The Time for Abandonment

The biggest mistake any blogger can make is to be unclear on her content, or to leave the reader unsure as to what message the content is trying to deliver. Is it about yoga? Makeup? Travel in the mid-West? The psychological benefits of knitting sock puppets? Be clear with your message, bloggers are warned, or the readers will ditch you. Now for me, with the exception of a few close friends, I don’t have readers yet. I’m aware of it, and I’m working on it (it’s harder than it sounds). So for now this blog merely serves as a creative outlet for me.

Franz Kafka (fellow introvert) once said that a non-writing writer is a monster courting insanity. Aptly said. And after only a week, I can say with a clear heart that this blog is preventing me from turning green and smashing up my neighborhood. I want readers. I need readers. But until I get them, I am simply grateful for the venue.

So let’s return to content. As I click from post-to-post, the message seems clear to me. But I wonder if it will be clear to readers. What is your blog about, Mary?

Well. Ahem.

I suppose it’s about abandonment. Not abandonment of values, principles or children, but of restraint. Moderation. Self-control. Even of the invisible shackles of geography.

It’s about giving into one’s natural impulses.

It’s about a widow moving towards love once again. An introvert moving away from self-imposed privacy. A daughter, mother, teacher, professor, moving away from solitude and stereotypes and wanting to know how her intelligence, sense of humor, beauty and sense of self translates to the rest of the world. It’s about a spoiled self-indulgent little girl discovering gratitude. It’s about travel, and culture, and fluidity, and men, and sex, and conversation and laughter.

It’s about happiness.

Uh-oh. Major journalistic faux-pas. I buried the lede.

You know now. I’m happy. Really really happy. Not the over-bearing bubbling-over, small-talk chatty kind. Not the Facebook post “Look how happy and perfect my life is!” kind. No. My happiness is the slow-burning, color-changing kind. The quiet kind, the kind that finds me huddled in dark corners, protective of it and afraid someone will ask me to try and explain it. Happiness that simmers like an ember, deep-down in that place where the self sits, content and grateful. Happiness that is not dependent on other’s opinions of me, or what the weather is doing, or what the scale says, or how much money I have, or if I have a date on Saturday night.

Pure happiness. The kind that scares others, because they don’t understand it. It is unfamiliar because of its rarity.

I will share more on happiness as I go, but future readers, know this: the content of this blog may seem to veer from subject to subject, but the message should be clear:

I’m so happy to be here for the journey.

New and Slightly-Improved

I’ve changed in the last three years. Here are some examples.

Behind a Slow driver:
Old-Me: Listen motherfucker, some of us have lives. Stop taunting me, or I will go road rage on you, I shit you not (pretty sure I stole part of that from “Shawshank Redemption”).
Now-Me: He could be on prescription medication. He could have been dropped on his head as a baby. He could be lost, geriatric, confused. He could be re-enacting the first driving scene in “Driving Miss Daisy.” He could be my father in a stolen car.

Dealing with Tourists:
Pre-Me: Don’t you people have lives other than to come to our little barrier island, clog up the streets and the beaches, and leave your trash all over the place? And why do your kids scream all of the time? If they’re not having fun, take them the hell home. Christ. And by the way, you all wear too much perfume and cologne, and none of you know how to dress. And your dogs are ugly.
Now-Me: I think it’s great that I live in a place so beautiful and tranquil that every registered Pennsylvania voter makes a pilgrimage here every weekend for three months. What an honor to live on such a safe, beautiful island that people visit from all over the country just to make family memories. I welcome you with open arms and heart.

Looking at old, haggard lady on the beach, with droopy breasts and flat ass jammed into a fluorescent orange string bikini, accentuating her wrinkly saggy skin:
Pre-Me: Your face looks like the saddle I sat in for a week in Iceland. That’s because there is a point where you’re no longer tan but stained. You can’t pull off that bathing suit. And oh, now that I see you closer up, I see you’re not 70, but 35. Ever hear of the deleterious effects of too much UV radiation?
Now-Me: Age is just a number. Wear what you want, life is short. If people don’t like how you look, they can just look in another direction. God, people are assholes thinking they can tell women what to wear, how to look….

