Warning Signs

Frenzy

2011-04-08T19:53:00.000-07:00

I got frantic the first time someone asked me about my blog, which is funny because I was talking all kinds of shit the day before about how people should be more open and fearless.

Anonymity is snuggly and warm. I'm bound to become less interesting once I get comfortable sharing.

Note to a mom on being a mom

2011-04-08T19:39:00.000-07:00

In HS, I was still hell bent on never having children, so no! That started to change mid-college, when it dawned on me that, while I didn't especially "love" children the way dorks do, I really dug who they were and how they see/navigate the world. Selfishly, I wanted to grow my own master clan of brilliant, artistic, compassionate, gorgeous, graceful, and fashionable children with an untiring work ethic, social skills, and the uncanny ability to get whatever they want.

While our three endeavors were timely "surprises," I've really enjoyed wifing & moming. So much so, that I've been lobbying pretty heavily (with a timeline and everything) to semi-retire, and either teach or do something part-time so that I can focus more completely on them. It's funny, because I think most people choose the other order -- home until school-age, and then return to work. I thought i loved infancy and toddlerdom, but I'm really, REALLY loving the school stuff a LOT. Work just feels like an inconvenience to me when I'd rather be on a field trip or baking cookies for a class party.

Again, no. You always seemed like much more the matriarch than I did. But, I'm happy to report that it's surprisingly doable to parlay an offensive personality disorder into pretty effective parenting. When you strip away all of my nuttiness (why would anyone want to do that!) you find an ultra-pragmatic, orderly, considerate momzilla who is compassionate, artistic, has an untiring work ethic, the ability/motivation to get what I want, and who is hot! Mom hot, of course.

I should never check messages early morning. I have a lot to say before the monsters awaken to suck the words right out of my mouth and stomp on them!

Modeling off and on since college. Liked the money, but now I'd do it for free just to be able to catch a glimpse of myself the way I imagine I could look everyday...if I had time to even look at myself in the mirror before starting morning mania with the Peterkins!

Hugs.

No Title

2011-01-01T11:09:00.000-08:00

Rushed and inept.

Muddled and torn around the edges.

Frayed, in shreds with smells and temperatures.

If I start to finish, I'll fall short of the end before I begin and this will be a sad, sad turn to one so bright and cheery that it smells like lemons and shines.

When it comes, so fully that the skin is tight and transparent, I am overwhelmed.

When it goes: Unnoticed-or-loved, pressed flat and dry between brain pages and turning to brittle dust.

Next time, I'll trap it in a jar and I'll eat it with a spoon.

I Heart My Hood

2009-09-07T09:02:00.001-07:00

warningsignsblog.blogspot.com

Back before Harlem was sexy (again) and fearless gays led the gentrification movement in many of the country's roughest neighborhoods, the "hood" was just that, rough. Having grown up there, I claim full rights to exposing it for what it was; dirty, scary, loud, captivating, empowering and memorable.

Knowing the hood intimately, I was stupified by the middle-aged woman standing next to me in line at the gas station store. As she ordered three different kinds of lottery tickets and joked with the cashier about her misfortune in the day's games, I noticed that her shirt read "I Love (heart) My Hood."

I was immediately the-opposite-of-nostalgic as I recalled growing up in the hood in my attempt to understand her shirt's sentiment. Even though I lived there, I had a sort of "imitation of life" relationship with the hood. During the day, I walked and talked the upper east side (as much as a visitor could), but at night I moonlighted as a street-aware achiever in a place where you avoided eye contact with the figures looming in dark doorways.

I remember dusky apartment fires and finding a human head in the dumpster. I remember coming home from school and finding what I learned was a bullethole in our front door. I remember looking down on and envying the children who played in the chaos and knew too little of the world outside of Edgecombe Ave. to realize that their lives pretty much sucked.

What I didn't recall was loving my hood; I was ashamed of and revolted by it. Save the cultural havens that attracted regular kids and down-to-earth famous do-gooders alike, my hood was a miserable stain on the city. The elderly residents who had built these streets and were now scared to walk them -- hostage to rent control and a lack of alternatives; the unbroken cycles of generations of unwilling and half-dead victims fed and led by the resourceful drug dealers, pimps, and murderers; it was easy (understatement!) to run from that scene and those memories and never look back.

