Some Memories Are Better Left Alone

Where to begin? Last night’s surreal freakishness was so far out of the bounds of normalcy that trying to put it into words is challenging. I think it’s important though. Maybe someone can learn something from my adventures and decide that certain things are better left in the past.

In high school, I had a somewhat unhealthy crush on a boy who was a year older than me. As a skateboarder, he hung with all the other skateboarding boys I knew. Though I was never “part of the crew,” a few of the guys were pretty close friends of mine and therefore I was often where this guy was at. However, he never had anything nice to say to me or about me, and for some reason, instead of that making me hate him, it caused me to want his acceptance even more. Such a typical “girl-likes-guy-that-doesn’t-like-girl” story. Nothing incredible there.

I have one particularly hurtful memory of this boy though. Once, he showed up at a friend’s party and I had never seen him at a party before - or anywhere outside the skate ramp or school. I gathered the courage to approach him and I asked him why he had always been so mean to me. His response? “Because I don’t like you.” Okay, basic enough, but it broke my 15 year-old heart. From then on, I pretty much erased him.

Flash forward to March 2013. 25+ years later. I saw that he had posted a comment under a friend’s photo on Facebook. I hadn’t seen his name in years. I commented on the photo as well, and then added that I was sorry for always “making his life hell” in high school. A kind of Mea Culpa on my teenage girl obsession. Life went on.

April 2013 I was looking at a message in my Facebook inbox and saw that I had a message in my “other” folder, which I didn’t even know existed. It was from him. It said simply, “Hi.” I was stunned. There, on my laptop screen, was a direct message from someone who had been such a large part of my thoughts when my heart was far from fully developed. He was, in fact, my first “real” crush. Someone I looked forward to catching glimpses of at school, wondered about, wished would notice me...I wrote back. An automatic and easy-flowing FB messaging string began that seemed so natural it was hard to believe I actually didn’t know him, and that he knew so little about me.

For me, the correspondence was about trying to establish an acquaintance. Maybe even a real friendship. To try to replace any lingering bad memories with something better. I thought about it night after night and there was no weird leftover romantic comedy crush from high school. It wasn’t about that. It was much deeper. I felt somewhat validated that this guy that treated me so poorly was telling me he was impressed with what I had accomplished in life. He thought my daughter was beautiful. He thought I was “hot”. He looked forward to my messages in his “otherwise pretty boring life”. I learned a lot about him and where he’s currently at in life. He shared, what he said, was more than he’d ever shared with anyone outside of a professional therapist. The comfort level was high. I’ve been through a shitload of trauma in my lifetime and am still in the middle of some extremely painful things. I had a lot of advice to offer, wisdom from past hurts, and the heart to actually listen without judgement. How did it go from someone I dreamed about every night so long ago to someone spilling his guts about his own hurtful times?

At some point in our correspondence I gave him my cell and suggested we meet up to talk face-to-face. I have to admit, I was more than a little curious to see what had become of him. I knew he still surfed and occasionally still skated. I knew he had a stable job doing what he loved, that he hadn’t ever really left the ‘hood, and that he believed in loyalty and contentment. I knew he played hockey, road his bike for miles and was generally a pretty healthy guy. I knew he was still super cute, that he had beautiful body art that would put anything anyone else had to shame. Beyond that, I didn’t know anything.

I got his number in return and FB messaging turned to casual texting. Nothing crazy. Nothing inappropriate. Just texting that one would think was coming from two people that were close friends.Then we talked on the phone. That first call was terrifying for me. Hearing his voice made it so real. He was no longer words on a screen, he was a real man. A man who was a boy in my little girl thoughts. We talked for hours about everything. He was encouraging, sweet, funny, and surprisingly thoughtful. I told him I was overwhelmed by some things and he said, "If you ever need help..." He apologized for high school. He said he reached out because it haunted him how badly he had treated me. He said he was anti-social back then and hated everything and every one. Wow. It was good. I felt okay. There was a tiny seed of friendship there. I had hope for my adult self.

I had to be in his neck of the woods for work so once again, I suggested a meet up. After confessing that he was nervous to see me, nervous about the jerk he had been and nervous because he’d never been through anything “like this” at all, he finally agreed. Yeah, it was awkwardly nerve-wracking for me as well. What if he thought I was boring? Ugly? Not interesting? I’m a 40+ year-old woman and at this point in my life it’s pretty apparent that women don’t really have the upper hand when it comes to aging well. I hate to say it but if I hadn’t invested as much as I have in everything from Botox to kick-boxing, I might be featured on the Creatures of Wal-Mart web site.

