Read it and Weep- My Tribute to John Wooden

Passengers aboard flight 060910, this is your captain speaking for the first time since 042210, much to the dismay, disappointment, and annoyance of the majority of you. I know this because you've told me. To my face. On my facebook wall. Over the phone. And so to those of you have voiced your concern and irritation, apologies are due. But in all honesty, since the beginning of May, I have just been having the most entertaining, enlightening, most random and awesome six weeks of my entire life. I'm going to blame me having been away from my blog on the fact that I was doing field research for the rest of the summer's posts, really getting to know myself a little better (slightly undecided on how I feel about what I've learned), making new friends, maintaining old friends, compiling chapters of material for the novels I will one day write. I have laughed and drank myself stupid this past month, which is what adhering to a six drink a day minimum will do to a person. I still have two major issues in my life that are in dire need of correction, but I am steadfastly resolved to starting to right them soon, and that regardless of their existence, I am alive and well. And more than that passengers, and I say this with no hesitation, I am the happiest I have ever been in my entire 26 years of life. And this, is just the start, of a live well and wildly lived. Fasten your safety belts.

I honestly was compelled to get back to all this, not only because you and I have missed it, but because of another article I read a couple hours ago on the legendary college basketball coach, John Wooden. It was written by the talented sports writing genius Rick Reilly and caught me off guard not only in its portrayal of Coach Wooden and his selfless, moral, and wise attendance to what matters most in life, but because it made me cry. (Sidenote: I'm not on my period). I suppose I shouldn't be too caught off guard by the fact that a couple tears splashed down onto the laptop's keyboard, as I had my first sports cry as a 10 year old when Chris Webber called his non-existent time out and cost the fab five a national title, and then sobbed like a blubbering idiota this past winter when I watched my baby sister lead her high school team to the first girls sectional basketball title in her high school's history as a sophomore. No, but honestly, what surprised me most about the cry wasn't that it was sports related and I'm a sucker for that shit, but because it was the part of the article that described Coach Wooden's relationship with his late wife Nell, who passed in 1985. He just went on five days ago. His ten national college b-ball titles are unmatched. His no nonsense attitude and humble demeanor, unparalleled. His "Woodenisms," concise and yet spot-on reflections on every facet of life. But his love for Nell, astounding. Breath-taking. Tear-inducing, for me at least. And this is coming from the MsHap most of you know who flips through boys like a Rolodex, and re-words lines from Jay-Z songs like "on to the Next one," to read "I have a million ways to get it. He was one." The same MsHap who has loved with all she had/s in the past and had her heart broken in several irreparable pieces to the point where I'm not sure I believe in soulmates or even true commitment anymore, although of course I want it.

Nell Wooden passed away 25 years ago. Coach Wooden stopped all the clocks at the time of her death. He slept until his own departure days ago on only one side of their bed. The other side was unturned, and covered with stacks of letters bundled together. He wrote her once a month since her death chronicling the lives of their children and grandchildren and reiterating to her how much he missed and loved her. He only stopped months ago, because he could hardly see. He never dated, never kissed another female after she was removed from his side. Rick Reilly who wrote the story once asked Coach in the past to co-author a book with him on how to make love last. The day he went over to Wooden's house to talk to him about it, Coach came to the door crying, saying it was "just too soon." Nell had been deceased 15 years at this point. I've honestly got a lump in my throat just re-writing all of this for you guys. Until tonight, if you would have asked me what love is, depending on my mood, I would have either made a general statement about family and friends, or told you it was a state of mind, and a fucked up one at that. Coach Wooden, for a million reasons, I could thank you. For living a stand-up life. For your contributions to the game of basketball. To your insight. But no, tonight I thank you, because you gave me faith again. I have been so unsure of love for so long, but now I get it. And can't wait one day to find my own Nell. I just started crying again. It's because I know right now you two are intertwined, and you aren't sleeping alone anymore. Maybe that's what love is, patience. You both waited so long. She had to be so happy to see you. RIP Coach John Wooden. 1910-2010.

