Oh Jeez:

A rant on sexuality.

I’m thinking a lot about sexuality lately. What does it mean to be sexy right now? Is it about the way you present yourself, how you look, how you dress, how you act? All I know is its a lot of pressure. I’ve read some really insightful blog entries about sexuality, I’ve read some really frustrating articles, and I’ve seen advertisements that just make me want to barf and go cover up my boobs for the rest of my life.

Now, I know I’m not the “ideal” attractive woman (maybe if I lost 35 pounds, got tan and started wearing lots of bandeau bras and eye makeup. Also maybe if I looked like Penelope Cruz..oh Penelope). But I hope that the men I choose to surround myself with can see me as a strong, supportive, and okay I’ll say it, a sexy person. My current boyfriend has the sexiest eyebrows. He also has really attractive legs. And probably my favorite nose in the world (sometimes I just wanna bite it). I don’t know why I find these things sexy, but I do. He’s not just a culmination of those things, though. They don’t make or break why I’m dating him, why I find him attractive, what I like about him. He’s a really smart guy, he’s got these endearing silly moments and yes, sometimes he can turn into a frustrating bro-type. But, there are momentary lapses when I forget he’s just a person reacting to me as a person, and I feel like I need to look sexy, stay sexy, turn myself into an object that can be desired. I somehow feel like if I can just eclipse all his previous sexual encounters, maybe I’ll be worth keeping around. 

Excuse my language, but where the fuck did I come up with that idea? Where did I suddenly decide to throw my great personality, insightful emotions, and ridiculously smart brain out the window? I attended an alternative school, for fucks sake, and I most definitely went to a boarding high school. I was taught everyone is beautiful in their own right, and if someone doesn’t like you, or something about you, its usually their own fault and you should a) move on, or b) forget about it and be confident in yourself. 

So where is all of this crazy objectifying sexuality coming from? It doesn’t happen all the time. I am a wonderful woman, I am a great girlfriend, I have interests and I can talk to you about relevant intelligent things. I know how to spell and use proper grammar, I read all the time, and I know how to dress myself. Yet in the dark hours or brief seconds of doubt, objectification steps in. Facebook screams for us to put up the most attractive or trendy photo we can. My abs aren’t flat enough this season for a bikini, all the H&M models silently judge me in the dressing room. You know what? Who the hell cares? Who says I should constantly be tanned, toned and hairless all the fucking time? Deal with it. I get to, you should too. Boys are allowed to have a beer belly, weird playoff beards, what have you, and they still get laid all over the place. Where did this little insecure, neurotic consciousness come from? 

When my boyfriend tries to be fake-sexy (yes, guys do it too. I’ve heard “Yeah baby, you like that don’t you?” from one too many suitors), I think its too funny. Sometimes it ruins the moment. I like those passionate, playful moments that just naturally happen. So why do we tell ourselves we need to be everything for an audience? Stop with being so FAKE. Stop these implants, these labia surgeries, stop with this porn-centered worldview, stop with these “i’m not skinny enough” moments. If you look like a breakable doll, if you look like someone in a magazine, they are just going to want and expect next-month’s issue out of you. To me, thats too much work. Go for sensual. Go for sexual too! (I love sexuality) but please do it in your own way. I don’t mean to criticize if you are doing this for medical reasons. By all means, get a breast reduction to improve your health. Just…be okay with being you. People will love you just the way you are, and you shouldn’t have to conform to looking a certain way to do it. 

So here’s my reminder, my kick in the butt. I am funny, sweet, perky (yes, i’ll own that word), intelligent, caring and silly. Sometimes, usually when I don’t realize it, I’m being sexy. Guys like that. If they don’t, they’re not the right one. Lets hope the over-sexualization of our nation’s youngsters stops, or that more of them find the courage to stand up for their true personalities. For gods sake, if someone complains about your labia, they probably won’t make it happy anyway.  

With love,

Bear

Ch-ch-changes

After stops, starts and stutters, soaring hopes, romantic weekends stolen from our “real lives”, sweaty sexy romps and gentle kisses, I told the Spaniard I just couldn’t see him or talk to him anymore. I need a break, and I need it to be real. No more “I’ll just see you in Boston” when we fall into each others naked arms for the weekend and come up needy. No more “maybe I’ll visit” that end in tears and talks of moving closer. No. More.

