Homance Diaries

I don’t have a lot of dating experience. I got married when I was 22 and didn’t really play the field before then. So when my ex-husband and I separated in October, I felt like if I didn’t immediately start dating, I would miss the boat on this amazing new chapter of my life. Or something. Really, I think I probably could have left the boat in dry dock for a little longer. Read into that what you’d like.

The first guy I went out with more than once came to be known as Cookie Boy (we’ll get to the why later). Honestly, I shouldn’t have even gone out with him. What I’m about to tell you may ruin your opinion of me and perhaps all females. The biggest reasons I went out on a first date with him were:  1) he was going to take me to a fancy restaurant and 2) he had access to The Walking Dead when I did not. Now that I’ve established myself as a shallow bitch, we can move on.

When we met in person, I realized right away that he was too short for me to be attracted to him. I was only wearing 3 inch heels and I was taller than him (I’m 5’6, for the record). But when he invited me back to his place to watch The Walking Dead, I wavered only slightly. I mean, can you really blame me? I promise this was before Carl got really annoying. Then he kissed me and that’s where things got really awkward. It was the most aggressive kiss I’d ever been involved in, and not in a good way. I left his place with bruises on my lips and only a shred of dignity left.

What’s worse? I went back for round two the following week. Goddamn you, The Walking Dead! By this point, all dignity was gone. I was whoring myself out for free food and a TV show. I let myself get talked into a third date at Panera Bread a few weeks later because I felt bad and I knew I wouldn’t have to buy my own soup (What? I was going through a separation – money was tight!). At the end of a super awkward meal, we hugged goodbye and that was the last I saw of him.

Or so I thought.

A few days later, a package arrived for me at work. Thinking one of my clever online friends had mailed me something, I was excited when I opened it. The excitement quickly turned to dread when I opened the package to discover a giant cookie from a guy I had been on three dates with. Thus, the nickname Cookie Boy was born. I panicked and looked around, hoping that no one had noticed me opening a giant box. I shoved the box under my desk, where it stayed for several days. I ended up tossing the whole thing. Immediately after receiving the cookie, I took the coward’s way out and emailed Cookie Boy to tell him that he was clearly more interested in me than I was in him and that I didn’t wish to continue seeing him. I got a five paragraph email response in return, where he blamed my disinterest on the cookie. Uh yeah, that was it. Sure.

The problem is, the emails haven’t stopped. It’s been seven months and I keep getting random emails from Cookie Boy. Apparently, we were at the same gas station the other week, and the only logical response was to email me the following day and tell me about it. I mean, that’s what sane people do, right? In that email, he told me that I was “kind of a dick,” but did take the time to compliment me on my choice of footwear (thanks for making that extra creepy). In the most recent email, he said that he continues to email me in the hopes that one day I’ll respond. Really? What happened to me being “kind of a dick”?

I’ve ignored every single email he’s sent. I don’t know why he has any sort of illusion that I’ll ever reply. And why the fuck would I want to?

My grandma came to visit me on Saturday for the first time since I got divorced. I’d visited my family in Pennsylvania a few times, but it was her first time seeing my new place (she was quite skeptical about me moving). My grandma worries about me a lot. She doesn’t like where I work (I’m the only slice of white bread in the loaf). She thinks I meet too many people from the Internet (she worries that one of you will kidnap me and put me in a window-less van, and sadly, with some of you, she’s probably right). She’s lectured me about texting while driving more times than I can count (thanks a lot, Brian Williams) and she doesn’t even KNOW that I text while driving.

On the way home, my grandma remarked sadly to my mom, “She must be so lonely.” My mom told her that I’m no more lonely than I was when I was married. My grandma did agree that I seemed happier and that my place was nice (success!).

The truth is, I was way more lonely when I was married. There’s nothing more isolating than living with someone who barely acknowledges your existence. It’s enough to make you not want to come home at all. And sometimes, I would delay coming home by going to the mall or out to eat because that was easier than facing my problems head on. I was less lonely sitting in a restaurant by myself, reading a book than I was at home with the person I married.

I have a lot of friends (something else that baffles my grandma – does she not think I’m a likable person?) and I know that I could always find something to do with someone if I wanted to. I’ve always been an independent person, even as a child. I didn’t need someone to play with to have fun. I used to make up stories about my toys and record them on my tape player, then make people listen to them. I’m sure that was a real delight for all involved. Maybe because I’m an only child, I’ve just grown accustomed to finding ways to entertain myself?

