, a shower, and billed a few clients for work that I would rather have completed between Monday and Friday and the hours of 9 to 6. At least I get to see a hottie today, I thought as I logged off my firm's system. I thought about wearing one of my treasured possessions, my class ring from law school. I decided not to put it on because I didn't want him to feel intimidated by my law degree. As dumb as it might sound, I've had men refuse to go on dates with me because they said that my level of education was "too much." My theory is that they have low self-confidence if they feel they can't date a woman with a high level of education. 

As I walked up to the miniature golf course, I caught a glimpse of him sitting at one of the picnic tables outside. Damn, I thought. I could totally drop my panties to this guy. As I walked closer, he stood up. He was slightly shorter than me. He had a great smile, a great body, but I got worried that he would be weird about the height issue. I decided in that moment that I wouldn't care. Maybe if I didn't care, then he wouldn't care, and then maybe we would have a second date if he wasn't an asshole. 

My miniature golf idea was probably one of the best first date ideas I've ever had. We were able to get to know each other a lot while having fun. I also made an ass of myself on the course which gave us lots of opportunities to laugh. I knocked the ball up a hill and was trying to make it go around the curve at the top of the hill, only to have it roll right back to me...twice. At another part of the course, I knocked the ball into a small stream. There was my poor little ball, floating in the stream. The Firefighter, being a gallant gentleman, got it out for me. 

I learned that this gallant firefighter had gone into the Navy, served three years, went to school, and then became a firefighter. He has two part-time jobs that he works when he's not at the station on shift. He loved travel as much as I did. Overall, he seemed like he had a good head on his shoulders. 

After we finished the golf game, we went for tacos - and wow were they delicious. The place we went to had traditional Mexican tacos as well as novelty ones, like a "breakfast" taco - chicken that was deep-fried in pancake batter served with bacon crumbles, a little bit of cheese, and a little bit of syrup. It tasted like a taco version of chicken and waffles. They also had a steak chimichurri taco, a taco-version of a Cuban sandwich, and even a taco version of a New Orleans shrimp po'boy. The margaritas were just as varied as the tacos. I had a prickly pear margarita. He had a strawberry one. A man who can get down with a strawberry margarita is my kind of guy.  

I learned about his family, what his goals are, and his lifestyle. He's not a huge partier, and he's close with his family. The more I talked to him, the more I felt like maybe this could really take off if we keep getting to know each other. I worried about the height thing. I also worried that he might not like my work schedule. Most guys I've met get turned off when they learn that sometimes I need to work on the weekend to get things done for my cases. 

He texted me when he got home. "Thanks again for a fun date." 

"I had a great time! :) "

So will there be a second date? I don't know yet. I hope so. If there isn't, I won't be heart-broken. 

But I am getting tired of being single. 

After meeting Marathon Man, I decided that I would like to find someone, even if I am okay being single. I liked those moments that I was in his arms, and I realized that I missed the feel of a man. I miss the feel of a man who loves me even more. I want that feeling again. Frankly, it would be nice to be in love again and to have it reciprocated. 

And speaking of Marathon Man, he's running the Boston Marathon this weekend. We hadn't spoken for a week until he texted me before his Boston flight. I don't think anything is really going to happen with him. I really doubt that he'll come visit me. I think it's dead in the water. 

In the meantime, I'll be billing my ass off, swiping on Bumble, and otherwise keeping my options open. 

You Never Know

"You never know. You just never know!" This is the phrase that I feel has been echoing in my ears over the last few weeks. You never know when "it" will happen, the "it" being meeting the mythical "love of my life," a.k.a. "soulmate," a.k.a. "the one." I just don't know if it's in the cards for me. 

And every time I say that, "I don't know if it's in the cards for me" I get that echo back from whoever it is I am talking to, "You never know." The phrase then gets followed up with love stories, some that I find pretty inspirational. 

A little known fact about me is that I teach faith formation (Catholic Sunday School) to middle school age children. Lately, it seems the mothers of some of my students have taken an interest in my single life. Many of them assumed I had children of my own, or that I was already married. When I deliver the dark truth that I am actually just a single woman that enjoys teaching their kids, I get met with surprise. And then it comes, "Well, you never know when it will happen! You never know." 