I’ve felt emotionally manipulated by him for awhile. Yes, in a moment of frailty I called him last week when I had a freakout - and I shouldn’t have. He dealt with it beautifully, swallowing his pride and letting me scream and cry until I fell asleep. Since then, I’ve felt guilty. He’s milked it for all it was worth “well I supported you, why can’t you just support me when I need you? I’m having a mental breakdown here.” He’s baited me, ensnared me, entrapped me into feeling like I’m the only thing that can save him, and its just too much pressure. I can barely save myself. I need to start seeing someone on the regular (therapy wise) to be able to sort through the fact I can’t figure out how to handle transitions, authority, changes and the real world. And you know what? Thats okay. I’ll work on it.

Its okay that I’m not grown up yet. All of the Spaniard’s hints about marriage and babies and the fact I’m the only girl he’s ever felt this way about (his words) make me sick to my stomach with fear. My mother (the sassy, crazy hippy) was engaged three times before she met my father. Her first husband was apparently extremely similar to the Spaniard. He was funny and sweet and attractive, but ultimately couldn’t get his shit together ever, and she left him. I don’t want my life to be spent supporting a man who is falling apart all over the place, only to end in heartbreak. I’m not going to start dating him again and let him move to DC so that I can keep supporting him for the rest of his life. I’m not going to commit to a relationship, because I can feel he’s in it for the long haul. I’m not. doing. that. 

Upon telling him how I felt, it was like a giant weight was pulled out of my body, from my tiny cold toes to my wispy weird brain. The day after, I’m going to say I’m sad. Its okay. Sad is fine, melancholy is okay, but ultimately I don’t have to feel unhappy and unstable about committing to something I just cannot handle. I’m only 23, I’m only on my first job, I’m only dating and I’m totally okay with that. I don’t want to know who I’m going to end up with for the rest of my life. If I let him go and he doesn’t change, I’ve sidestepped an emotional freighter that was bound to wreck my own self-worth. Instead, I’ll let him travel where he needs to go to fix himself, and I will fix my own feelings and thoughts on my own.

There’s a different guy, Penguin, who isn’t too special. Actually, he might be, and I just haven’t let myself notice him yet. He’s intelligent, refers to himself as High-Bro (a bit high-brow but with a large foundation of bro that I can’t seem to squash out of him) he’s still growing, he’s interesting and he makes me giggle. He’s weird-looking, with a hawkish nose and an almost-Gosling demeanor, if only he was cuter. Lets just say he would have been my perfect highschool-boyfriend. A plus is he knows how to dress himself, and although sexually we’re not super compatible, I’m having a good time. He makes me feel worth it (whatever “it” is). I just need to make sure I’m not jumping into this so I feel supported by someone, during this time of being alone and being by myself. He’s said the typical “I like you.” and I’ve responded in a generally favorable and agreeable response, but I’m not going to commit just yet.

In the past three months, I’ve noticed something. Its like a huge magnet is rolling around under us, realigning our thoughts, places and needs. There’s this huge upheaval in the universe. People are shifting, new places, new spaces, new boyfriends, new breakups. Something in the water, or the collective unconsciousness. We’re all looking for a change, and dammit we’re actually brave enough to throw caution to the wind and go for what we want. 

Is this what growing up means?

With love,
Bear

I want a man, who

I want to find a man, who, if Ryan Gosling magically showed up and asked me to marry him, would make me think twice about it, and decline.

C’mon true love,

Bear

Obligatory Breakup Post (on Sad, or Maybe Not)

I wish I could be that romantic, wistful girl who is mysterious and beautiful in a heartbreaking story of love. The one who, when left, waifs around the fresh food section of an open air market, crying because the smell of fresh pecans or the sight of perfectly rounded grapes reminds her of feeding her loved one in bed while he twirled her hair through his strong fingers.

I wish I could be so deliriously heartbroken that I can’t eat, throwing my hands up in despair as my friends and family flock around me and coo and cluck and hug, and let me rest. 