I'll post more later after I get a run in and a yoga class done. I'd rather not walk into the gym with swollen eyes. However, sports fan or not, you all need to read this article. Put down your summer school classes textbook or whatever Oprah's bookclub you're into and give this ten minutes. It's time well spent.

http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/news/story?id=5260677

Team Selfish...

Passengers aboard flight 042210, this is your captain MsHap speaking. I was called "selfish" yesterday, by an individual with whom I have had a romantic relationship in the past, and the idea that I am possibly so has been reverberating in my head since. This particular comment was flung at me during one of our standard arguments, typically prompted by me not paying a bill on time, or finding myself in the position to not be able to pay another one at all, due to a plethora of reasons. "Honestly," said he, "you're starting to become one of them," (referencing the inmates he is around at the Federal Prison). "You only care about yourself, don't pay attention to the important things in your life, and then expect everybody else to bail you out when you can't take take care of your own shit." I stood momentarily stunned. Something about being likened to a convicted felon wasn't sitting right with me. He went on, as he can always say more, berate me more. "You are irresponsible, and selfish. You need to get a better job. Did you know I worked a full-time factory job overnights when I was a full-time student in college? You can't just keep thinking a serving job is going to cut it. You need to start telling the people around you 'no'. No more dinners with your friends. No more of your sister's AAU tournaments. No more unnecessary expenditures. Focus solely on your bills. In fact, school can wait. These debts are more important. Grow up. It is time to grow up." I don't know if he simply ran out of nails to pin me to the cross he was erecting, or needed a breath. Either way, I know him stopping had nothing to do with the fact that he was beating the shit out of me like I was a verbal punching bag. It was almost as if he were trying to reiterate to himself in that ten minute tirade just why we got a divorce in the first place. You. punch. Are. punch. No. punch. Good. punch. However, although bruised, I had a million retorts rising from the depths of my wounded spirit. Only one took form. " I am not you. And I am thankful for that."



Don't get me wrong. Certain things he said to me have validity, could be applied to my daily life and aid me in my quest for lessened debt, lessened stress. I do need to prioritize bills more adequately, postpone and/or eliminate certain purchases and activities altogether until I can afford them without having to later struggle for a couple weeks when I try to pay off the things I put off to have them. All the while ducking calls from creditors, tearing up letters from my bank, knowing that I am taking an AK-47 to my credit score with each passing minute. Yes, he was right in this respect. I am irresponsible, with money. But does this quality make me overall a menace to society? The society in which I function aside from my financial failings in as a great friend and family member, respected and well-liked co-worker, intelligent mind in my classes.



And further more, perhaps he had a final valid observation. I let his use of the word 'selfish' invade my mind yesterday, and continue to marinate like 4th of July meat skewers into my today. And now, having pondered it so intently, I see that in this classification, he was right yet again. I am selfish. But that's just it. Selfish in its typical meaning, connotation is heard and perceived as a dirty word. But to me, it's not unclean. It is, if nothing else, paramount to the success of an individual, to contentedness, to the ability to affect the lives of those around you in a positive way. If we ourselves do not take the necessary steps to ensure that we are of sound mind, body, soul, and spirit, just how legitimately are we giving anything to another? Perhaps to him it is incalculable, and ignorant that I would put off paying my car loan for a week to spend the weekend in Chicago at my kid sister's AAU basketball tournament. But I know myself. And the overall reward to me psychologically from watching her drain 3 point baskets on a defense shattering step-back, or thread passes like needlework to teammates that I don't realize are even open is my life force, has the ability to help me maintain perspective in a life that is otherwise filled with "big picture" types of things, like homework, and having a second job, and shit, dating even. I could have gone ahead and paid that certain bill on time, and then worked closing shifts all weekend and made even more money to use on other bills. But with every, "And what may I bring you to drink?" and "Are you through enjoying this?" and fake laugh, and wine recommendation, and 20 percent tip I would have thought of her. And how quickly she is growing up, just yesterday a jaundiced little bundle new to our house, an unexpected little sister that mom became pregnant with at 40, to just days ago standing before me, 16 years old, in her
Rihanna'esque prom dress with boobs that make me think it's time to go ahead and upgrade my own. My sister. My heart. I can already hear his reply. "There will always be other tournaments." But as I didn't have the energy to say to him yesterday, I say it now, "There will always be bills." And yes, I know that they as well have the ability to affect my mood, negatively when not cashed out, caught up right away.

