Some Enchanted Evening

To many, the story I'm about to lay out may not seem like anything extraordinary, but to me, it's such a change from the heaviness and pain that marred much of the past two years that only one word can describe it: enchanted.

The night began by meeting one of the few gentlemen participating in online dating. He supplied a lovely Cabernet, funny conversation, amazing kisses and then gave me a great deal of pleasure without asking for anything in return except my company. And then he sent me off to work with a homemade meal. That in and off itself was pretty damn magical.

But wait, there's more.

I drive to work and decide to stop for a Coke and a smile. The convenience store clerk serenaded me whilst ringing me up. He thanked me for being a good sport and actually he wasn't a bad singer.

I walk out to my car and it wouldn't turn over. A couple older guys, smoking in the parking lot cheerfully gave me a jump and sent me on my way.

As I sit here in my car, eating my meal and drinking a Coke, car humming and relaxed as a mofo, I wonder what planets aligned and made tonight so enchanted? I don't have an answer, but why question good fortune? I'm choosing to live in this moment, a grin on my face and a song in my heart.

Namaste,
Cindy

Brutality

Today, I bore witness to  so much brutality, I don't even want to be part of the human race anymore. Perhaps I will self-identify as a wolverine or a honey badger or a starving polar bear or something like the aforementioned beasts, something far less vicious than a human.

No, I'm not joining the Furry movement (not that there's anything wrong with that). What the world around me today affirmed was something I already knew having spent a lot of my adult life working retail jobs: so very many people are cruel just for the sake of being cruel. Thing is cruelty has consequences and not usually for the perpetrators of said cruelty. Though really it does, it just doesn't always manifest itself immediately. Cruelty damages the soul.

I won't go into the long list of egregious behavior swirling like a perfect storm around what had been my newfound peace and prosperity. It ranged from verbal abuse to physical violation and oddly enough almost none of it was directed at me, but it affected me. I had to make some hard decisions but in the end I know they were good decisions.

Stand by a friend who made an honest but potentially disastrous mistake. Withdraw my son from an unhealthy environment and kudos to my son for seeing it for what it was long before anyone else did. Stop participating in an argument that's lasted over a decade. Any one of those decisions would have made today exhausting. All combined together and stemming from vastly different pieces of my personal jigsaw puzzle, I am leveled. When I need sleep the most it eludes me yet again.

As I lie here, smirking at the sheep I should be counting, I take comfort in the words of Morrissey: "It's so easy to laugh, it's so easy to hate, it takes strength to be gentle and kind." To all those affected by the ugliness of the day's revelations, I pray you will be strong. That's all one can do, pray and do the hard thing. Don't pay the brutality forward because then you become no better than the assholes trying to drag you into their world of misery.

To kinder, gentler days, my friends.

Namaste,
Cindy

TMI: How Much Info Is Too Much?

In a new space with the ex. We're chatting about our dates from this weekend and Mr. Just Be Honest with Me tapped out. That's right. He said, and I quote, "I don't need to know all that." Okay, before you shake your head and me and agree with him, all I said was that NG (New Guy) thought it was cute that I am kinda clumsy. What kind of overshare were you thinking? For shame.

I trip. I trip a lot. And no, I'm not talking about shrooms. Hi, my name is Cindy, and I am hopelessly clumsy. I blame it on feet that are far too small for my body. Yes, I know the five foot three girl with the size nine feet reading this is telling me to cry her a river. But let's flip that script. I'm five eight with size six and a half feet. I'm buxom with hips that make grown men cry. All good things, right? Yet, I disagree. It's like putting an orange tree in a tiny terra cotta pot. That thing is gonna topple over. Yep, that's me.

But what was so offensive about the statement, as far as the ex is concerned? Slipping, falling, tripping my own feet, it's all things I've done much to my and HIS chagrin when we've been out. Oh sure, it caused us minutes of laughter, at my expense might I add. But it's not "one of our things". I was a fall hazard long before he met me and that didn't stop once we split. So what about that statement gave him pause. Well, you know me. I had to ask.