I wondered if the woman genuinely loved her hood, or whether she had simply resigned herself to the dysfunction. For all I know, she could have been a senior executive for a Fortune 500 who was thankful to her hood for imparting on her the strength of heart and spirit to claw her way to success. Maybe I, too, should be paying homage to my roots. Or perhaps my grown-up version of the survival tactics I employed as a child justify my judgement of this woman -- I make her wrong and misguided so that I stay different and better.

Reflection. Self-judgement. Sympathy and empathy. Anger. Disappointment.

As she drove away in a beat-up Oldsmobile with the garbage bag rear windshield and the empty-eyed children in her back seat, I wondered if she had put a fraction of the thought I had put into her, into me. And if she had, had she seen something of herself in me? Staring into my disdain, was she forced to confront and acknowledge her failures? Wonder where she went wrong? Feel shame for giving into the dysfunction so much so that she peddled the notion that the hood is even remotely lovable?

Even as I write this, I feel like a sell-out.

Like somehow I sold out because I got out.

I didn't love my hood and I never will.

And frankly, I wanted to slap her for claiming to.

Cut to me getting my ass beat.

I got out before I learned to fight, before I had to.

And for that, I am thankful.

What We Teach Our Children About Race

2009-09-05T04:52:00.000-07:00

warningsignsblog.blogspot.com

We live where we do because it's diverse; with a blend of colors and
cultures, incomes and interests, dynamics and options, we picked this
neighborhood because we wanted to live around people like us.

In our hood-adjacent or "transitional" neighborhood, open
conversations on topics like race are more common than in more
conservative homogenous environments. In our current struggle to
create school options for our children, Black and White, gay and
straight, Subaru and BMW drivers alike discuss what others might
consider sensitive issues.

At a recent fundraiser for the charter school, a White parent told us
that she and her husband teach their children not to see color. Too
univested to debate that notion, my Black husband and I dismissed it.
No sooner did we buckle up to drive home than we chuckled at that
concept.

The problem isn't with seeing color, it's with hating or subjugating
people because of their color. We teach our children to see color --
to appreciate the differences a multicultural society offers. As a
matter of fact, our daughter proudly refers to half of our family as
the "brown team." While this is most likely a concept foreign to non-
colored people, primarily because White people have been beaten into
simply ignoring race altogether versus having an opinion on it for
fear of being seen as racist, we don't discourage our children from
identifying with what makes people different.

I don't want to live in a world where we all walk around pretending to
be the same because we're not. We do come in different colors and from
different places. We've had different experiences and learned
different things about being. Teach your children that color is art, a
thing of beauty and not grounds on which to base an opinion of a
person, and they'll enjoy the benefits of diversity. Teach them to
ignore it and they'll suffer the sheltered, ignorant, and wretched
burdens of a person trapped in a world without beauty.

Don't Give Up Anything To Be In A Relationship That You'll Want Back If It Ends

2009-09-03T08:58:00.000-07:00

warningsignsblog.blogspot.com

I see it happen often and I usually support people making compromises in order to coexist harmoniously in love situations. But, I'd say there's a difference between giving up something you claim(ed) to love and letting go of something you really don't need or care about.

It's not the same thing as a man having an ex-girlfriend-friend when he starts a new relationship and feeling like he should be able to still interact with her in the same capacity. There are potentially catastrophic elements to that scenario. It's not the same thing as being a pack-a-day smoker when he meets her and quitting because she hates it.

When you give up something, not because you want to or would have done it anyway (or because it's physically disgusting or dangerous), but because you feel like you have to in order to be with someone, you are being weak and you will lose.

I believe that the spiritual meaning of "love" is lowering yourself to do something(s) for someone else when you don't have to. But how can you determine if the someone truly loves you for who you really are if they systematically motivate you to give up the things you loved before you loved them?