I have come to embrace the fact that you only live once and I decided that no matter what happened, no matter what he thought, the fact that God gave me this opportunity to create a new memory to replace any less happy ones was worth the embarrassment. I had only request prior to our meet-up, and that was that he was at least somewhat sober. I had a few back and forth texts with him that showed me he liked to drink a little more than I’m okay with at this moment. Dealing with some heavy alcohol issues within my own family, with the person I pledged my heart to, and friends of mine, I’m not open to allowing anymore alcohol-induced psychosis and drama into my life. We picked a day and I headed down to my old home-town. I did a lot of deep-breathing on the drive there. A lot of nervous double-checks in the rearview mirror. A lot of second-guessing. He had promised that he had only “two glasses of wine” and for whatever reason, I failed to recognize the “code” for “I am already drunk”. I cannot tell you how many times each week I hear, “I only had two beers”. Two. That’s the code. Remember it! If anyone tells you that they’ve only had “two” of anything, they are shit-faced liars and you are an asshole for believing it.

When I arrived in his 'hood I texted. He picked a place to meet for drinks. I got there before him and was happily impressed with how low-key and funny the bar was. Nothing like San Francisco. No attitude. No hipsters. Just people of all ages singing karaoke, dancing to each other’s karaoke, drinking strong drinks and reminding me why I miss San Jose so much. One girl told me I looked great. What could be nicer? I drank my vodka soda and hoped for the best. When he arrived I knew him immediately. I gave him a strong hug. Those that know me know that I am not a hugger. Touching people is hard for me. Looking people in the eye is harder. I am extremely shy and insecure and anything other than abject shyness is me projecting a suit of armor onto myself. He hugged me back and kept saying how weird it was to see me after all this time. Like over and over. Too many times. I suddenly felt bad. He grabbed a stool and sat next to me and we started talking. I asked about his day, how he was feeling, he had a hard time looking at me so I asked him, “Are you okay?” and he said, “Yeah! It’s just so weird being here right now!” Sigh.

Then I did what girls do. I lost all sense of confidence and/or pride and I asked him whether I still looked the same. I don’t know why. I don’t know if I wanted his validation or if I wanted him to notice I put effort into my style. I don’t know. He said, “You are WAY hot. You’re hot. Tattooed, long blonde hair, dressed in black with heels...” and then he said, “It’s surreal.” I had no words. That was really nice to hear. He noticed me. And just as I relaxed a little a guy came up and started a conversation with him. Suddenly, I was no longer there. They were laughing and back slapping and telling each other stories. Drunken stories. He was drunk. I suddenly knew.

I ordered another drink.

I tried to connect with him, have a real conversation, and pretty much everything he said made no sense to me. He said, “This is why we shouldn’t have come to my territory. You know, because I know everyone.” What? But um, you suggested this place.

“We should have met on neutral ground.” Are we fighting? Is something wrong? Neutral? Like Switzerland?

I tried to change the subject, “Hey, I saw a really cool abandoned storefront up the street and I’d love to go check it out do you want to walk there with me?”

Him: “What?”

I repeated myself. Twice. Then I finally said, “Hey, do you want to go with me outside and get some air?”

Him: “I just ordered a drink!” Oh. Awesome.

So I left my purse on the bar and went outside for a minute. It was super quiet on the street except for the happy karaoke sounds from the bar. I started to cry.

After a few minutes, I went back in and we made small talk. I said that I had to go to the bathroom, he pointed it out, and I went. When I got back to the bar he wasn’t there. His drink was gone as well. I thought maybe he joined the crazy conga line that was now dancing through the bar. He wasn’t in it. I looked around. He wasn’t there. I honestly didn’t even know how to process him leaving so I got my stuff and stepped outside to leave. Just then, my phone rang and it was him.

“Hey, I’m over here, across the street.”

I looked up and he was sitting in his car. Calling me.

??

On my phone, I asked while staring at him why he left.

He said, “I’m right here in my car, don’t you see me?” Yes. I see you clearly.

Still on my phone, I told him I was going to check out that storefront.

He said into his phone, while still looking at me, “Come here.”

I hung up my phone and yelled across the street, “Um, no! This is totally fucking freakish and I have no idea what’s going on right now!”

He yelled out his car window, “Hey! Come here!” and I kept walking. What. The. Fuck?

I took a walk then returned to my car. I called his phone and he picked up like nothing had ever happened.

“Hey!”

“Why the fuck did you leave me in that bar?!”

“It’s like a beacon.”

“What?! What the fuck does that mean?”

“I just do that.”