One of the mothers, the spitting image of Joan Cusack, shared with me that she was divorced years ago and remarried. Her daughter is from her second marriage. She was married to her first husband for almost five years. It deteriorated. Her current husband was someone she knew from high school.  They dated in high school, but like most high school romances, it fizzled out. He contacted her years later, when she was fresh from her divorce. They started talking again, but they were long distance.  They started seeing each other. The relationship developed. She relocated for him, got married to him, and now they have been happily married for almost fifteen years. Seeing them interact was seeing best friends in love. "You just never know!" 

The next mother to share her story with me told me about how she was dating a guy who became a drug addict. He had fallen back into drugs and was becoming abusive and controlling with her. One weekend when he was acting crazy, she decided to get out of town on a whim. She was around my age at the time. She went to the airport to catch the first flight out of town as a "stand-by." While she was waiting, she met her current husband. He was 43, had never been married, and had no children. They started talking and eventually dating. Her now-husband was going to move to Japan for work; the plan was that they were going to move to Japan together. At the time, she was not in a hurry to marry and wanted to take her time with him. I was surprised to learn that our priest advised her to relax, live together for a while, and get married when they came back to the U.S. They ended up eloping and had a celebration when they were back in the U.S.  They have now been married for eighteen years. "You never know!" 

So is love in the cards for me? I have no idea. People tell me not to worry. I feel like I'm just floating through life with an open mind and making sure I don't have any more goobers. 

Marathon Man and I are still talking. He's brought up visiting, but I remain skeptical. Until I see him get off the plane and step into my apartment, I won't believe that he's serious about seeing me. I don't know if he's "it." I don't want to get too excited. I don't know if love is in the cards for me. 

But, you never know. 

Nuclear Disarmament

Our trip to Japan took a somber turn with a visit to Hiroshima. Being a lover of history, I wanted to see the city where the first atomic bomb hit and to hear from the people affected by it. Little did I know the emotion I was about to experience.

Growing up in school, three things about Japan in World War II were ingrained in me: (1) they believed that they were a master race during the War; (2) they attacked us first at Pearl Harbor so we became involved in the war; (3) they refused to surrender, so dropping the bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki were necessary to stop them. We never learned about how the people were affected. We never learned about the long-lasting effects of the nuclear bomb on the people and their descendants. We never heard the stories from the survivors. We never heard about how Hiroshima and Nagasaki rebuilt themselves. We never learned about the Japanese during World War II as people.

We started our day visiting the atomic dome, where the bomb exploded hundreds of meters above. We walked around the Peace Park until we made our way to the museum. The park contained an overwhelming sadness and agony that hung in the air while the rain gently drizzled on our umbrellas in the gray of the morning. My heart silently mourned.

The museum was what made my heart break until I could no longer contain the emotion and allowed it to escape through my eyes. It was the first time I had ever read excerpts from diaries of children, seen burnt bodies of victims, read about the thousands of families devastated by death and the inferno that the United States unleashed. I read about the junior high school students who were pulled out of school in order to work in the factories to help with the war effort, and how those same children died from the bombing.

I saw the tricycle of a toddler who was outside his home riding it when the bomb dropped. He loved his tricycle so much that his family decided to bury him with it. The family later donated the tricycle to the museum decades later. Seeing the tricycle and knowing that a tiny life was extinguished on it shook my core. I saw the burnt clothes of other children who were in Hiroshima when the bomb dropped. I read about family members rushing to Hiroshima in frantic search for their loved ones and how they never found them. To this day, not every victim could be identified. A daughter searched for days for her father; she found his bike and waited for him to come get his bike, but he never appeared. A mother was seen screaming her dead baby's name, begging him to open his eyes.

Dozens of stories were told there, each one a tragedy that ripped my heart into a new piece. The Japanese during World War II I read about in history books were no longer "the bad guys." For the first time, I saw the people of Hiroshima for what they were - people. They were children, mothers, fathers, uncles, aunts, sisters, brothers, sons, and daughters. It was at that moment that the sadness I felt overwhelmed me. I cried for the victims.

And in that moment, I wondered what the course of history would have been had we not dropped the atomic bomb. Would the Soviet Union have exerted its influence? Would the Japanese had surrendered anyway? Did we need to do that? Wasn't there another way? I didn't have the answers. I think the only being who knows those answers is God.

