Slutocracy

1 Jun
Thomas Hawk / Foter / Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 2.0 Generic (CC BY-NC 2.0)

Before I say anything else, let me assert one very important thing – There is no such thing as a slut. A slut does not exist. Whether a woman has fucked one man or one thousand men, there is no such thing as a slut.

But how could that be, you might be wondering. I’ve called someone a slut. I’ve been called a slut. So, doesn’t that mean that sluts exist?

No. The word slut is a tool of oppression. Ask anyone who levies the term frequently to define it. They might say something like “a slut is a woman who sleeps with a lot of guys” or “a slut has a lot of random sex”. But go on to ask them to define a lot, to define what’s too much random sex, or to contrast how a woman behaving in sexually autonomous ways is any worse than a man behaving in sexually autonomous ways, and they will most likely be at a loss for an answer. They might talk in circles, but they cannot offer any definitive definition of a slut.

And that is because a slut does not exist. It doesn’t matter your body count. It doesn’t matter how you dress. It doesn’t matter how you behave. The word slut is meant to keep women in their place, and that’s it’s only function. Women are called a slut when they’re behaving dangerously autonomously. That doesn’t bode well for a system that functions on women as sex objects. See, a woman who is sexually autonomous kinda throws the whole patriarchal system off in that women are owning themselves in ways that the patriarchy has always discouraged.

If I had a dollar for every time I have been called a slut – both as a derogatory term and by those who have attempted to reclaim it as a positive affirmation of female sexuality – I’d probably have enough to buy a sexy (slutty?) new dress. An expensive one. I remember the first time I was called a slut. I was 15. It hit me like a slap in the face. I was a virgin. I had never kissed a guy. How could I be a slut? And it was then that I learned that a slut does not exist. It’s a word that is used to control female behaviour, particularly her sexual behaviour. There is no word in the English language that is likewise used to moderate male sexuality. Men are expected to be sexual. But when a woman is in charge of her sexuality, when she is sexually autonomous and takes command of her sex life unapologetically, somehow that feels threatening for men and sometimes other women. Then she becomes a slut.

So I will iterate – there is no such thing as a slut. It doesn’t matter how many men you have slept with. It does not matter how casually you engage in sexual relations. It does not matter how you dress or how you look. There is no such thing as a slut.

I say this because too often when a man becomes upset or angry with me, his go-to is to either call me fat or a slut. As if being fat or slutty are the worst things a woman can be. Well here’s a public service announcement to all you men out there: if it weren’t for women who were willing to have sex with you, you wouldn’t be having sex. So what the fuck are you complaining about? Instead of denigrating a woman for actually desiring to fuck you, why would you not be empowering women to feel good about their autonomy and their personal choices?

One such man tried to make the argument that I was being devalued by men I am sleeping with, even though I consciously make the choice of who I want in my bed and who I don’t. I’m not sure how that is a devaluing experience, but I think it had more to do with patriarchal notions of how men and women engage in sex. There’s this idea that men are always sexual. That men use women for sex. That men are not emotional or desirous of a relationship. But I’m a smart woman. I don’t fuck men who don’t know my value. I don’t fuck men who disrespect women. And I certainly don’t fuck men who call women sluts. And even if I did, I still wouldn’t be a slut.

So go on and get out of here with your oppressive language and treat women as the sexual, autonomous beings deserving of respect that they are.

I’m Not Here For You

31 May
fabiogis50 / Foter / Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 2.0 Generic (CC BY-NC-SA 2.0)

When will men learn that I, and all women, do not exist for them? When will they learn that my autonomy is about doing what feels right for me and has nothing to do with eliciting the male gaze? I love to take selfies. I’m an avid selfie-taker. I went years being the taker of photographs for everyone else and rarely being in them myself. I was documenting my daughter’s life through photographs, yet I was almost never in those photos myself. Which is pretty weird, given that I would have to say that I am a pretty huge part of my daughter’s life… having brought her into the world and raised her for ten years.

After splitting with my ex I began taking more photographs of myself, because I was feeling good about myself again. When I was with him, he constantly tore me down through years of mental and emotional abuse. He was constantly ‘worried’ about my weight, which was strange since it was never a concern of mine. There was no noticeable decline in how I felt about myself, and I don’t think he ever really diminished my self-esteem, but I wasn’t interested in appearing in photos. That changed when he exited my life.

