Day 365, or the one year challenge rings the closing bell.

I did it!

A year ago today I made the decision to give Andy Stanley’s one year no-dating challenge a try. A year to myself, to focus my thoughts inward and intentionally eliminate dating, flirting, sex and all of the baggage that comes with that from my life. The idea was to take that time and till the soil, so to speak. To become the person that the person I am looking for is looking for as Andy so tongue-twistingly put it, and to develop a closer relationship with God.

So, how did it all turn out? What did I learn?

For starters, as I’m sure you’re all painfully aware, I am an introverted neurotic mess with social anxiety issues who is IN SALES and has to talk to people all day, every day. So turning my thoughts inward and analyzing the hell out of everything that has ever happened to me may not have been the best approach. Had it not been for a really supportive best friend and my awesome community group, I don’t think I’d have been able to finish what I started without ending up in a padded room somewhere.

What I had hoped would happen did not. I hoped that some miracle would be worked and God would clue me in on the secret to relationships and my purpose in life. I’m as clueless now as I ever was. Sort of. Now I know it’s okay that I have none of the answers. I’ve been doing an Old Testament study in my community group and it’s so funny to me that all of the biggest, most moving stories were driven by people who had no answers. In most cases they tried to force or run away from the answers (just like me) and ended up realizing that they were foolish for thinking that they had any answers in the first place.

What I didn’t expect to happen did happen. I said in the beginning of the challenge that I wanted to get closer to God but it was really just a platitude. It was Christian-speak for “I want to be rewarded for making a sacrifice” but that was something that really has happened. I know it’s a very subtle change but my internal monologue has shifted over time from “Why am I such a weirdo?” to “I wonder if God thinks I’m a weirdo.” to “God, do you think I’m a weirdo?” to “God, show me how you see me.” to “God, will you teach me to accept myself?” My prayer life is better in an I-really-pray way and not in a Christian-speak “prayer life sounds like a good thing to say” kind of way. That’s a win.

I actually did identify the unhealthy relationship patterns, both romantic and platonic, that have held me back in my life and have been able to let them go and move on. I don’t need the physical approval of a man to feel like I have value. I know I do even when I’m having a crummy day. I learned that instant gratification is not fulfilling. Another win.

Did I become the person that the person I am looking for is looking for? I have no idea. I don’t pretend to believe that Mr. Wonderful is right around the corner or even headed in my direction. But I do believe that if it’s something that’s gonna happen, there isn’t a thing I can do about it to make it all materialize. So I’ll wait and see what life brings me in the meantime, maybe something completely unexpected, and continue to work on it. Hopefully awesome unexpected and not ‘oh, craaap’ unexpected.

I’m really glad I did the challenge, I’m proud of myself for actually completing it and I’m looking forward to one day having a very clear perspective on this time in my life. As it is right now, I feel the positive effects of the efforts but the overall results are still pending because the story isn’t finished. So I’ll keep updating this blog along the way as sporadically as always until I figure it all out. It could take a while. I mean, Sarah was 99…

Day 356, or the other side of the coin.

In just 9 days, my self-imposed year-long dating embargo will be lifted. I’m proud of myself for making it through a whole year without any slip-ups, but I have some trepidation about what might be on the other side of those 9 days. Not dating by choice is one thing, not dating because your dance card is empty is another.

A great friend of mine and her boyfriend have been schooling me in the art of positive thinking à la Monty Python – “Always Look on the Bright Side of Life”. Well, so to speak. She said “you’ve got to look at the other side of the coin” – the Monty Python correlation was mine. Retraining my thinking is not the easiest but I’m going to keep plugging away at it in the hopes that it starts working some day. At least I’m confident my story won’t end the same way Life of Brian does. See?! Positive thinking already!

So, to date or not to date? Earlier tonight, my best friend’s husband was asking about it and said “You could always make it two years. The one year thing was Andy’s idea – two years would be all you.” True. I think after probably too much thought about it, whether I should venture into online dating again and blog about that, or do one of those speed dating things, or join a dating dinner club thing, I’ve decided to do nothing.