“You do what? Just leave people?”

“Yeah. I just leave.”

“That’s psychotic.”

“It’s like a beacon to live here.”

“You make no fucking sense at all.”

“Where are you?”

“WHERE AM I?! I’M IN MY FUCKING CAR FREAKING OUT!”

“Do you see me?”

“What?! Holy shit am I in a horror movie right now!?”

“What? Can you see me? Where are you?”

“Oh. My. God. I’m in my Dodge Magnum where are YOU?!”

And then I see him. Walking toward my car, talking to me on his cell. Jesus please get me out of this acid-trip reality show immediately.

He knocks on the passenger door. I let him in. He sits down.

“Hey.”

“What the fuck is WRONG with you?!”

“I don’t know.”

“Who DOES that?! Who leaves someone in a bar in a neighborhood they don’t really know after asking them to come all the way down and meet them?”

“Me I guess.”

“Are you a fucking psycho? I think you may be a psycho actually.”

“Do you hate me?”

“What?! I don’t hate anybody. I think you’re insane. I mean, if you wanted to leave the bar that’s all you had to say. You could have said, ‘Melisa I want to go home. Nice seeing you.’ If you never wanted to see me again that’s all you had to say!”

“That’s how you want it?”

“Yeah, if you don’t want to see me again you don’t fucking leave me in a bar. You just tell me.”

“Wow. Okay. If that’s how you want it.”

“That’s how YOU want it.”

He looks really really sad and goes to get out of the car and says, “So that’s it?”

Me:“What?”

Him:“You never want to see me again?”

Me: “Oh my God, please go home.”

He shuts the door and starts to walk away. I put my head in my hands trying to process the pure hellish weirdness I have just experienced. He had walked back to my car without me knowing and touched me on the shoulder through my open car window. “Hey.”

“GO AWAY FROM ME!”

“Really?”

“YES! Just GO!”

And he walks away looking really hurt.

I sat there for a good ten minutes trying to figure it out and decided that I will never figure it out. I have deleted his cell phone number and all of our correspondence and hope to never, ever, hear from him again.

The memories I now have are far worse than any I may have stored in the “teenage memory section” of my head.

It was like a beacon...

What's Love Got to Do With It?

Yesterday I went to dinner with one of my accomplished, beautiful, younger, single girlfriends and the subject turned to the remnants of my marriage. She asked me if I feel married anymore. I said that I didn't, and I don't. A couple weeks back another amazing girlfriend of mine, who is a newlywed, cautiously asked me what it was that had made me fall in love with him. That was hard to answer because I had first fallen in love with him when I was 19. Then I thought I had fallen out of love with him, and I went on to live an entire lifetime before seeing him again at 32. It was then, in a London bar that I knew had always been in love with him. So it's complicated, but the easy answer is that all of the things that have happened, and are happening, weren't visible to me back then.

Throughout the course of my marriage I have been asked by many different friends whether or not the issues we have were there when we got married. The answer is yes and no. Yes, my husband has the same darkness and demons and baggage now that he had then, but no, I didn't realize it. I never saw it. If I had paid more attention, or hadn't let love blind me, maybe I would have seen things but I'm not sure. Things come up when you get married. Seriously. They fucking magically fall out of a cereal box one morning and you're sitting there going, "What the fuck is this in my bowl?!"

Mine is one of the greatest love stories of all time. The way we met, and then parted, and then reconnected - all of our life's pieces falling into place. That was magic. That was real love. The problem is, sometimes real love isn't love that works. Or is healthy. Sometimes it's the worst thing to happen to you.

Only people in relationships understand the intricacies of what's happening between them. Sometimes we are trapped in a situation for reasons that no one else seems to understand. Often, it appears that no one on earth would tolerate what's being tolerated because it's so outrageously intolerable, but then, they're not in your specific situation. How do I explain it? I can't, other than to say that I'm not tolerating it. I'm bearing the weight of its burden squarely on my shoulders day in and day out in an endless stream of verbal abuse and dark hatred. I'm searching for ways to be whole again. I'm not a victim. I'm physically very strong and can fight my way out of any corner you put me in. I'm not usually shy when I'm faced with insults and screaming and yelling. I grew up with constant screaming and yelling and spankings and corner standings and more than a few times some pretty hellacious beatings. I'm reactive. I'm defensive. I'm protective. I'm really, really fucking evil if I need to be, but it's been a lot of years since I've let that side of my personality out of the box because frankly, I believe in karma and I don't want nor need that karma in my life. So I bear it, but I don't tolerate it. There's a difference.