Muscle Car Driver, coming alongside me at a light, revving his engine:
Pre-Me: You think you can take me and my Chevrolet Equinox, motherfucker? Bring it. Let’s fucking roll.
Now-Me: Hey asshole, have fun getting in front of me at the turn just to sit at the same light I will be sitting at down the road.

Guy sitting on the deck of a five-million-dollar beach house:
Pre-Me: If you can afford that house, why are you wearing Crocs?
Now-Me: Your frugal money sense when purchasing plastic footwear certainly has benefited you, since now you can use all the money you saved on that expensive house. Well done.

Guy in Rolls Royce convertible staring at me as I walk my dog:
Pre-Me: Yeah, nice car, cocksucker. But how big is your dick?
Now-Me: Nice car. How big is your dick?

Woman who told me to get my doggo off her grass:
Pre-Me: Your grass sucks. My dog is awesome.
Now-Me: Yes, ma’am.

I wouldn’t say I was hated. For instance, I used to have a small group of friends who I don’t think would have run me over with their cars. I like to think they might have swerved to miss me. But there were plenty of others who would have hit me, head-on, if they were sure they could get away with it. They would have done it with a smile, and as they watched my body’s final death-rattle in their rearview mirror, would have discussed where to celebrate my demise with pomegranate martinis.

This doesn’t bother me to think of now, much as it didn’t bother me to think of then. I’ve always understood people’s often-times, shall we say hostile, reaction to me. As a journalist, it came in the form of hate mail and criticism. As a teacher, student vitriol. As a mother, screams of frustration and anger in reaction to my supposed “unfairness.” Yes, I would think in all three situations. Hatred, vitriol and frustration- it meant I was doing my job.

What brought about this change could fill a book, and will be revealed slowly through my posts.

Patience, my friends.

Connection of Place

Natural history writer Barry Lopez says that human imagination is shaped by the architecture it encounters at a young age. In his essay “A Literature of Place,” he asserts that his imagination was shaped by a dry California valley.

Ask yourself: What has shaped yours?

Lopez’s essay exhorts us to become intimate with our places, and he reassures us that if we can achieve that intimacy, we will achieve a defense against the loneliness of the human condition. Give your place your intimate attention, he states. Have a storied relationship to it. Live in a kind of ethical unity with your place. If you can do these things, it will know you are there, and you will never feel abandoned.

It feels you.

As we search in vain for connection to self and to others, we feed our addiction to technology and social media, completely ignoring what is right outside our own window.

Connection to place.

I recently visited my hometown in the attempt to achieve that geographical intimacy, some sort of connection.

I needed my touchstone. It was time to head home.

As I rolled down Main Street, I was met by the same old sleepy streets, rows of tidy ranchers, the mansions of Bellevue Avenue, sweet blueberry farms, the Italian market, the trim little downtown bustling with people headed out for coffee, supplies, or to-and-from work.

I dropped in on haunted childhood places. The Women’s Civic Center parking lot and concrete stairs, where hundreds of neighborhood kickball games were played in the dying of sun-mottled fall light, where gruff parental voices calling us in were ignored for just one more inning. The cool dim Church of Christ, where if unlocked was a cool refuge from the sun and a place to play hide-and-seek in the pews, to sneak communion wine, and breathe in the cross-pollinated smell of oil and Pine Sol until we were chased back out into hot summer sun by the cranky pastor. The copse of trees dividing the lots of the Civic Center and the Church of Christ, that shady place where we hunkered down on many a summer day with french fries and milkshakes. This copse was our fort, our hiding place, our control tower, a place where all important decisions were made, and where no adult was allowed to step foot in. Ever.