The messages of the survivors all had one clear message - nuclear disarmament. It was obvious why - the effects of nuclear warfare are devastating and endure for generations. It took decades for the city to rebuild itself, and that was with generous foreign aid from other countries. Most survivors don't want to talk about the bombing. For a long time, it was forbidden to mention the bombing.

I couldn't help but think of what the world would be like if we removed nations. A world without borders, without nationalism, and instead became one united people, the people of the globe called Earth. Each one of us is human, so why do we really need to separate ourselves? I dismissed the idea, knowing that there was too much greed and racism in the world for that idea to ever materialize. I then wondered if we could actually become a world without nuclear weapons. I dismissed this idea, too, because there are too many irresponsible leaders in the world such as Trump, Putin, and Kim Jong Un. They have no idea the level of devastation that nuclear weapons wield and if they ever did make such a nuclear attack, that attack could easily be reciprocated on their own people. I shuddered at the thought. I prayed that I would die before ever witnessing another Hiroshima.

President Barack Obama visited the Peace Park and the museum. He wrote a note that is on display at the museum. I pray that his note becomes reality in my lifetime:
"We have known the agony of war. Let us now find the courage, together, to spread peace, and pursue a world without nuclear weapons."

Marathon Man

A friend of mine once told me that you could meet a guy anywhere, at any time. I did not expect to meet anyone in Japan.

I had the privilege of running the 2018 Tokyo Marathon this past Sunday. I was here with a group of runners that came from all over the world. It was amazing to get to know each runner's story - why they started running, where they have been, struggles unique to each marathon.

On Friday, we went in a group to a Taiko drum demonstration. After the demonstration, they allowed volunteers to come up and do a segment of drum beats. I, of course, got up to volunteer. It was so much fun! I had a huge smile on my face the entire time, a smile that caught the eye of Marathon Man.

After the drum demonstration, we went to the Marathon Expo. The expo was essentially a giant ball of Japanese advertisers, foreign runners, Tokyo Marathon memorabilia, and running gear for sale. For someone that doesn't speak or understand Japanese, having hundreds of Japanese words thrown at you in one tornado is a lot. I was relieved to get back on the bus to our hotel.

As I was waiting in line for the bus, there was Marathon Man. He was 6'1", had reddish brown hair, fair skin, blue eyes, and the face of a Ken doll. He started speaking to me with a beautiful accent. I was smitten. I asked him where he was from.

"Take a guess," he said to me with a smile.
I usually guess wrong, and I stayed true to my streak.
"New Zealand?"
"What! No! Australia!" He jokingly turned his back to me. "I can't speak to you anymore!"
I started to giggle. "Sorry! You said to guess! At least I had the right part of the globe!"

Our banter continued on the bus to our hotel. I waited for my sister to get off the bus. "I'm sure I'll see you later, Australia!" I said to him. He smiled at me. My sister told me I should've left her behind and kept talking to him. I kicked myself. I vowed not to let the opportunity pass again, if it came.

And it did come. I ran into him again the next morning at breakfast. We walked past his table. Not wanting to squander this opportunity to talk to him again, I stopped at his table.

"What's up, Australia?"
"Hey!" He smiled. I melted. "What are you up to? Here, have a seat!"

We started chatting for a bit. We got each other's real names, where we each lived (he lives in Canada), and I learned that he planned to go to North Korea after Tokyo.

"North Korea? Do you have a death wish? Why would you go to North Korea for a vacation?" 

"Well, I'm turning 40 on Thursday. So I wanted to do something adventurous for it. I thought, why not go to North Korea? If you follow their laws, you'll be fine."

Why not go to the Caribbean instead? Or Iceland? Or anywhere where Westerners don't come back in body bags?

We started talking about politics and gun laws in Australia vs. Japan vs. the US. We aligned perfectly. I ended up spending the entire breakfast hour (or two) with him.

He asked me to meet up with him later in the day after I was done sightseeing. So I did.

We ended up spending a few hours together before dinner. His kisses were as amazing as his eyes, and more electrifying than the Tokyo nightlife. I had to leave again to make it for the pasta dinner. He asked me if I was going to the marathon after-party.

"Of course! Aren't you?"
"I was going to skip it. I fly the next day."
I smiled at him. "You should come."

And he did. As soon as I walked in, there he was, near the entrance, drink in hand. I was so happy that I made the effort to put on makeup and dress up a little after running 26.2 miles a mere 2 hours earlier.

