Minding your Zs and Qs

I'm a Scrabble junkie. My roommate and I play on our deluxe board about five times a week, and over the years I've helped her play more aggressively and wisely. When we first started playing she would become alarmed whenever she drew a high point tile and play it as quickly as possible to be rid of it. I taught her that high point tiles can be powerful and to save them for moves that will get you as high a score as possible. Now I've taken that knowledge and translated it into my dating life. Whenever a man calls or texts, you automatically get a Z or a Q on your "tile holder." When you call him or text him back, you've played your high point tile and you don't get it back again until you hear from him. Additionally, ever day that you don't contact him, whether the ball is in your court or still in his, you get J, or at least a K.

When I told "O" I wouldn't move from making out on the couch to making out on the bed, that was definitely a point in my favor. When I eventually moved to the bed but wouldn't go even close to all the way and left after he fell asleep instead of staying like he wanted me to, that was definitely the biggest Z or Q I have ever had. I kept lots of Js and Ks by not contacting him every day that I didn't hear from him, but when he did text me back or call and leave a message (each of those only happened once after his let's go out text) I played my high point letters right away and they lost their value. I now have not contacted him in a couple of weeks, and while the game is over, since he has not contacted me either, at least in the end I played a good round and bowed out (semi-)gracefully.

Yesterday I went on a date with a guy who contacted me last week through one of my dating sites. I've always been good at holding onto those high point tiles and not writing back right away when it comes to online connections. But when this moved into an actual date, I played the game aggressively and smartly not because of any deliberate game playing but because for once my illness actually worked in my favor. He wanted to meet at 10 a.m., but I said let's meet at 2:00. At the end of our date he wanted to meet again Tuesday, but I said how about Thursday. My reasoning wasn't because I was trying to play hard to get, but because 10 a.m. is really hard for me health wise, and I had already been out two days in a row and didn't think my body could handle a third.

The date started off a bit rocky as "A" asked me if I had done this, or been there, and every time he asked I had to say no. His response was a lot of eye rolling, which I've since determined is a unique response for Indian men and not to be taken as an insult. ("K," who was also Indian, did the same thing.) But before I'd come to this conclusion I decided that I must try to save face and that with all that eye rolling I didn't care whether he rejected me after hearing the truth... So I let him know that I had been sick with something similar to the flu for the past few years that that subsequently I hadn't been able to get out as much as I would have liked. (I didn't tell him that I was basically house bound for a year and a half, and I spun it positively by assuring him that I'm getting lots of tests done.) When I warned him that because of this I might have to bail on him at the last minute on Thursday, he said something that reaffirmed me in a way I wasn't expecting: "We all have things that keep us busy," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "Yours just happens to be your illness."

So Thursday I go wine tasting with a man who rolled his eyes because I have never been wine tasting before. While incredibly friendly and relaxed he also seems a bit arrogant, forgot his wallet, and a plethora of hair made its way out of his long sleeve shirt and onto the back of his hand... but I'm trying to keep an open mind. He gives his Zs and Qs away at warp speed, but I have to admit it's nice getting them back on my tile board so often.

Me and you

My sister and I got in a fight today about why I don't have a boyfriend. Well, it didn't start out as a fight, and I know she meant well, but wrestling with the question is a little humiliating to do with a relative 13 years your junior who always seems to have guys fawning all over her. I love my sister to pieces, so this post is without a hint of malice, judgment or self-pity. Rather, it's a post to all my readers who are wondering why exactly I'm writing what I am. Am I looking for advice? For consolation? Am I really as concerned about finding a boyfriend as I seem to be?

The answer to all three questions is of course "no." Writing about one's personal life is a brave task and sometimes I've wondered why I do it. I've wondered if I'm looking for attention, and if there is something wrong with me at my need to be so transparent with the outside world. (My sister doesn't see my posts as a need for attention, she just lovingly wants to help me fix the problems I convey and I appreciate her for that.) Over the years I've come to accept this transparency and to not count it as a character flaw. I've come to realize that while maybe I shouldn't say everything to everyone, what makes me write about my personal life is the feeling I get when I'm privileged enough to read about others'.

In class we debate the differences between autobiographies and memoirs. While everyone has their own ideas on the subject, I view autobiographies as coming from an individual who has already established fame in some area of his or her life, be it politics or television, etc. For examples, think of Bill Clinton or Benjamin Franklin. They are writing to an already ripe audience and their stories are filled with dates, happenings, and a lifetime of personal journeys that show what made them the men they are and are already known to be. Memoirs, on the other hand, are written by writers in obscurity who write not because they are known but are known because they write. In this category picture David Sedaris and any other author who you know solely by their story alone, whether it be a rape victim, a homosexual, a prior Mormon, or any other individual who has written simply because they have a story to tell.

While memoirs are abounding maybe a little more than they should, what I find refreshing about them is that they are written by "ordinary" people sharing their own personal story. They write because something about them makes them different, but people read them in large part because they can relate. Not many of us can relate to being the president of the United States, but many more of us can relate to being different in some small or large way. And not even different, but just unique, because we are all unique in our own ways.

That's my goal with writing this blog. The most positive thing anyone can ever say to me is "Wow, I know exactly what you mean, that happened to me too," or "I thought I was the only one who felt that way." Writing can bring a community of strangers together in a common theme and bridge gaps that we didn't know existed. This blog isn't just about my search for love or my medical problems. It's about all of our searches, all of our problems, and all of our successes. When you read my blog I want you to find yourself in it. It is my ultimate goal that you read my words and think, "I'm not alone."