Settled

2009-08-24T13:00:00.000-07:00

It never fails that a sequence of annoying human events me inspires to reunite with my inner muse and virtual pen. I'd like to think that recurring irritation is a characteristic of genius, but in reality, it is but a reminder of the choice in choices we make.

Whether an act of passive or active mental motion, we make choices about everything. At the risk of being hyper-cosmic, I'll submit that the thinking of a thing is enough to set it in motion. "Why am I friends with them?" or "Why do I work here?" will start the slow walk to surfacing the real reason for asking.

I watch people make choices every day. I've grown to put more distance between my opinion or feelings about those choices, but there are a few that linger and weigh. What I've learned about myself is that finding the will to detach myself from a person's choices happens only when I've let go of the person a little, or a lot.

The What-Not-To-Do List for Men: 7. Bow-Chicka-Bow-Bow

2009-05-07T19:04:00.000-07:00

www.warningsignsblog.blogspot.com

7. Deny that you like porn.

Simply liking porn doesn't make you a sexual deviant. You're not creepy or dirty or a freak (the bad kind). You're a man and men like naked. Porn is about the fantasy. The fantasy of a hypersexual busty broad without scruples or any of the sexual hang-ups real women have. Some of us, at least.

Your women doesn't hate porn. Your woman hates the idea that you find someone sexier than her. She hates the idea that you get something from porn that you can't get from her.

Ways to make your guilty pleasure more okay with her?

Talk to her about it. Don't shut down, shut her out, or shut her up on the topic. Take three minutes and state the obvious: Sex turns me on.

Invite her to watch with you. Don't force her, but give her the option. If this completely ruins it for you, make a decision. Which do you value more? Openness and peace in your relationship or the excitement of video-strange?

I'm not suggesting that you have give up porn-watching as you know it; that it will suddenly become the bachelor bathroom overtaken by a floral shower curtain and tampons hidden under the sink. All I'm suggesting is that you give your relationship a chance to embark on a new kind of intimacy. Open sexual dialogue in a relationship is not only healthy, it's an incredible turn-on. And once you finish talking...

Oh and, by the way, women like porn too.

The What-Not-To-Do List for Men: 6. The Number One Rule for Cheaters

2009-04-28T06:30:00.000-07:00

6. The Number One Rule for Cheaters

So wrong on so many levels, I don't even know where to start.

First, you have no business cheating. If you love and want to be in a relationship with her, why are you cheating? Just bad. You have choices. If you want to sleep with another woman, then end your relationship and sleep with another woman. Otherwise, you're just a bad person doing a bad thing. A shell of a man, even.

Second, if you are too spineless to respect your woman, you should at least be smart enough to hide it. The only thing worse than a cheater, is a stupid cheater. NEVER memorialize wrong-doings! Are you actually going to spend time flipping through photos of your debauchery? If you are, for what? To relive the moment when you cared so little for your woman that you chose naughty, albeit exciting wrong, over right? Get it together! Don't be that guy.

Know this -- she WILL find out. If you're lazy and sloppy enough to save the pictures on your phone or computer, she will find out. If you post the pictures to facebook, she will find out. If the silly broad you cheated with has a death wish and sends you pictures of your tryst, she (your woman) will find out. It may not happen immediately, but it will happen; and often when you least expect it.

What to do if this happens to you? Or rather, if you do this to yourself? DO NOT LIE ABOUT IT! The only thing worse than a stupid cheater is a stupid cheater who lies (redundant?).

When faced with an irresistible opportunity for an extra-relationship tangle, choose the head with the brain in it and pass. Jerk off. Watch porn. Call the one friend who will talk you out of it (saying it out loud will likely make it more real which will make it less appealing). Buy a new bedroom toy to use with your woman. Go to Starbuck's and fantasize about the barista with the huge boobs, but do not cheat. Hell, write me! I'll talk you back from the edge.

The What-Not-To-Do List for Men: 5. Reckless Eyeballin'

2009-04-27T08:16:00.000-07:00

5. Pretend you didn't look at the hot chick in the sun dress with the shiny naked heels .

It is completely acceptable for men to look at attractive women. Yes, I said "attractive."