Doing nothing is my favorite thing in the world to do anyway. And people always say the best way to meet somebody is by doing your favorite things. I’ll just keep it business as usual – go to the concerts I want to go to, enjoy dinner out with my friends wherever I fancy, keep it moving at the gym, enjoy the pool as often as I can this summer, hit up my favorite local coffee place and the farmer’s market on my days off, go to church on Sundays and take in a bookstore and some frozen yogurt or something. My life isn’t exactly riveting, but those are all the things I love to do. I’m not into extreme sports or the hippest see-and-be-seen places in town. Spending too much money on coffee, listening to good music and sharing laughs with friends is about as good as it gets.

Somewhere in all that, I imagine it’s possible to meet a man and it would certainly be nice to meet someone who enjoys the same nothings I enjoy, and even better if he looks like Josh Duhamel, but it’s not a must-have. I believe in fate. I believe that if there is someone intended for me, God will make it happen and it won’t be because of anything I did. And if there isn’t someone for me, God will bring me peace of mind and make something else happen in my life. Either way, I’ll keep the faith that God wants great things for me even if I always see the crappy side of things. I’m still a positive-thinking work in progress.

Day 340, or you have been slapped.

After writing my post about depression, I decided to go to bed early. Then I decided to make some cocoa instead, then I decided to watch a movie, then I was so tired from the decision-making that I collapsed on the couch and wrapped myself up in a blanket like a burrito. Then I thought a burrito sounded good. This went on for a while.

I bought a MegaMillions ticket at the gas station this afternoon on my lunch break. I’d say it’s a reasonable conclusion that taking lunch breaks at a gas station could lead to depression. It’s a gateway environment. I had a rogue dollar in my pocket and figured it was the beginnings of a TV movie-of-the-week. It had to be a winner.

So when I didn’t win, much as every other time I haven’t struck it big, I felt legitimately bummed. Truly let down. I think that’s a weird reaction to a losing lottery ticket. I need to stop hanging out at gas stations. They know my name there, that can’t be a good thing.

I mean it.

From my cocoon of misery on the couch of solace, I watched a few episodes of Chopped on Food Network. I’ve been off of food porn for a while but it’s great TV for the melancholy. One of the contestants kept referring to his food as sexy and I went looking for my white gloves. That’s it, America. I’ve had it with this load of crap. I have never in my life looked at a fried banana and coconut sandwich and said to myself “would you just look at that sexy sandwich?” Never. This junk really made the rounds on Top Chef over the last few years and I’m done.

If I hear it again, you will be slapped.

In fact, I propose a spin-off of Chopped called Slapped. The most annoying contestants from the former compete to escape the glove on the latter. “You have been slapped.” Maybe I’ll let the Slap-Chop guy make a guest appearance.

Food Network, call me… I think we both know this has traction.

Day 339, or kind of like if Tim Burton wrote a country song.

I’d hate to break character and post something uplifting, so I’ll talk about my chronic depression. Five years ago I was diagnosed with dysthymia, which is simply (or not so simply) chronic low-grade depression, along with general anxiety disorder about a year after I had my first panic attack in the Happiest Place on Earth. No kidding. The two disorders are birds of a feather and, to be honest, I’d rather have GAD than some of the other disorders that present with dysthymia such as drug addiction, bi-polar disorder and alcoholism.

I’ve been in a funk for almost a month now and it’s worsened over the last week due to an enormous amount of work stress. Because people don’t understand what it feels like to live with an emotional condition and they annoy me with commands like “cheer up, girl!” and because all of my emotional energy is spent at work pretending to be normal (I’m far past the energy needed to pretend to be happy or in a good mood) I retreat from friends, family and society like Eeyore to his decrepit tent.

It doesn’t go away. Even when I’m happy, somewhere inside is a rotten, little seed of bleak sadness and I hate that seed. I want to be happy and carefree like normal people. But when I am happy and carefree the neurotic freak inside me is warning me that it won’t last. And the freak is always right. To be clear, I’m not talking about major depression or any sort of psychosis (read: I don’t fantasize about hurting myself) just the way you feel after it’s been raining for a week and it’s a little chilly outside and you’re out of energy and over-tired and everyone aggravates you and nobody answers your phone calls and your pet ran away and your date stood you up and nothing good is on tv and you’re hungry but nothing looks good in the fridge and you need to get dressed for work and it takes you 45 minutes to finally decide what to wear and then cry when you can’t find one of your shoes.