I do believe in love. I believe in marriage. I believe that there are good men and women out there who are perfect complements to each other. Sometimes only for a time, sometimes for a lifetime. I believe that some people are suited to marry more than once, or twice, but not me. I believe that couples fight and that love waxes and wanes and that we either do or don't continue to fall in love with each other all over again. I'm all for trying. I'm all for exhausting every last option. And yet, I also believe that people can be so incredibly cruel and inhumane to the people they claim to love that hell would be a perfect descriptor.

I wish I knew the moment that my "World's Greatest Love Story" turned into blackness. On what day, what time, and after what real or imagined infraction did it end? I just want to know for posterity's sake, and because everyone asks me. I don't have the answer. Was it the morning of my wedding when he turned to me in bed and said, "I don't think I can do this," only to leave with his groomsmen and call me hours later to tell me he's never been so sure? Was it his mother's abject hatred of me/him/herself that ruined it? Maybe it was the whole nightmarish process of immigration and leaving friends and familiarities behind. Maybe it was my unchecked (at the time) depression and my lack of a fat bank account. I know that one instance has come back over and over again and has found its way into every argument about every thing, ever. My daughter's heart surgery. The decisions I made to pay for her heart surgery, out of my own bank account, instead of paying my taxes. We were uninsured. I had to choose, my daughter's life or the IRS. I chose my daughter, and the IRS chose to chase me down and entangle me in a decade's long "payment arrangement" that sees me indebted to them forever. That comes up a lot. How I got "us" into trouble with the IRS. How it has affected him. I wish it had been an easier choice to make, but this is America and that's how our medical system operates, and you know, I was very lucky at the time to have had $70,000 in a retirement account to pay for almost all of that surgery. Almost all. I paid the other $25,000 over a period of years. My daughter is healthy now thankfully. Anyway, maybe that was it.

Although it's hard to take and harder to admit, every confidence I shared with him, every weakness and fear I confessed to while laying in his arms, he has exploited. He has thrown them in my face, accused me of being less than, used them to show how lowly I am, and in one very life-changing instance, shared my deepest pain with a total stranger he ended up sleeping with. Nothing feels worse than having a stranger call you up and tell you something about yourself that absolutely no one knows but your spouse. It's like someone reaching right into your chest, taking out your heart, and throwing it off the freeway bridge. 

Time and again when I relate the biggest issues in my marriage to trusted friends there is a universal question everyone - male and female - asks: "But he's your husband! Doesn't he know he's supposed to be your partner?"

Yes, I think he knows that's how the rule book reads, but ask him today and he could give you at least a hundred reasons why I don't deserve his support/love/interest/attention. A wise friend of mine once said that people can justify anything in the world to themselves to make themselves feel okay. I see proof of that all the time.

I write this more to exhale than for any other reason. Some day I'll write the whole story down. I'll include all of my transgressions, failures, and shortcomings, and let the reader come to whatever conclusion they want. However, nowhere in that story will there ever be a shred of hatred coming from my direction. It only flows toward me, not from me.

Another very wise person I know said that karmic debt is a debt that must always be repaid. Whether in this life, or the next. I believe that. That is why I lay myself bare to the God that I believe in and pray for next steps. The sadness that occupies the entirety of who I am comes from the fact that I no longer have that friend I really believed in. Someone whose creativity and intelligence and words were so meaningful and powerful to me.

That sucks.

What's a Little Neuroses Among Friends?

A long while back I was talking with a girlfriend of mine about my girl parts. As usual I had been obsessing about my body in ways that normal people probably don't. I had a child, I had been sexually active in my life, and I didn't think that I looked very cute down there anymore. She was loving and supportive as usual, telling me that no one is cute down there. I had to disagree. I have seen quite a few adult movies in my day and nearly all of the girl parts were rather cute and well cared for. Mine did not look like that. Mine felt frightening and I didn't want my boyfriend at the time to think I was unappealing. She told me I was crazy and we went about our business.

A week or so later my girlfriend called me to tell me that after our conversation she took a good look at her own lady parts and decided that she, too, was looking worse than she remembered. By having a conversation with me about my own insecurity, it became one of hers. I didn't mean for that to happen, but it did. We both became obsessed with righting the injustice of our unpretty parts.

Since that time I have done a lot of research on what can be done to spruce it up a little. Advancements in surgical procedures and expertise have made getting a Guy-na makeover a 2 hour outpatient procedure. I'm sure you are rather sore and miserable afterwards, but the before and after photos I have trolled through have convinced me that I am in definite need of some nipping, tucking and plumping.

