Confessions

I have never really considered myself a girlie girl. I'm pretty low-maintenance. I mean, I went out in public today after hot yoga in torn sweat pants (I think they're men's pants, actually) and a baseball cap. I'm just not really the girlie type.

Or so I thought. I was clearly in denial. I had a MAJOR Carrie Bradshaw moment tonight. Let me explain.

It's a beautiful Saturday summer night and I am home. Alone. Doing laundry. Partly because I am feeling sorry for myself because a special certain someone is out in Vancouver for business all weekend. But mostly because I am a big nerd. I often require quiet nights at home to recharge and get my life organized. So, in my cleaning and laundry frenzy, I had a sudden urge to clean out my front hall closet. It's been a long time coming.

The shoes! Oh, the shoes! I almost sustained major trauma to the head, as they started to tumble off the higher shelves. "It's time," I thought to myself. Time to say good-bye to the glittery high heels I wore to my highschool graduation, the golf shoes that I haven't worn in about 4 years, the "WHAT-WAS-I-THINKING?" knee high black leather boots, and of course, several pairs of flip flops.

After gutting my closet, this is what I am left with:
A large laundry basket full of shoes to take to Value Village - 36 pairs.
And a semi-organized closet - 53 pairs.

That means that at 8:00 tonight, I had 89 pairs of shoes in my closet! I am shocked, appalled, and humiliated. I felt as though photo documentation was necessary.

The upper shelves, somewhat organized. 15 pairs.


The amazing little Ikea organizers. 31 pairs. And oh yeah, 7 more pairs on the floor of the closet.


The aftermath... I shed some tears as we said our good-byes.
Don't ask me about those zebra prints.


Anyways, all the falling shoes stirred up lots of old memories. Each pair had a story. So I'm still sticking with the idea that I'm not girlie. I'm just nostalgic. Plus, shoes are the perfect accessory. You can make a mediocre outfit fan-freakin-tastic with the right pair of kicks. And you never feel fat when trying on shoes. I have just always thought that every occassion should have the perfect pair of shoes. Even if the occassion is going grocery shopping or to the beach... there is the right pair of shoes for every activity and every day.

I don't really need all those shoes anymore though. I just need one pair. You know, that perfect pair that goes with everything, that you can take anywhere, that always looks amazing, that makes you feel invincible, sexy, powerful, that cushions every step you take, that is with you every step of the way... and that just fits. Kind of like the perfect man. :)

10 Things That Never Cross a Man's Mind

1. Man, I am SO in the mood for cuddling up in front of a sweet little romantic Gerard Butler comedy.
2. Two pounds up? Shit! I'm off beer for a month.
3. DAMN THIS HUGE PENIS! God!
4. I know the best way to resolve this conflict. Let's talk about our feelings.
5. OMG, I am so looking forward to vino and appies at book club Friday night with the boys.
6. Do I EVER need a mani/pedi!
7. Woa, that paisly upholstery on my antique chair totally does NOT go with the throw cushions in the breakfast nook.
8. I'm totally boycotting sex until she apologizes.
9. Babe, can you puh-leeease change the channel? This football stuff is getting old... I really wanna watch The Bachelor.
10. If I want us to date for about 2 years, get married on the beach in Hawaii, have a couple years to ourselves before kids, then have two kids with the last one born before 35, then F*CK, I need to meet the love of my life tonight!

Like I said, they may have the AHV... but we are definitely a little crazy.

Danger

Well hello there. It's been a while.

I don't have very many bad habits. I don't smoke, I don't chew my nails, I don't curse like a trucker (although some of my previous posts may indicate otherwise), and in general, I'm a pretty healthy person. But I do have two little secret bad habits. Well one of them is not a secret- it's my devotion to this lovely addictive substance called chocolate. And the other is tanning. I know, I know... it's bad. I don't go often, but when I do go, I enjoy every single second of it. There is something about it that makes me so happy. I just love having 20 minutes of uninterrupted time, no cellphones, nothing. WARMTH. A little Vitamin D and a nice golden glow are my primary motivators though. But as I was crawling into the tanning bed on this gloomy June night, I notice the 12 inch warning sign on the side of it that read something scary about ultraviolet damage. The fine print was every scarier. I'm not sure how I had never noticed this alarming caution sign before. But it didn't seem to phase me, as the temptation of 20 minutes of relaxation, warmth, and soft golden skin far surprassed the threat of skin cancer.

To me, embarking on a new and exciting relationship is kind of like tanning. There is a definite risk associated with it. As I climb into the cancer bed, all I ever think about are all the amazing, incredible outcomes of the dangerous experience. Yes, there may be a little voice in the back of my head that's telling me that the harmful UV rays that I am voluntarily exposing myself to could potentially turn my pretty freckles and moles into disgusting pustules and lesions, and that my covetted clear, soft skin could turn into a leathery diseased disaster, but that voice is never loud enough to make me put my clothes on and haul ass out of Fabutan.

At the beginning of any new relationship there will always be those little voices of doubt or fear, there will always be risk, there will always be overwhelming feelings of vulnerability, and there will always be the potential for the whole thing to blow up in your face and turn into malignant Melanoma. However, the possibility and dream of having an amazing realtionship with an incredible human being (or having sexy golden glowing skin) always seems to overpower the risks.

My advice for tanning and for life:
Forget about the warning signs. Screw the caution announcements. F*ck the hazard alarms. Ignore those insecure little voices in your head and enjoy all the good stuff. And even if you do end up having to get cancerous moles surgically removed or have to go through months of emotional turmoil to heal a broken heart, remember all those little good things that made you climb into the cancer bed or jump onboard a new relationship in the first place.