Okay.  I haven’t posted here in forever.  But I won’t lie, I sort of missed you all.

It’s not like I have a relationship (that I want to discuss on a blog..) that I wanted to update you on.  But what brought me out of hiding was this absolutely useless article/video I watched on YourTango.com this morning.

Oh no! You yelled out the wrong name during sex? @drlori tells you what to do ow.ly/lBh5x—
  (@YourTango) June 04, 2013

I was intrigued, I admit, because I’ve committed the ultimate sin of screaming out someone else’s name in bed.  And I couldn’t tell if I handled it well or not…so I thought I’d get some expert’s advice.

In reality, YourTango.com only wanted to help you stop worrying about doing this. Watch the video. Basically this doctor encourages you not to worry about it. That’s dandy. What if you already did the deed? Nothin’.

“I could do better than this,” I thought. So here I am at the WordPress dashboard to talk about it. Luck you, if it’s an embarrassing situation, I’ve done it. And I’ve been reticent to share the more embarrassing side of my escapades with you. But no longer. I just missed you all this much.

Engage flashback sequence

Picture it, late 2007 in the middle of the night.  I am spending the night with The Friend (which is another terrible story that I will save for another time) and of course we were engaged in coitus that was, as usual, pretty good by most standards.  The thought of screaming someone name (that wasn’t present!) during no-pants-dancing never really crossed my mind or was a fear of mine. And to be honest, I’m almost never a name screamer anyway.  It seems odd, but you know, if the right guy asked for it, I’d be willing to accommodate the request… anyway…

The actual even is so traumatic that I can recall many things about it when I close my eyes and think very hard. I remember that the only light on was emanating from a flashing alarm clock that read 12:51 am and turned to 12:52. I remember the sheets were grey, the comforter was at the bottom of the bed trapping my feet, I remember The Friend was in front of me, but I can’t recall what we were actually doing because the only thing I remember is the rolling wave of pleasure washing over my naked body and I can still feel my mouth opening and I can almost see the damn words rolling out of my mouth and hanging in the air. ”Oh God,” I half mumbled, half moaned.

Only God isn’t what came out.

The two words felt funny coming out, I admit it now. I swear to you, I saw them coming out in slow motion– tiny letters tumbling from my lips into the air and swirling around The Friend’s head before being sucked up into his ears.  It felt like (and still feels like) if I had just reached up with my hands I could have grabbed them and stuffed them back into my mouth.  When I close my eyes and remember the moment my hands instinctively rise up and grasp at the air.  I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve stopped typing at this keyboard and reached up to grab the words as I sit here writing for you.

I didn’t grab the words, and I didn’t say God.  I immediately clapped my hands over my mouth and sat straight up in bed, tossing The Friend to the other side of the mattress in the process.  “HIS NAME RHYMES WITH GOD, I SWEAR TO YOU, IT WAS AN ACCIDENT!”

I immediately started screaming.  And then my brain started racing.  “Should I cry, I could cry.  I can make myself cry.  Shit, I probably don’t have to make myself cry it’s probably just going to happen.” but I didn’t cry.  For some ungodly reason though the room was almost entirely dark I could now see The Friend’s face–crystal clear.  His eyes were clenched shut as if he were crying to take those slow motion letters and use pressure to force them back out of his ears.  I kept explaining it “HIS NAME RHYMES WITH GOD IT JUST NATURALLY COMES OUT YOU KNOW SOMETIMES HE EVEN CONFUSES HIS NAME WHEN SOMEBODY SAYS GOD DAMN” but nothing seemed to be penetrating through the ears and into the brain.  Probably those swirly letters had jammed right at the ear drum and weren’t letting anything in.  Maybe his ears shut off because he was afraid I might say something else. I don’t know. I just remember that once that “OH God” came out the words wouldn’t stop.  

Eventually his eyes opened and he returned to earth eventually and I sat with my head in my hands in the bed waiting. And waiting. And waiting.  But he never yelled.  He simply asked quietly “Were you thinking of him?”

I lied at the time, but of course he was never far from my mind.  I know people wonder all the time about their spouses and partners “Did they even think of me while they were cheating?” I can’t speak for all of us, but I did.  Sometimes I felt guilty.  Sometimes I felt relieved.  Sometimes I felt good about myself because he had rejected me in some way. Sometimes I wished it were he who so passionately wanted my body. So while I could rationalize that his name just rhymes with God.. and maybe that’s why it tumbled out into space.  But maybe I was thinking of him. I don’t know.  Sometimes I’d like to tell him, because I think he’d get some satisfaction out of that.  But instead of an email…here it is in a blog post.  For him to read and not acknowledge (you’re welcome!).