No one has ever told me anything about my body that would make me feel as if I needed surgery down there. This is about me and how I feel when I present that part of myself to the world. I really do believe I need a pretty vagina. I was talking to my gorgeous 20-something year-old friend, who happens to be a nurse, about vaginas. She has seen quite a few of them come into the ER in her career, and she told me that they pretty much all look like Carne Asada. I definitely do not want to walk around looking like I have Mexican food in my pants. That's not the vibe I'm going for down there.

I am also very aware that my bits are nowhere near as organized as they used to be. Meaning, when I was young and fresh and the world was new, I could fit my whole self into a teeny tiny Cosa Bella thong panty. Not anymore. I have to buy very specific thong panties because most are not made for older girls who have more than half a teaspoon's worth of things going on in that area. It's not okay. I like thong panties. I hate seeing panty lines and I'm sure as shit not going to have them myself. Strangely though, if I am trying to be sexy for someone, I will indeed put on regular pretty panties as I'm fairly sure I should not be exhibiting myself in a thong.

I've come to believe that when women discuss things with one another, they tend to imprint a little of whatever neuroses or insecurities they have onto each other. I never used to worry about going bald until one of my friends started losing some of her hair due to stress. I was loving and supportive, but then I would go home and stare in the mirror at my own hair. I even bought hair growth treatment and started using it. I have no idea if it helped. My stylist tells me I am not going bald at all. I don't believe her. I will show her my very obvious baldness and she shakes her head and says I am imagining it. Maybe. However, if I do indeed lose all my hair I am getting the best fucking wigs you have ever seen!

When another friend pointed out a little poochiness she had in her abdomen -which I found cute and kind of sexy - I noticed my own poochie, which I did not find cute or sexy. In fact, I asked my nurse friend what that big, hanging, belly thing was called, and she told me it's a pannis. Now I believe that I have one. I'm not even sure Spanx could help out with that kind of action.

I suppose the upside of having girlfriends to talk with about our real and perceived flaws is that not only will they love and support you and tell you that you're wrong, later that night they'll decide that they, too, have the exact same issues and then you'll be able to commiserate together.

What are friends for anyway?

Sexy is as Sexy Does

I did not read Fifty Shades of Grey and it's doubtful that I will. I know millions of women are raving about it, but I don't like the fact that the books are the author's actual sexual fantasies. I saw that woman on TV and I did not like the mental images I was left with. My sexual fantasy world definitely does not include vampires or mysterious men that control me. In fact, the erotica I'm drawn to isn't really considered "erotica" because it's much dirtier and less complex. I'm uncomfortable with too much plot and not enough sex. Everyone likes different things of course, and I know that I fall firmly on the "raunch" side of sex.

Changing the subject, I want to talk about the word "sexy". It's such a subjective word that I think it's a joke when magazines like Redbook, write pieces like," Style tips for dressing sexy at any age."

What does that even mean? I looked at the slideshow, prepared to get schooled in how to "use-it-or-lose-it" and I got nothing. Sexy dressing for whom? For other women? For an elderly person? It's possible that some of the tips might make some woman somewhere feel sexier, but most of it screamed "Mom Clothes!" to me. Yes, I am a mom, but in my personal lexicon, "Mom Clothes" are not clothes that I own, wear, or will ever wear. Mom Clothes are sex repellents. They include khaki pants, animal print flats, large underwear, cotton crew neck t-shirts in pastel colors (unless they are very very tight and you are hot), yoga pants worn by women who have never done yoga in their lives, Lee Rider jeans - period, bold prints of any kind, Crocs, knee-length shorts (shorts just suck), holiday themed clothes or jewelry, lots of stuff from Wal-Mart, and Chanel-type boxy tweed suits. I don't give a flying F if Chanel suits cost $12,000, they are absolutely not sexy. There is too much to list. I am filled with anxiety about how much non-sexiness is sold in stores. I get bored of all the ugly and the schlumpy. Stop it!

Everyone that reads this blog knows that I have serious self-esteem issues but one thing I have always stood by is that I would rather be sexy than pretty. You don't have to be pretty to be sexy. Throughout history, people have been seduced by unattractive people who possessed enormous sex appeal. I want that kind of power. When a woman is cheated on, 99% of the time she needs to know what the "Other Woman" looked like. If the Other Woman is super hot, than somehow, it's just a bit easier to swallow. You never want to be the person that was cheated on with the ugly girl. I know it sounds sick but if I was cheated on with say, Blake Liveley, I would weirdly understand. And yes, I have been cheated on and no, the woman did not look like Blake Liveley. I have tortured myself for a couple years wondering why anyone would cheat on me with the woman in question, but that's useless, and it's not what this blog is about.