Now I take selfies when I feel like I look good, when I’m crying, when I’m feeling sexy, when I’m feeling bloated, when I’m eating, when I’m walking. Basically, I take a selfie whenever I damn well feel like. I’ve gotten some flak for this, but the fortunate thing is that I don’t give a fuck about haters and their opinions on the volume of my selfie-taking, because I’m not doing it for them. I’m doing it for me.

It seems, however, that in addition to some people who just want to bemoan my volume of shared selfies, there are those who don’t understand that a selfie is a pretty selfish thing. There are those who think that every damn selfie I post is some sort of invitation to a man to comment, like I give a fuck about his opinion. Men have a hard time coming to terms with the fact that women can exist, and be attractive, in spaces that males also exist in and not be existing for them. See, sometimes I post a selfie in which I look sexy because I like it. I’m not saying “Hey, all the dudes of the internet who can see this. Please validate how attractive I am and provide your unsolicited commentary on my body and how I look and whether or not I’m dateable or fuckable”. Let me just be perfectly clear here – when I am posting photographs, I am doing so selfishly. It is all about me. I don’t give a fuck if you think I’m attractive or unattractive. I don’t give a fuck if you think I should shave my armpit hair or that I should show less cleavage. I do not give one single fuck about any opinion you have, unless I have asked you for your opinion. And since I haven’t, shut the fuck up and go play somewhere else.

Why my volatility, you may ask? Because I’m sitting here getting some work done, minding my own business when one of The Menz felt it necessary to insert his unsolicited (and entirely undesired) opinion on me.

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It cut off the rest of my response which reads “Not everything a woman does is about men”. I know that’s hard to believe, but seriously, we don’t exist for you.

And, of course, as a “really hot chick” my one and only goal in life must be to find a really hot guy. Not the, you know, seven years of university education I have completed. Or the activism that I engage in. No, my sole purpose in life is obviously to attract the menz, and since I’m being attractive in spaces where men can see me, that means I’m also obviously desperate. *Eye roll*

Oh, and my cleavage is weird, guys.

But wait. There’s more.

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He’s open-minded guys. That’s why he’s offended by my weird cleavage. And he doesn’t like to see a girl (FYI – I’m a grown ass woman, dude) showing herself. Because my showing my body is obviously all about everybody else’s comfort with that. Because I obviously care how this guy that I don’t know feels about my weird cleavage. But then, of course, I guess he thinks I also need his validation because he has to tell me that I’m “straight-up sexy”. Um, so? My weird cleavage and I don’t really care whether you think we’re sexy or unsexy or anything else. Get the fuck out here with your dumbass, unsolicited attention.

People wonder why men get a bad reputation, or why there are generalizations about men, as a group, and the ways in which they treat women. It’s this sense of entitlement, this idea that women are existing in public spheres for the men to judge, desire, and comment upon. It’s okay to keep your opinion to yourself. It’s okay to be uncomfortable with my comfort and autonomy. But if you don’t like it, you can remove yourself from my space because I’m going to keep existing unapologetically for me.

Giving Love a Chance… Again

29 May
JD’na / Foter / Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 2.0 Generic (CC BY-NC 2.0)

 

“Have enough courage to trust love one more time and always one more time” – Maya Angelou

Maya Angelou’s passing yesterday had social media abuzz with remembering her, quoting her, and celebrating a brilliant life well lived. This quote in particular is one that stands out to me, right now. I can’t choose a favourite; I think all of her words were inspiring. It’s just that with the current state of my life, this happens to be the one that is most salient to me.

I am so ambivalent about love. And I’m so transient in it. I fall in love at the drop of a hat; about as quickly as I fall out of love. Because I’m always willing to trust in love just once more, yet I am wary and hesitant and have developed the ability to shut it off when I need to. Like when I dated the Doctor. I loved him, truly. And I actually trusted that things were going to work out. I had no reason to believe otherwise. And then they didn’t (well, he claims they’re still working but when you can’t text a person you’re in a relationship more than once a month, then you can just as soon call it quits). I was upset for a day or two, and then I moved on. There were no tears. Just a mild disappointment.