This was his reply: "The next time you stumble, I won't be the one to catch you."

Awwwww....damn. No fair, man. No fair.

So being that clumsy damsel in distress was something he found charming about me? Then why was this never expressed when I was his? All I ever heard was, "Heels are a bad choice". Why is it, the things you hate about your partner are the things you find the cutest when you've split?

Now keep in mind this topic was brought up after I expressed that NG is no fan of receiving oral sex. Whaaaaa?! IKR? I was as shocked as you are. We talked about the fact that NG is, let's say financially independent. We even discussed when NG and I would see each other again. So clumsiness didn't seem out of bounds.

Perhaps that speaks to the intimacy of detail. Someone else taking notice of something he thought was his detail. Something he and he alone ever knew about me. Who knew?

Namaste,
Cindy

The Sound of Silence

It's deafening. We've all been on the receiving end of it. After the ringing in your ears from the loud music subsides, when friends and lovers are away from their phones doing whatever they do when you aren't there, when the only thing you have is the sound of your own thoughts, that's when it settles in: the sound of absolute silence. It can be unnerving. It can also be the best time reflect on where you are and where you'd like to be.

Today, I'm taking time for just such quiet reflection. I know I've been self-medicating in a lot of magnificent ways. And the highs are oh so high (check out my post on the Love Drug), but the lows....do they have to be low? Or can it be time for me to put on my old faded jeans, turn off my phone, play songs only I like, and rub my dog's belly while I reflect on what a fabulous person I am, just little ole me?

There's a difference between being alone and being lonely. Today, I am alone. But I like my own company just fine. How do I know this? I know because in the past, when I wasn't enough all by myself, I needed noise. Lots and lots of noise. Binging on Netflix, texting or chatting with someone, ANYONE who was available, playing Candy Crush until I fell asleep, phone sticking to my cheek because I'd once again had one too many glasses of wine. IKR?! Very sad.

Today for the first time in ages, I have nowhere to go. No one to talk to. No one demanding my attention and no one from whom I am demanding attention. And instead of voices in my head, I have one voice. Singular and clear. It's been whispering for a while now. I've been ignoring it to a certain extent. I mean every time I listen to it I get my spirit crushed to be sure. But that was when I was obeying it for the wrong reasons. Now it speaks to me plainly. Just one word, one word that gets my heart racing and my blood pumping more than any man ever could and ever will.




Yes, inner Cindy. I hear you. I know what you want and I know what you need. It's time to start writing again. And more than just this blog. And not for other people. Not what will publish or sell, but what my heart tells me to write. And this time, I'm not afraid of the silence and peace that comes after all the words are on the page. This time, I will embrace it.

Namaste,
Cindy

Netflix and Chill

The exhausting thing about dating at my age is all the prep and excessive attention to body hair and squeezing my lady lumps into medieval-torture-device undergarments. One does want to be ready to shock and awe NG (that's New Guy for those y'all who haven't read my previous posts). But something magical happened this weekend that didn't require the iron maiden undies: Netflix and chill. Ohhhhh yeah, baby.

No, no, no. I don't mean the slang definition of the phrase. We literally put on some comfy clothes, watched Netflix and chilled. He'd had a looooong week at work (my poor boo gots a bigtime, stressful adult job) and I was still a little under the weather, more from the damn antibiotics at this point than the actual disease. So when he showed up at our rendezvous looking like he'd been ridden hard and put away wet (stop it!), I suggested we take things down a notch. Cancel the wild night of dinner and dancing and get real.

Took a little persuasion to get him believe I was serious. Clearly, his previous ladies would say one thing and mean something else. Nope. Not me, babe. Not me. If I say I'm down to trade in the skirt, tank top, and Victoria's Secret for a pair of your boxers and a plain white tee, I mean it. In fact, my lady parts were grateful. Whoever invented the thong was the most hateful, misogynistic asshole to ever walk the face of the Earth. Once convinced, NG and I embarked on a new adventure.