Kind of like if Tim Burton wrote a country song.

I always thought that this feeling was simply loneliness and that it would go away when I met the one and was no longer alone. But then I sought out a therapist when I couldn’t stop crying one week and discovered that what I felt wasn’t simply loneliness and that no matter what I do, even if I take medication, I will always go through periods of time when I feel completely and utterly alone in the world. Like right now.

I couldn’t wait to leave work today so that I could escape to the safe confines of my home where the fuzzy slippers and pajamas await and crawl into bed where I don’t have to talk to a bunch of strangers and pretend like I give a crap. I don’t. I’m chronically exhausted, terminally sad and working for over a week straight, listening to people go on and on about their life celebrations and smiling and congratulating them when I really want to be as mean as Ouiser from Steel Magnolias is not good for my mental health.

Just leave me alone, world.

So on the drive home in a torrential downpour, I was thinking about this challenge and how it all started with Andy’s little phrase “be the person that the person you are looking for is looking for” and I came to the realization that it’s all been a giant waste of time. No man in his right mind would intentionally be with me in my not-so-right mind. And I can’t right it. This is me. For whatever twisted cosmic reason, being permanently almost-sad and neurotic is part of my essence. I’m the sad part of a Woody Allen film. No man would put up with this. Except maybe Joshua Radin. (He has a thing for sad chicks.) But aside from the persistent ennui and my love of whisper rock, I don’t think I’m his type. I think he’s a happy person. Lucky.

The only successful byproduct of the one year challenge that I can see right now is that I appear to have broken some pretty bad relationship habits. Like seeking short-term gratification to make myself feel good and happy which will really end in a lengthy relationship with my duvet cover, fuzzy slippers, pajamas, old Doris Day movies and a box of tissues.

There’s a really annoying Christian platitude that is shared in barf-inducing abundance between married Christian women and the singles: “God is still working on you.” Variations include “God is still working on your future husband” and the like. Neither of those is great. The former implies that you are a leprous reject and the latter implies that your future husband is incarcerated or some kind of robot while the sage married Christian friend has reached a state of Nirvana in her ultimate Godly perfection. What she really means to say is “There are no answers and none of us are guaranteed a husband and family – I just got lucky” but that doesn’t sound very Godly.

I probably hate it so much because in my case, it’s pretty true. God will always be working on me but I don’t think I’ll ever reach a state of normalcy. The best I can do is “okay”.

Day 324, or villainous moustache-twirling ex-boyfriends playing the victim.

I remember my grandmother said something about pretending to be a helpless woman to keep men interested when I was in my formative teen years. Even then I thought that was poppycock. Around the same time, I read the autobiography of Ginger Rogers and remember her saying that being a helpless female was ‘for the birds’ so I’ve always been in her camp. I’ve never been one to play a victim, though I’ve certainly felt victimized at times and have needed legitimate rescuing upon occasion.

Typically, I kill my own spiders, whack trespassing rodents, replace lightbulbs when they burn out, fix toilets and leaky faucets and I even take out the garbage. All by myself. Housekeeping aside, when big things go wrong in my life and I know that I am responsible for the downturn, I have no problem taking responsibility for it. I find that it’s easier to make a plan and implement change when I own up to my faults.

Take this challenge, for example. I make made poor relationship decisions. According to Rob Base, who had a real funky concept, it takes two to make a thing go right, but the same two can make it go awry. The word awry has likely never appeared in hip hop and being honest about relationships in song doesn’t make for a tune with a nice beat that you can dance to. Honest misery is for the wrist-slitting crooners of the emo world.

Anyway, I owned my part in failed relationships. Poor choices, ridiculous behavior, more poor choices and a little immaturity. So, I decided to redirect my path. As far as I know, it has worked wonders but I won’t really be putting it to the test for a few more months now.