Instead this seems almost worse. I am a crazed young adult, not quite a young professional (just need the job), who doesn’t know whether I’m sad, or fine. I’ve gone two days with happy thoughts in my head, a series of “good luck but good riddance” adages on my tongue as I think of all of our differences. But one sight of a luscious beard in a crowd sends me spiraling into a pit of doom, where I cry my eyes out. Only to emerge, instead of a teary wisp of a girl who everyone can nod at and say “oh, she was in LOVE, what a tragedy”, no, instead I rather resemble a rotten tomato. Squishy red face, with some odd hard places, and that feeling you get saying “oh, if I had only gotten to her yesterday she would have been great.”

No, I had to walk boldly into a love I was not confident of. I picked the opposite personality of what made sense, a complaining, selfish, loud, small-town guy who shook me up and let me spend all the money I could on the relationship out of love. He tested my patience, sapped my emotions, and now I am almost too sick of taking care of him, to take care of myself in the time I most need it.

What happens when the wrong guy still has your heart? I don’t see prince charming vaulting over pews up the wedding isle to grab my hand and take me away. Instead, I see the wrong guy knowing that maybe later we would have worked, but for now its too hard. I see him leaving my sorry ass crying in bed as he tells me, its just not working for him either.

But my heart, that vicious, fickle asshole, decides it has already run away to try and live with him, dreaming about him every day so every day I have to go and get it back. I think my ass-heart already convinced my lips all they need is to kiss his, and everything will be fixed, because they refuse to bad-mouth him or the situation.

So what happens when half your body believes its still living a fairytale, and your brain pipes up and tells you to quit it?

Maybe its like an addiction. If I go cold turkey, I’ll be okay. But looking at his pictures on my phone, listening to the saved voicemails…I slip into a zombie-like state of neurotic crying and shaking, then lethargic lounging while every movie I try to watch I turn off before it ends. Who cares? I don’t. Ends are for losers. That means either he loves you, or he doesn’t. and I can’t deal with that right now.

WIth grumpy crying and the inability to lose weight even when depressed,

Bear

Lead me not into temptation, but deliver me from penis.

At the cusp of diving headfirst into a happy relationship, I’m being wishy washy and stupid. The Spaniard, who I’ve been sporting as Official Boyfriend since December, is fantastic. I just got back from a week at his house and have been sunshine and rainbows ever since. I, for the first time since Nudge three and a half years ago, am madly in love with someone who actually feels the same way about me. 

The Spaniard is just needy enough to calm the fears in my heart about how his attractiveness must get him all the ladies and—since he lives in Boston—our long-distance love could be pockmarked with infidelity and secrets. But, it seems I am the only fickle one in this union.

Yet, here is what I’ve been looking for since Nudge broke my heart, and I’m feeling…unsure. A friend said I’m looking for reasons to ruin it, after I drunkenly confessed to her I felt I needed to break it off with him since I like him so much. 

Its Charles. I have known Charles for about…six years. He started as a friend of a dumb-boyfriend, progressed to an occasional date when he or I had any time for each other, and has since skyrocketed into occasional hookup territory slash best friends who pretend to hate each other… he and I both being massive bar-flirts. He’s one of those guys I am watching build an empire around him of adoring fans, thinking, ‘why did I not go out with him before?’

Oh, thats why. Did I mention I’m terrified of his junk?

I previously have been fearless. Tall, short, large, skinny, give me a man who wants to kiss me, and I will find something to love about him, opening my heart and eventually my bed. (boo, you whore). Yet, Charles and I have been dancing around each other for years without actually doing the deed. After confessing his love to me one night, he turned around and made out with a dumb slut at a party. I got drunk and slapped him, leaving his friends to hate me, and my friends to pick up the pieces. 

Bee calls me fickle, and I agree. If Charles gets a lady at a bar, I go home fuming, but every kiss of ours ended in uncertainty and weird feelings…what if I have to deal with his hefty manparts!? Now that the Spaniard is in my life, I have a good reason to keep Charles at bay, and I try. But last night was his 25th birthday, something I wouldn’t miss for the world. J.K. and I packed ourselves into a car and drove into the city, something we barely do. But Philly is a delight when you have three great men who love to dance waiting for some ladies to pal around with… so saying no was not an option.

Halfway through the night, Charles and I were sufficiently drunk enough that dancing with each other stopped being fun and started meaning something .You know. Like, the words you hear means what you’re thinking in your head. Yet, I couldn’t figure out if I should pay attention to his exaggerated “fuck you”s and references to the fact I’ll only love him when he has money. I got the hint I should step out of it when he had girls flocking to his side via his dance moves, yet Charles pulled me close, kissed my cheek and said it again.