Don’t get me wrong, there are times when I wish I was living with someone else. But those times are few and far between, like when I see a spider or other creepy crawly on the wall or when I need a jar of spaghetti sauce opened. For the record, I usually leave the spiders alone and I can open jars of spaghetti sauce, but it takes a lot of effort and screaming “YOU MOTHERFUCKER” at the jar. Whatever works, right?

Mostly, I just wish that people would understand that being alone does not mean being lonely. I’ve been lonely in a crowded room before. To me, being lonely is about feeling isolated and marginalized. Sitting alone on my bed in the evenings, I feel happy and free because I’m doing what I want with my life. I know that there are people out there who care about me. And really, that’s all that matters.

So, it appears to be National Honesty Day.  If there’s one thing we like, it’s telling the truth and being open and honest about things. So, in the spirit of National Honesty Day, we decided to clear up some rumors that have been flying around about us. And as always, if you have any questions, feel free to ask us. We don’t bite. Well, unless you want us to. But we’ll have to sign a contract a la 50 Shades of Grey first. Snort.

Q: You guys are lesbians, right?
A: False. While we may have a fond appreciation for each others boobies (and asses), we like boys. A LOT. Bonus points if said boys are scruffy.

Q: Rumor has it that you’ve hurt a lot of people. Is that true?
A:  All we’ve ever done is care about the people in our lives. Not sure how that can be construed as hurting people. In fact, we feel like we bent over backwards to accommodate people when all they did was hurt us, time and time again. We are fiercely loyal to our friends, even when we maybe shouldn’t be. It’s both a blessing and a curse to both of us.

Q: So basically, you’re just giant, hateful bitches? Oh, and you use people, too.
A: Apparently, that’s what you’re supposed to believe. Perhaps things could’ve been handled differently from our end, but when people get hurt, they tend to react in certain ways. We’re not always proud of our actions, but we learn from them, and move on. As far as using people? I don’t even know what to say to that. Neither of us has ever accepted gifts from anyone or used anyone in any other way. People aren’t like napkins, just there for you to grab when you need another one.

Q: But you’re hiding something, aren’t you?
A: Have you not been following our tweets for the last however long? We’re basically open books. We’ve blogged about pretty personal things (sex, personal fears, divorce), for fuck’s sake. We’ve posted our faces on Twitter. We can assure you that our biggest secrets are very mundane things, like where we live and work. A lot of people keep those sorts of things off the Internet and for very good reason. We also rarely talk about our very personal lives, but we think we’re allowed to have some mystery, are we not?

Q: You used to be close to other librarians, but now you don’t tweet to them any more. What happened?
A: There was a falling out related to another person. People make their choices and then have to live with them. We’ve never asked people to take sides (and we don’t expect anyone to), nor have we talked about anyone behind their backs. It’s a good policy to have.

All we ask is that you keep things nice or fuck off. We’re cultivating a more positive environment around here and maybe more people should do that, too.

Spring Cleaning, you say? Oh dear, Perfect Panda is on the loose.

Well, it’s Friday. That means you get more deep thoughts from my beautiful head, dear readers. Today, we’re talking about spring cleaning. It’s actually way past when I really wanted to start mine, but life got in the way this year. So, for the next two weekends I am going room by room and attacking each in two phases: decluttering and then deep cleaning. I am going to try not to go too nuts with it but I might need to go about it in a OHMYGODIAMMOVINGFARAWAYSOON way (oh you totally wish you knew the details of that, I know).

Again, if you’re new here, I’m a little type A. I hate clutter and dirt and things that can happen in the house normally. I actually do very little cleaning during the week so I tend to overdo it on the weekends to try and create that perfect Pottery Barn catalog look in my house. You know, attain the unattainable and all. This is why I am breaking this up over two (and maybe three) weekends and have promised people I am not going to kill myself with the lists. I am trying to change the things I can about myself (not overdo all the things), yet still keep my sanity.

In the past, I’ve always just dove in and started cleaning and trying to also purge at the same time. I think breaking it up will make it better to deal with. I’m going to use the four pile method. What? You do not know this? Let me explain.

Pile one: TRASH. This is for stuff that’s broken, odd pieces, not good for donation or garage sale.