One day, when my husband and I were dating, I said something to him about his reckless eyeballing. We were walking through a store and I saw him see an attractive woman. I swear that happened at least two more times in that store, so finally I said, "Do you want me to get her number for you?" Strained chuckle. Smirk. Sarcasm. Please don't call my bluff!

The funny thing is that I wasn't really jealous, I just had this idea that he shouldn't be man-eyeing other women. And, especially not with me standing right there...right? You know what he told me?

"I like women. I like to look at them. That's what men do -- they look at women."

It made perfect sense. Men look at women. And, um, women look at men.

While your woman should be okay with you appreciating another woman's good looks, your job is to do the following:

Don't ever deny that you looked!
Don't disrespect your woman by looking. It's okay to look, but looking is not okay. Don't act like you don't know the difference.
Show and tell your woman that she is beautiful. A woman secure in her looks and your appreciation of her looks won't have a problem with other attractive women. In fact, she may even consider them a healthy challenge. You know, a reason to stay on her A-game.

When I met my husband, he was a man. When I dated my husband, he was a man. When I married my husband, he was a man. And men like to look at women.

Men, don't let your woman act like she isn't on the receiving end of a little innocent eyeballing every now and then! And that she likes it.

The What-Not-To-Do List for Men: 4. Press "Ignore"

2009-04-26T17:53:00.000-07:00

4. Not answer your cell phone when you and your woman are beefing.

The phone is ringing. It seems logical to ignore her call because, either she's officially lost her shit or, you're much better at being a jerk than you are a concerned partner. I'd rethink that move. Ignoring her call will trigger a series of events more insufferable than if you'd just gone ahead and answered her call. Know this -- she WILL call again. And she'll likely call several times before she recognizes your obvious disregard for her feelings.

My advice? Man up, answer the call, and tell her the truth.

"I can't communicate with you when you're upset. I don't feel like you're really listening to me. I don't think I convey my thoughts and feelings well. You tend to talk over me a lot when you're upset and that really bothers me."

"I don't feel ready to talk about this."

"I'm fucking exhausted because you've been asking me the same questions, all-be-they worded differently, over and over again for the last three hours."

Or, "I'm a man. We don't process chaos the same way women do. You continuing to push this will not get us anywhere closer to okay. I won't acquiesce. I won't agree. I'll just be more pissed and more exhausted. Less the way you want and need me to be."

Easier said than done? If you're in the kind of relationship given to constant beef, you'll have plenty of opportunities to practice this skill. At first you'll be shaky, but you'll be dominating the ring with suave pragmatism in no time. Of course, if you are in this type of relationship, you've got bigger problems. We'll get to that later in the list.

The What-Not-To-Do List for Men: 3. The Silent Treatment

2009-04-25T04:57:00.001-07:00

3. Give your woman the silent treatment.

No matter how much you need a few quiet minutes or hours to yourself, you should be strong and communicative enough to express that. It is as simple as, "I need a few quiet minutes/hours to myself." Women often equate silence with ire or disregard. We believe that your momentary silence could snowball into forever distance and we lose it. Plus, it's just rude. Push your limitations and communicate now for the sake of communicating later. If she can't/won't respond appropriately to your neutral and logical request for time to regroup, that's on her.

Tone is important. Don't think that if you ask for space with even the semblance of jerk in your voice, or end the request with "...Woman!" or insert "damn" or "fucking" before "space" that this will work. For example, "I JUST NEED SOME DAMN SPACE, WOMAN!" Recipe for disaster. And, a very long and irritating conversation filled with tears, "I feel" "when you" "because" and "why" questions.

For added success, be loving and kind when you ask. Explain the need for space as nothing more than a way for you to process and recalibrate. Caress her face. Plant a tender kiss. Call her your pet name. Assure her that you'll be back and mean it. Thank her for giving you the time and reward her with the benefit of your openness to listen and acknowledge what she's saying. Guaranteed win.