But I, and don't count me as one of those fatalist type personalities, do understand another element to why it pays to be somewhat selfish. Life is short. Make yourself smile. Talk to and surround yourself with the people that make you laugh, make you whole. Know that things like debt should be taken care of, but that it is more than okay to let them sit there a little while longer and go ahead and take that trip that might change your mindset, change your entire world. Besides, the person on the other end of that debt-collecting phone call is getting paid regardless of whether you hit the "hater" button on your cell phone when he/she calls.


So yes, Ex Factor. I am all those things. Irresponsible. Prone to Excess. Fucking Selfish. But if you must know as well, I am also loved. Respected. Believed in. Counted on. a Ticking time bomb. And seriously, you know all these things anyway. Because if you believed me completely bad, a convict as you said, you wouldn't take the time to lecture me in the first place. I am avoidable. Here's to you passengers, do something for yourself today. And don't give a shit about what you're not doing for whomever else when you do so. The others will be happier for it, even if they don't know it yet.


And now, the 60/40...

1. Good- Watching playoff basketball in a restaurant the other night, the bartender said to me, "You really aren't like other girls." I took it as a compliment. I am going to sports broadcast one day you know. Anybody can be tits and a teleprompter. Not that I'm above upgrading to a C-cup. I just want to be the most statistically knowledgeable boob job in the room.

2. Good- On a further sports note, my Yanks have won 9 of the last 10 and the Red Sox are well...check out espn.go.com for yourself. (Ensuing evil laugh).

3. Bad- I really am drowning a bit with bills. And something about barely keeping my head above water and having it constantly up my nose and searing my throat is a hard emotion to juxtapose with relative happiness in the other elements of my life.

4. Bad- I have a huge E359 Women's English Lit exam tomorrow at 11 A.M. I haven't started studying at all.

5. Good- There are only about two weeks, possibly less, of school left.

6. Bad- I have to go straight away after publishing this post to handle some business that I should have wrapped up months ago. And b/c of how little attention I paid it in regards to everything else in my life, it is now not close to be finished, and more along the lines of just beginning. And probably worse.

7. Good- I am going to get to see him this evening.

8. Bad- My premier mini-marathon is in 13 days. I plan on completing it. but I am going to be far less competitive than I had hoped to be. We will see how my planned 12 miler this week goes.

9. Good- We are about to have a wine tasting at work. Yay cabernet.

10. Good- I just found out that the local Applebee's will be having donkey's to ride and take pictures with on Cinco de Mayo. It is so stereotypically perfect. Only in Indiana.



Escuchar (Listen)- Nicky Minaj and Sean Garrett- "Get it all"- It's sexy, it's catchy, just listen. And then do that sexy baby-making dance you do when nobody else is around. Or that you do for money, if you're a stripper.


Mirar (Watch)- Parenthood on NBC. An hour of watching a smart, love-filled, but complex, and at times struggling family that you can definitely find glimpses of your own in. I relate to real. And the Braverman's are.


Leer (Read)- "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening," by Robert Frost.


Pensar (Think)- "The woods are lovely, dark and deep/ but I have promises to keep/ And miles to go before I sleep/ And miles to go before I sleep." --the last stanza of the aforementioned poem.


Have a wonderful Thursday all.

Mirror, mirror...

