The Good Out Weighs the Bad

Some days, you just like the way your dress fits, or the way your hair is laying.  Some days, you just feel 100% comfortable in your own skin.  These days are few and far between for me, especially during bathing suit season, but today is one of those days.  Maybe it is the fact that a cute boy from Tinder asked me out on a date.  Maybe it is how completely comfortable I am in my new job, and that happiness is spilling over.  Maybe it is the fact that I am feeling so blessed by the amazing friends I have surrounded myself with.  Friends that believe in judgement-free, unconditional support.  

More likely than not it is the cute boy.  Let’s call him Mr. South America, since he spends half his time there for work.  He is cute, taller than me when I wear heels, and constantly tells me how pretty I am.  I think most men underestimate the power of a compliment as simple as telling a girl you think she is pretty or beautiful.  “God, you're gorgeous” at random will make a girl melt, at least this girl.  Mr. South America and I met for late drinks and the chemistry was there immediately.  He made me laugh, so basically he found the two ways to melt my ever hardening heart, appeal to my vanity and my sense of humor. I broke my rule and let him kiss me in the bar, and stay the night on a first date.  Our sleepover was tame, clothed, and limited to making out and cuddling.  He only got the invite because we drank too much for him to drive home.  He wants to see me again when he gets back from South America in 2 weeks, and that excites me.  

I need it, a good date, a guy that actually wants to spend time with me, someone that makes it easier to love myself.  The creeps, users, and heartbreakers have been in full force lately.  There is the Facebook Messenger, who, after not seeing me for over a year, thinks I will just invite him over to have sex.  Which is even worse than the Saturday Morning Texter.  I am not 22 anymore.  I want more than a booty call.  It isn’t that I want more from either of them, just in general, I want more than that.  I don’t want a boy that makes me feel like the only thing I am good for is my ass or my nice rack.  Yes, maybe it is my own fault that one of them thinks his messages are ok.  Over the years when the loneliness is all consuming and the text arrives, the need to be touched overcomes my need for something more.  I have even been the instigator, sending a text or two of my own.  I have let it go on for so long, probably because once upon a time, I had feelings for him.  Once upon a time, I thought he and I could have had something real.         

The worst is Mr. Martini, who definitely deserves a martini thrown in his face.  I don’t begrudge him for meeting someone else that he is “head over heels for,” but I do begrudge him telling me in a text message.  I loathe him for acting interested, when he never really was.  I wish I could have back the hours of texting about movies, tv, and everything else we have in common.  It isn’t that he broke my heart, but more that he reminded me that I am too often the girl before “THE Girl.”  

I don’t know that things with Mr. South America are going to work out.  But I do know that he has already treated me with more respect than the above listed three.  Instead of feeding on my insecurities, he reminds me of my beauty.  I don’t need a boy telling me I am pretty to know I am pretty, but it sure helps to not have one pointing out your flaws.  My life is great, and today I am appreciating the good.  As frustrated as I get with all the boy drama, I know that its is the assholes, creeps, and heartbreakers that help me know when something is truly good.         

Dating is Hard

I am sure all of you are tired of the self-discovery, emotionally-settled Harper because I give you nothing juicy to read.  The truth is it kind of bores me too.  I am trying to have a healthy dating life and all that means is a lot more lonely nights.  I am not supposed to kiss a boy unless he takes me on a date first, which puts quite the damper on my kissing whore ways.  I know it is for the best, and if I want something real I have to actually spend my time with other people looking for the same thing.  

So, I pay for Match.com, and I have gone on a total of zero dates in the past 2 months.  The men that want to talk to me ignite zero spark.  I go through my daily matches and I message the men I am interested in only to be disappointed by the lack of response.  Tinder is a confidence booster and Match.com is a confidnce killer.  Maybe that is why I broke all my rules for a tall lobbyist with mesmerizing green eyes.  Evan was the only guy in all of Jack Rose that I wanted to talk to.  I spent hours trying to figure out a way to get him to talk to me, and finally his group split enough for me to find an in.  While ordering a drink at the bar we struck up a conversation and before I knew it he was paying for my drink and getting my number.    