I think my nonchalance partly comes from being secure in myself. I am perfectly happy to be single and alone. It’s not something I regard as negative. Some people spend all of their time trying to be in relationships, but for me they just happen. It’s never something I’m actively looking for. Because I don’t need someone to complete me. I’m complete on my own.

The thing about this particular quote of Miss Angelou’s is that I currently do love someone. He doesn’t know it, though. I’m sure I should tell him, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I told myself that I would tell him the next time I saw him… but then he came over and I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I can’t text it to him (though that would be a forum through which i might be bold enough to vocalize my feelings) because it’s too impersonal for something so important. If I didn’t suspect that he may have another girlfriend, I probably would have said it already. But that complicates things. Because what’s worse than a love unrequited?

Possibly one that’s requited but remains unsaid?

Whatever happens, I will continue to trust love. Just one more time. Every time.

Induratized

27 May

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Induratize. I’m not sure if this is actually a word or just one of those things that surfaces on the internet and everyone just adopts it because it seems legit. But when I saw this post by Word Porn on Facebook it spoke to me and I, like millions of other easily persuaded Facebook followers, I’m sure, adapted it into my lexicon because it just fits. I think I could describe myself as induratized.

I’m not good at love. I’m kinda abysmal at it, particularly for someone who has a blog devoted to dating (though, in my defense, it really began as a way to talk about all the weirdos out there in the dating sphere and the bizarre things I encountered because dating is seriously ridiculous like 97% of the time <— real scientific data; I swear).

And since the inception of this blog of mine, those who’ve been following, reading my (increasingly infrequent) posts, you’ve seen that my dating life is a rollercoaster. Sometimes it’s funny. Sometimes it’s heartwarming. Sometimes it’s heartbreaking. But if there’s one consistent thing about my dating life, it’s its inconsistency.

I seem to have come to an arrangement that works for me. I have guys that I see, but I keep my distance. I am focusing on finishing this damned degree, on applications to doctoral programs, on what I am going to do for the next year or so. And I let a man fill in the time every now and again.

The trouble is, I always catch the feels. I am an independent woman. I don’t needa man. I enjoy their company. It’s nice to have that comfort every now and again. But I’m certainly happy enough on my own. If I really need to cuddle, I’ve got my big furry beast. Having a boyfriend is not high on my list of priorities. And I’m really pretty good at keeping a relationship purely physical. The thing is, I can’t stop catching the feels. I’m gonna blame John Legend for this one. And I’m going to immediately discontinue listening to his album. On repeat. (Which is a lie. I’m listening to it right now).

There’s this guy. I’ve written of him before on my blog. Never really explicitly. I’ve dropped hints of him, here and there. Because while I’ve been seeing him for a year now, he’s been someone I’ve kept at a distance. I didn’t realize I had developed feelings for him until the first time I walked into a club and found him wining with a girl. I had this instant but very brief irrational surge of jealousy.

And because of Induratization (I don’t even know if induratize is a word; I may be making up a whole shit ton of words, tonight), I withdrew. I distanced myself from him. I contacted him less. He once said he loved me. I changed the subject. If that’s not a heart hardened to love, I don’t know what is. And it worked. For a time. Until very recently. And now I cannot get him out of my head. I suspect he may have a girlfriend. And every time I think of that, it brings me back to that day when he told me he loved me and I… completely ignored his declaration and moved on to some mundane topic or another. So if I miss out on love again, I’ve got only myself to blame.

holia / Foter / Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic (CC BY 2.0)

 

It works in my favour, though, that I am incorrigibly transient in my emotions. I love you, today. But I might not tomorrow.

Sometimes I think I should tell him, but then my hardened heart is not so good at articulating those feels. So, I’ll just carry on letting love pass me by, and sinking back into blissful oblivion.

Maybe someday I will have a love life that isn’t so messy and constantly chaotic.

Or I’ll just take this job in Thailand and marry the sunshine and beaches, my real true love.

The Burden of Breasts

23 Apr

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I know this is a blog about dating but I need to get something off my chest. Pun fully intended.