The What-NotTo-Do List for Men: 1 & 2. Relax the Drama

2009-04-24T14:00:00.002-07:00

1. Tell your woman to "Relax."

A surefire way to get her to do the opposite is to tell her to "relax." There's something about the word and the context that makes this word cut through a conversation like a serrated knife through a block of ice. Exactly. It gets messy, hectic, and someone gets cut.

2. Insert the word "drama" anywhere into a description of the way she expresses her feelings or concerns.

"Save the drama..." or "Stop being so dramatic..." can turn a tense, but still calm, conversation so bad so fast. Women don't want to hear you trivialize their feelings. When you throw "drama" daggers, you're basically saying that her feelings are not REAL or VALID. Remember, "drama" is make-believe and your woman's feelings should not be treated as such.

Insert objectivity here...

We do have the tendency to inflate a situation, even if only in describing it. So, here's my advice to women: Don't be dramatic. Before you express something, take inventory of the details and assess the appropriate drama dosage. Obviously since they say it, men must have a low tolerance for the extra flair women tend to add to things.

Wrong and Strong

2009-04-22T11:01:00.001-07:00

My friend used this term last night when describing herself. How self-aware! How honest! She was sharing the latest of her relationship news, and struggling to work through what, at the moment, seems impossible.

They've been dating for two years. When it's good, it's great. When it's bad, it's BAD! How many times have I heard that? Hell, how many times have I said that? As I listened and gave both solicited and unsolicited advice (kind of my thing), I thought about my relationship journey. Cliche aside, I know for a fact that I'm here now because of where I've been. Wouldn't trade nothin'...blah blah blah. It's a mathematical fact that all the rehearsing will prepare you for the real deal, but you show me the woman who's that enlightened while embroiled in man-drama.

When it's bad, you become intimately acquainted with reality, and reality often sucks. The reality is that men and women are different -- we just are. We communicate differently. We see things differently. We definitely hear things differently. We love differently. You blame your God for pairing men and women without taking these differences into account.

The reality is that we have choices. Everything is about choices -- choosing your attitude, choosing your path, choosing your mate. If, at the end of the day, you believe that you belong together, then it is your duty to do everything possible to maintain the relationship. In most cases, it'll take doing the "it" differently.

Once, and only after, you've done everything you could possibly do, will you know whether you belong together. If that means letting go of who you've been in order to learn who you could be, then do it. Don't worry about letting go of too much of yourself. Don't worry about looking weak. Don't worry about being vulnerable. Worry about looking back a regretting what you didn't do, but could have.

More times than not, when I talk to friends about their relationships, my advice is to chill the fuck out, and for some reason, it's okay when I say it. They get it. We get it. We don't feel threatened or attacked and we acknowledge the fact we, indeed, need to chill the fuck out.

When we're single we fantasize about the perfect man. We dream of what he looks and smells like, the things he'll do for us, the way he'll make us feel. When we date someone, and when faced with reality, we see cracks in the fantasy. We learn that fantasies are fake and that reality can be painful. We wonder how the two could be so different. If we're smart, we accept that we were out of our damn minds when we even dared to picture the perfect man. We trade in the fantasy for reality dipped in fantasy, and we realize that getting what we need is so much more fantastic than getting everything we thought we wanted.

Stencils

2009-03-02T12:25:00.001-08:00

We met at a family function, but as usual, neither of us was related. We ate in the only silence in the room while happy familiarity inspired the others to guffaw and chew audibly. To us, all of the happy familiarity made the ceiling hang low and the arms on the chairs narrow-to-trapping.

This wasn't the first time I'd seen him. I have brief still memories of him I-don't-know-where doing-I-don't-remember-what. The first time he spoke, his brassy melody made me think of how pleasant his singing voice must be. I idolized him for the entire hour.

We talked about things that we didn't have to and omitted topics for the sake of stasis. Maybe it was more convenient to not talk about the thing or the person or the reason. Or, maybe what we were fit into a small box that fit into our larger boxes. Whatever the reason, the we was enough for then -- until it wasn't.

I felt an anxious connection, and even when I released like a tapped keg, I still held something back. I needed very badly to believe that the serrated edges that outlined his classic good looks and indiscriminate charm were his solely, and not identical to mine. Or rather, I needed to believe that I was not identical to him.