I love you. 

Now, I care for him. I, okay, I’ll say it, I love him. I want him to succeed and have someone to support and care for him and part of me had always wanted to be that person, but not now. I want to be that bestie, that person who can watch him succeed and lend a hand and talk to him about how dumb the bitches are he hates, while thinking that about the ones he dates.

But I want the chance with my boy, the one who didn’t hesitate to step up and say ‘I like you’. The one who called me every night for nine months. The one who loves me for all the little things I do…the one who lies and says he has trouble falling asleep when he can’t hear me snore.

I’ll figure it out someday, right?

Bear

The Ones that Get Away

I have deduced something about girls. We place extreme importance on inside jokes, memories, and random daily sentences if we find the other person attractive, or if we like them. They may not, in fact, actually care that much about you (ahem, Andre…) in the way you think, but because of your feelings, everything becomes SUPER IMPORTANT. 

An example list  of dumb things I have deemed super important that must show it is in the stars that we are DESTINED for each other:

1) Talking to Lieutenant about Hybrid Vehicles during a party.

2) Inside Jokes of All Kinds with Hunter (like contracting ‘the snuu’), even though he has and always will have a girlfriend.

3) Stargazing with Orange…Text messages with Orange that just say ‘hey’ or ‘yah’. Just, dumb things with my unrequited junior year of highschool love, Orange.

4) Saying the same thing at the same time with Mustache Joe. Actually, lets be honest, his name is technically Ponytail Joe. Of which he didn’t have a ponytail when I met him (thank god he cut if off). 

5) Sleeping with Andre. Or, the midnight brownies with homemade dark chocolate ganache, organic blueberries and strawberries that he made me when I said I was just hungry for something sweet. I expected a stale cookie. 

In all of these, you could do the same with a classmate. Or a friend that you know. Or a fratboy. Or the time in the coffeeshop on campus that I humored the slightly overweight breathy kid because he was funny. Or the time I stopped for gas and someone asked if I had a little sister, and I made a joke about inbreeding. Honestly. There are so many trivial interactions that because of attraction, we trick ourselves into thinking ACTUALLY MEAN SOMETHING TO BOTH OF US AND SHOULD BE REMEMBERED. 

Then, you get a boyfriend and realize he has no clue what you found so funny and endearing and meaningful about your drunk conversation the other night, or the fact that whenever anyone brings up raccoons you remember the time in which you were…anyway. 

I think that is ultimately why the Ones Who Get Away are so hard to let go of. Because you just don’t know if they feel the same about what you think is important, so you feel like they must, because its important to you. I was over at Bee’s on Sunday for a little emotional support (and the fact that I hadn’t seen her in so fucking long, unacceptable) and I had weird word vomit about Mustache/Ponytail Joe. 

Ponytail Joe is average. Thank god, because his ponytail (of which I only saw pictures) was pretty horrendous and put him wayyy below average. He’s 5’ 8 1/2”. Weighs less than me. Brown eyes, sandy brown hair, small hands, cute grin, wears straight cut jeans and manly leather shoes and thrift store items in dusk green. Has a dry sense of humor. Stutters. Could be any number of people that I met. Yet, because he ‘got away’, I am forced to remember the little inside jokes about iPhones, cookie monster, Matilda, beer, “idiots”… and a plethora of other random material: the fact that he had a callous on his right thumb but not his left, the way he smelled like a man, how he renounced Facebook (who DOES that, right!?) and listened to jazz on vinyl. 

His goals and worldview were just vague enough I could see myself fitting in —- going to ‘Nawlins and sitting in the heat listening to Marvin Gaye and drinking iced tea on the porch of our huge clapboard house while he worked on his PhD.  Being a freelance graphic designer, or designing for a cool little southern office. Having kids. Yanno. Dumb, big dreams that hit you when you realize you both make eachother giggle ‘til you pee and he kisses you just the way you like it.

Yet, inevitably, they run the other way. He was a philosophy nerd who was concerned with “too much homework” the semester before graduation. And the fact that NO ONE has ever said no to sleeping with me (whoops) except for Ponytail Joe. 

Its been about…six, seven months, and now I’ve realized he probably doesn’t remember what was so funny about the word “meticulous” or that every time I drive past CP’s I think of our first date. But then, I never realized what was so funny about meticulous either.