To me, sexy is as much how you feel as how you look. There are times you just feel sexy and you may not realize it, but it's at those times you exude confidence, say things that are a little more risky, flirt a little more, act a bit more adventurous. I'm betting some of those times are tied to drinking but that's only because alcohol removes inhibitions. Most women have a whole lot of inhibitions. I just don't see the point. Life is really short and people are going to think what they want about me whether or not I'm flirtatious.

I asked some trusted male friends what they find sexy in a woman and almost none of it had to do with clothing. One likes the smirk a woman gets when she's being naughty. Another likes the way a woman's hair smells when he hugs her. Another finds a woman unconsciously licking her lips unbearably sexy. Yet another is turned on by a woman who looks him in the eyes and is very direct.

So I started thinking about what men in my life have told me they find sexy about me. It's interesting to me that the things they liked are things that a lot of us don't really think about. My husband thinks it's sexy when I put lotion on my legs after a shower. An old boyfriend thought I smelled really sexy. He said he would daydream at work about the way my perfume smelled and how leaving that smell on his jacket comforted him (awww). Another thought my eyes were sexy, and the way I laughed.

I have a theory that women who are curvy are often considered more sexy than those that are not. I could be totally wrong but I have done a lot of informal surveying of my male friends and they say that thinner model-type girls are "pretty" or "hot" but when asked about a curvier girl they almost always say she's sexy. To me, having curves implies womanliness and womanliness implies wisdom and those things combined are powerful and yeah, sexy.

I'm interested in how you define sexy. What makes you feel that way and what do you think is sexy in someone else?

To me, sexy means having been around the block in a good way. A sexy girl knows how to kiss, knows what she wants, knows how she wants to be touched and isn't shy when it comes to intimacy. She smells great, makes an effort with her style, is intelligent, interesting, funny, and isn't afraid. It definitely doesn't involve khaki capri pants or Costco. :)

The Search For My Missing Confidence

I would never label myself as confident. I am terminally introverted and have always preferred to observe the goings on around me. I am extremely shy and I am also very insecure - about my personality, my looks, the weird-ass shit I say because of my Asperger's. Thus, when I do have spontaneous moments of confidence there is usually alcohol or a severe lack of sleep involved.

It's sometimes hard for people to believe that I am extremely socially awkward since my career choices clearly suggest otherwise. Being in public relations, especially in the tech industry, means that I have spent more than my fair share of time at huge conventions talking to hundreds of high-level people convincing them I know what I'm talking about. I think of this as being in "work costume" and I'm pretty sure I'm hiding behind the character that I've created. With interior design, I am also fulfilling a purpose. I'm the "designer girl" and I'm there to fix their houses. There is a mutual understanding that I know what I'm talking about and they are honoring me by letting me redesign their space.

However, my work confidence and personal confidence have remained separate. It's unfortunate because I am keenly aware that people have been attracted to me because of my confidence, which, in a twisted sort of Cinderella way, disappears the minute I am off the clock. I've been thinking a lot about what confidence means when it comes to being and/or feeling sexy. I have some very recent experience with my disappearing confidence and I am resolved not to let it happen again.

Over text and email, I am downright saucy and fearless. Who isn't? When it comes to backing up my bravado however, I have a much harder time. It's not that I don't mean the things I write, or that I don't feel the things I say I feel because I do! 100%! However, being shy and lamely insecure, if someone is inspecting  my physical self, I immediately turn weird. Although it has been said to us girls many times that men do not see us as we see ourselves, I am convinced that when a man is looking at me, he is categorizing my flaws and will go home and tell his friends how gross I am. This sucks for me and it sucks for the man. My insecurities make it impossible for me to let go and enjoy the moment in its purest form.

Even with my husband, someone who apparently loved me enough to leave his country (England) and all his friends to marry me, there has never been an intimate moment where for at least a fleeting second I didn't try to turn my body another way, position myself "just so" or even find a way to drape something over the parts I hate. It's exhausting. How lame is that?! He has told me many times how pretty I am, sexy, whatever, and still, in my head, I'm sure that he's lying. Maybe I should drink more?

I do know that fully clothed, I have super hot moments. Maybe if lovemaking involved having my clothes on that would be awesome! In business, I was known for wearing ankle-length straight skirts with a slit up the back and either knee-high black leather boots or high heels. I would have on a fitted blazer or long-sleeved button down. It left a lot to the imagination but was just tight enough to show that I have a stupidly large bottom (in my opinion). The boots were very dominatrix/prison guard and the whole ensemble seemed to fulfill the teacher fantasy a lot of guys have. I rocked that look! However, peeling it all off turned me into one of those sobbing, hopeless, annoying women who think no one on earth looks more hideous than they do.

