Tipsy Ipsy

There is no such thing as “mixed signals.”

I know this from my own personal experience, and from the experiences of others. When someone thinks about you, you know because they let you know. Because when it’s “enough,” you don’t have to read between the lines, you just read the damn lines and there is no second guessing.

There is no such thing as “mixed signals.”

Hot Water

Three months ago now, I was approached at the laundry mat to join a local strength and conditioning gym. I went to the free class and long story short I’ve been addicted ever since.

The gym has become my social life, for better or for worse, and just in the last few weeks I have been able to transition from a friendly “hello” in class to actual social activities outside of gym hours, and it’s been a much-needed outlet.

So when I was asked to go out with the group for a night on the town last weekend, I was super pumped. For the first time since I’ve moved back, I went through the full “get ready” process and out I went.

And it was so fun. I got to know everyone so much better, added some digits to my phone (platonically) and got to engage in my favorite type of talk - bro talk.

In particular, one of my fellow gym mates and I really got rolling talking, platonically, about weightlifting. (I know, I hate myself for it too) And sports. And beer. A true “man” talk.

Now here’s where it gets tricky. He’s married. And I knew this, but I didn’t think talking to men in a group setting where you all share a common interest or activity is improper. And it isn’t. But what if someone has other ideas?

On Sunday I get a text message with a link to a YouTube video. It’s a montage of people falling down. Terrible, but hilarious. I write back something exceedingly clever like “haha.” A few more message exchanged about our respective hangovers and then on our merry ways. Again, I think nothing of this.

Fast forward to last night, I get a call. He’s asking me how our gym barbecue was earlier in the day. “Great time, too bad you couldn’t make it!” I respond. And then I get this: “I can’t stop thinking about you. I think I’m going to break up with Katie.”

Gahhhhhhhh! What in the name of God is going on here?! Why does a conversation about bench press and a “haha” get me this type of attention but my unrequited love remains just that?

I hate it too because I think it makes things weird in my happy place - the gym. Where his wife also goes! And for those of you wondering how I handled this, I brushed aside the first part and advised that he sleep on it and that he’d realize in the morning, sans the obviously extreme amounts of alcohol he had ingested that night, what a BAT SHIT CRAZY THING he was saying.

So we’ll see what today brings. Honestly, I’d prefer not to address it again. I’m hoping for a blackout; that he neither remembers calling nor what he said. I want (need!) the gym to be a drama-free zone. It is literally the one thing in my life right now that makes me feel good; I can’t lose it because some guy is having a marital crisis!

(Just so it’s clear, the gym is set up similarly to Crossfit, so there are set class times that we all attend, lest you are thinking “Hey dumbshit, go at a different time and just avoid him,” it’s not quite that easy. I can only make the one time slot per day, so it’s all or nothing in that regard.)

I’m not sure how to wrap this up so I’ll just make one last bewildered statement on the subject - Why, universe? Can’t I just have this one sanity-preserving outlet, free of charge? I’ve lost a lot lately, so why don’t ya give me a fucking pass here!

Show respect to people who don’t even deserve it; not as a reflection of their character, but as a reflection of yours.

—Dave Willis (via g-luecksmomente)

(Source: psych-facts, via fantasiedx)

It’s one of those days where I’m walking out of work to get lunch and I can tell everyone is placing bets on whether or not I’ll come back…

All this talk about getting out of your “comfort zone”…

Am I the only one who feels like I’m trying to get IN one right now?!?

{Highs and Lows}

High - At my non-Crossfit gym, I PRed on the 500m row (1:45) and the 1 mi assault bike (2:25). Feeling like a beast.

High - Made my hours at work. Not a true high but definitely a relief.

High - Baked amazing double chocolate salted caramel and wafer stuffed cookies.

Low - Cried in my car about my current professional situation until I burst a blood vessel in my eye

Low - Endured a phone call with my mother where she said that law school (and it’s associated debts) was a mistake I could never undo

Low - Daily ah ha moment that the unrequited love is, in fact, unrequited, has not brought my head into sync with my stupid idiot cardiac muscle

High - Oreos. Lots of them.

Low - Oreos. Too many of them.

High - warm bed, shelter, clothing, roof over my head.

Low - involuntary solitude and a desperate ache for a meaningful connection with a body, any body, within a 100 mile radius.

Low - Realizing I may very well never make it back to Sydney and realizing that that’s an excuse I can’t seem to dig my way out of.

High - peeled last bit of sunburn off of my face

High - went on Tumblr and managed to say a few positive things before, during, and after a massive pity party.