Maybe I should start cleaning out all the little meaningless crap in my head that I remember about the one’s that got away. But really, thats probably what this blog is for.

With love and the snuu,

Bear

I’d like a large order of your fastest Awkward.

When meeting someone significant’s parents (or relatives) for the first time, you always hope to leave the right impression. 

Whether you’re involved sexually (or just hope to be), you want to a) be memorable, and b) for the right reasons. You NEVER want to embarrass yourself, and if they happen to have family that have a different cultural background than yourself, it makes it even harder to accomplish this feat. 

I thought I dodged the bullet when the Spaniard told me that his mom would be away for the weekend that I was visiting. (Hotheaded Spanish momma bear? No thanks.) So the plan was I’d go to Boston, chill with my cousins, and arrive (and leave) unnoticed from his house. His Abuela and Abuelo live next door, but he told me that he had a lot of privacy, and his brother lives in Chicago. This made the visit vastly easier. I didn’t have to worry about being overly-polite, and we didn’t have to pick up clothing strewn all over his bedroom. 

So, bedroom in a mess, my bra and underwear thrown haphazardly on the floor, he and I disappear downstairs to take a shower. About an hour later, cold and pruny, I dash back upstairs to bundle up against the chilly october air…Only to find an adorable white haired spanish gentleman standing next to my underwear. My first reaction was to pull my half-dragging towel tighter around my chest, as I noticed he was holding my ringing cell phone, and grinning at me.

“OH! You must be…Abuelo!” I racked my brains for if the Spaniard had told me he was coming over for anything specific. Clutching the towel, I stuck out my hand to shake his, and his bright eyes shone mischievously. He shook my hand enthusiastically, and burst into a series of chuckles.

“Um, nice to meet you!” I said, beginning to laugh a little myself. As far as utterly horrified goes, I was playing the part well, complete with nudity and a bright red face. 

He handed me my cell phone, and roared with laughter. Giggling past me, he waved, and I waved back, as he grabbed a banana from the counter, peeled it, and proceeded to shove the whole thing into his mouth. 

I figured I’d put some clothes on, and try to joke around with him a little more. When in doubt, just go with it, right? Too bad I didn’t know any Spanish. I closed the door to banana-muffled giggles as I desperately tried to yank on a pair of pants over my wet legs. I heard the bear-esque Spaniard come lumbering up the stairs.

“ABUELO!!?!” The whole house shook. “GET OUT!!!!!!!”

Even through the bathroom door, I heard the years of spanish generals coming out in decibels. Yet, it was met with near-hysterical giggles, and I almost peed myself at the next shout: 

“WHO LET YOU IN? OUT! Did you eat TWO bananas!? AND MY POPSICLE!? GET OUUUUUUT!” 

With that, the well dressed grandfather was shoved out the door. 

At this point, I think my purpose in my young-adulthood is to experience as many ridiculously embarrassing and hilarious sexual and romantic encounters as humanly possible. The rest of the weekend went well —his friends were more normally introduced, and the Massachusetts outdoors was combated with a rather large wolf-blanket. 

And don’t worry, the Spaniard told me before I left that his grandfather has dementia, and that he won’t remember me the next time I see him.

With tiny bits of luck and full-frontal nudity,

Bear

Really?

For once in my life I’ve found someone I deemed worthy to call “just my type”. (Read: never was my ‘type’, just the fantasy of one I hoped would someday fall in my lap and we might get along). True to this notion, I don’t think we have anything in common. He’s a lumberjack. Actually, as someone who is currently employed at a christmas tree farm, he’s not far off. But he plays the part well; half Brawny man, half high school asshole, he’s got gauged ears and listens to classic metal. He eats more meat for breakfast than… well, I will ever even look at in my lifetime as a vegetarian. He complains a lot. He’s the exact opposite of everything I’ve ever come to know as “compatible”, and I’m strangely compelled to answer the phone when he calls. I’ve successfully killed any attempt I have at being with Andre, I believe since my sorry ass is running in the opposite direction of true happiness, and also because the Spaniard, as I’ve come to call this one, is one of Andre’s best friends from home. 