He smiled. "You're here!"

I talked to him for a little bit, then got sidetracked by other marathoners I'd met in our group. Towards the end of the party, I went to him and we chatted it up.

"So, am I going to hear about your North Korean adventure? If you make it out alive of course."
He chuckled. "Of course. Here's my card." When he started to pull out his business card, I said, "You must not be into me to give me your card and not take my number!"
"What!"
"When a guy gives you his card, he's not that interested."
"Give me your number then. I'd like to stay in touch." 

I did and he texted me on the spot. 

"Now you have my number, too. I guess it'll be a while before I see you again." He hugged me and gave me a kiss on the cheek. He whispered in my ear, "I'd grab your ass but I don't think your sister would like that." 

I started laughing. "You're probably right."
He gave me another kiss on the cheek, held me, and looked in my eyes. 

"When I'm back from North Korea, let's talk and we can make arrangements." I smiled and told him to come back alive.

I never expected to hit it off with someone at a marathon overseas, 7,000 miles from home. Is he the next big love? I don't know.

But I want to see where it goes... if he really is interested in me...

... and if he comes back alive from North Korea.

The Tug of My Uterus

My uterus has been tugging at me a lot lately. Not just a little bit, but a LOT. No, it's not a sign of early pregnancy (because that would be biologically impossible for me).

Is it the proverbial biological clock that has my uterus on fire?

Either way, I've acquired a burning desire to have kids now. I never felt like this before. Five years ago, I ran away at the idea of having kids. I've always wanted them, but the idea of them was scary to me. Everything about pregnancy horrified me, and then the idea of raising a child freaked me out. To be responsible for another human being who was relying on you for everything was not music to my ears.

Within the last month or so, I've really wanted to have a kid. Maybe it's because I've been teaching faith formation at my church lately, or being able to have one-on-one time with my nieces and nephew (although sometimes my nephew kicks the baby bug right out of me because he can be super cute and a super terror). There's one little girl in my class that comes from an abusive household. All I want to do is protect her. Every time she comes into class, the first thing she does is give me a big hug, and my heart melts into a giant puddle. All I want to do is be there for her. I've wanted to quit teaching, but I decided I'll quit after she graduates high school. Maybe.

Yesterday, I really felt the baby bug when I took my friend's teenage daughter out for the day. I've known the girl since she was 8 years old, a little sprocket who wore big bows in her hair all the time. Now, she's a full-fledged freshman in high school. I took her out for lunch, then gelato, and then we went shopping together. She told me stories about her friends, she asked me questions about things like what credit is and why it was important, and I shared some of my knowledge and wisdom with her. We went into a Swarovski store where she fell in love with a bracelet that I decided to buy her as a gift. It was a beautiful bracelet. To see her joy at receiving the bracelet made my heart overflow. The whole day was so much fun with her. It really made me want to have a daughter. So very much.

The idea of taking care of a life suddenly didn't seem so scary. It was beautiful. Obviously, there is an ugly side - I've seen my nieces and nephew at their worst, but I've also seen them at their best. That's just how life is. It's not all poetry.

But at 33, I don't have a boyfriend. I'm no where close to being married. Who knows if I ever will at this rate. I've become so repulsed by men that I've almost totally lost interest in ever getting married.

So what does a single woman like me do?

Well, I've decided that this will be the year that I become a homeowner. By June, I'll be shopping around for bank loans and the best interest rates and deals on closing costs. By August, I'll start looking at homes. By December, I hope to get the process started on closing. My lease at my apartment ends in March, so the deal must be sealed by then.

And if I'm not married in my 30s? Oh well!

I'll just continue building myself up financially, because somewhere out there, if not in my uterus, maybe there's a child waiting for me to adopt him or her.

And maybe, if everything is right in my life and I'm stable enough, I could adopt that child.

Maybe.

It's a very big deal, not to be taken lightly, and as much as I want to be a mother, I also want to make sure that I can be a good provider. It's a decision that's bigger than deciding whether to buy a house. This is taking on a new life, for life.

We'll see...

For now, I'll keep the tug at my uterus in check.



photo taken from: http://www.newkidscenter.com/Interpreting-Children's-Drawings.html

Age Ain't Just A Number

I'm pretty sure I had the shortest date in dating history, at least in my dating history. A grand total of 10 minutes was all it took for me to deliver a giant go f* yourself to a guy and walk right out. 