My unrequited love said something to me a few days ago; he said “I have a soul for adventure.”

And in my head I sighed and thought how of only I could say the same thing and back it up, we’d somehow ride off into the sunset together.

He’d just gotten back from 4 weeks in Europe. Partying in Greece, Finland, Spain…

And then I started to think about my own “adventures,” the ones I thought for a brief second couldn’t live up to seeing David Guetta in Ibiza (ok so I’m getting snarky with that one…)

In the last five years, I’ve gone to Chile to take a chance on love, run two marathons, moved to and lived in another country, got a doctorate, girl-tripped to Costa Rica, soloed the Great Ocean road, taught myself how to surf, went vegetarian for a year, was a koala mascot at a World Cup qualifier, squirreled my way onto three different soccer teams, dated every imaginable type, from yogi guru to GI Joe, and have generally been kicking ass without realizing it.

And so, my unrequited love that I somehow felt “less” than, or not adventurous enough for… I see your David Guetta and I raise you all of the above, and all the adventures I’ll have, whether I realize it or not, in the next five years.

I still hold out a fanciful wish that you’ll somehow be a part of them, but maybe this was a turning point and I no longer have to feel that somehow the reason my affections are unrequited (aside from the fact that they are buried under a mountain of bro-talk on my part) is some failure, some shortcoming, a lack of “adventure” on my part.

As they say in my favorite movie of all time: “Adventure is out there!”

The extent to which this resonates with me may explain my previous post…

The extent to which this resonates with me may explain my previous post…

Ready for that dramatic single-girl ish? I know I am!

Last weekend I went on a backpacking trip, and the first day/night it was just myself and a couple. I wish I could say it was myself and two friends, but the male component of this couple, though lovely, isn’t a “friend” in a real way. He’s your friend’s boyfriend, ya know?

Anyway, there we were, all three of us, and I never felt more alone. What do you do? Do you give space? Do you stick tight like glue? I opted to lay on a rock and listen to music, and was rewarded with quite possibly the worst sunburn of my life. But while I was on that rock, unknowingly frying away, my wheels were just spinning and spinning. And when they came to rest, it was on the following conclusion…

Bluntly put, I no long want to hang out with any couples or groups of couples. Not because of this weekend, but generally, it just automatically casts you as the “outsider.” But as I’m (we’re) getting older, it’s harder and harder to find people that are not coupled up. Of course, here and there you get a night out, but even so, the other half of a couple will usually have one eye on the door starting at 11, and you can’t help but get the feeling that they’re staying out of pity for poor single you. But I’d rather be alone then trying to navigate the social norms of being the third wheel, and all that comes with it, whether self-inflicted or not.

Which leads me to the next ramble. Dear all my people with partners - please stop talking to me about my single status. I know that’s unfair, but your well-intentioned comments about “maybe there will be a guy!” or “have you tried online dating?” are abso-FUCKING-lutely killing me. This comes from every direction, and it’s exhausting to constantly have to nonchalantly swat away these types of comments.

At the moment, friends, I am what we call HUNG UP, big time, on an impossible situation. Let me figure out how to get over that, and then you can resume suggesting the Z-grade options, since I won’t have anyone to compare them to. But right now, I do. So, let me ruminate on that until I disgust myself, and since I’m using the totally healthy “bottle it up” method of dealing with it, you’re at least spared having to hear about it ad nauseum. 

To any of my IRL friends who may read this (ha!) this is not some cry for you to call me up and ask me about my vaguely referred-to unrequited love. Please let me preserve my silence on this one. I’ll get over it, and sorry, but I don’t want to talk about it (to you, bc obviously I’ll share with the internet…) 

What it’s come down to is this: all my single friends are in Sydney. I miss it, because I miss them. Because we are at a similar stage in life, and therefore can just relate to each other better. That’s the long and short of it. And I don’t have those friends here in the States. Literally, not one. Of my three closest friends, two are married and one is in a serious relationship. Sure, I have other friends but if the past year taught me anything, it’s to value quality over quantity and these “Plan B” friends are falling rapidly down the alphabet, landing somewhere around “Plan P”, just below cleaning the bathtub on a nightly basis. 

So there you have it. I’m almost 30, single, and obviously bitter as all hell. Sorry in advance friends who may take offense at this, but I can’t bring myself to delete this to save your feelings. I gotta get this out into the universe. 

Would that be called “blurging?” Blogging + purging? Yeah, sure. Let it out girl. And we’ll face the consequences in the morning. 

One of these days my one-sided love story is going to come splashing out and I’m really going to regret it.