And the bicycle cut-through that was the most direct route to Dee’s house, and the big tree root to avoid on the left-hand side of the path that harbored the insidious intent to wipe you out if your bike tire caught it just wrong. We all knew to stay to the right, but forty years later I can still hear now the voices of friends.

“RIGHT!”

On this day forty years later, I stood still in the worn-out patch of grass designated as home plate for our kickball games, I huddled under those trees where I carved my initials. I walked through the cut-through, bent down and ran my hand over that killer root. I stood in that church and inhaled that familiar scent. I sat on those concrete steps, and dreamed once again the grandiose daydreams of becoming a famous gymnast, the images flooding back to my consciousness. And as I drove home, I knew immediately that I felt better. At peace. Connected to myself, and the place that made me.

So go home, if you can. But wherever you are, open yourself up. Be silent, appreciate the cessation of noise. Feel it, and yourself situated on it. Ask yourself what you smell and hear. Bend down, feel the textures at your feet.

We know we cannot control the physical world. Boy, do we know that. So become intimate with whatever “stretch of land” you call home, and through geographical reciprocity, you can discover your sense of self, and perhaps a sense of hope.

Man-Snacky

I am Man-Snacky. I used to be Man-Starved, so be happy for me.

I love men.

Hungry-Like-a-Wolf lean types like Jason Statham and Robert Downey Jr. World-weary cerebral types like Dr. Jordan Peterson and the late Arthur Miller. The adorably insecure like Paul Giamatti and Kevin James, the intense professional coaching studlies like Doug Pederson, Nick Saban and Rep. Jim Jordan, motivational leaders like Tim Grover and Grant Cardone, dialed-in political pundits like Tom Fitton, Lawrence Jones and Sean Hannity. And please let’s not forget the “Dude, I Could Crush Your Windpipe With That Little Useless Nail of My Pinky Toe” types like Eddie Gallagher, Joe Rogan, and Jocko Willink.

(Oh, and Jim Cantore stands alone. He couldn’t get more beautiful. If you are reading this Jim, I really was just contacting you for an interview. You didn’t have to block me like I am some kind of psycho-stalker bitch. Despite your rejection of my advances, my admiration for you has not diminished. Moving on…)

Plumbers, lawyers, cowboys, pilots, soldiers, teachers, entrepreneurs, tall, short, round, lean. I love them all and all the cute guy stuff they do.

So much cute stuff. When they roll their shirt sleeves up. When they read off your menu. When they love their mothers and their dogs, scrape the ice off your windshield, practice their golf swing, text you to find out if your flight landed, the way they look when they stand around in a group of guys at a wedding. I swear I could die from the cuteness of all of it.

Oh, and if a guy has gray hair and peers at me from over his reading glasses?

Marone. Bring on the smelling salts.

Cute guy stuff kills me. My chronically-sick late Hub was not exactly forthcoming in offers to rub my feet or fetch me hot cups of coffee, what with just trying to survive and all. Some of that cute man stuff I miss like crazy, some I never had at all. When you are a caregiver for a chronically-ill spouse, no one cares if your flight lands safely, or if there is ice on your windshield. No pity required, it was what it was.

So this is my pilgrimage. My crusade. My yatra, my hajj, my peregrination. I will dedicate the next twelve months (don’t hold me to that timetable, this is a big world) and meet as many men as I can. Climb mountains with them, hike with them, sail with them, dinner, martinis, coffee, concerts, dancing, golf, tennis, sex, whatever it takes to find someone to discuss hemorrhoids with when I’m 80.

But this process must be streamlined, the excess fat trimmed. Not only must I ensure that I am exposed to only men I find desirable, the opposite must also be true. I’m confident, but not so vain that I think I’m every man’s type. Men who like those baby carrot women should move along, as well as liberal men who don’t like conservative women. Men who prefer women to make all the moves and decisions, and who post pictures of themselves wearing masks in their cars must know that I’m not their type.