Having recently had a lot of attention paid to me (see post on Tire Guy), and having been told that I was sexy by a random stranger definitely boosted my confidence. For a minute I actually felt like maybe I have something. Maybe I could be someone's fantasy. Mind you, the whole confidence boosting exercise took place via text, but for that short period of time I had a little more sex in my walk, a little more direct eye contact was made, and I had more than one friend tell me, "See?! You have options!"

Upon showing said friends the only remaining photo of "The-thing-that-was-to-become-nothing", every single one said some version of ,"Holy shit he's HOT!" And this made me feel even better about myself, as if  having a hot stranger attracted to me made me hot myself.

A while back I was in a fight with my husband and I very inappropriately said, "Well just because you don't want me doesn't mean someone else won't want me!" To which he responded,"Well they don't fucking live with you and all your shit!" He's right. Random hot strangers do not have to file their taxes with me or see me when I wake up and look saggy, squishy and worn out.

A male photographer friend of mine recently encouraged me to take a sexy picture of myself as part of an experiment on how others see me. I agreed. I was allowed to use filters and whatever else kind of witchcraft and trickery I could employ to get an image I actually thought was kinda hot. The resulting image was a black and white taken in front of my bedroom mirror in which I'm wearing black lingerie and my tattoos are looking very unexpectedly great. I sent him the photo. He printed it out and went on a little adventure around Boston showing the photo to random younger guys asking (and recording) what they thought. Not a single one said, "Wow, she's really plus size!" or "I can tell that her boobs hit the floor without a bra."

I'm not sure what I was expecting and of course it was an exercise in complete vanity. Since I spend most of my life being the opposite of vain, I embraced the opportunity to feel conceit. I now know that if I am ever wandering around downtown Boston in all my Instagram-black-and-white-glory posed sideways in black lingerie, more than a few guys would take me home for the night. That feels kinda good.

I will be the first to admit that my self-worth is intricately tied to what others feel about me. Especially the people I care about. I don't give a shit how self-defeating, unpopular, or anti-feminist that is. It's how I feel. If the person I'm with doesn't tell me I'm pretty, then I am definitely not pretty. The irony is that when my girlfriends tell me I'm pretty, I am thankful for the compliments but it does absolutely nothing to change how shitty I feel about myself. That's sad. In my head I think, "Well that's nice but you aren't going to fuck me." It is what it is.

Back to Tire Guy for a minute. He has said he found my directness and confidence to be "totally hot". Yeah, the directness that comes from having Asperger's and the manufactured text confidence were definitely good, but then, the real Melisa kicked in. I got insecure. I asked if he really thought I was sexy. His response was wise beyond his years and it was, in my opinion, the lesson I was supposed to have learned from that whole experience.

He said, "Yes, but why do you need reassurance? That's not sexy at all."

Wow.

Onward...

Every Woman Needs A Dick In Her Phone

Having been married a very long time now, I think I speak for many women when I say that the "magic" left the relationship long ago. I can't tell you the last time I got a love note, a hot and heavy voicemail, or was molested in the middle of the kitchen for no apparent reason.

I'm not saying I don't love my husband. I do. However, this doesn't change the fact that I, like most girls, thrive on compliments, admiration and good old fashioned flirting. I am not the kind of woman who wakes up and just knows that I'm a hot piece of ass. I also don't have the innate ability to stand in front of a mirror naked without detailing all the cosmetic surgery I so clearly need.

I don't think I should have to qualify this, or any other post  I write by saying that no, my husband does not hear about every single shenanigan I get up to. He knows me very well, and knows that regardless of how over-the-edge I get, I will never actually jump off that cliff if you know what I mean.

Anyway, I must have been putting off extensive amounts of pheromones because men, especially younger ones, have been paying attention to me lately. I'm not sure if they always paid attention to me and I ignored it, or if they suddenly started paying attention to me. Point is, I noticed, and I'm not trying to lie and say that I don't enjoy it. Well, it depends on how cute the guy is, but for the most part I enjoy it.

I have Asperger's, and that means I have always had a very hard time filtering what I say. Sometimes I don't even bother, and other times shit just streams out of my mouth that I had no intention of sharing. I include this information to illustrate that sometimes I just say stuff that no normal married woman would say. This leads to some interesting encounters. Case in point, the Tire Guy.