See, people sometimes make passive aggressive comments about my breasts and their propensity for being apparent. Sometimes people comment on their visibility out of appreciation. Sometimes people comment because they consider breasts indecent.

But here’s the thing – unless you’re the owner of an exceptionally large pair of breasts, you probably have no idea what it’s like to be so ‘endowed’. And I would contest that it’s less fun than you think. Of the dozen bikinis that I own – all with different sized tops meant to accommodate my expansive bosom – not a single one actually adequately covers my breasts. Extra large, you say? Well then these breasts must be XXXL because they’re not fitting into that minuscule amount of cloth. It comes to a point where you just give up, resign yourself to your fate, throw your hands up in the air and say “fuck it. Breasts will be breasts. Let them do their thing”.

Ladies with less ample bosoms don’t know the struggle. Men don’t know the struggle. I can’t walk into a lingerie store and buy a cute little bra. Nope. No idea what that’s like. For those of you who can, I’m exceptionally envious. I’m not going to judge you and make passive aggressive comments at your lack of classiness for how you do or don’t dress, because I know the struggle is real. And because I’m not an asshole. But y’all have no idea how good you’ve got it. Imagine still having people commenting on your breasts while wearing a turtle neck. Because it doesn’t matter what I wear – they’re a prominent feature. Never popped a button on your blouse or had a dress tear because of your breasts? Then get the fuck out of here with your ignorant, ill-informed judgments.

So before you get on your high horse and think that I’m deliberately trying to show off my breasts, know that I’m not. Know that what I’m really doing is practicing radical self-love and refusing to continue to be self-conscious, refusing to continue to give one iota of a fuck, about what you think about how ‘slutty’ or ‘unclassy’ I am simply because I have a giant set of breasts that literally fit into nothing properly.

Fuck you and fuck a culture that defines breasts as unclassy. Fuck you and fuck a culture that assumes I’m not brilliant because I have breasts as large as your head. Fuck you and all of those standards that suggest I should feel ashamed of being large-breasted. And just know that if you’re uncomfortable with my breasts, that says more about you than it does me. Because I’m classy as fuck. And I’m fucking brilliant.

Fuck You

21 Apr
mugley / Foter / Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.0 Generic (CC BY-NC-ND 2.0)

 

I fall in and out of love like some people change their underwear. Just to be eloquent and illustrative, all at once. Anyhow, when the guy I was dating stopped texting me regularly, at first I was distressed. Then I was bored. And then I was nonchalant. Because I have no shortage of male attention. After he hadn’t texted for an entire week, I decided it was obviously over. I felt a twinge of sadness for about a millisecond, and then got over it. Buuuut, then he texted me to tell me just how frantically busy he was and to check in. And because I’d become moderately invested in my relationship with him, I gave him the benefit of the doubt and let him back in. Because sometimes I’m a fool for love. But now it’s been 18 days and counting since he last texted. It’s most definitely over this time. And at first this was a completely unemotional revelation for me.

Funnily, it was actually Pharrell’s song “Lost Queen” that made me realize that it was time to disengage. I’d gotten to a point where I didn’t really care that I wasn’t hearing from him because I’m busy and easily distracted. But then if you’re in a long distance relationship and don’t have communication, what do you have? A dildo and a cold, lonely bed? Anyway, back to Pharrell’s genius. Listening to his album, I was struck by the lyrics

I’m never too busy to tell you that you’re pretty
Ain’t gotta ask me to
Surprise you in the city when your day is goin’ shitty
Ain’t gotta ask me to

And it struck me, about a dozen guys take time out of their day to tell me I’m pretty in a day. And my own boyfriend can’t be bothered? What the hell kind of shit is that? So clearly it is over. Someone who can’t be bothered to inquire about my day, to say good morning and good night, is not someone who fits into my life. I don’t require much in a relationship, but I do like to know I’m cared for. And so clearly that ship has sailed. I’m over it.