My male kryptonite? Toughie, but exceptions notwithstanding, I find that with ninety-nine percent accuracy, I am dubious about and probably would not be attracted to men who: Excessively garden and “keep” cats (a distinct difference from men who have a cat at home). Who wear strange hats, water shoes or Crocs. Who have yellow or crooked teeth, with the accompanying bad breath. Who are afraid to cross a street without a crosswalk, or to ride a bike without a bicycle helmet (outside of an arduous workout or race). Who are unfit or unhealthy or conversely, twig-thin or consumed with diet. Who have little to no sense of humor. Who are younger than me or make less money than I do. Who don’t know what to do with my body in bed.

(It’s a tough list, you might think, but I say fuck off. It’s my list. And it’s not even complete).

I’d also like to meet one man who doesn’t use any variation of the following line: “Cold in here?” Yes, my nipples are erect, but it has nothing to do with temperature or my “arousal” at the sight of you. When I had a breast reduction the doctor moved my nipples, rendering them immune to the normal physiological reactions to heat, cold and arousal. They’re always erect, you infantile junior-high man-children.

So where can such vetting occur, you ask? What place can possibly get me to a man who shares my interests, goals and physical requirements in such fine detail? Where can this sloughing-off process begin? There is only one place where algorithms are fine-tuned and precise, where a clog-dancing Zoroastrian rocket scientist can find same, where you are guaranteed to have a date in every city, and where hook-ups are de rigueur.

Tinder Passport.

Kali the Octopus

I’m really into octopuses lately (no, it is NOT octopi, as commonly thought). If you’ve never read The Soul of an Octopus by Sy Montgomery, please pick it up.

Saying The Soul of an Octopus is about an octopus is like saying The Untethered Soul by Michael Singer is about a horse, or that the Bible is about a carpenter. There may be a picture of an octopus on the front of Montgomery’s book, and a horse on the front of Singer’s, but the inside of these tomes spin yarns that speak of warriors, kings and ancient languages. I know now that I will never die happily until I look into the eye of an octopus.

Journalist Montgomery studies and builds complex relationships with various octopuses at the New England Aquarium, anthropomorphizing for the reader the personality of each individual slimy imp. Through my literary foray in this chirpy little tome, I have come to know and love George, Octavia, Kali and Karma. What intelligent, crafty, vivacious, friendly, unpredictable, and highly sentient creatures these cephalopods are.

I’ve been thinking and breathing octopuses. I marvel at the fact that when they lose an arm, the arm continues to hunt and fish, and tries to move the fish to a mouth that is no longer there. I’ve learned that octopuses have beaks and rarely show them to humans. That their suckers have pincer grips so fine that they can untie knots. Aquarium keepers have to go to great lengths to contain their octopuses, since they are masters of escape.

Oh, the places they go.

I began to get angry halfway through the book as Montgomery described the small barrel in which sweet, friendly Kali was housed. There was nowhere else to put her, and they had to be sure she was contained safely. I agonized chapter after chapter when, as they unscrewed her lid, she, so desperate for attention, socialization and space, would practically launch herself out of the barrel to touch them and play with them. And as happens with highly social and intelligent creatures, her cramped and lonely quarters began to prey on her psyche, and she began to exhibit signs of depression.

So much like humans. So much like…me! I have also as of late, with impending empty nest syndrome looming, begun to feel cramped with my surroundings. Bored. Feeling like if someone were to unscrew MY lid, that I would also fling myself out with abandon. Desperate for a new view, new space, new smells, new textures. Get me out of here!

But on page 169 a miracle happens. The handlers, determined to place her in a bigger location, found her a tank. If you are an animal lover like me, you will read pages 169-171 over and over.

She immediately turned bright red with excitement. She flung herself about, probing the new tank with her suckers, feeling the new textures of glass, gravel and stones. She stretched her full self out with wild abandon, something she had never been able to do in her small barrel. Montgomery alliteratively described it as “soaking up sensations like a swelling sponge.”