Pile two: DONATE/SELL: I usually donate things but I am thinking that there may be a winelibrarian garage sale in my near future. Can’t you see it? I will get totally bored and annoyed after an hour and just leave it all outside for people to take.

Pile three: STORAGE: This is your seasonal crap. Say you haven’t put away your Christmas lights yet or winter sweaters (though some of you poor fucks are still getting freezes.) You know, store the winter crap.

Pile four: PUT AWAY. This is the stuff that is in the wrong place and needs to be put away. This is where I end up deciding I need a cute basket for XYZ so that it can stay near the end table. Things like that.

While I am doing this decluttering, I also keep a list of things I’m going to go and find somewhere like Target. For example, if I need a big container for the Thanksgiving decorations that are still out (as if I’d do that), I’d add it to the list. Part of the fun of doing this is getting new stuff to put your other new stuff in. See? It’s ALL ABOUT CREATING A REASON TO SHOP. Next week I will need some lighter window treatments and springish throw pillows, UNLESS THERE IS THE MOVING. Sigh.

I write this like it will all be super easy to do. I just move from room to room with like a laundry basket on my hip, singing and frolicking around. Completely false. It will be hard. I will find things that remind me of other people and try and decide if they get thrown. I will find things that remind me of projects I swear I was going to do and did not. (FAILURE, IN YOUR FACE.) I will be balancing a couple of other things that will try and get in the way. Constantly. The bottom line here is that I am feeling that my entire life is out of control. So, I am putting some order on the things I can control. We all cope in different ways.

In preparation, and to keep me going, I am starting off with the boxes so I can get both the storage and sell stuff out of my face and out to the garage ASAP.

And my reward? A fancy bottle of wine. (And possibly the real estate section of my new city to look at while I squee).

For those of you interested in spring cleaning, but have no idea where to start, I’ve found some really helpful checklists on the interwebs:

The About.com Guide to Spring Cleaning

Martha Stewart’s Checklist (There is no way I will ever, ever hold myself to any standard she creates. But I offer it here to you.)

Real Simple’s Spring Cleaning Shortcuts (I admit that I love this magazine. Shut up.)

Happy cleaning.

I’ve been feeling really vulnerable lately. I hate feeling vulnerable. I view it as a weakness, mostly because I have it in my head that I have to be strong all the time, which I know is stupid and impossible. But being in two hit and run accidents in a month tends to bring out the vulnerability in full force. All I want is for someone to hold me and tell me everything will be okay. But of course, I have no one to do that for me, so I guess I either have to buck up and deal with it or wallow. While wallowing sounds more favorable, it’s really not my style.

So, in lieu of wallowing, I though I’d share some of my stranger (read: irrational) fears. Why not get all the vulnerability out at once, right? Then I can go back to kicking ass and taking names.

I hate revolving doors. I have this fear that the door won’t turn and that I’ll be stuck or that the door will just keep spinning and spinning, with me trapped inside. So when faced with a revolving door, I always find the one regular door that I can just pull open. What’s wrong with a standard door anyway? Are revolving doors inherently more fancy? I think not. In some cases, however, regular doors are not available and I’m forced to make my way through a revolving door. The experience is made worse when someone is behind me. It’s like they’re controlling the speed and it’s always too fast.

I have an irrational fear of open grates on city sidewalks. Well, actually, anything that interrupts the concrete on sidewalks, like those metal door plate things. I’m not afraid that the heel of my shoe is going to catch and that I’m going to fall flat on my face. No. That would be too easy. I’m terrified that the minute I set even one toe on an open grate, it will crash through to whatever lurks below, taking me with it. And whatever lurks below is always one of these things: 1) a dingy hole full of rats, 2) a never-ending pit, 3) right into an on-coming subway train (even if I’m in a city that has no underground transportation, this is still a worry).

Pool drains have worried me since I was a child. I have no bad experiences with pool drains, but I remember gazing warily at the pool drain at the bottom of the deep end of the public pool and wondering what would happen if my feet touched it. So instead of touching it, I just avoided it. Why risk getting sucked in? I just made sure never to touch the bottom of the pool when I would jump off the diving board. I still don’t like pool drains and now I’m not even sure about bathtub drains sometimes. It’s the fear of the unknown. Drains are dark. You can’t see what lies beneath.