Come on now, haven’t I already figured out that I’m self-sabotaging in my life? Well, this one’s most definitely not a keeper, but for some strange reason he keeps communication going. I think there must be something in the New England water that breeds crazies, because what attractive man in his right mind would feel the need to call a girl after a very casual weekend, especially once returning to a home 500 miles away? Maybe because for once in my life I stood up for myself. Thats right. I felt the need to get pissed off and yell, and I DID. Granted, he could have been fooled by my debaucherous Jersey Shore themed attire (I don’t want to talk about that theme party, some loyalties should never be tested). Yet when this man (think glorious chest hair) in a speedo drunkenly insults my status as the only girl he’ll hook up with in a weekend, I felt the need to shove his drink in his face and stalk away on four-inch purple heels. (Again…don’t want to talk about it). Yet as I searched the house for my keys in a teary-eyed stupor, I was struck with indignation. Who does this guy think he is? Maybe Andre’s good high-school friend, but I am Andre’s BEST GIRL FRIEND. The girl he expressly forbid anyone from messing with romantically, much less spending any time with. (Like he ever told me THAT memo).  I had JUST AS MUCH RIGHT TO GETTING WHAT I WANT. Adjusting my blindingly white shorts and straightening my bump-it, I stalked back into the kitchen. 

“I need to talk to you.” I said, knowing full well I was behaving like a) a jealous ex-girlfriend b) a concerned sister or c) that crazy girl you hooked up with and now have second thoughts about. To my surprise, he followed me outside to hear what I had to say. Never underestimate the power of biddies. 

“You are a complete douchebag, and I don’t appreciate being treated this way” I prefaced, but realizing just how drunk the Spaniard was, I figured I’d shorten my sentences. He bobbed and swayed, apologizing and telling me he wanted to stay on Andre’s couch anyway due to a 5am flight. Somewhere, the only-child in me released itself. I called upon all of the anger and self-motivation that resides throughout my entire body. I didn’t even realize I had enough to raise my voice.

“…[name changed to protect the innocent]. I. will. give. you. ONE. MINUTE. Just ONE, to get your GOD DAMN PANTS ON, AND GET IN MY FUCKING CAR”. I spat, shoving him for emphasis. His drunken apology turned into a brilliant and confused smile, only made cuter by his dark beard. 

“Um. What?!” He looked back at me, probably thinking that he was hallucinating.

” You heard me.” I enunciated slowly, as if he needed to read lips, or happened to be my four-year-old disobedient child. The fact he’s around 200lbs of testosterone marinated muscle probably helped his reaction time. 

“Get. In. My. Car… NOW.” I pointed for emphasis. 

And he did. 

Now, I’m trying to figure out just how this display of power, paired with a stale bagel and a well aimed shove in his direction when he ignored his own alarm, catapulted me to that girl he wishes he could move to DC for. The girl he spills secrets to, the one who is so safely far away, its okay to tell that you have a thing, and speculate whether you can both move to his condo in Spain for a future.

Also, since when does telling them what you want, get you what you want? 

Love,

Bear

Hiatus

I’m giving myself a bit of emotional distance right now, otherwise I might explode. I’ve been running around too much with too many (I had at one point, before cancellations, a date scheduled for every night this week) and somehow when they fall down on me, Andre is always a text away, wondering what I’m doing and how I’ve been. We’re keeping things from each other, (I didn’t tell him I had four dates lined up) and then over-tell when we feel we haven’t been in constant communication (no thanks, Andre, I don’t want to know how she was in bed last night). So here I sit wanting what I can’t have, and desperately trying to navigate, NICELY (oh, thats the key here) all of these interests which have all the makings of summer flings.

So that aside, I’ll refresh myself with an old story. When it rains, it tends to pour, am I right? I should take all of this with a grain of salt. Pick one. Now…just which one to choose?

One such story would be including the swoon-worthy Lieutenant, last August. This pseudo-hipster is a culmination of everything beautiful. He’s got a great personality, tall, thin, can sport a beard like a lumberjack, yet clean-shaven he looks like a thinner Abecrombie model. Honestly, I was done for when he walked in the room at a party. Maybe its the fact that when I’m looking for something, I’m self-sabotaging. Perfect Guy + Bear = Fail, almost every time. After casually asking Lieutenant to hang out, I was invited to his band’s show in our hometown on a Thursday evening. No matter that I had decided to go abroad for the fall, it just mean that the universe would rain sexy men down on me until I got on the international flight in September.