The Netflix part came easily. We had previously discussed a shared love of Adam Sandler. We coulda gone with Billy Madison or Grown Ups or Happy Gilmore and I woulda been happy with any of those, but to keep the vibe romantic, he picked 50 First Dates. Awwww, Drew and Adam at their best. Comfy clothes adorned, wine bottle uncorked, we settled into the media room off the first floor kitchen. And after about half an hour, something very intimate happened...we both fell asleep. What did you think I was going to say, naughty reader?

We woke around midnight tangled in a mess of body parts, a chenille throw, and of course my hair. Wiping drool from our lips, we laughed. Well, this evening had not gone as planned. I, for one, couldn't have been happier. He suggested we go to an all night diner for a little gnosh. Yaaassssss!

Sitting in a pair of his jeans and his t-shirt, across from him dressed in nearly identical fashion, I felt at ease. We ordered a couple beers, ate breakfast burritos at one in the morning and laughed. We talked about everything and nothing. We'd inadvertently gotten a big milestone out of the way: sleeping together. No, not sex (though that did happen later, hee hee), but actually snuggling and drifting off to sleep. Was it the evening either of us imagined? Nope. But as far as I am concerned, the night couldn't have been more perfect. It's the accidental, unplanned moments that make up the best parts of getting to know someone. And thank God, he doesn't snore.

Namaste,
Cindy

John, I'm Only Dancing

Strep. It's no fun. Work. I love my job, but there are times it's not fun. By definition work is, well, work. As it should be. So, on a Friday night after illness and navigating the choppy waters that are workplace politics, I want to feel like myself again. What makes up the quintessential Cindy? I'd lost her for a while so in a strange way, I'm getting to know her again. But one thing I know for a fucking fact--she LOVES to dance. And she's not too bad at it either.

Here was the challenge: I had no one to go dancing with. NG (New Guy) has made it clear that Fridays are his me-time and I'm fine with that. Everyone needs space to be themselves, something I denied myself for over a decade. So if Friday is NG's him-time, it's damn well going to be my me-time, too. Not #MeToo time. That would be terrible and tragic and for all those ignorant enough to victim-shame get the fuck off my blog. You got no business utilizing valuable organs much less reading my most personal thoughts. But I digress.

Or do I? Yes, the Me Too movement is about horrible violations of women's bodies and inner selves. But it's also about empowerment. Break the silence. Speak up. Take back your power because you are formidable and beautiful and amazing. And what is more empowering than moving my body to a driving beat and perhaps doing it against a stranger's pulsing body, then dropping the mike and walking away, Ubering home, safe and sound. I should be able to do that, right?

And last night. That's what I fucking did.

Oh the judgement. The slings and arrows from all sides. It was as though I'd decided to participate in a Girls Gone Wild video (not judging, but it is a choice I wouldn't make). To quote the late, great David Bowie, "John, I'm only dancing." But oh no. That's not possible. Is it? What is this? The little town from Footloose? Can it be that a rock-n-roll beat leads only one way? Inexorably to some stranger's bed because my hips don't lie and I'm on tonight? Sorry, that was a lot of pop culture references all mashed-up. But I'm making a point. Bouncing around the dance floor is not ALWAYS a prelude to sex. And if it turns out to be, that's all good, too. As long as it's consensual.

For all my ladies and gentlemen who went out this weekend, had a few drinks, danced like it's the end of the world, and then made whatever choices they WANTED to make, more power to ya. And if you went home alone, it's not abnormal, it's perfectly fucking okay. To paraphrase Shakira once again, my hips don't lie, but they don't make promises either.

Namaste,

Cindy

Original sin

Those of you who know me are aware of the fact that I'm a fan of vice and sin in many forms. Sex, drugs, and rock-n-roll. Fuck yeah. And as yesterday's post indicates, I don't really care about lying, at least not in a benign way. Everybody lies. But can the sin of omission really be counted as a lie? I'm not so sure.