It was an odd experience -- watching people watching him; I saw admiration and confusion mixed wth awe and lust. It wasn't until I saw him retreat from a cluster of laughing cousins to a remote corner of the room that I realized.

It was this type of movement that reminded me. Indestructible and in control; the loudest and most genuine laugh in a loud room; and the most disappointed eyes I'd ever seen. A dark, protected side complemented by a sentimental and romantic longing for closeness; fiercely critical, a danger to himself; the violent, myopic ability to hurt and love at the same time.

In the four seconds it took me to find him, he had morphed into the private version of himself, but was staring so intently I could feel it. I wondered if it was an affection of convenience or simply the comfort of a misfit-safe zone.

It was the commonness that called us to the center of the room where the lights were brightest and the view most clear. We couldn't tiptoe and duck; we couldn't fade or self-omit. All of the hiding that had shaped us with memories of avoidance was now impossible. I felt like I was looking at myself. All conflicted confidence and strength -- the kind of person people were drawn to and eventually hurt by.

We spoke in smiles and fumbled through a hug that stalled the rest of the room in wonder. What we were made a joke of the small talk and platitudes. It made lovers question and friends doubt. It drew everyone's eyes to the middle of things, and like the train wreck we were, held them there in disbelief.

Condolences

2009-02-22T20:38:00.000-08:00

There is a man for whom I feel bloody, base, and visceral contempt. I marvel at how he functions among regular people with his greasy skin and egg yolk yellow eyes. He is a liar and an instigator of meaningless chaos. He is angry and harsh and disrespectful. The longer I've known him, the more I've learned of his warped detachment from reality. I've seen him spin webs of fruitless deceit and twist real into make-believe knots. He is hurtful and predatorial. He is misguided and sad. He carries himself with the pinchbeck arrogance of a highly unintelligent person. He is a caricature of a man.

When I heard today that he had killed himself, I was numb. Not wanting to be proven a hypocrite, I wasn't sure how to feel. And then I remembered how one-dimensional disdain can be. While I was walking around hating him, he was walking around hating himself and for that I feel the deepest sympathy.

I'm not embarassed of my living opinion of him -- he earned it. I feel horrible about the pain his death has caused his family and I hope that it is greater than the loss he caused them while alive.

More than anything, I hope that, in his final moments, he thought twice about taking his own life. Even if the argument did not ultimately compel him to stop, I hope that he had second thoughts.

Then, at least we know he did not die alone, but for the company of doubt.

Ringsted

2009-02-19T02:53:00.000-08:00

I almost went there once. Actually, I fell in love with the idea of going.

I imagined that you couldn't even hear my footsteps as I traveled the sidestreets. The scent of eucalyptus and skin wading through heavy air as I lay curled in an alley. Warm and so like me, I fit.

And then I learned that I was not welcome.

Consternation. Frenzy. I scrambled.

My longing [so intense and blinding that it] consumed me -- a pit in my gut dissolving from the inside out.

The criteria for entry were clearly defined and retroactive.

It was determined, in an irritatngly pragmatic and logical way, that I pose a danger to the harmony in construction. The battle between good and evil, the conflict between right and wrong. In the past, evil and wrong had prevailed. Or, so it was believed.

Blindsided, exposed, and suspended in the middle while the world kept moving without me.

I slipped into unrequited and scorned so suddenly that I broke something.

Emboldened by fury, and using my best negotiating skills, I tried to reason with, albeit reasonable, extreme.

You shouldn't fear danger, you should disarm it with acceptance.
Dismantle and rebuild it under your roof.
Danger doesn't compete with safe, it makes safe safer.

I explained that what I offer is so pure and balanced, and that I see beauty in the cracks.

I flattered.

I charmed.

In the end,

I lost.

Even still, it's tempting to fight because I know it's one to love.

But I never really planned to.

Split Personalities

2009-02-18T07:03:00.000-08:00

I've always felt like a part of me lives over there. The artsy, creative, jazzy one. Attached, but free (probably loved up, likely semi-tied down, hopefully to the exact man I married) and a little famous, I navigate the scene attracting other detached spirits in-flight.