So, realistically, I said I was here because I could give you better advice on what to do in the aftermath of a verbal mishap during sex.  And I think I can, simply by analyzing what I would have done different.

1) I would have immediately said “I’m sorry. That was a total accident.” and I wouldn’t have made an excuse.  The excuse, even if it was true, made it sound lame and like I was lying.

2) I would have laughed about it much sooner.  Three days later it became a joke. “Hi, I’m The Friend. Didn’t want to confuse you.” Laughter is the best medicine, if it’s appropriate. Watch that episode of Seinfeld where Jerry doesn’t know how to dirty talk, and have a good laugh. If it’s not something you’re ready to laugh about, be honest about that too.

3) I would have been honest about the situation and said, directly, how I felt. I felt horrible. I felt horrible for a lot of reasons, but mostly because The Friend probably felt super insecure afterward. I would have told him that it wasn’t anything he did, but my own brain and hangups. (See, I am nice sometimes!)

4) Realize that you’ll probably live through it. Mistakes happen. People say weird things all the time.    Even the most embarrassing moments of your life eventually get replaced by something more embarrassing…so just hope that more embarrassing moment comes along quickly.

(I missed you all.  What are you up to?)

I bet you thought I was here to tell you I met someone.  Sorry.  Contain your excitement.

My worst nightmare happened.

No, not the one where my teeth fall out while I am taking a test that I didn’t study for and accidentally showed up naked for..

It’s that horrific real-life tale of horror on dating sites.  You know the one.. the one where I’m checking my messages on a dating site and find that one of my students has sent me a message because they recognized me. 

Relax…It’s less creepy than that sentence sounds in that I work at a university and most of the students I work with are well over 18 and a good number are older than I am.

Don’t relax too much though. It’s more creepy because it’s a student that a colleague and I always kept on a list titled “If something happens to me, this person will know where my body is.”  The list is relatively short but important.  I know that we’re usually half joking but this guy was a real piece of work and his batshit crazy eyes in real life come across VERY REALISTICALLY AND TRUTHFULLY in his dating profile picture.

In other news, I’ve pretty much decided that the overall system of rating individuals based on how much they have in common generally works on these sites because he messaged me despite the fact that we are 76% incompatible.  It’s not just in my imagination, ya’ll.  He really is too crazy for me.

This whole dating thing needs to move on and be over because I feel like this can only happen more the older I get.

I have to decide if it’s better to acknowledge the message and politely move on or just delete it and pretend like it never happened.

Ugh.

To say that it started with the South Carolina game would be wrong.  This chapter started with the South Carolina game, but not the entire book.

So this chapter picks up with me minding my own business on my day off in October, planning to leave for a little Dixieland delight weekend to see Tennessee play South Carolina.  I was watching an episode of Gangland and doing the wash.  And my phone rang to show this:

I screen capped it because.. only I could manage to save someone’s number as “Jerk Face” and forget it was in my phone.  For two seconds I couldn’t recall who might be known as  Jerk Face.  But realistically.. you all know who Jerk Face is, right?

Right.  Friend.  Not just any friend, The Friend.  I should have declined.  I should have hit the red button and just said “Never again.” but I didn’t.  And I don’t know why.  Sometimes there are questions in our lives that will never have answers.  So many times with him I have wished to go back and hit a red reset button and stop everything that happened.  But I can’t.  I couldn’t then and I can’t now.

So I gave this thing the green light by pressing “answer” and saying hello.  I invited mayhem into my life again.  Come in, sit down, how’ve you been?

I tried all my old tricks of pretending not to know the number.  “The is The Blonde,” I answered.  “I know who I called.  And you know who this is,” he almost growled into the phone.  But not an agressive growl.  One of ownership.

“What are you doing?”   I asked the question meaning “Right now, in general, for the last year, anything” but only got the immediate answer.  “Loading the dishwasher.”

And so it began, that dance that we do.  I was rusty on the steps because I thought I wouldn’t have to know them anymore.  One, and two, and three How-are-you and how-is-your-family and don’t-ask-anything-personal and always-be-funny, two-three four.  Five, six, five, six, seven, eight.

We small talked for fifteen minutes before he cut to the chase.  “Listen, I have tickets to the game tomorrow and nobody to go with. Are you going?”

My pulse quickened and I started to sweat.  I opened my mouth to speak and nothing came out.  I knew the answer was supposed to be no-thank-you.  I cleared my throat.

“Well are you or aren’t you?”