As I venture farther into my Stella-Getting-Her-Groove-Back phase, I'm learning an awful lot about how dating now is a vastly different landscape than it was in my 20s. Some of it is much, much easier (thank you, Tinder) and some of it is much, much more difficult. Especially in my shoes. If ya google my name, LOTS and LOTS of information comes up. Here's just the first few images:

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Now, wait, wait wait. I take full responsibility for the private stuff I've made public. I made the choice to write under my legal name about topics considered taboo and I would make the same decision if I had it to do over again. I believe that a woman's sexuality is empowering, not something to be ashamed of. That being said, am I under any obligation to share that information on a first date? I think not.

I believe that what we choose to share and what we choose to keep private is just that: a choice. And a personal one. But is Google-stalking an invasion of privacy especially when so much information is very, very public? Perhaps invasion of privacy is too strong a phrase, but as far as I'm concerned, it's definitely a party foul.

If the oral contract you've forged with someone states that whatever transpires is to be fun, light, and uncomplicated (yes, I know I keep using that word. An uncomplicated life is all I have EVER dreamed about), then doesn't it stand to reason that on a first date, I'm not going to greet a guy with a demure smile, bat my eyelashes and say, "Hi, I'm Cindy. I live with my son, two dogs, two cats, one ex-husband who is just a friend and who will probably live in my basement forever and one ex-husband who really is on his way out the door, but finances and our credits records being what they are, ya know, gonna take some time. Oh and I used to write erotica. Sometimes still do, I just don't publish it anymore. Oh and be careful on this date because what you do might end up on my blog. Nice to meet ya, big fella." What man in his right mind wouldn't run screaming? And if he stays, what the fuck does that say about him?

Oversharing has become a staple, nay, an expectation of the Information Age. Yes, if I ever find a lover that I want to become more than just a lover, yes, then we have to get into the millions of moving parts that make up the chaos of my existence. But if I'm not asking you to carry my baggage, why the hell is it any of your business what my baggage is? Just sayin'.

And yes, there's a story behind this rant, too. Before I met the gentleman I am currently bumping uglies with, I chatted with a young man whom I could tell had been kicked around a bit by life. Why am I always attracted to the broken ones? Well, that's a post for another time. Didn't hurt that he is ridiculously hot so yeah, I was struck hunk-blind for a minute. This being the case, when vetting him for our first date and he interviewed me (yes, that's how it felt) I wanted to put my best foot forward. I did not lie so much as edit the truth. As any good lawyer would advise, I answered only the questions I was asked, did not elaborate, and crafted my answers so as to present myself in a flattering light. Isn't that what first date prep is all about?

But then I slipped up. I let my last name fall from my lips and as soon as I did, I wished I could have plucked it from mid-air and stuffed it back into my mouth. I knew it was only a matter of time. Cat-killing curiosity and all that.

As a writer, I open a vein every time I sit down at the keyboard and that unabashed honesty is what makes me good at my craft. It does, however, provide a wealth of search results. Googling me does not level the playing field, it stacks the chips in favor of the Goolger since he now possess waaaaaaay more information about me than I do about him and we all know, information is power.

But, I submit for the record, my defense:

1. My living situation shouldn't be of concern if I'm trying to give you the milk for free and have no intentions of asking you to buy this cow.

2. What a person chooses to share with you over the course of ten days (yes, TEN days) is always going to be limited. And if it isn't, you might want to reconsider knowing that person. They may be sitting in their closet sniff a box of your hair.

3. I do not tell strange men that I used to publish erotica because that can lead to unrealistic expectations. It's happened before. Just because I wrote about being tied up and paddled doesn't mean I want to do it. Or maybe I just don't want to do it with you. My body, my choice, dickhead.

After said beautiful-fucked-up man found out all this about me, he stopped talking to me. Stung a bit, I won't lie, but in the end, I feel as though I dodged a bullet.

So what have we learned here today, my friends? NEVER tell a guy who's just a prospective piece of ass your last name! What? You were expecting something more profound than that?

Namaste,
Cindy