As we went back to our respective friend groups my phone buzzed.  As we texted and made plans for a date the next week I couldn’t help but want to kiss Evan.  Out of the blue, a drink appeared in front of me, and yet Evan didn’t stick around to talk.  Could it be his motives were pure?  The rules went out the window.  I had to make out with this man, but right when I made my decision, his friends insisted that he leave.  Shortly after my own group started to break apart, and I decided to head home alone.  While in the cab my phone dings and it was a certain lobbyist wondering if I was still out.  

I knew I shouldn’t break my rules but the idea of that tall gorgeous man kissing me, touching me put me over the edge.  The invitation was extended, he was in a cab heading my way.  I frantically picked things up around my apartment and stuffed them in drawers and closets, damning my lack of cleaning in recent days.  I checked my make up, peeled off my spanxs and replaced them with something lacey.  Although, I made it very clear that if he came we were just making out, what adults remain fully clothed when rolling around a bed, even if they are just making out?

I buzz him up, anxiety coursing through me.  When he walks through the door he kisses me, grabbing my face with one hand and slightly lifting me with the other to bridge the foot difference in our height.  Damn.  That was all I could think, damn.  He pulls away gazes into my eyes and says, “hi.”  I reciprocate the greeting and then he says something so simple yet so sexy, “I have been wanting to do that since the moment I saw you.”  How can you not kiss someone after hearing something like that?

As he breathed my name into my ear I felt my whole body ignite.  There is something exhilarating about a man whispering your name while they explore every curve, unwilling to stop touching any part of you that they are allowed.  It is empowering, intoxicating, thrilling to have someone unable to get enough of you, unwilling to leave your bed, in awe of your beauty.  It’s a high, and I know I am like an addict that just fell of the wagon.  The physical touch does not fill my craving for love, just intensifies it.  It begins the “will he or won’t he call?”

Surprisingly, Evan was a man of his word, at first at least.  He texted me on the first day of my new job, and he made plans to take me to dinner that he actually followed through on.  I had a lovely time and felt this spark with him, but after that dinner I never heard from him again.  After igniting a spark he left me to alone to go up in flames.  That is why I don’t break the rules, that is why you stay on the wagon, to avoid that feeling of not being worth the real thing.  

I know I deserve the spark, the electricity, and the relationship.  That is why I shouldn’t kiss someone before they earn it, shouldn’t share my bed with someone that can’t take the time to take me on a date.  As much as I pretend I am a modern woman that can separate the physical and the emotional when a boy lays in my bed, looks me in the eyes and tells me I am beautiful I melt.  Dating is hard, and it is anything but simple.  But I am not giving up just yet.      

A Bend in My Road

As I turn on my computer at work for the last time in my little cubicle, I am feeling things I never thought I would be feeling.  I am happy, ecstatic even, to be moving on to a better job with a big raise, better commute, more vacation and more room for growth.  I am also sad to leave some of the people to whom I have grown close and a job that was here when I so desperately needed one.  This place made room for me when I had nothing, it brought the industry I grew up in and my passion together wielding them into something fulfilling.  Unfortunately every opportunity has a ceiling; you can only grow so tall before you reach it.    

I am also frightened.  What if I am not as good as I think I am at what I do?  What if, at the end of my 3 month provisional period, they decide to let me go?  I know this is just nerves talking.  I am sure on Sunday night I won’t be able to sleep.  I have already picked out the perfect first day outfit, decided on how to wear my hair, and if I should wear lipstick or not.  I will, as always, control the things I can about the day.  It is like the first day at a new school, hoping and praying that you will fit in. but I have to remind myself that they picked me.  I am who they want for this job, and they see something in me that tells them I can do it.  

My career has taken many bumps and turns over the last four years, and I have ended up in places that I never thought likely.  It reminds me of something my mom has always told me, “Man plans and God Laughs.”  I may not be a highly religious person at this juncture of my life, but I am spiritual and believe in the power of prayer.  I knew making the decision to leave my current job was a life changing one, and I prayed for clarity.  Although I am nervous, and frightened about what lies ahead for me I have no doubts about my decision. I am coming around the next bend in the road of my life, and am ready for what lies ahead.  