My big, huge, beautiful car has big, huge tires. I bring my car to a place that I trust and one of the guys that works there is suave, super attractive and very friendly. He knows how to flirt with the ladies to get them to pay for extra services they may or may not really need. I, however, am a car girl, so I'm only paying for things I know I need. I find this brand of man very entertaining. He is good at what he does. He called me recently on my cell to tell me my car was ready so I just happened to have his phone number. When I went to get my car, I made normal small talk, asking how his fiance was, and was surprised to find out that he was no longer engaged due to some major relationship drama.

On the way home I felt bad for Tire Guy. Having lived through the exact situation that he was just beginning to live through, I thought he might appreciate some of my hard-earned wisdom. I texted him and offered to talk if he ever needed to. I got a nice reply. I sent a nice reply back. Blah blah and suddenly, I'm texting that I think he's a very attractive guy with a super sexy voice who should have no problem whatsoever finding another girl to fill his time. Um...

Later that night I get a text saying something along the lines of , "Sending you a special goodnight." Voila! There is a picture of a very impressive dick in my phone. I closed the text very quickly and although no one was in the room with me, I was totally embarrassed, and had no idea of what to do. I opened the picture again. Yes, the dick was still there. In my phone. I closed it again.

I texted a much younger girlfriend and asked her if it was normal for younger guys to send pictures of their junk via text. She said it was absolutely normal and in fact, she sends naked pics of herself to guys all the time. It's been a very long time since I've been "in the game" so I am relatively clueless about this kind of thing. She asked me if I had responded, and I said that I had no idea of how to respond. She asked if I liked it, and the convo went like this:

"Liked what? His dick picture?!"
"Yeah, was it impressive?"
"Well yeah, actually, it really was."
"Okay then send him a picture back."
"WHAT?! NO! That is not happening! Plus, I'm married!"
"Well you have to let him know you liked it. That's just rude not to respond!"
"It's rude not to respond to a dick picture?"
"Well yeah! How would you feel if you sent your penis to someone and they didn't respond?"

I had no idea of how to answer that question.
I ended up sending him a simple text that said, "Thank you!"

I know, right?!

What the fuck was I supposed to say?! I was completely shocked that I, a 40-something married lady with more than a few saggy spots and wrinkly bits, had received a picture of a very hot 20-something's very promising man-part.

He texted back, "Send me a picture of you." Which of course, I did not. He is too young to have PTSD from a picture of me. Texts went back and forth but I digress...

I started thinking about what my girlfriend said about younger guys sending pics of themselves when they're attracted to someone. I felt flattered, and a little bit wanted.

I checked out the photo a few more times. Okay, a lot more times. I went about my days and every so often I'd open the photo gallery on my phone to send photos of art, plants, or other stuff to Facebook or to design clients, and there it was in the downloads folder trying to temp me into making  homemade porn.

I have asked several older guys about this apparent dating ritual and they swear that 1. They would never text a picture of their dick and 2. It seems very strange if not totally difficult to take said picture. Apparently it wasn't difficult for Tire Guy.

I mentioned the situation to my mother, (who is progressive when it comes to things like this) and she asked if the picture showed the upper or lower position, (except she used her finger to illustrate the positions for me). It was an upper. Most definitely.

Having the dick picture was a daily reminder of something that was never going to happen, but in the same sense it boosted my ego a little and gave me self-confidence I was previously lacking. I'm not sure how most women feel about man parts but I'm a big fan. Therefore, I started seeing it as a demented little love note to me that was actually kind of sweet. Tire Guy had mentioned that he thought I was sexy, and having a younger guy tell you that you're sexy isn't the worst thing that could happen on a week day.

I realized that many older girls would benefit from having a saucy dick picture sent to them. Most of us are just doing our older girl thing, picking up kids, getting toilet paper at Costco, wearing shitty sweatpants around the house...A good dick picture can really shake things up and make you put your lip gloss on! I'm not suggesting that women should be cheating on their husbands mind you. I'm suggesting that those women who miss the naked-backyard-sex antics of younger days need a little spring in their step from time to time. Not much is better than a secret dick picture in your cell phone to make a gray day a little more sparkly.

I told a few trusted girlfriends about the incident and thankfully, all were wonderfully supportive and inquisitive. Responses ranged from, "Well you are hot!" to "Please send me the picture!"  I did not send the picture to anyone, and one evening, after carefully considering it, I deleted it. With difficulty.

I know.

Having experienced first hand how restorative such a picture was for me, I put on my best sexy voice and asked my husband for a picture of his dick to keep in my phone, to which he replied, "Never gonna happen."

Sigh.