That Kind Of Woman

Do you believe in the term, that when it rains it pours?

I guess I can. Good things come in threes. You’ll never be younger than you are just now. They all make sense. But, it’s just my mind whooshing around thinking about all these different things that have come across my conscious.

I watch Girls on HBO, and honest to a higher power, that is what I find my life and my fellow 20 somethings to be like.  It’s awkward. It’s too much alcohol, not enough good sense, and remembering each night and bringing it up to friends. I try my hardest to make good decisions, and in the recent past I have been looking out for myself, because for a while there I was letting the people around me dictate how I felt about myself. 

I laugh hysterically on the phone when I hear horrible sexual experience of my friends, and I jot down horrible dating stories that I myself have faced.  More recently, I have for some reason begun to re-attract men that have come in and out of my life in the past 6 years. Who are these men? Mostly friends. Guy friends that usually look at me like one of the guys. I played pool, or basketball, scrounged through thrift stores for vintage woolrich, or collected firewood for backyard bonfires. These boys have started to resurface wanting different things from me. 

Is it because I finally really accepted and come to terms with the fact my soulmate, or even a truly dateable guy will not be found in this bumble cuss county in which I have been born and raised? Now, suddenly these boys that I know are stepping forward. Either with grand proposals or declarations, with propositions, or asking to “hang out”. 

What!? Wait, hold on. Let me please straighten this out. You want to date me. You want me to be yours. You want to hold me when we fall asleep, and kiss me before I brush my teeth in the morning.

Okay. No. You do not know me. You have not taken the time to know who I am. Sure you knew me in college. You knew who I was when I was 18 and I wore jeans and my grandfather’s golf sweaters and I had those really horrible two toned glasses. For 5 years you coasted by with occasional texts, or phone calls, that you said annually happy birthday wishes on facebook. That one time we bar hopped and I won every game of pool I played.  That time you leaned into kiss me and I playfully darted away asking you what you thought you were doing, because honestly I had no idea what you were trying to do. We are friends. Barely. You knew me at 18, 19, or 20. You knew a girl I was. Now that I am a young woman, now that have certain things that are staples, you seemingly and suddenly think that I am everything that you have ever wanted. 

You don’t know me. You only see how I have grown since that time you kind of knew me. You don’t know who I am know. And honestly it doesn’t sound like you want to.

Why is it that my generation just wants to skip right to intimacy? Why do you want me to be yours? Why do you declare it at the local bar? Why have you never in the past year asked me out for tea, or asked me if I wanted to go down to the city, or maybe even just asked me about what I am doing with my life now, and what I want to do in a year?

You say I am the perfect woman, I am independent. You like how I hold my own at the bar, or the music I play at my parties. You like how I hug you, or how dark my hair is.

You have never seen me cry. You have never held my hand when we cross the street. You have never met my parents. Your leg has never brushed mine at a movie theater or under a table. You don’t ever talk to me on the phone when we fall asleep. Why should I be yours?

You have never heard my catty comments, or the way I refuse to let someone gip me in line. You haven’t sat with me to watch episode after episode of Arrested Development, or seen how neurotic I am in the kitchen.

These are things you may have heard about me, but good god don’t ever tell me you want to be with me if you’ve never once seen me comfortable in my own area or ever uncomfortable. If you’ve never met my friends, or never understood how I feel about sex, commitment and my body.

It makes me unbearably sad and angry when someone tells me they want to be with me, or sweep me off my feet.

You don’t know me. You know what you see about me. You know what you think you understand about me. 

You know what you see, what you want to see. You know what I have allowed you to see as a casual friend. As someone I joke around with in public, or those couple times we hung out with mutual friends. 

Don’t expect me to fall into your arms or bed because you tell me pretty words one night. Don’t make excuses why you haven’t asked me on a date. Don’t blame it on circumstance or time. 

I am too polite to embarrass you. Instead, I tell you that I don’t want to ruin our friendship. Which is the truth. I tell you that I don’t think it would be a good idea to automatically jump into a relationship. Because it isn’t.

I don’t want to be with you, because you do not know me, and you certainly haven’t tried.

Be my friend, a constant feature in my life. Not a guest star that rolls in and expects everyone to know the plot. I don’t know the plot. I know who you are in the settings in which we have become friends. Much like the paper dolls I had as a kid, you got the doll, her clothing and the scene. School, the playground, in her house. 

