Meditation on a Mantra

It's been a while since I posted anything.  Here's what I've been up to:

About a year ago, I adopted a new mantra.  I'd never had a mantra before and I'm not sure where it came from, but it's helped me to be a relatively happy me for that length of time.  The mantra--I will cultivate a life I love.  There's something about the word cultivate that really gets my juices flowing.  It brings to mind images of planting seeds with the hopes of reaping a good harvest, pulling weeds from time to time, and getting my hands dirty but having a feeling of contentment.  Cultivating isn't something that will be easy, but it is something that will be rewarding.  

And it has been rewarding.  In the last year, I've played volleyball on several teams, played pub trivia with new people, bought myself a Fillaseat membership to attend cultural events around Austin, set up monthly quirky activities with a group of friends, attended book club meetings, and maintained meaningful relationships with good-hearted people.  I reorganized my entire apartment over the summer so that I know exactly what I own, which means that I no longer feel the need to shop.  I created a new budget for myself with the idea that I will purchase a house in the near future.  I made a new career plan and took active steps to meet the goals I set for myself.  All good things.

But there is one important parenthetical that always went along with my new mantra: (and if I meet a man who wants to be a part of it, then great!).  Initially, this parenthetical was probably the main reason that I formulated the mantra.  I wasn't having any luck with the internet dating and I really wasn't meeting any men out in the world and it was starting to get me down.  I kind of had a "come to Jesus" talk with myself--"Lisa, it is possible that you will be on your own forever.  Or at least for a long, long time."  So instead of doing what I'd done for the last decade--putting all big life decisions on hold because of the possibility that I might meet someone--I decided to create the life I wanted to have, even if it meant I would be on my own.

I think the problem with parentheticals is that they really are always in the back of your mind.  So even as I was meeting up with friends and pursuing the things that I thought would make my life better, I was always hoping a guy would come along and we’d hit it off.  Honestly, in this one year, I’ve met more single men than I probably have in a decade.  There are single guys in my volleyball leagues.  There were single men at parties and outings with friends.  There are single guys at trivia.  Cute ones.  Smart ones.  Funny ones.  Kind ones.  All good qualities.  But it’s so hard to find someone with the right mixture of qualities who also likes your mixture of qualities and then for there to be enough of a spark to get the ball rolling.

So here I am.  I really am enjoying life so much more these days, but there’s still something missing.  I guess without completely deleting that parenthetical from my manta, I’m never going to be rid of that sensation.  But do I really want to delete it?  Do I really want to believe that I can be completely fulfilled on my own?  I think that’s the sort of thing we all tell our single loved ones to put a patch over the holes they have. 

The thing I dread the most is the idea that it might be time to give internet dating another go.  I guess that's part of getting my hands dirty...

At Least My Mom Thinks I'm Hot

I am an only child of divorced parents.  I was raised by my mom, and she believed the sun rose and fell at my feet.  She told me I was smart and special and could do anything I wanted.  One of the most difficult parts of life after college was realizing that a lot of what she’d told me only contained a sliver of the truth—I would not get any job I applied for, I wasn’t necessarily meant for great things.  Like most people, I am destined to live a mostly average life. 

The mom-lie she told me that is only really sinking in lately is the lie about my appearance.  If the rest of the world saw me the way my mom does, I would not be single at 31.  My mom believes I am beautiful.  When I’m having a conversation with her about cleaning my apartment, she’ll interrupt me to tell me how pretty my hair is even though it’s frizzy and up in a ponytail.  When we go out to restaurants, she believes that every man is turning his head to look at me.  And when I have talked with her about men I’ve been interested in who wanted nothing to do with me romantically, she never believes it has anything to do with my extra fat cells or big nose or squinty eyes.

I’ve never believed I am hot.  I’ve always been humbled by the beauty of my friends and the attention they received from the opposite sex.  Growing up, it let me know, at the very least, that I was not destined to be a model or to date the hot guys.  And this was good.  Because I didn’t garner male attention, I focused on my studies, learned how to be a great friend, and cultivated my mind, a rich inner life, a fierce independence and sense of humor.  I think I’ve turned into a pretty awesome person to know, if I may say so myself. 

Even though I never believed I was hot, I never thought I was ugly.  At least not until recently.  After many years of not really hanging out with single women at all, or at least not with single women in a larger group of people, I made a single lady friend.  This friend is tall and skinny and tan and blonde—very pretty.  People are always telling her how pretty she is, too.  They talk about fixing her up with their single friends.  They wonder aloud how it is possible that she is still single.  Men clearly are giving her the eye.  As for me?  No one makes mention of their single male friends to me or comments on my appearance at all.  I might as well be invisible except for a few silly comments I throw into a conversation here and there. 