The thing is, I know rationally that all of these things are completely irrational. Will I ever get trapped in a revolving door? Not likely. And if I did, I’m sure a charming doorman would be available to rescue me. And those open grates on city sidewalks? Really? Those aren’t going anywhere (for the record, I also hate driving on open grate bridges, which is probably related and equally irrational). I mean, people larger than me walk on them all the time and they don’t budge. But what if I’m the straw that breaks the proverbial camel’s back…? Sigh. I suppose it’s still not very likely. However, I will maintain that pool drains are creepy. And so are those skimmer things on the side of the pool.

This week has been physically and emotionally rough for me. Obviously, there was the secret mission which is still secret. Then I also gave a presentation at a library conference and during all of that travel, I got sick. I rarely get sick, so it makes me feel super sad, mad, and just helpless. BUT, I promised myself I’d blog on Fridays, so I’m blogging. I’ve been thinking all morning about things that make me happy and I’d thought I’d share a few of my happy thoughts with you, our dear readers. Here are five things that make me happy and they are beyond the average things that you probably already know about (shoes, wine, bourbon, etc.) If you don’t smile by the end of this blog post, you’re probably really an asshole.

1. Baby animals: I really love animals of all kinds. I go to the zoo in almost every city I visit, but there is something amazingly incredibly about baby animals. First, they are tiny (which I will get to), but also they are just so cute it has got to make you smile. Go and google baby pandas. Or even kittens. OR try something ugly. Yes, let’s google BABY SLOTHS. Sloths are ugly, right? Here: have some happy.

2. Miniature things: I LOVE THINGS IN MINIATURE. You know those little ketchup bottles you get on the hotel room service tray? Yes, it could be that simple. BUT, I truly love dollhouses. I’ve had them my whole life and, in fact, have one in my bedroom I’ve been fixing up for some time. I have a collection of tiny bud vases that, I assume, are really just for one little flower. I collect things like miniature football helmets. I can’t help it. I LOVE MINIS!

3. Music. And singing (badly): I can listen to just about everything. I am obsessed with The National (which you may know) and listen to them almost every day. It’s probably a little odd because their lyrics are not uplifting and the music is not bubbly, but the sound of this band moves me like no other. If you haven’t ever listened to them, I’d recommend Conversation 16. Fanfuckingtastic song. But my ultimate favorite, I think, is Lucky You (which is a bit of an older song). It’s a beautiful song and hearing them live last year with @bitchylibrarian was one of the best experiences of my life. But I also listen to pop music and have been known to listen to some country (OK, not that much but I think Garth Brooks in concert counts. Yes, I did that. Shut up.) I mean, I can belt out Selena Gomez like nobody’s business, you probably just really don’t want to hear me sing. I like to clean the house and sing and act like a complete goof because I can and because it makes me happy.

4. Organization: Does this surprise anyone? That on a list of the five things that make me happy I would describe the mental orgasm I have from cleaning out drawers and closets and tidying them all up to look like the Pottery Barn catalog (well, not quite, but you get my drift). I guess really that this could be described as “creating order.” ORDER MAKES ME HAPPY. I mean, I’m a librarian. We order all the things. But, seriously, at least once a month, I like to reorder and organize something in my house and every Friday I organize my desk at work so it doesn’t look like hell and cause a panic attack on Mondays.

5. Making People Happy: So this one is really like #1 on my list of happiness things because I really do love this. No matter my mood or state of health, it will always make me happy to hear that someone smiled when they thought of me, laughed at something I said, thought of me in a good moment, or that I make someone happy. My generosity with people has certainly been taking advantage of before, and I’ve written about how I prefer to always assume people are good, but that doesn’t mean I would ever change a thing. I’m not saying I’m a perfect, selfless soul. I mean, I can be a real bitch. But, I am saying that I will do whatever I can to contribute to people’s happiness when they are in my life because that would be good enough for me.

So, there you go. Maybe those are five characteristics of the WL that you didn’t know that will make you laugh or smile. I just thought I’d share a little smidge of happiness on a Friday afternoon with my lovelies.

Now, what makes *you* happy? Think about it and tell someone or go and do one of the things this weekend.

So, I’ve had a couple of blog post ideas rolling around in my head for awhile; some personal, some not as much. I really would like to have done more research on this one, academic research I mean, but I feel like with the current climate of WAR ON WOMEN and THE VAGINA ATTACKS, it was timely and, frankly, I have other shit going on.