But then the past few days I’ve been ruminating a little and I’m kind of annoyed. What kind of guy just stops texting, not even giving me the chance to be nonchalant about the breakup in person? Seriously. But more than that, I’m someone who likes closure and finality. Who sneaks out the back door instead of facing a breakup head on? I’m annoyed. I’m also annoyed because I told him how much I did not desire to date anybody because being single suits me better. And yet he dragged me into a stupid relationship and then shoved me off the relationship precipice. Asshole.

Yesterday I went for Easter dinner at my good friend’s house. I don’t really do holidays, and had she not invited me, I wouldn’t even have remembered there was one. But it was a nice day, and the sun was shining and I got to lie in the sun while drinking wine all day as her daughter prepared the Easter meal for us. It was perfect. But a few glasses of wine in, I got cheeky.and decided to shoot a text to the ex (or is he an assumed ex since we never explicitly broke up – Babe, if you’re reading this for any reason, it’s over. You are a terrible boyfriend). Just a quick “Happy Easter”. Kind of hoping for some reply. Some acknowledgment of the douchebaggery of disappearing without notice. But also hoping to, if not elicit a response, make him feel like shit for being such a coward.

And, now that I feel better about that, I’d also like to get one other thing off my chest.

Fuck you. Fuck you for dragging me into a relationship with you because you wanted it and thought you could ‘reform’ me. Fuck you for suggesting that I needed to work out to ‘get the body I want’ (you quickly changed your words when I caught you on that and told you I don’t need to work for shit because I love the body I have). That was a red flag right there. This other guy I’ve been seeing for about a year tells me I’m sexy every time he sees me. He’s never once said I need to workout to shape my body. He texts me “good morning, beautiful” every morning. Because he’s not a douchewad obsessed with a facade. Fuck you for thinking your medical student shit was more important than paying attention to your girlfriend. Fuck you for introducing me to your mom and your daughters and your friends and dragging me into your life. Fuck you for bringing me to church with you and then telling me I was ignorant because I believe differently than you (rather than being thankful that I accompanied you in an attempt to better understand you and where you were coming from). Fuck you for hinging your desire to be with me upon the type of degree I would acquire. Just a big giant fuck you, all around.

I’m really not upset or angry or anything of the sort. I am just highlighting the reasons why I shouldn’t be with him for future reference.

Man, this dating stuff is not my forte.

And Fin

1 Apr

 

Sister72 / Foter / CC BY

So, I’m single again. I think. Not technically, I guess, since to be officially single would require me to have actually spoken to the guy I’ve been dating for the past few months in order to articulate that I know my value and what I desire and deserve and he’s not giving it to me. But I guess, given the manner in which our relationship started it’s rather fitting that it ends in a similar shroud of mystery. (You may recollect that I wasn’t sure right away of our dating status and we kind of just fell into it).

And now I’m falling out of it. Because I haven’t received a text from him in a week. He may have a good reason. I know he had a big exam coming up that he would be studying for 24/7. Because unlike me he has to work hard at academics to do well. And I could forgive that, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized that it’s not okay with me. I’m understanding. I’m okay with my guy taking time for himself. I’m okay with skipping a day talking to him. Because people get busy and it happens. But an entire fucking week? Nah. I’m worth so much more than that. If someone doesn’t have the time to make me a priority in their life, I haven’t the time to fit them into mine.

I’m a little sad. I do love him. And I shall miss him. But it’s surprisingly easy for me to let go of what isn’t working for me.

It must be the week for falling out of love because I’m no longer hung up on anyone. I’m just going to take this time to focus on finishing this damn degree and getting myself up out of here.

And no, this is not some April fool’s thing. I hate April Fool’s tricks. Despise them! I’m really single again. For now.

Why Too Many Options is a Bad Thing

25 Mar
JMaz Photo / Foter / CC BY-NC-ND

Guys, I’m totally not good at this monogamy thing. I know I’ve said it before, but it’s just that I’m not a monogamous person. I am poly. And I keep falling in love with monogamous men and that’s hard! It’s not that I can’t be monogamous. I can, and I have. It’s just that I don ‘t want to.

It’s like this – I’m sure you all have several close friends, right? The ones you tell everything to, who are there for you through good times and bad, who you can’t wait to share good news with. The people in your life whom you love and couldn’t imagine your life without. Right? You probably have a couple, maybe three or four. I know I have four very close friends.