If I were a paper doll, you are seemingly fixed already to the scene. The bar, and our friend’s house. You always wear the same thing, and we only ever talk briefly, or maybe we’ve had a couple conversations that close down the bar, but never really hold any meaning. 

Don’t treat me like a one dimensional person then profess your feelings to me. I am not the woman you have drawn up in your mind. 

You don’t know me, and you certainly haven’t ever tried. 

(Source: thatkindofwoman)

I write about you, but I would never write you up in a pretty package so that one day you appear and all of those things I wrote suddenly weren’t just things but actual memories.

It scares me sometimes. How much I have this image of a man that will love me as much as I love him. I want a story to tell my kids.

My mom and dad first met when they were kids at a friend of each their family’s farm and they played baseball in a field. McCarty kids, and Keegan kids.

Then my mom was 18 and driving her father’s company car through an intersection about 3 blocks from where I now sit. She spotted my dad, a stranger to her, walking through the gas station parking lot and ended up causing a big accident when she bent the frame of the car. She said she couldn’t look away. 

Then when she was 24 she bought him a drink from across the bar. She remembers him fondly, shying away from hoards of women. Tall, handsome, and quiet.

I was driving with my dad last night, the sky was dark and we were coming back from upstate New York. My dad’s driving had become more relaxed, as it was the middle of the journey. We chatted on and off about this or that, I was reading Pablo Neruda translations and feeling tired and sore.

I asked my dad what he remembered about the night my mom bought him a drink. I thought maybe he would just agree that it had happened. Instead, I was brought to tears by his tone and how carefully he recollected details. The way she wore her hair that night, the shirt and shorts she wore, that she wasn’t wearing her glasses and he remembered specifically she covered her mouth when she laughed. Maybe she was self conscious about her teeth, he wondered. At this I interjected that I loved my mother’s bottom teeth slightly crooked and pearly. Beautiful teeth, he agreed. He loves my mother more than I have ever seen a man love a woman, adoration and pure bursting love. They hold hands, and kiss. Wrap their arms around each other in greeting if my father has been gone away on business. 

I ache at times for a grand love, and I read somewhere that the greatest love story you will know is your own. But, god damn, my parent’s story is beautiful, and honest.

I just know that I can write all the fiction I have in my soul, but one day I hope that my great true and real love story will be told, even if it’s just to my kids when they get to be my age. 

(Source: thatkindofwoman)

I find myself staring at tall men who are unforgiving in their character.
They saunter into rooms only to charm each person occupying it.
Smiles reach their eyes, and handshakes never cut you off at the knuckles.
They don’t use bottle openers on counter tops and tables,
but pull some magic from their keychains and pockets.
They sneak to surfaces, while holding conversations,
and balance caps then the swift palm moving downward.
Pop.
There goes the cap.
Then they continue.

I don’t know how to approach these men, don’t know what to say.
I mention the occasion which draws us together.
Or I go rogue, asking them what place,
if they had unlimited funds,
would they go for 4 days.
What would they do?

I wonder who these men are,
what music they listen to,
and how they found me.

These types of men are rare,
but even rarer is that they are truly what I see,
because really,
who ever really sees the truth of what is going on.  

(Source: thatkindofwoman)

I think a lot of what happens between people that fight is that there is anger, hurt, fear and misunderstanding. Even if it’s just one party, who won’t hear what the other may or may not be saying  it will keep the entire relationship on the edge of a rocky precipice. At any moment it will come tumbling down. 

But, as one of the parties you need to understand what you can and can’t do. You can’t force someone to feel how you feel, or to feel a different way. Instead, you need to understand that you can and cannot carry that hurt around. You need to understand the love that you carry and that no matter what you stood by it. 

(Source: thatkindofwoman)

Watching this movie (entitled: Last Night) means I just went into my kitchen and emotionally ate two hotdogs and two kosher pickles. No shame, yeah, I emotionally eat, and cook, and cry. I am pretty flawed. I am petty, and mean, but never with malicious intent. I am, just as I will always be, me. A human. 

I get rowdy and I sweat when I dance too hard under harsh hot lights at my friend’s band’s shows. I wear sweatpants when I get home. I hate socks unless they are soft and patterned. I have been very drunk, I also have had many sober nights. I have been the one to break someone’s heart. I have had my heart kicked around a bit as well.