For the life of me, I can’t understand why women attack other women so readily at all stages of life. It happens all throughout school, even at the elementary level, and through adult hood. Now, I am not a child psychologist, so I won’t really elaborate on school-aged behavior too much but we women can all remember being picked on and bullied, wanting to feel a part of a group, or being stabbed in the back by a girlfriend when we were younger. One thing I will always remember from grade school is that GIRLS IN THREES ARE BAD. Remember that.

So, we’ve established that it happens young then. Girls gossip about other girls, they steal each other’s boyfriends, they talk about one girl’s flaws to other girls. They’re mean. We’ve all probably seen the movie Mean Girls where, in the end, the lead Mean Girl gets run over with a truck, right? Or even Heathers, which is an even older, darker twist to the Mean Girls. So this is a sort of accepted practice then in society. Girls pick on other girls. Do we do enough to stop it? OR do we continue the behavior throughout adulthood and then really allow our own daughters to just mimic adult society?

Yesterday, I was completely outraged at some of the comments on my Twitters about Ann Romney, the SAHM comments, and the whole joking conversation that continued. I mean, who are we to judge her? ESPECIALLY women. When did we start to be so careless in our comments, flippant in our public declarations, about each other? Is this about politics? Is it a sort of grown-up version of Mean Girls between working moms and SAHMs and commentary on the side from those who have no clue about the choices that either of those groups of women make? Is it a fight about a wealthy woman and how she can’t possibly understand the “real” work that “real” working women do? Or real SAHMs? (As an aside, the men commenting on this makes me as irate as the men who want to tell me what to do with my uterus.)

Feminism is about having the ability to make those choices and RESPECTING each other when we do. That means parenting, not parenting, working, not working. I mean we should respect ALL of our choices.  Why are women such complete assholes to each other and why isn’t anyone telling them to stop? There are intelligent women I follow who are just fueling the fire. I don’t base my politics and voting on whether someone is wealthy or not, whether their spouse stays home with children, or whether they can understand *MY* personal circumstances in life. But, I’m digressing. Poking fun at the Romneys’ wealth for political reasons doesn’t seem very productive to me, but it’s not what concerns me about the recent discussions involving women that I’ve witnessed.

I write this knowing that I too, at times, have been a Mean Girl. In my defense, in my adult life it is usually not without provocation. At work, I do not partake in gossip. I try very hard to calm people down from that path. First, it hurts morale and productivity and I’m a boss of people and secondly, I’m aware of my karma. Personally, I have very few close female friends in my real life because things change, I’ve moved a bunch, etc. etc. Also, I am not a trusting person. At. All. Obviously, you all know that @bitchylibrarian and I are extremely close friends. She’s probably the best friend I’ve ever had. And yes, together, sometimes we are Mean Girls. Do I apologize for that? Well, I guess so. But, I’ve never threatened anyone’s family, or their career, or intentionally hurt someone. I’ve defended myself, my friends, and people I’ve cared about. I have had all of those things happen to me though. By women.

My worst stalker (I say worst because there are ones that I’m not afraid of) is a woman. I won’t elaborate here on who she is or why she stalks me, but I’m fairly certain that she’s clinically insane and has probably convinced herself and her friends of an alternative version of events that make her look sane. Or people in her life don’t realize she still stalks me 15 months later. I admit that my friends and I were publicly mean to her on Twitter. I will say, in our defense, that she provoked it by blogging about us, tweeting about us, and telling lies about us to people.

Is being a Mean Girl different than bullying as adults? I’m not sure. But adult attacks of women on women seem to be especially venomous. Why do women beat other women down so often? Why does it seem even more prevalent after we all got our hands on social media? AND why do men like a good catfight? Is the societal norm of women being mean to each other just the way it is and always will be? Should I stop seeing this as bad and divisive?

Why do packs of women think it’s OK to threaten other women’s jobs and livelihoods? Does that go beyond cattiness and bitchiness? Why do we still all act like children on a playground who thrive on making the outsider girl feel panic, fear, or embarrassment?

In the end, women should learn to take care of each other. Or, in the least, to respect each other. When a friendship ends, mourn the loss and move on. Don’t gossip and threaten. In the bigger picture, we’re all on the same side.

Maybe next time you’ll think before you decide to be a Mean Girl. And maybe if there are little girls in your life, you’ll tell them not to be either.