“She moves rapidly and purposefully,” Montgomery waxes, “touching everything, her arms dashing about like puppies exploring the first snow, or caged birds set free.”

All was good. I was so happy for her, for her handlers, for ME. That will be me soon, I thought!

She escaped the first night and died on the floor. All who knew and loved her were heartbroken, as was I. As I still am. Kali, being such the explorer, managed to squeeze all of her 21 pounds and ten-foot arm span out of a hole measuring 2 1/2 inches by one-inch.

This does not bode well for my impending departure. Will I seek new climes, and find them to be inhospitable? Will I overestimate my abilities?

Will I perish in my escape?

But as Anna, one of the aquarium volunteers states, “what you do today doesn’t affect yesterday.” And Wilson the Octopus-Whisperer states aptly:

“She had a good last day. She had a day of freedom. And that she got out tells you a phenomenally inquisitive and intelligent creature wanted her freedom…it must have taken a lot of effort to get out. A stupid animal wouldn’t do that.”

Indeed.

Find Me a Find

I just paid a total stranger $250.00 to tell me I’m too old to attract men my age, not young enough to attract a millionaire, and not QUITE fit enough to attract a guy my age looking for a fit girl.

“But I am fit,” I told her. “For Christ’s sake, I workout every day. I climb mountains, I ride horses, I paddle board, I bike, golf and play tennis. How fit does any man need any woman to be?”

“You are fit,” the matchmaker answered, looking coyly down at our seared brussel sprouts appetizer. “You’re beautiful, and accomplished. But guys on those platforms want a woman who is, like, SUPER fit.” She speared a sprout, and pretended to look at my profile on her laptop.

Ah. I got the implication. I was doing all the right things, the fun active stuff guys like women to do, I just wasn’t doing them as a size 2. I looked her over slyly. While I appreciated her honesty, I knew our professional relationship would not progress past the consultation fee.

These women who think everything comes down to being tiny always look the same, and the matchmaker I had hired was no exception. Built like a twelve-year old boy, all angles and hypotenuses. Her skin sagging on her fake tan, her dark thinning hair lacking the nutrients required to be thick and lush. Ignoring the food between us, but urging me to eat it, the implication being that my “large girth” needed to be fed often to maintain its size, like the Hungry Hippo game. Every single personal trainer in my gym looks like this, and they sincerely believe that this is what men want.

We know differently, don’t we? We women with boobs, ass and hips that fill out those tight black cocktail dresses know differently. We know men love our curves, and It’s a wonderful knowledge to have, making it difficult to take tiny androgynous women seriously.

“Honey,” I said sensually, as I rose from the table and leaned over to give her a great view of my ample cleavage, “let’s meet at a bar. Dress your sexiest, and I’ll dress mine. We’ll see who has a guy panting first.” As I turned on the heel of my stiletto, I looked back and flicked my cigarette at her, and watched it land perfectly in the middle of the brussel sprouts. “Eat up,” I purred. “You need it.”

(O.k., this didn’t happen either. It’s my brief stint at the romance novel genre).

Men want curves, and life, and skin, and sexuality, and warmth, and vitality, and laughter, and openness. At least, the men I am attracted to want this. I can’t speak for the men who are attracted to tiny boyish women, because I’m not attracted to them either. I once read an essay that explained these couples. It was entitled “Stick-Figure Women and the Men Who Love Them.” (JK- this is not the title of the essay. I don’t remember the title).

The premise of the essay was that by maintaining a stick-thin appearance, a woman can dispel of any notion that tends toward sexuality or wantonness, therefore ensuring she will not be sexually desired, or bothered with any unwanted or unsolicited sex act. Because really, what man would desire a baby carrot?

(I know all you baby carrot women out there are not deterred. You still think you are the feminine ideal, no matter what society says. I say that’s good. Every woman should be 100% sure that she is the most desired woman on the planet).