I send late night texts. I leave late night voicemails. I am someone who punches my guy friends in the arm, and hugs and lifts my girl friends in the air when I get extra excited to see them. I sneak a thermos and home made popcorn into movie theatres when I go on a date with myself.

I sometimes wake up in the morning and don’t want to get out of bed because I get scared. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and open the windows and stare out into the night. I am an affectionate person, I want to touch and hold those who I love and feel strongly about.

I sometimes have a great fear that even though I am easy to love, that I may be very hard to convince that I am loved by someone.

I write to ask myself the questions I avoid when I lie awake at night. 

(Source: thatkindofwoman)

We swore to each other in the inky darkness,
that we would meet each other,
toe for toe.
Those lies held us together longer than any of our truths would.
Instead, we met others that held us together with quality.

No longer did we use force and quickness to patch up the problems.
We dissolved.
We disappeared.

In it’s place we became separate.
We found someone who was meant to be.

Meaningful silences.
Words meant more.
Touches felt more.

We found ourselves in matches.
Not pairs. 

“Please don’t go” wasn’t an option. 
“Won’t you stay” was never said. 

We had to stay. 
Without them we couldn’t see. 
 

(Source: thatkindofwoman)

I like men with flaws. 
Too big hands, scars on their legs, and wonky smiles.
I don’t like men who are too pretty.
Give me some unruly hair, a crooked nose.  
Give me a deep rumbly voice that doesn’t match his mouth.
A patch of beard that won’t be tamed.
Give me two different color eyes.
I want to see what makes them different.

What sets them apart by my senses.
I want to touch the faults that make you up.  
I want to see the imperfection. 

I want to categorize each one to someday write down and remember how I became so familiar with them. 

(Source: thatkindofwoman)

To think, that there is someone who just wants you.
Just as you are. 
Cracked bones, crooked teeth, rough skin.
They see things to love. To want.

Messy hair, bad morning breath, and minutes filled with hiccups.
Someone wants you.

They want to hold you close, and breath in the scent of your skin.
They want to stand on your stoop in the frosty air waiting for you to let them in.

They sweat sickly sweet with you on hot summer days hiking to abandon water sheds.
Will rub your sore muscles with concern and care.

Will overindulge with you in your not so vicious vices.  
Will whisper true love’s words into your hair and neck in the dark morning light.

They will want you, so bad.
Ache, toss and turn.
Imagine.

And you, will want them too.

So bad.  

(Source: thatkindofwoman)

You looked great today.
Your skin was beautiful in the morning light,
then at that magic hour before sunset.
Your hair was casually elegant,
as you didn’t really bother with it.
You smiled,
and several people saw and smiled too.

Your style was reflected in the outfit you chose today.
You inspired someone with what you wore.
You inspired yourself.
Those casual looks at your reflection,
they made your step a little lighter.
They made your heart a little happier.

I want you to know you looked great today.
Even though you weren’t really trying.

(Source: thatkindofwoman)

You were honey.
The way your words clung as long as they could to your tongue,
then dripped heavily onto my skin.

Like the honey sticking to the glass,
imprisoned after harvest.

I thought of all the bees that worked tirelessly for that honey.
I knew you didn’t work, you allowed that for others.

You were all unforgiving lines. The dash of your collar bones. 
The dark dusting of hair on your forearms.

You were sinfully sweet, when it suited you.
Or you held a little bite, a sting.

You were from the wildest flowers.
Your hive was feral and mean.
Never to be tamed.

Not even the honeyed stinging tones of your voice.

 

(Source: thatkindofwoman)

Sometimes I write about a future love. Someone who is existing now in this world. Maybe he is loved by a girl. Maybe he loves her back. Maybe, like me he is alone. 

I write away some of the loneliness by writing to him, or about him. I don’t write because of the loneliness, mostly because the loneliness is just about being a human. There isn’t an easy cure. Some people stay busy, some people deny it. Some people stare it in the face and move on with their days. Some people acknowledge that loneliness is something that you can over come with determination. 

However, we all need someone. Someones. Plural. I have love. I have self love, I have love from wonderful amazing women. I have love from my parents, and my siblings. I have people that love me.  

I know that there is a man, as flawed as I am, that I will meet, someday, and we will give it a go. It being love. 

Until then. I will write. And, one day I will share all these rambling prose to him. Maybe he’s already reading them. Maybe he has no idea. 

Maybe. 

Until then, I write. Not for him, but for me. And, a little bit for you reading this. 

(Source: thatkindofwoman)