Now imagine that today someone told you you had to pick just one of those friends to be friends with for the rest of your days. How would you choose? I mean, I’m sure you love each of your friends in different ways and for different reasons, right? And maybe sometimes you’re not getting along the greatest with one friend, which is okay because you have other friends to carry you through those moments and so there’s never too much strain on any one friendship at one time. Or one of your friends is super busy with their life and can’t fit you in like they once did. Because life happens. So who would you pick? Could you do it?

And that’s how I feel about dating. Because different men bring different things to the table. They love me in different ways, and I love them in different ways. They fulfill my life in different ways. I love my boyfriend deeply. He is an incredible man and he enriches my life. I would rather continue to be with him, but if for some reason things fall apart, that’s fine too. Because I’m also pretty content being on my own.

But here’s the thing – I have options. Lots of options. Men adore me, and there are a number of men who would love to be my significant other. And I would love to have them as my own, as well. But my guy, he’s stuck on this monogamy thing. And, in my experience, mostly it tends to be a possessive thing. Which is strange to me because I don’t really understand feeling possessive over another human being. Because autonomy. It’s like my close friends – I know they have other close friends, and that makes me happy for them. Imagine the burden of being someone’s only friend? That’s a lot of pressure for one person.

If a guy wants to date only me, that’s cool. I mean, that’s his choice. He doesn’t have to. I’m not possessive. Love is expansive and I know that people can be fulfilled in different ways by different persons in their life. In fact, sometimes I find being a guy’s only girlfriend a bit stifling. All of that attention focused on me can be a little overwhelming at times. Like go get a hobby, dude.

And here’s my problem – I have so much attention from a number of men that when my boyfriend fails to live up to my expectations, I sometimes just want to take my pick and be with someone new. The problem there is that humans, as fallible beings, will always disappoint in some way or another, so even were I to do that, new boyfriend would be bound to disappoint in some way or another and I’d be moving along again.

Which is why, wouldn’t it be nice if I could just have as many boyfriends as I have close friends? Then when one disappoints I wouldn’t feel like dropping him for the next guy, because I could just experience what I’m lacking there elsewhere. Of course, communication is also key, and I certainly need to let my boyfriend know when he’s not providing what I need in the relationship.

Having a lot of options keeps me pretty ready to jump ship. It’s bad. It’s not that I’m always looking for something better. It’s just that when I get bored or antsy or annoyed, there’s always someone ready at hand who’s not currently boring, annoying, or disappointing me.

I’ve not seen my boyfriend since returning from my trip to Jamaica. I’d asked him to come visit when I got back, since I’ve gone down to see him twice. It’s his turn. He’s made no effort, as yet. And I know he’s busy. It’s matching season for his residency, so I get it. But the thing is, if he can’t make me a priority, there’s always someone else who will.

Maybe I should re-title this blog How to Be Awful at Dating?

Girlfriended

27 Feb
chuddlesworth / Foter / CC BY-NC-ND

Firstly, now that I’m not so much dating as actually in a relationship, my blogging has become less frequent. Mostly because I’m kind of boring now. I’m all in love with my beau and happy, and being in a relationship just isn’t as funny or entertaining or interesting as dating is. So, apologies to all my readers for having become such a bore.

I just got back from a weekend trip to Ottawa to visit my beau. I hadn’t seen him in a month and I was dying to see him. I’d been counting down the days since I’d booked the flight. And then, of course, two days before my scheduled flight, I got wind (ha, I’m so punny) of an impending storm. One that was supposed to commence late the night before my flight and continue on into the morning of the day I was scheduled to fly down. I just knew that this bitch of a storm was going to get in the way of my seeing my guy. I knew it. Because I’m fairly certain winter hates me as much as I hate winter.

And lo and behold – 12 whole hours before my scheduled flight, before that stupid fucking storm even started, I received an email notification that my flight had been cancelled. I was at work, but there was absolutely no way that anything was going to stop me from seeing my boyfriend (I just started calling him that… it feels weird), so I stepped away from my desk and made a phone call to the airline. I was pretty distraught thinking that my plans were being derailed, so sorry Air Canada dude who answered my call for being so short with you. Love does crazy things to a girl. Anyhow, it got sorted, and I got on the very next flight out, and all was (relatively) well again. Though I was pretty annoyed that I lost three whole hours of my weekend with my love. Seriously. Crazy in love. Can’t get enough of this guy.