Simultaneously, the man is proud of his woman’s boyish stick-thin appearance, even gladly giving up a vital sex life for the pride he feels when appearing with her in public. “My tiny wife,” he seems to say, “doesn’t even need to eat. My wife is in control.” Then often, this same man will seek sex elsewhere, many times with a curvaceous desirable woman. The essay even went so far as to imply that men who desire tiny women desire them due to their child-like physical appearance. (“Look, I married a Hobbit!”)

(Sorry, this got creepy at the end. Don’t get mad at me, I didn’t write it, I’m just a blogger. I promise to look through my textbooks and find the title, if anyone is interested).

My matchmaker went on to say that my impossibly high standards could be another hurdle to finding a good match. She had clicked through her entire client roster, and I had nixed every single guy.

“What are you looking for?” she asked. “Who is he?”

He’s educated, intellectual, athletic. Spiritual, religious, sexual, and romantic. Funny, pensive, intense, discreet, open. Caring, protective, healthy, accomplished. He has his own family, his own dog, his own health insurance, his own portfolio, his own friends, his own activities, his own American Express Platinum card. He’ll care for me, but not smother me. He’ll protect me, but applaud my individuality. He’ll condone my faults, but put me in my place when needed.

He’s Tony Stark.

She was a nice woman, and did her best to sell her services, all of which I demurred. I suggested that if her only male clients were men who wanted the super-skinny and the super young, she should at least put that on her website.

“No, no, Mary,” she said. “You’ve misunderstood me.”

And you I, I replied. And when I rose from the table, I thanked her for her time, and told her to contact me if she ever needed advice on knowing what men really want.

Winner

I won $4.00 in the New Jersey State lottery today. Please respect my privacy at this turbulent time.

Theories of Attraction

Malcolm Gladwell and I have been conducting extensive research on how men and women actually get together, and we have decided that there are three main theories.

(So I have not actually worked with Malcolm Gladwell, but I feel this is a project that would interest him).

The Sunflower theory. Sunflowers grow best in direct sunlight in nutrient-rich soil. Ever wonder how all of these gorgeous young people get together and make gorgeous babies? By hanging out together in the direct sunlight in nutrient-rich soil, i.e college campuses, bars, workplaces. They barely need to work at it. They get together because they’re young and vibrant, they all hang out in all the same places where there is an abundance of choice, then come together as couples and agree to be exclusive in order to perpetuate the human race. This kind of coupling can last forever or eventually lead to the Mismatched Socks theory or the Upgrade theory.

The Mismatched Socks theory. A marriage or relationship ends, due to breakup, divorce or death. And the instant it’s over, single parties look around and grab onto the first breathing sentient being in proximity. Consider a basket of mismatched socks, socks with no mates. It doesn’t matter if one is silk, the other cotton, one striped and one polka-dotted, as long as they both stop at the ankle or come to the knee, the rest is redundant. The most important thing is to NOT BE A SINGLE SOCK. Years later, the socks look at each other, and think, “Fuck, we don’t even MATCH.” No duh. These relationships are either doomed, or last forever if the participants think it’s just fine and dandy to not match.

Upgrade theory. Men are lucky. They age fantastically, and they know it. So when a man’s spouse dies or he decides to seek a new marriage, if he is attractive, accomplished and even slightly wealthy, he will seek a younger beautiful woman. And younger single women, sometimes even saddled with young children, are attracted to these older men- these gorgeous silver foxes are financially stable, steadfast, sexy. Tickled pink at the discovery of each other, they get married, and each has what he or she wants.

Until they don’t.

She’s young enough to still be attracted to the fun-loving men her age, and begins to resent her older husband’s grouchiness. She wants to go out, he wants to stay in. He starts to become annoyed by the noise and activity of her young children, and resents the time the children take away from his time with his new young wife. His life begins to revolve around their activities and sports schedules, and he thinks with longing about his old life- 36 holes of golf, Sunday football in front of the television, trips ANYWHERE else than Disney parks. But he’s stuck. He made his bed, and must lie in it. One day, seeing this couple in public is no longer a source of envy. Quite the contrary. You congratulate yourself once again on the ability to remain a single sock because now he is just this old guy getting yelled at, and they both look drawn and pissed. Maybe one of them moves on, to upgrade again. But where does it end? When is someone enough?