Am I? Am I what?  Am I totally susceptible to your wicked ways and powerless against even a few words after so long?

“Yes, I am.”

“Then you’re coming with me and you’re sitting with me.”

The details were worked out, the meeting place established, and like that, it was all in my head again.

The details of the game are inconsequential.  We  met outside town, he drove me and my companion in, we sat together, and the game ended.  Maybe the only thing of note is that  Tennessee was driving down the field with less than a minute to go in the fourth quarter for the win, and the quarterback was sacked about five yards from the goal line.  He was two steps away from getting away from the defender.  But it caught up with him and he fumbled the chance.  It was fun while it lasted.

After the game nothing changed.  I went back to my car, went back home, went back to normal life.  I didn’t hear from The Friend again until two weeks later, following a miserable home game loss to Missouri. I was sure that the coach would be fired.  I cried all the way back to the car.  I tried to distract myself by messaging The Boyfriend to talk about the miserable loss.  But he wasn’t available to console my broken football heart, so I went to the grocery store.  And while I was there, what comes up on my phone again but that Jerk Face label.  Funny, I didn’t change it.

“They’re going to fire him.” I wailed into the phone, probably too dramatic for the situation, but it felt painful at the time.

“They are. And they have to.  But I will take you to dinner.”

And in thirty minutes we were eating cheeseburgers and laughing at Bama losing to Texas A&M and making eyes across a table in a public place.  When we split the German chocolate slice I knew I was in.  And as I fumbled my keys in the dark I knew I should hit the red button but I couldn’t.

The next morning I resisted the urge to text my usual “had a wonderful time, don’t be a stranger” text because it never works.  But to my surprise he texted me.  And continued to text me, first, every day for three weeks.  Early mornings, late nights, holiday, weekends. There were inside jokes, pictures, smileys. It was like old times.  And I let it go on because I can’t push the red button.

And then one day it was over.  As quickly as it started.  He texted me a picture and then poof he stopped responding to me.

So here I am sitting in my office, unable to concentrate on my real life, because once again.. I’ve done something that I’m not even able to identify.  Nothing I did yesterday was any different from what I did the day before, or the two days before that.

This is the problem with existing at someone’s whim.  You never know what you’re doing and if it’s okay or if it’s wrong.  You never know if the joke you tell is going to be what sends someone running, or if sending a smiley face is going to be the end of everything.

The thing is, it isn’t.  It isn’t anything I do, other than existing.  It’s a problem that I exist.  Because I am a distraction from his reality, because I am a temptress from what is good.  So even if there was nothing wrong with what I wrote back, it’s all up to his whim.  Everything has always been on his terms.

I figure the options are pretty much as follows:  he lost his phone/fell off a cliff/whatever else makes me sleep better at night, he enjoys making me miserable (probable), he feels guilty and/or got caught by his wife (likely).

These things used to wreck me for months.  I would be distraught and unable to work, eat, or sleep.  And I would drool like Pavlov’s dog when I heard my phone buzz (and even when I didn’t..the phantom iPhone vibration is the worst).  But I am determined not to let this wreck me for long than a day.  I deleted the number entirely, and that’s great because I didn’t give myself time to remember it.

I know that the choice will come again, that I will have to choose between red and green, good and evil, mentally healthy and unhealthy.  There is no use beating myself up for this choice.  I will just make the right choice next time.

Hi.

Hey ya’ll.

This is not a typical post.  This is a plea for help from a friend of mine. It’s relationship related, so I feel it’s okay to bring it up here!

My friend has a problem–a nasty break up has left her feeling heart-sick and she has texted the boy a few times to no avail.  My first thought was “stop, you’ll look like me!” (see example:   )

Too late, already there she says.  At a certain point too many texts in a row start to pile up.

My suggestion to her was to write down the texts, think about it a day, and then determine if she really wants to send it.  I also suggested deleting the number and restoring your phone so you can’t recover it. That worked for me once.

I feel her pain.  I think texting is so tempting post-break up.  Calling seems like a huge undertaking. I mean, there’s a 50% chance they might pick up the phone.  Texting seems innocuous enough that you can send one or two without it being too extreme on the bad ex-girlfriend scale.  (Trust me when I say that The Boyfriend will vouch that texting was the least of my problems on that scale.  Eek).  Texting, in my opinion, is prevalent in a break up where calling may not be.

Anyway, I need suggestions beyond my solutions. It seems silly but that’s the best I’ve got.  I am absolutely no pro at abstaining from contact (I submit that previous screen shot as proof).  I need your input here…what’s your suggestion?