I had two choices for my life. The one I'm living now and that other one. The one I'm living is blissfully routine and filled with love and silly stories. My life is the same every day and I thrive inside this box. To be honest, I have no idea whether or not I could cut it over there.

And, why is it that I have separated the versions of me and situated them in polar geographies?

The most important thing to note is that these two me's aren't in competition; they never were. They're in separate and equally charming compartments (on different coasts) and grateful for whatever attention I have to give.

But, what if?

What if I wake up one day 20 years from now and remember the other one (whichever that is) and long for it? What if I miss it and feel lost in its absence?

The amazing and not-cliche-at-all thing about life is that it moves. It doesn't stop because your situation changes.

We have kids. They run shit. Our lives revolve around them and how we can do better for them. I'd always planned on giving it a solid 20 years of intense mothering and then sending them off to live their own lives while my husband and I slid smoothly back into our before picture.

I realize that, although there is time, there isn't. I don't want to wake up in 20 years and think anything other than how happy I am to be exactly where I am at that precise moment. In order to ensure this happens, I'm committed to feeding the other-me monster along the way. I'm able to fill the monster's belly with my non-regrets. I don't have a single one; just an active imagination and enough free time to stay in tune with my thoughts. No surprises here.

Make time for you so that you can. Everything.

Soul Mate, Schmoul Mate

2009-02-12T11:40:00.000-08:00

Cliche topic...soul mates. So, I've been caught in a massively distracting introspection shitstorm for the last few weeks. This always happens during busy season; I'm exhausted, alone with my thoughts, and sleepless. So I wonder. I debate. I overthink. I relive. I envision. And I fall asleep about an hour before the alarm sounds. Thought I'd add an element of research to this one...definitions of soul mates:
someone for whom you have a deep affinity wordnet.princeton.edu/perl/webwn
Soul mate (or soul mate) is a term sometimes used to designate someone with whom one has a feeling of deep and natural affinity, friendship, love, intimacy, sexuality, spirituality and/or compatibility. ...en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Soul-mate
A person's soul mate is that individual who complements the other in the eternal marriage bond.www.4truth.net/site/c.hiKXLbPNLrF/b.2904223/k.9A02/New_Age_Glossary.htm
one of 2 persons compatible with 1 another in disposition or point of view quizlet.com/print/342278/
the romantic belief that every person soul has a counterpart and true happiness and fulfilment can only be found by meeting and joining with that ...http://www.google.com/url?sa=X&start=6&oi=define&ei=N12USbqyCNzMmQebtJz_CQ&sig2=6kI2TTaUBxbREectwm6vvQ&q=http://www.is-this-it.com/pages/GlossaryS.htm&usg=AFQjCNGK3GMGy0zNjh-gLR3iHY50GVgnCw
Source: <http://www.google.com/search?q=define%3A+soul+mate&sourceid=ie7&rls=com.microsoft:en-US&ie=utf8&oe=utf8>.
The older we get, the more we try to understand this concept. While it's thought to be more of a single chicks bag, I'll stand up on behalf of the closeted married women's club to pronounce loudly that we think about this kind of shit too.
So, what are the questions?
Can you have more than one soul mate? How do you know if someone is your soul mate? What happens when you break up with a previously labeled soul mate -- are your souls unmated at that point? Is a soul mate some one who you fit so well with because you two are very similar or very different? Is there such a thing as a "platonic soul mate"? Is your soul mate the person you're supposed to be all happily ever after with?
If one day you stumble upon something with someone so unexpected and it grows into this massively uncontrollable beast of a connection that's sort of like three-course dinner chewing gum -- then what? If the next day the same thing happens (but different) do you discount the first? You absolutely do not. You thank your God for infinite possibilities. In a very practical and honest way, you throw caution to the wind, close your eyes, and you go with it. Apply logic and be grateful that there isn't only one person on the earth sentenced to loving your broken ass.
A wise friend once told me that men and women can't truly be just-friends. She's full of shit.