My sister is one of my best friends and confidants. It's only natural that she'd wonder what I can do to ensure my happiness and obtain a wonderful relationship like she has. One day I hope to, and I'm sure I will, but in the meantime I have no answers, only stories. Thanks for listening.

Short and sweet

Today three things happened:

1. I finished one of my independent study novels, which I had been working on for the past six weeks or so as I wrestled through brain fog.

2. I was well enough to push the shopping cart in the grocery store for the first time in about three months. Funny the things we take for granted when re-returned to us give us so much pleasure. I've never been happier pushing a cart around a store and actually be there for my roommate the way she's there for me.

3. I ran into "O" in the hall and we exchanged quick and pleasant civilities as he introduced me to his friend on their way up to drink beer and play video games. Uncharacteristically I was dressed chic street clothes as opposed to sweats, was wearing makeup, and had halfway decent hair. O parted with a genuine, "We'll talk soon," as he walked away with a smile. He's not off the hook, but I'm relieved to have a friendly encounter from the elusive man upstairs.

The Waiting Room

I haven't written in awhile. Instead, I've been waiting for things to write about. I've been waiting for "O" to contact me after saying he wanted to go out, and as the weeks go by that's not happening. I've been waiting for me EEG, and after a successful reading of it last week, the results are less than satisfactory. In fact, they came back completely normal -- no evidence of seizures found. While this should be a good thing, it doesn't take away my symptoms or make me any less closer to being well. And O's silence doesn't make me any closer to moving on since he lives right above me and I can hear him when he gets up in the morning, when he walks around the apartment, and when he has a social gathering like he is right now. The exact thing he was afraid of for himself is what he is putting on me -- ending things awkwardly and without a word while living right upstairs.

I was excited about O because spending time with him was the one thing I didn't have to wait to do. I have to wait for a diagnosis, a job, a car, etc., but I didn't have to wait to go upstairs and hang out with someone I wanted to get to know. But apparently my waiting is not yet over. I'm still no less close to having love (and, erm, sex), and still no less close to having a diagnosis.

What I do have control over is my schooling, and I've been refocusing my attention on that. I've been doing everything I can to have the mental capacity to read tragic mulatta fiction for my independent study so that I can graduate on time. (Well, graduate after one extension which I am currently in.) I've been focusing on losing those five pounds I regained during my period. I've been focusing on applying for more online teaching jobs. And, as always, I've been focusing on hours of mindless TV.

I should be furious at O, but I'm not. After finally doing everything the right way I can say with 99% certainty that "it's him, not me." This should give me a feeling of satisfaction, and in a way it does, but more than that it gives me a feeling of ungroundedness. If the problem were me, I could change. But since it's him, there's nothing to do but attempt to forget him -- even as I hear the toilet flush upstairs or see his car parked in the driveway when my roommate and I return home after spending an evening in a movie theater or a day at her parents' where O is freeingly far, far away. My one consolation? The knowledge that someone I thought was hot thought me just as hot. The knowledge that someone admitted to taking extra looks at my rear as I walked away and thought my rack was refreshingly enormous. Well, that's not quite the same as actually being loved, but at least I'm not unnoticed. At least I'm a piece of meat. (Yes, you're correctly reading the subtle sarcasm.) There is also another consolation... the knowledge that I made him wait for all of me and that there are subsequently no tears shed. He can't get the booty if he doesn't take it out of the complex.

So, back to schoolwork. Back to the fall job hunt. Back to seeing my neurologist and hoping that this time he'll have an answer to what keeps me locked in this house so that I can get better and walk away from under O. ;)

Check mate

For as long as I can remember I've had a vision of the perfect man I thought I was destined to meet in college -- biracial, somewhat short, bookish, serious... A couple of days ago I realized that this is no longer what I'm looking for. Now when guys try to impress me with their intellect I turn away in disgust, and when I found a guy who fit the final three qualities I knew our life would not have the magic spark that it needed to sustain a long term relationship. He was my soul, but not my mate. As far as the first characteristic on my list, I still long for that elusive biracial man, but I'm learning that race mixing alone doesn't make one the perfect partner.

What I have discovered is that instead of finding my dream guy I have become him. Not in gender of course but as far as the qualities I was looking for. I have become that biracial, bookish, serious girl, (and I have always been short). Maybe we always look for men who are a reflection of who we are or hope to be. Growing up I was not considered a scholar by any means. In my quest to become one I assumed that my ideal partner would exude the same qualities. I dreamed of his personal library of books rivaling mine, of having deep philosophical conversations over dinner, and of being in awe of his intellect that was a measure above my own.

As I get older and have become more scholarly I have also come out of my shell. No longer do I fear social gatherings or conversations with strangers. In fact now I gravitate towards them. While I still don't want a partner that I can't debate issues with or with whom I can't share stimulating conversation, I need someone who's not afraid to laugh at himself and who is in awe of my intellect. I need someone who is different from me in order to strike a healthy balance of interests and ideals. I need someone to challenge me not by their intimidating store of knowledge but simply by living life through their own individual and unique eyes. Whether this long term person ends up being O, who has his sports obsession and right wing politics, or with someone else who is different from me in their own way, I'm realizing that sometimes finding one's ideal partner is just a matter of looking inside oneself and possessing those qualities one wants in another.