Deuces

I was shopping for apples, and shopping for apples made me smirk upon careful examination of one otherwise perfect apple. The apple had a hole. A worm hole? Maybe.  I didn't consider it long before I carefully placed it back with its brethren fruit. And then I reminisced, thinking about how in Lisbon ("Lisboa") you aren't allowed to touch the fruit and there is a monitor at each fruit stand so you have to tell the under-appreciated worker which one you want.  It's weird.  Choose wisely. Lisboa is a funny place. But it was in Lisboa I met Morten. There were many days when I wondered if Morten was the one that got away, which is completely hilarious in hindsight, and yet even as I chuckle I remember my feet dangling next to his with his coat around my arms and the blissful happiness that enveloped me. Morten and I met at a club and I remember, distinctly, that I found him so appealing with his tall, well-proportioned frame and his ...

I know my red flags. With men, I can identify them so readily that I should be a match-maker to the stars.  Katie Holmes, honey, I could have called out all those red flags for you and saved you a divorce and career suicide.   No one will ever be able to watch Batman Begins and The Dark Knight in succession and not be completely baffled by your choice to let Maggie Gyllenhaal make out with Christian Bale on your behalf in The Dark Knight .  I blame Tom.  We all blame Tom.  And I blame you for making that film transition so awkward for the good citizens of the world.   You are the reason I will never be able to own the series on Blu-ray and DVD combo pack. And I am so good and intuitive with my red flags in life that I really try to avoid them except, you know, at work, where I have an obsession with flagging things because each color flag means something distinctly different and helps me stay organized in the chaotic mess I call work. I used ...

I like buns. But that's not why I wear my buns high, usually. Usually the reason my hair is in a bun is because I am cleaning or I am jogging or I am refusing to comb my hair. But lately, if you see my hair in a constant state of bread-roll, uppity, tightly twisted strands it is because I haven't managed to carve out time to get my hair colored. Because tight buns mask unsightly roots. Tight buns tell the world I am trendy and casual but in my world, my roots tell a tale of a life that is a bit topsy-turvy. No time.  Must rush. A twisted up-do lets me get up and go even though I'd love to get down and sit, comfortably, in a swivel chair and have Gina turn my heinous brown hair into a golden delight. I love Gina.  She knows what color suits me well even though I beg her to let me go red, just once. "No." She insists.  And so it is. I'd like to put my nose in a magazine and stew under a heat lamp until the bleach has ...

I think I'm more concerned with being around people who impress me, And less motivated to be around people I can impress. Has that always been the case? Possibly. Not likely. But here is the epiphany, as I settle into this state of constant wonderment, of curiosity, of wanting to know more about people and what drives them and how they add to the world and give to the world and make this journey more fulfilling. And when I find myself trying to impress other people I can feel the vulnerabilities and weaknesses of who I am slipping through the cracks that I so carefully try to mask with any shred of greatness I embody. I am loud, I am zealous, I am trying, desperately trying. But perhaps I can relax. Maybe I can continue on this quest to be impressed and worry less about impressing you, them, those that are making me try, so hard. I will work on it.