At the same time, I was an apathetic nanny who enjoyed dragging the kids I watched to the local pool. It was perfect: I could listen to new albums and pretend to read, while really staring at the cute alternate lifeguard. Upon realizing the perfect opener was a cut on my foot, I asked him for a band-aid, and struck up a conversation, noting we were the only people over 12 and under 30 in the poolside vicinity. We chatted underneath his umbrella, and he keep bringing up new conversation until I figured, what the hell, why don’t I ask him to drinks?

Chesterfield was sporting a bright orange bandana wrapped around his luscious brown locks. Bearded and sunny, his tanned abs were distracting, but his taste in books drew me in further. (Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs by Chuck Klosterman if you must know). I felt a nice, intelligent vibe, and he seemed really excited for an outing as he told me all about his band that was playing this week in our hometown. 

“….Thursday?” I winced.

“Yeah you should totally come out! We can get drinks after, you can meet my friends, it’ll be great.” 

“You don’t happen to play in the same band with Lieutenant, do you?” I asked, praying to the gods that I hadn’t just totally screwed both my options for cute hip beardy love.

“Dude. What? Yeah…You know him? He’s great!” I could feel both our excitement waning in the confusion and mirth of the universe. 

Needless to say, I’m a brave girl. Armed with 12 of my closest and cutest friends (bar nights in the summer in our small town end up as large packs of mismatched friends) we paraded into the gig. Chesterfield was wrapped up in a leggy asian chick, while Lieutenant chatted with my friend CJ, the one who introduced us. Both boys awkwardly noted that I had once been an interest, but because of the rivalry and their bromance, nothing culminated except for a few extended hugs, and a

“yeah, totally, next time”. A week later I stuck myself on a plane, without a Lieutenant and pretty unhappy. Oh well, at least there are more men in Europe.

Moral: Don’t date best friends, or band-mates. Or even hit on two people in the same time frame if you already have a date lined up… they probably know eachother.

With love and confusion,

Bear

Andre Pt. 1

How about not so secret love?

Andre and I have been biffles for the past year. It happened when I was driven into his company by an awkward not-boyfriend (read: hookup gone wrong when I wanted to date and he didn’t) Fluffy. It didn’t help that Andre was loud and a bit obnoxious, and the most physically manly guy i’ve ever met. Totally not my type.  Fluffy on the other hand, is super attractive, with traces of that skinny, awkward, adorable boy he used to be.

While I was feeling socially awkward around Fluffy, Andre started picking me up for parties, making me dinners, and I was slowly but surely falling in love. Of course I was too embarrassed about the previous fail of dating a guy in our friend group, so the first time Andre and I fell asleep in each others arms, I forbid him to tell anyone what was going on. The next two months were filled with daily text messages and phone calls, and made Andre and I seem inseparable, although only to us. Around everyone else we sat close, but not too close. I was “staying on his couch” (sleeping in his bed) on the weekends, and for all intents and purposes we were looking for other people. Everyone dismissed us as a couple, because we pretended we barely spoke. Secretly, minutes without each other felt like hours and we’d find more reasons to talk. 

Like Bee said, everyone has those awkward “i’m in love with my best friend” moments. Andre went to the hospital for a pretty serious surgery, and I spent three days crying my eyes out and being mean to all my friends, afraid i’d lost the best thing that had ever happened to me. As we cried on the phone before he went under anesthesia, I realized just how much I’d miss him if he didn’t make it. I thought if I told him how much I loved him right before his surgery, it would just be out of a scared place in my heart, not really real. How much I lied to myself back then.

After the surgery he was tired all the time, and I didn’t get a chance to visit due to extreme work schedules. Once I got back down for a “get better” party, I walked into the most uncomfortable situation of my life: Andre had started seeing someone else. I didn’t think it was serious, but apparently in my timid state, she had started visiting him (and much more) in the hospital. 

This time I really was supposed to stay on the couch, but in my heartbreak I got drunk and confronted him in his room, yelling “I LOVE YOU, YOU STUPID FUCK.”  

Probably not the best way to say it. Definitely not the best way to say it. I ran away to Italy for the semester and drank away the love I had collected in my pockets and text messages, dating a guy who wasn’t good for me and pretending to be surer of my life path than I was.

——-

Bear