It’s started to make me wonder just how unattractive I actually am.  I think because of my level of security with my personality and intelligence I have body dysmorphia, only instead of believing I’m much fatter than I am, I think I’m thinner.  Maybe my hair is scragglier than I imagine.  Maybe I have more than just the 2^nd chin I see in the mirror.  Perhaps people can barely see my eyeballs at all for how narrow they are.  Is it possible that my lips are actually so thin that I just look like some old lady without her teeth in every time I talk? 

I’ve always wanted to find a man who appreciates me for who I am inside, but is that even possible without a pretty package to lure him in?  I don’t have any answers, only dateless nights.  All I can do is tell myself my own lies and hold out hope that I can find a man who sees me through the eyes of my mom.

Why I'm Single, Reason #1: The Sweat

I'm a sweaty gal.  I've come to terms with it.  I don't deny it.

I'm the one you see at the gym wiping down a sweat slick on the weight bench.  I'm the girl who can't wear her hair down if it's above 70 degrees outside because it won't take long before it looks like she just stepped out of the shower.

I inherited these sweat glands from my dad.  I have very clear memories of helping my dad outside in the yard or garage and noting that the back of his shirt was a complete shade darker than the front of his shirt.  Not just in patches, either--the whole back of the shirt.  And he's a bald man with a very large dome of a head, too.  The sweat would bead as it came out of the pores on his scalp and dribble down, collecting at the end of his nose.  As I would stand near him, ready on deck with the next tool he'd need for his project, I would wait in anticipation for the moment when the drip on the end of his nose would drop.

Of course, I describe this only with affection, because I know exactly how he feels.  Maybe I feel even worse that he feels.  Because as grossed out as people might be by a sweaty man, they must pity a sweaty woman.  Women aren't supposed to sweat in great drops that pool at the waistband of their jeans.  Women are supposed to only slightly glisten, to glow, to appear dewy--not to look like a wet rat.

I cite my sweatiness as just one of the many reasons I still find myself single today.  Not only does my body react to even the slightest heat with oceans of salt water, it also takes cues from my emotions as to when to release the tide.

I sweat when I'm nervous.  A lot of people do.  But it's probably not the same full body sweat I experience.  Once, at a conference for English teachers, I was selected by my round table in a creative writing session to share my quick-write with the entire group.  Of about 300 people.  Now, everyone knows that one of the reasons you go to a conference as a single person is to try to meet other single people.  You wear your cutest outfits.  You try to sit next to attractive people and wow them with your amazing insights on whatever bullshit professional topic is being discussed.  And this should have been my shining moment.  Not only would I be on display for all of the men in the room who would surely decide they needed to talk to me after my reading, I was also singled out for my creativity and writing abilities.  All men are amazed by that, right?  Uh huh.

Well, I've spoken in front of groups of 30 people for years.  I'm a teacher.  That's a daily part of my job.  But at that point, I'd never spoken in front of 300 people.  And definitely never with a microphone.  I am pulled up to the front of the hotel ballroom, and the microphone is shoved in my hand.  Immediately, my body starts to quiver.  Then I feel the blood rush to my cheeks.  The panic sets in.  The red, hotness in my face is a sign that the sweat is about to come.  I start to read the words that are in front of me, probably with the microphone too close to my mouth, but all that's going on inside my head is: stop sweating, stop sweating, stop sweating!  But it just keeps on coming.  By that point, my voice was shaking as much as the hand holding the microphone.

Needless to say, zero men approached me to talk about writing when I sheepishly made my way back to my chair.  I like to believe that they would have if the sweat didn't come.

The worst part about the sweat is that it's also my reaction to attraction.  I'm sure there's some scientific reason that has to do with pheromones, but I just don't agree with science (one thing I have in common with Creationists!) when the thing releasing the chemicals that are supposed to attract a mate also completely disgusts him.  As soon as I lock eyes with a new attractive man and get within a normal range of personal space, it all starts--the redness, the heat, the sweat.  Not just a faint bead on my upper lip.  Full on face sweat.

If I'm lucky, I've interacted with a man enough from a safe distance before this happens and it's not the first impression I make.  But that's usually not the case.

As with most shitty situations in life, I've tried to make the best of it.  I've learned to just not even bother leaving my hair down between April and October in Texas.  I've learned that if I have to be outside when it's warm, it's best to wear a dress or skirt and let the breezes flow.  I've learned to pay attention to types of fabric when shopping for clothes so I don't end up like my dad in the yard.

But my favorite lesson is that my body tells me who I'm attracted to before my head realizes it.  It's become my own little detection system.  It's come in handy in places like the workplace where you don't necessarily want to be flirting with coworkers or when you meet a married man so you know not to joke around with him too much because it might get weird.

And it actually helped me realize I was interested in the last guy I dated when we were left alone at a picnic table and I suddenly felt sweat dripping down my neck.  As I tried to subtly wipe it off with a head-scratch-to-wipe move, I thought, oh, I guess I like this guy.

Luckily, it was a breezy night and the sweat dried quickly.