When I started this blog 2 years ago it was mainly about boys, and one in particular.  This blog, much like my career, has taken many unexpected turns.  While writing about my Tinder adventures and my heart breaks, my sexscapes and my insecurities, I found something, me.  Between the lines of every post, in the space between my fingers and the keys I found a happier, more fulfilled version of myself.  That is why I will continue to share the twists in my road with you, as my journey continues on.   

Social Pariah or Self Confident

You can’t hide forever.  Eventually there is going to be that thing you can’t run from anymore.  I have the sneaking suspicion that my running days are over.  Whether it’s from Hadley or D, or both, I am not entirely sure.  This weekend, while rocking a sexy red cocktail dress, I was informed that I am a social pariah.  I was aware that it was a possibility, but to hear it out loud was a different thing altogether.       

I thought it would bother me more, to know that people are practically getting shunned for talking to me.  It is actually kind of liberating.  I don’t have to care, and I know I shouldn’t anyway.  I have nothing to hide or be ashamed of, I did nothing wrong.  For the first time in maybe forever I feel comfortable in my own skin.  I don’t feel the need to please other people if it means doing something that I don’t want to do.    

As for D, I know it is my choice to go back to that weekly social gathering for the last month it ever exists.  It has been almost a year since we have been in that rather small room together.  I think I can handle it, but tonight will be the test.  It is bigger than him, it is a place I used to call home, my Cheers, closing down.  My heart is still racing out of anxiety, out of fear of what I might feel.  He is not worth my time and it isn’t about him.  Still, I can’t help but be nervous.  For over a year we have been skillfully avoiding each other. I can’t hide forever.  Not from D, not from Hadley, not from the fear of irrelevance.  

Maybe that is why I enjoy the idea that I am a social pariah, the idea that being despised is better than being unnoticed.  I know I am better than that, have come to far to fall into that trap again.  I don’t need to be liked, but I don’t need to be hated or even noticed to be happy either.  As long as I am being myself, it doesn’t matter if people acknowledge me.  The people who are worth my time will like me for me, be there no matter what, and won’t be scared off by other peoples’ feelings about me.  But to be true to myself I also have to stop making my decisions based on who may or may not be somewhere.  My decisions are my own, not affected by anyone.  I will not be controlled by fear, I will not hide, and I will not be weak just because someone expects me to be.  

Over the last 8 months I have become the strongest version of myself.  I look in the mirror and don’t just see my flaws, or the extra pounds I want to lose.  I find the features that I love about myself.  I love mouth, the cupids bow of my top lip and the poutiness of my bottom lip.  I love the way my blue eyes give away exactly what I am feeling if someone cares enough to notice.  I love the natural arch in my lower back right above bubble butt.  I love my strong calves and the way they look in my sky high heels.

I now also really believe that I deserve more from men than what I have settled for in the past.  I believe I deserve to be asked out on a date, and have made it a requirement before I will even kiss someone.  Before I always wanted more, to be treated better, but I never demanded it. It is ok to weed out the frogs because I am not 22 anymore.  I don’t need to find a prince, but it is not too much to ask for someone that wants know how my day was.  Standards show that I love myself, and that I deserve someone else’s love.  

Loving myself is not easy, it is a constant struggle that I don’t always win.  I still am too quick to judge myself, but then I realize that the only person that hurts is me.  When I think I look fat in a dress instead of thinking it is unflattering that is just me giving into my insecurities.  No one is perfect, I am far from it myself, but even with my flaws I am a much better version of myself.  Social pariah or not, I am finally starting to see myself as a person of worth.  

Chosen Family

I read an article on Buzzfeed today about why gay men love The Golden Girls.  There were a lot of fascinating points to why gay men relate to the show, but one that resonated with me in particular is the idea of the “Chosen Family”.  These women were not only friends; they became family to one another - a family that each of them constructed for themselves.  As a single career woman in my mid-twenties living 17 hours from my biological family, I have also developed a chosen family.  