(This is not just theory. I have seen this scenario time and time again, up close and personal. Older men who marry younger women, and wish they could take it back).

Then there’s the rest of us. Not old, but too old to be young. No longer moving in a pod of eligible mates. Saddled with high standards. Hating dating sites, but horny as hell.

It occurs to me that maybe I’m lucky as I begin my search for a new relationship. Men my age can attract a woman 10-15 years younger. Good for them. But I look 10 years younger than my age, and while men in their forties are attracted to me, I am attracted to silver foxes in their sixties, and if especially vibrant and brilliant, even up to 70.

You would think that with all the opportunities that abound in this technological age to get laid, people wouldn’t be walking around horny the way they are. But everyone I know wants sex, but isn’t getting any. Or they don’t want it from the person they’re married to.

By the end of the year, I’m hoping I won’t be just “The (Not) It Girl,” but the “Getting It Girl.” Think good thoughts, and wish me luck.

Going Live

Scariest moments in my life.

Ziplining. No matter what dialogue I tried, I could not convince my brain that catapulting myself off of a five-story platform with full confidence in the reliability of a set of lanyards, carabiners, pulleys and trolleys checked casually by our 21-year old stoned zipline guide (who went by the nickname “Extreme”) was the smart, rational, FUN thing to do. Nor did I develop immunity throughout the day- I was just as terrified on the last jump as I was on the first. I want to do it again one day, without weeping.

Teaching my first college class. I was 36, and some of my students were in their fifties. Although I had been a successful high school English teacher for 15 years, I had no idea how to raise the intellectual bar. I would be sweating, stammering, outright fucking FLOPPING. It was a disaster, from beginning to end, and I felt like a fraud, from beginning to end. Some days my students outright laughed at me, and those were the good days. But I got better.

Pushing the “Go Live” button on my website blog. Privacy. I fight for it every day of my life. I stay off social media, and when I have no choice but to use it, I use a fake name. I don’t confide in people, and there are only about a half dozen human beings on the planet I trust enough to talk to about my personal life. That is life as an introvert. But don’t forget: part of being It is being visible and relevant. This blog will not do anyone any good unless it can be viewed and read. So here I am, world.

I’m Going Live.

Man Up

Career paths I have considered in the three years since my husband’s death:

Instagram fitness influencer, retail clothes manager, famous novelist, travel writer/blogger, writing consultant, podcaster, receptionist, paralegal, Ph.D candidate, adult escort, CEO for a non-profit, tutor, home-school teacher, bookstore owner, mailman, flight attendant, life coach, travel company owner, pet groomer, baby elephant orphanage keeper, animal rescuer, adult home-carer, and most recently, the Yankee Candle lady who glares at shoppers and reminds them to please not pick the jars up by their lids.

I pester real estate agents to show me buildings that I have no intention of renting, attend seminars for franchises that I have no intention of purchasing, and fill out applications for Ph.D. programs in which I have no intention of enrolling. I bought an expensive mic for podcasting, have had five different sets of business cards made-up, and post so many different flyers around town advertising so many different skills that I am surprised when people contact me for random consultation work that I forgot I offered.

Yeah, sorry, that was Patricia.

A year ago, I would have scoffed it off to indecision. You know, the Hallmark channel widow who is able for the first time in her adult life to take the time to figure out what her life’s purpose is. But that would be overcomplicating what I have finally realized is my top priority at this juncture in my life. Because as a retired high school teacher and empty-nest mom, there is only one thing I know to be completely true.

I’m ready for love again, but not in the way you think.

Please advance to my “Man-Starved” entry.