Yes, you read that correctly - I walked out of the date. 

Here's the back story. I met this guy off Bumble. He was age 37. Fit. Sandy blonde hair. Blue eyes. Tall. Active. Muscles to die for. You get the picture. He was pretty hot. We started chatting on the app. Eventually, we exchanged phone numbers and texted back and forth. After a couple of weeks of texting, we decided to meet in person. He chose a local restaurant that was a pretty nice place. 

He got to the restaurant 10 minutes earlier than our meet time, which I liked because it showed that he cared. Little did I know what was in store for me. When I got to the restaurant, I looked around for him in the bar area. Where is this guy? So I texted him. I then saw a man in a ball cap look up and wave at me. 

When I got close to him, I realized that my cute 37-year-old date had aged about 10 years and didn't look like the pictures at all. What the hell! I thought. There is no way that this guy is in his 30s. No freaking way.

He got up from his stool and greeted me as "Counselor." What the f*! We are not in court and I am not your freaking lawyer. I hate it when people call me Counselor if they're not judges. It's so irritating. It makes me feel like I'm at work. 

We started chatting. As he spoke, I studied his face and concluded that either this man had been baking in the sun since birth or he had lied about his age to me. I decided to confirm the latter theory. 

"So your profile says you're 37?" 

"Actually I changed it to 39, but I'm really 45." 

"45? Did you tell me you were 45 before today?" 

"No, but age is just a number, and I'm not attracted to women in their 40s. I don't feel 45, and you know, those filters on Bumble, they hinder what I'm looking for. Besides, you never asked me what my real age is." 

Age is just a number? Yeah right. And jail is just a room. And why did this nut think that I needed to ask what his age was? It's on the profile! Lying is a thing now?

At this point, I decided that I needed to figure things out and fast. What am I going to do? Do I sit and small talk my way through a beer, or do I cut to the chase and get out of dodge? 

I decided to try to small talk my way out of the date, very awkwardly. He ordered a second beer. 

Really, dude? You thought this date was going well enough that you decided to order a second beer?

I decided to go to a fool-proof area for the white, American male: the Superbowl. I asked him if he was ready for the Big Game. 

"I didn't really think about it. Who is playing this year?" 

Yes, you read that correctly. This man was actually asking me who was playing in the Big Game. 

"You seriously don't know?"

"Well, um, I think it's Philadelphia and New England, right?" 

"Yes - you really didn't know?" 

"I'm a Packers fan."

"So you're not cheering against the Pats? Doesn't everybody hate the Pats?" 

Then he got on an elaborate explanation about Tom Brady, Belichick, and Robert Kraft, and how much he admired each of these men. I thought he was ready to get on his knees and pleasure them the way he was talking about them. Then he called Kraft a "stand-up guy, a real class act." 

"I disagree with that." 

"Why?" 

"Well, I told you I was Palestinian. Kraft is anti-Palestinian." 

"What does that mean?" 

I then gave a brief explanation of why Israel's ethnic cleansing of Palestinians is a problem for me; shockingly, this is beyond a lot of people's common sense. 

He replied, "Oh this is getting into politics. Can we just stick to the basics?" I was irritated. Not only did this guy not give a crap about a human rights issue that directly affected my ethnicity, but he was an ass to think that the basics didn't include simple things like what his true age was. 

"You mean, like what your real age is?" I decided to stop playing nice. I was going to end this date. "I'm not going to act like everything is okay right now. I'm going to be honest with you - I'm really turned off that you lied about your age. If I wanted a 45-year-old, I would have set my searches for men in their 40s. I don't want to date someone who has a significant age difference." 

He looked miffed. "Well, I was hoping we could be friends. I wasn't attracted to you." I laughed. 

"Oh really? Please. And we will not be friends - I'm not friends with men who are so desperate that they lie about their age." 

At that moment, I took a final sip of my drink, picked up my purse, and walked out the door. 

All in the span of 10 minutes. How's that for a number. 

Age is just a number the same way that jail is just a room. You can pretend all you want, but it is what it is. 

photo credit: https://me.me/i/age-is-just-a-number-yeah-and-jail-is-just-4044574