I hadn’t packed because I worked until 11 that night, so I spent my night packing and baking delicious treats to take to my love and his family (you know, win their hearts, one cinnamon roll at a time). Finally, it was time to head to the airport (by which time it had actually started snowing). I had to drag my suitcases through snow drifts up to my thighs while the unhelpful taxi driver watched from the warmth of his vehicle. But I didn’t care (too much). I was on my way to see my love.

Finally, after five hours of traveling, I landed in Ottawa and embraced R (also known as The Boyfriend). I couldn’t stop smiling. A month is a really long time to be apart from someone you love so much. We proceeded to spend a brilliant weekend together. He seems to really know me – he planned outings to all of my favourite things. We went to view a mulitcultural art exhibit by Norlan Vilchez; he took me to the Canadian Museum of Civilization; we stopped to speak with protestors; and we had breakfast at Cora’s. We were going to skate the Rideau Canal, but it had been too warm and it was closed to the public. We went dancing at a nightclub, and Drunk in Love came on and it was perfect and I was blissful.

See, I’m boring now.

Nothing funny transpired. Nothing amusing. Just normal, everyday people-in-love type things occurred. But I’m okay with that. I had been somewhat uncertain about the state of our relationship before this trip. We never did officially say “let’s be a couple”. It kind of just happened. So we don’t have any real anniversary. And I wasn’t sure (aside from the fact that we’d started saying “I love you”) that we were at all official even. But then last weekend in conversing with people he kept referring to me as his girlfriend. So I guess we’re no longer unofficially official and are instead just plain official, now.

And now I’m counting down the days until I’ll see him again. Long distance is much harder to do when I am actually into a guy. This is my third LDR in a row, and it’s the first time I’ve really cared much about the distance.

Oh, and I’ve met his mom. She kind of terrifies me. Hopefully my cinnamon rolls placated her. His daughters certainly enjoyed them.

Basorexic

17 Feb

 

Mait Jüriado / Foter / CC BY-NC-SA

I totally suffer from basorexia. I don’t know who coined this term, but there is nothing more apt to describe me, perhaps, than the term basorexic. Basorexia, as defined by the always highly accurate and not at all fallible Urban Dictionary, is: 1. an overwhelming urge to neck or kiss 2. a strong craving or hunger for kissing (adjective) -basorexic.

Yeah. That’s me. I love kissing. I was labelled by a very good friend of mine (whom I miss a lot, and must get up to shenanigans with again soon) as Hot Lips. For my propensity to makeout with people. Sometimes inappropriate people because my desire to kiss is ridiculously strong and sometimes I make out with guys my friend likes, directly in front of her. Fortunately we’re still friends (and she’s learned to give me direct instructions to not make out with people she wishes me not to make out with).

But anyway, I flew down to Toronto a couple weeks ago for some training related to a new volunteer position. While I was down there, I met up with a guy I’ve been conversing with for months. I told my guy before I went out. He was cool with it. And I needed an escape because as much as I enjoyed spending time with the new friends I made, feeling trapped makes me crazy, and we were about an hour outside Toronto, so I was antsy.

So guy I’ve been talking to came to get me. Let’s call him L. He’s a cop, and I actually really enjoy conversing with him. He’s really intelligent. And it doesn’t hurt that he’s attractive.

Anyway, we had a lovely dinner. Great conversation. It can be hard to engage me in conversation because I can’t stand the mundane. I don’t do small talk. But we talked about restorative justice, racism, and stereotypes. Among other things. It was lovely.

After dropping me off back at the training retreat, he admitted that he’d desired to kiss me. Which I knew. Because I had the same desire. I love the man I’m with. He’s wonderful. But I love kissing! And I’d totally have made out with this guy if it were within the bounds of my relationship.

Fortunately, I’ll get some quality makeout sessions this weekend. I swear I’m having kissing withdrawals right now.

Is there anything better than making out?

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