I think several of the most unforgettable television shows are those that create this idea that friends are your family: loyal, caring, irreplaceable, and ever so slightly crazy.  Think about Will and Grace, Friends, Sex and The City: these are shows that helped shape the way generations look at friendship.  They are the standard to which much of our society judges true friendship, and the blueprints to creating a chosen family of their own.   

I am a person who is loyal to a fault.  I build a lot of walls around myself, and if I let you in and trust you completely, then you can expect my unadulterated friendship, you are now family.  These are the people that pour you another glass of wine and hide your keys when you lose your job.  The people who text you during your mutually adored shows, edit your blog posts, and gchat you at work all day.  These are the people who would punch your cheating ex in the nose if they ever run into them again, or at least say they would on a regular bases.  The people who can make you laugh with a look, and don’t flinch when you burst into tears for no apparent reason.  These are the people that know all your physical and emotional scars and love you because of them, instead of inspite of them.  This is a chosen family.  

I take great care to construct the best possible chosen family.  To let the right people in, but when you depend on someone you are always leaving the door open for disappointment.   When someone you love hurts you, it never gets easier.  When it is a friend, a member of your chosen family, the cut runs deeper.  This is the person with whom you are supposed to be in the trenches of life, not the person that hits you with a grenade leaving you bloody and broken.  The thing about family, even the chosen kind, is that you love each other enough to get past the things that have wounded you, at least you should be able to.  A chosen family member, unlike a biological one, always has a moment when they prove they are family.  There is a test of your friendship and sometimes you realize they weren’t family at all.  It is the people that will weather the storm with you who deserve the designation, the one who knows you, what will hurt you, and when you don’t mean the terrible things that you said.  Those are deserving, the elite, the chosen ones.  

When someone says a member of your family is a jackass, and it might be true, but they are your jackass and no one else gets to call them that!  In my case, I am everyone’s over dramatic “emotional time bomb,” but my family will stick up for me because I am their ticking time bomb.   No one gets to talk shit about your family but you, end of story.  

I love my chosen family!  The people that have been to the bottom of the bottle and back with me.  I would not have survived my 3 ½ years in DC without them, and I know I can not survive moving forward without them by my side either!  To Chloe, Lisa, Elle, and Conner: thank you for being my chosen family, for seeing me and loving me at my worst, for accepting my eccentric ways, and knowing that I am always just a phone call away.  I love each of you more than you will ever know!          

Bombshell

I feel like because I am curvy, I have to be sexy.  If I am not sexy, then I am just fat.  Society has very distinct images of what is sexy.  They even photo shop already thin actresses to set unrealistic expectations for women.  But there is an exception to that stereotype - the bombshell.  

When you hear the word bombshell, you probably think of classic beauties like Marilyn Monroe, Sophia Loren, and Elizabeth Taylor.  If you were to google the term you would be directed to also: pin-up girl, sex symbol, super model, blonde stereotype.  Hollywood bombshells of 1940s -1960s were recognized for their hourglass figures, their large breasts, sex appeal, and originally their blondness.  

The bombshells of today like Kate Upton, Sofia Vergara, and Christina Hendricks are beautiful, curvy women. They epitomize the busty, sassy idea that the bombshell has become.  The question is, what makes an average girl a bombshell? Is it boobs and an ass? Is there a certain demeanor needed? What is the factor that makes a women a bombshell because she is curvy, instead of just being overweight and invisible?

I asked some men what they thought a bombshell was.  One said, “Someone who is genuinely beautiful, both inside and out, and has the personality to match. Also, is someone everyone wants.”  Another gentleman described a bombshell as, “someone who turns heads, lights up a room, and is usually a smart ass.  Oh, and has big boobs.”  I have to say I was a little surprised that the men that I talked to thought that attitude was just as essential to being a bombshell.  In the end they both referenced sex appeal as well, but it is obvious that to men a bombshell has oomph both in her bra and her personality.    