Which brings me to the villain in this story. Doc is getting a divorce. I swear, this guy is like gum on my shoe. No, he is gum in my hair. No, he is a raging case of herpes.*

I never mentioned before that Doc and I are pals on Facebook. I didn’t mention it because I didn’t want to be judged and I also didn’t mention it because I didn’t want someone telling me to unfriend him because I like keeping tabs on him. I’m like a military operative with a trace on an international perp who’s committed crimes against humanity.

A few weeks ago, I was out to a movie with my bestie when I received this text from Doc:

Doc: Do you have a webcam? Want to skype? I need to cum.

Gross. Seriously? Followed mere minutes later by…

Doc: Please!

In typical fashion, I never responded. And in his typical fashion, I am sure that was a mass text and some poor helpless gal out there disrobed and headed for her computer to be used and consumed by his never-ending pit of need, unaware of the potentially long-term  emotional damage she was inflicting upon herself. What a dumbass. I mean, bless her heart.

He has been all over the place on Facebook since his wife filed for divorce. (I’ve said it before, but smart girl.) Posting old (as in last year) pictures of the two of them with sappy comments, lame status updates about appreciating your family and pleading any married man out there to remember to tell his wife he loves her. All while he’s texting me ridiculous sexual requests and emailing me that I’m the one that got away.

It’s a good thing I’m a smart woman and know how to steer clear of the villain, the rope and the railroad tracks. But it’s still incredibly annoying. Lately the missing his wife posts and photos have taken a turn for the ‘woe is me’ of over sharing including gripes about his finances, lack of a job, lack of life direction and on and on ad nauseam. The good thing is that every time I see one of his ridiculous attention-seeking whines, I give myself another little pat on the back for recognizing a first-rate blackguard (that word’s for you, AM) and moving in the opposite direction.

Late last night I was shopping at Target when I received another unwanted text message from you-know-who:

Doc: Are you on your way over?

Is he kidding? I laughed out loud. I don’t know who he was trying to text, but I was damn sure it was a misfire seeing as I am a thousand miles away from his sorry ass. Now, I have been ignoring every last text message from him and have not responded to a single email since the great white buffalo night, but I was crawling with curiosity. Mr. I miss my wife and my life is a bottomless pit of despair from whence I shall never escape is in typical form with a mother-fucking booty call. To whom was the gnawing question.

I could not help myself. I waited a few minutes, thought through whether or not I really wanted to dive into this one and decided that of course I did, how else would I find out?

Me: To Texas?

Doc: Yep. It isn’t that far.

Me: You’re crazy.

Doc: LOL. I’ve heard that a lot lately.

Me: Maybe they’re on to something.

Then it hit me. He is the helpless female that my grandmother always talked about. If I was a guy and I was around a girl behaving this way, I would not be remotely interested. As a woman, I am disgusted by his lazy scoundrelly ways. If I had a top hat, a twirly moustache, a length of rope and ragtime player piano background music, I wouldn’t hesitate to tie him to the railroad tracks. The little weasel always did love the old west. I am so glad I am beyond his grasp that there was an extra spring in my step today. I would rather be free from someone like him and happily alone than in his crazy web. In the end, I decided that I just don’t give a rip about the intended recipient of the errant text.

*Again, for the record, and I can’t believe I’ve had to print this disclaimer more than once, I do not have herpes.

Day 321, or half a billion dollars, united depression and embarrassing nipple moments.

Tonight the country’s largest lottery jackpot in history is at stake. As is the emotional health of an entire nation of people. Over 500 million dollars. That’s a lot of dough.     I have my tickets and I’ve already spent the money, so it’ll be really great to cash in.

Somebody has to win, right? All I really hope is that whoever takes the jackpot is someone who really needs it. Someone really down on their luck. Someone with only a few teeth living in a lean-to behind a convenience store. Or me. I would be okay with that, too.

My dad’s been worked up about the impending breakdown of our civilization and I’m wondering if he may have been on to something after all. What if people flip out after the numbers are called? I’m envisioning riots and looting but I really think there’s just going to be a collective national sigh and some binge drinking.

In other loosely related because it’s depressing and happened today news, I was at the gym tonight and was getting a lot of looks. I mean, A LOT. One guy walked in front of my elliptical machine more than a few times. So, I’m rocking out to my tunes and I was thinking to myself “daaaamn, lookin’ good, foxy!” and continued to push myself for an hour and a half. Exhausted, I made my way to the locker room to cool down, grab my bag out of my locker and head home.