We said this wasn’t a blog about library stuff, but eff you. It’s not TOTALLY about library stuff. So, this was a week of ups and downs. The ups were freaking fantastic tidbits of news for me. The downs were things that had to do with my complicated emotions, inability to let things go, and generally freaking the fuck out like a woman is prone to do. I had medical things going on, job opportunities, work conflicts, etc. etc. After day after day of having things pile up this week, some good, but more bad, it was almost certain that I was going to explode and cry. I’ve had a rule for a long time that I don’t cry at work. Well, I BROKE THAT ONE TODAY.

I think that you, my readers and Twitter lovelies, probably see me as this hard as nails bitch most of the time. Totes true. But, that is my protective coating. I’ve been through a lot of crappy shit in my life. Yes, people, I can totally be fragile. Sometimes, when I realize that I am just being a normal girl with crazy moments, I judge myself very harshly. (I admit to being a serious JUDGER). I cry. I emo. I get disappointed in myself. I tell myself, “Winey, you are a strong independent woman. Shut the fuck up and find your balls and fix it already.” I do totally talk to myself a lot, as well.

So, most things I can totally let roll right off when they have to do with my job. Truth is, I work in a library. I’m not a heart surgeon or something like that. NO ONE WILL PERISH if my library instruction goes badly. Students might not learn anything, but no deaths will occur. I am mostly quite happy go lucky at work. I have good colleagues. I have a strong team of people. I like my job.

Here’s what I hate. I cannot stand when I feel like I am being disrespected, especially professionally. I’ve worked my ass off for years to get to where I am. I do research. I publish. I present a lot of really important library crap at conferences. I put myself through school and two graduate degrees because I wanted something better than what I grew up around. I *hate* when I am disrespected and talked down to. In fact, I always remember that everyone in this place knows more about something than I do. It might not be in my area, but I try to always respect people’s knowledge and experience. Twice this week the same individual talked to me like I was literally the stupidest person on the planet about MY expertise. The second time, I obsessed about how awful the whole experience was for two days. I obsessed about how no one around the table defended my knowledge or my hard work. I complained constantly to those closest to me and I could not let it go (I HAVE A BIG PROBLEM WITH LETTING THINGS GO.)

I don’t need to always be the tall flower at work that gets all of the acknowledgement, but I do need to receive praise and be told I’m doing well because I’m human. I remember reading a Harvard Business Review article years ago about bosses who coddle the lowest achievers, trying to get them to be better, and middle of the road employees, to reach higher goals, but leave the “A students” to continue on their independent paths because they know they have an inner desire to achieve.

Where were we? Oh, OK. This woman talks to me like I’m the dumbest librarian alive, reworks my work and spreadsheet I worked on for a really long time and then has the balls to follow up with an email with all of the bosses of us copied on it. And she is clearly out of her realm of expertise. AND I GET CALLED TO THE BOSS’S OFFICE.

So there I was this morning, for over an hour, and within five minutes I not only broke the rule of no crying at work, but I also became the employee that I really don’t like: the uncontrollable crier who can’t continue the conversation. O.M.G. There was defensiveness, there was sobbing, there was me trying to explain that I cannot take, no matter what, someone disrespecting my experience and knowledge. Then, my boss said the most shocking thing…

“I didn’t know you could be so fragile about anything.”

Wow. Yes. I can be just as fragile as the next person. I guess I just do a better job of hiding it.

Sigh.

I need a really big glass of wine tonight. Like maybe the bottle.

In case you have your head up your ass and you missed all the #FreeBitchy tweets yesterday, my divorce was finalized yesterday morning. And in case you missed all the between the lines tweets over the last six months, I ended my marriage in October. I was a bit more vague about that, so I didn’t expect everyone to really know what was going on. However, the giant rainbows of happiness should have been a huge fucking clue.

It's a certified copy and everything.

What’s really surprised me in announcing my divorce is how quick everyone is to say that they’re sorry. Why? Why is divorce something to be sorry about? I feel better about my life than I ever have. This was my decision. I am not some shrinking violet woman and I thought people knew better than to assume that about me. After court yesterday, I went out and bought hot pink stilettos and a brand new dress. I wasn’t sitting in a corner and sobbing into some pudding.

Honestly, the whole process was rather anti-climatic for me. @winelibrarian kept asking me how I felt, but I really didn’t feel any significant emotion. In my mind, my marriage had been over for so long that this was just like the sprinkles on top of a cupcake. Or something.