I know many of you read but few of you comment.  Be loud this time!  Have you figured out the secret?  Is there no way around it?  Tell Brunette it’s not abnormal.  Tell her there’s a solution.

Thanks ya’ll.

I am a good liar.  In fact, I’m such a good liar that I will often lie to people about what a bad liar I am.  It’s twisted and something that I figure only a therapist can work through.  But for nearly two months I’ve been finding it harder and harder to lie about something in particular.  Don’t worry, I’m still lying when I say I didn’t see your text, or that I have plans (I never have plans, I don’t even want to have plans anymore) and I’m definitely still lying when I say I’ve read the Terms of Service Agreement for anything I sign up for.

I just can’t lie to myself.  I can’t keep telling myself that it’s all okay when it’s really not.  For about six months or so after I moved out of the apartment with The Boyfriend (Jesus Christ I have to get another name for him) I had trouble making it through the drive to work or the drive home without tears welling up in my eyes.  I think it was the immediate feelings of lonesomeness that drove me to cry.  I was clinically depressed for various reasons, and when I finally learned to be comfortable in my skin it stopped.  But for the past two months it’s crept in again.  I find myself gripping the steering wheel too tightly, turning off the radio because I don’t want to hear another rendition of Call Me Maybe, and without even realizing it tears drip onto my cheeks out from under my sunglasses.

It’s usually over before I get home, but the other night I sat at the bar with Bosslady and finally managed to squeak out the words that I had avoided for four years.  “What if this is all there is?”

I think Bosslady was confused because I put up a pretty good front most of the time.  I am the life of the party and of the day-to-day.  In fact, I swear to God that I invented YOLO.  For so long I have been the girl who will stay out at any hour of any night, will be down for anything fun.  And any time somebody might have the ‘audacity’ to ask me what I’m doing with my life, what I’m planning on doing in the future, and why I don’t have somebody in my life, I’ve been the very first person to tell you that 27 is too young for all that.  It’s too young to be married, too young to have children, too young to be tied to a mortgage, and certainly too young to be worried if you don’t have these things. You can be old for a long time.  You only have a limited amount of time to be young and wild.

I put up a brave fight and I have plenty of fun sayings to explain why I’m too fabulous to be tied down, but the truth is for the past couple of months I’ve really had the sinking feeling that maybe this is all I am–a good friend, a good daughter, a good employee.  But not a good wife. Or a good mother.

“You’re too young to think that way”, she said, as I started to cry harder than I should have in a bar.

“Some people don’t get married, some people don’t have children.”   I think that’s what I said, but I’m fairly certain neither of us really understood what I said.  She made do with what she heard.

“Listen, you have to be certain that if this is all there is for you, and I don’t think that’s the case, but if it is, you have to sure that what you have is good.  Are you okay if this is all there is?”

What I have is good.  I have a job that I love.  It pays my bills.  My friends are great people, they really do enrich my life.  And I love my family.  But that’s not enough for me.  There are things I want to experience in life.  I want a partner, I want to have children.  I want a family of my own.

And there is no material item, no vacation, no friend that can make it well with my soul if I it doesn’t happen for me.  I could drive a Maserati and live in a gated community and have a toilet made of solid gold and it would not be well with my soul that I didn’t have a partner or child.  And I’m beginning to think that may not happen.

So what now?  What do I do when I know that nothing will make this good with my soul?

It takes a really messed up person to start doubting yourself and your ability to find a mate at 27.  But that’s where I am.

The Friend is married, another guy wrote  me the other day to tell me he’s getting married.  Thanks for the heads-up.  And The Boyfriend moved on pretty easily. Going to get married. Married, married, married.

And here I sit with this failure of a blog that has only really successfully detailed for you my inability to move on from these ‘tragedies’ that other people so easily have moved past.  I mean, The Boyfriend and I are Facebook friends now and he actually sends me friendly messages–that’s how okay that whole thing is now.  Why am I the one that ended up alone out of all these people I know? I know that’s a selfish way to look at it.  But sometimes I feel selfish.  Sometimes I would think all those boys would call me selfish.  Sometimes?  Most of the time.

The thing is…I thought I did all the heavy lifting.  I thought I took the time to evaluate myself, make myself better, figure out what I wanted in life.  I thought that I slowed down and that was the right thing.  I thought out of all of us, I would be the healthiest because I was figuring out what went wrong.  But maybe I didn’t.  Maybe I just took all my momentum.

I don’t know.  I just know that there are times of the day that I freeze and wonder if it’s really not going to happen for me.

You know what, I’m fine.  I have plans.  I’m too young to worry about this.