Then I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

 

 

 

 

Oops. That explains the extra male attention.

Ordinarily, I would be embarrassed by such a scene but I had to let it roll off. I have 540 million other things on my mind. With my winnings, I’ll buy a sturdier workout bra.

Or I’ll just buy the whole gym and wear whatever the hell I want.

Day 312, or premature infatuation and unintentional karaoke.

Once upon a time I dated a German guy from the little-known, impossible-to-pronouce country town of Schwäbisch Gmünd. Go ahead, try it – you can’t say it, either, can you? I think only people born there can pronounce it. Actually, I can in fact pronounce it after three weeks of persistent tutelage. As far as I know, their main industries are technology, precious metals and assholes.

They also have an awesome Wiesn (Oktoberfest) and at Christmas the world-famous Weihnachtsmarkt (Christmas Market) can’t be missed unless you couldn’t care less like me. I don’t care how good the Glühwein is.

We met online years ago, he lived in Atlanta and worked for BMW. He had an incredibly sexy voice, no sense of humor and practically no personality. I was in the middle of my men-of-the-world collection and really wanted to add Germany. I have no other excuse for dating him.

For our first date, we met for drinks at a local café I love for awkward first dates. This place houses the mother lode of awkward first dates – I believe that’s their entire customer base. I thought “meh” when I met him but the accent helped and we talked for a few hours over liqueurs and coffees. He was pretty boring and I did a lot of the talking. At one point I thought about making an escape from the ladies’ room but this place is completely banked with mirrors. No way to get out unseen, so I sucked it up and continued our date.

He walked me out to my car and said the strangest thing I’ve ever heard on a first date.

“I’m falling in love with you.”

Excuse me? We had coffee and some Amaretto, let’s not get too excited here.

He tried to tell me that the meaning was lost in translation, what he really meant was that he really liked me and would like to see me again. I’ll have to remember that BS for the next time I slip up and spill it too early with someone I like.

Against my better judgment, I accepted a second date. We met for dinner the next week and, I kid you not, he had a bridal magazine in tow and asked me to point out which engagement rings I preferred. I asked to see his green card. It was valid. I didn’t get it.

He talked his way out of that one, too, and asked me to go out again. I accepted, still against my better judgment, and told him to back off on the serious relationship stuff; he needed to take it easy, take it slow and see if we even liked each other.

After three weeks of dating, I was still on the fence about him and he was still pushing his matrimony agenda every chance he had. Then one night after dinner, he told me we were “moving too fast” and needed to take a break from each other and see other people. In the first place, I wasn’t seeing him exclusively. In the second place, what a psycho!

Men of the world: stop stereotyping women as desperate relationship vampires. Your kind is just as bloodthirsty! Wherever you are, German guy whose name I can’t remember, I hope you’re happy but I’m so glad you’re not with me.

So, today at the gym I was listening to some music and found myself accidentally singing along out loud. In 1985 something similar happened to me. I was on a weekend stay-away camping field trip to Savannah and was in love with Whitney Houston’s new album. On the long bus ride, I listened to the cassette tape on my Walkman and sang along ~loudly~ for hours until one of the teachers chaperoning the trip took my Walkman away from me and asked me to never sing publicly again. She returned it to me at the end of the trip.

I wasn’t a fool. I had also packed a small boom box in my bag and had Wham! and Tears for Fears along for the journey. When we got to the camp, I unloaded my tunes and proceeded to sing my heart out. Two songs into Songs from the Big Chair, my boom box was confiscated as well. Oh well, they just don’t understand. I’ve Got the Music in Me.

Some songs are hard to listen to in silence, even if you’re huffing and puffing through cardio. A few lyrics slipped out, I looked around and thought nobody noticed. A little while later, Gotye’s Somebody That I Used To Know cycled through my playlist and I couldn’t help myself… “have your friends collect your records and then change your number” …
I love that part. And that time my glorious singing did not go unnoticed. So I can’t take my iPod in with me anymore. I should probably be working out to more upbeat music anyway.