To be a bombshell is to be sexy. But there is a dilemma, to be overly sexy is to be undateable. As a curvy woman, you have to decide - would you rather be sexy and wanted, even if it is just in bed, or be considered undesirable?  Society overly sexualizes what it means to be born with breasts and hips.  Victoria’s Secret even has a bra named the Bombshel,l which adds 2 cup sizes to your shape.  

Marilyn Monroe once answered a question about being a sex symbol by saying, "A sex symbol becomes a thing, I just hate being a thing.  But if I’m going to be a symbol of something, I’d rather it sex than some other things we’ve got symbols of.”   You become a thing that people want to use and discard, an experience they must have. When you lead with sex, which is what bombshells tend to do, you eliminate the image of the girl underneath, the one who, above all, just wants to be loved.  A symbol doesn’t have emotions, but a bombshell isn’t a symbol, she is a woman.  

Am I a bombshell? Do I even what to be?  I have been trying to write about the modern day bombshell and my feelings about it for over a year. I guess it is hard for me to cope with my only viable options.  Wrapping my head around the idea of the bombshell, the fine line between a bombshell and a fat girl.  You either embrace the bombshell, or you embrace being invisible.  I was never meant to be invisible.

So, I hide behind the fake confidence of red lipstick and sky high heels and sway my hips when I walk because that is what bombshells do.  I smile, bat my eyelashes, and say flirty things.  I pretend like things don’t hurt me, because a bombshell is carefree.  Sometimes I wonder, am I being who I want to be or am I being who I think I should be?

As a bombshell, will I ever get the guy?  What is the saying?  You marry a Jackie and you fuck a Marilyn.  When does one stop being a bombshell?  When they are all used up and the light has left their eyes?  Who will want them then?  Who will want me?  

“Being a sex symbol is a heavy load to carry, especially when one is tired, hurt, and bewildered.” - Marilyn Monroe   

Perfect?

The moment that someone leans in and kisses you for the first time is a moment of pure unadulterated romance. I am not talking about the boy that drunkenly, sloppily kisses you after a tequila shot. I am talking about the guy that walks you home just to make sure you get there safe. When that guy leans in and gives you a chaste kiss on the lips your heart skips a beat. The sounds of a mellow indie rock love song play in your head.  Every first kiss like that seems like possibly the beginning.  

Unfortunately not every kiss is the beginning, and not every romantic moment is part of a greater romance.  Sometimes a moment is just that: fleeting, insignificant, and forgettable.  Romance can be falsely manufactured for a boy’s own purpose.  Hope can be given as a means to an end.  

When the other shoe drops and the moments of pure ecstasy are revealed as purely moments of convenience, your heart breaks.  Not because you were in love, but it breaks that the possibility of love is no longer there.  Being disappointed by someone you have pined over, been sweet talked by, can make another tiny piece of your heart harden.  How long until your whole heart is cold and hard?  

My heart breaks because I am just as far from finding a relationship, a partner, love than I was a week ago, maybe even further away.  Maybe it is because I don’t know how to reconcile the romantic side of me with the sensual side.  How do I be the bombshell with a heart?  If I am one, they want the other.  I don’t know how to shake my sense of inadequacy when every corner I turn, I am being told I am not good enough for something or someone.  All I want in life is to be not just enough for someone, but to be someone’s own idea of perfect.  

I have spent so much of my life trying to please everyone, to be perfect and put together, hiding behind makeup and clothes.  I will never be perfect, because the reality is I am a mess.  But there is someone out there that will think that my neurotic, obsessive, nerdy tendencies make me their own idea of perfect.  

Besides, that guy, that I believe is looking for me too, I have to learn to see myself as MY OWN idea of perfect.  I have to love my curves and the fact that my hair will never grow long.  I have to adore the fact that one of my eyes gets droopy when I have had too much to drink, and that my left knee will always hurt when it rains.   I have to stop chastising myself for not being what I think I should be.  There are some things about myself I can never change, and those are the things that make me unique, the things that make me Harper.

Instead of trying to be what I think will attract romance, I need to be me.  Maybe then, instead of a fleeting moment, I will find my great romance.