When I got married, I feel like I did it for all the wrong reasons. I see that now, but at the time, all I wanted was for someone to love me and never leave me. Obviously, I still want to be loved, but the desperation is gone and has been replaced with a little something called self-confidence. I’m completely fine being on my own. Hell, sometimes I even forget to lock my door at night.

So what I feel is that the song “Love the One You’re With” is totally wrong. Well, maybe not totally wrong, but you shouldn’t force happiness in a situation just because you took a vow when you were 22 years old and not even sure what you wanted out of life. People drift apart, become different. Some people grow together in situations like that, others grow apart. When your heart is opened up to the idea of exploring a relationship with someone else, is it better to stay married and deny yourself? I don’t have children, so the decision was less difficult for me to make. I’m not saying it was easy, but it was the right thing to do for both of us. It wasn’t fair to him for me to stay when I wasn’t dedicated to the marriage and it wasn’t fair for me to be so miserable all the time.

I think I spent my entire marriage looking for something I didn’t have. I created profiles on dating sites throughout my marriage, both to see what was out there and for the attention I didn’t feel like I was getting. I don’t think my ex-husband was equipped to handle me and we are better at being friends than people who coexisted in the same space. I have nothing against him, but we were definitely not right for each other on many levels. And I think he’s happier now, too.

I think settling is used here in a positive way by my fortune cookie.

I have nothing against marriage. I’d even like to try it again with the right person this time. I didn’t get engagement pictures done or even have a wedding photographer. I didn’t wear a big floofy dress. I want to do all those things the next time around. I feel that not wanting all of those things was a sign, but I chose to ignore it. I thought that love meant settling and compromising your happiness, but I know better now.

Our theme this month is strong women, but I guess I’m going to kind of deviate from that. Deal with it. We state in the About Us that this blog is for whatever we feel like writing about. And right now I feel like writing about finding my happy.

It’s no secret that I’ve been feeling happier for a while now. My tweets have been much more upbeat and less negative. I’ve written a little bit here about how my happiness has influenced how much of my body I share on the internet. But, in truth, I’m having difficulty expressing just how happy I am. Sometimes I struggle because I often feel  like I don’t deserve this much happy in my life, which, intellectually, I know is just plain stupid. But still, there are times when I have to remind myself that this is real.

In the past six months, I’ve made a lot of difficult decisions that have brought me to this point in my life. I won’t say that everything I’ve gone through hasn’t been stressful. When I’m feeling stressed and overwhelmed, I tend to lose my appetite, so my weight has fluctuated quite a bit; all told, I think I lost almost 10 pounds over the course of the last year. Not good when I was already underweight by most standards  to begin with. The worst part? I went down a cup size because of all the weight I lost. I threatened a suicide note full of scrawled Bs if I went down another cup size, but things appear to be holding steady. Snort.

While I’ve been feeling happier for a while, I had no proof, other than just feeling lighter and freer. Yesterday, I got my hair cut. As an aside, I’m really bad at keeping up with my hair. I’ll go six months without getting my hair cut. Oops. So it had likely been several months since my hair had been cut last. My stylist had been trying to talk me into highlights for the longest, so I finally said, “Fuck it,” and went for it. I love the results.

What a difference a year makes

When I got out of the salon, I took a picture of my new hair in my car and posted the picture to both Twitter and Facebook. When I got home, I was clicking through my Mobile Uploads album on Facebook and came across a picture taken just over a year ago, right after I had my hair cut. I was in almost the exact same pose. The only thing really different is my face.

I look at the picture on the left from February of last year and I see dead eyes and a forced smile. I’m reminded of the person I used to be and I can’t help but wonder how I never noticed that face staring back at me in the mirror. Was it because I never had a truly happy face to compare it to? Or do you just not notice those things about yourself? All I know is that I look like a completely different person in the picture on the right. And I like that person on the right a whole hell of a lot better. The person I was a year ago hid how unhappy she was and tried to keep it together. She sobbed on her way home from work because she didn’t want to go home. She ignored her problems and hoped they would go away. Spoiler alert: her problems didn’t go away, so she was forced to confront them head-on, but I don’t remember the last time I cried. I smile a lot more and laugh more easily.

It takes a lot of strength to admit mistakes you’ve made in your life and work to move on from them. I don’t mean to sound dramatic, but not everyone goes through the things I have and comes out this happy only six months later. Is it egotistical of me to call myself a strong woman? Oh, fuck it.