Passengers aboard flight 042010, this is your captain MsHap speaking. I took my own liberties with the tried and true inquiry of pure-hearted Snow White, as I stared earlier into my bathroom mirror, readying myself for public evaluation. "Mirror, mirror on the wall, who am I fooling, if any, at all?" She replied, "Why dear, only yourself of course. All who love you see truth regardless of what your appearance seeks to reinforce." "Fuck you," said I.

The nerve of that mirror, honestly. To tell me that I can't hide behind calculated maneuvers and loaded to-do lists, behind developed, habitual behaviors and mannerisms that show forth happiness, behind perfected brushstrokes that accentuate and yet conceal the realities of my face. "Watch and learn," I sarcastically flung at her, setting out all the tools of my arsenal haphazardly around the sink. I ran a brush through the strands of my hair, over and over, until it shined and showed no evidence of a night not slept through. A night in which I tossed and turned and tangled my mane with thoughts of complications and "What the hell do I do now's." I swirled my foundation brush in powder and buffed it into my tan skin, combating its sallowed, lackluster quality. Drip, drip went the Visine drops, two in each eye, erasing the traces of red that ebbed across them like lightning bolts. Dot, dot went concealer, under my ojos, to ease the dark circles that tears and insomnia create. And dot, dot, more yet, sporadically across my visage, in the sports where pimples told stories of increased stress levels, falling asleep before properly scrubbing the day's accumulated grime off of its surface, out of its pores. I lined, and contoured, and curled, and accessorized, and brushed and Listerine'd the taste of yesterday's failures right out of my mouth. I engaged in a staring contest with the mirror after all this effort. "Yes, fuck you," I reiterated, "I am not fooled by the image I see, I know who I am." "Oh," she calmly stated, "You do, do you?" "Yes," I shot back. "Then a bigger question exists my dear," she countered. "Do you like who you see?" I was the first to blink. And slowly avert my gaze and walk away.

On paper, and even somewhat psychologically/emotionally/physically I am doing better, feeling better. But I am far from right, still prone to pulling the pin on certain ticking timebombs that I have yet to completely disarm and/or rid of in my daily routines, and not throw them far enough away or even get them out of my fucking hand before they detonate. I am running, have two weeks left of this semester of school, am drinking much, much less. Check, check, double check. And yet, I still wonder every day if he is ever going to tell me "I love you" again, hate that I even wonder about that. I am still not prioritizing obligations over desires as I should be, and I have creditors and situations that are crippling me with uncertainty, and fear because of it. I am still fighting God.

And so, I'm off to complete the rest of this day. Work. Sweat session. Homework. All the while still asking myself and not knowing the answer to, "Do I like who I see, do I like who I am?" And then pondering the follow-up question, "What more am I to do?" I don't have a clue.

Spontaneous Combustion...

Passengers aboard flight 041410, this is your Captain MsHap speaking. I apologize on some level for the two days I took off from writing (I know some of you hang on my every palabra, as you have told me) and for this slight discomfort and any increased levels of anticipation I may have caused you, lo siento. Starting this week and seeing it successfully through, has been so far like staring down the barrel of a loaded gun, knowing that maneuvering the obstacles and obligations and simple desires of these seven days in April requires a steady, unfailing commitment to not taking my eyes off the weapon held between my eyes. I fall asleep each night, and wake each subsequent morning with the understanding of what my captor requires and expects of me over each 24 hour period, and comprehend as well, that if demands are not met, there will be hell to pay, be it lower grades at school, lack of responsibility and productivity at my jobs, diminished athletic stamina in regards to the mini marathon I am signed up to run in May, disappointment on the face of my sister (my world in no uncertain terms) if I were to miss her AAU basketball tourney this weekend in Chicago, calls from bill collectors if I do not get things paid on time.

My life has always been one that could potentially be this high strung, a series of check marks on an unending to-do list, and this is not the first week that I have ever had to tackle this amount of musts/shoulds/wants. However, it is the most that has befallen me in the better part of forever, days starting early (I am not a high-functioning member of society before 2 P.M.) and ending with a full powering down of my system, whether I want it or not, and not simply me falling into sleep/hibernation mode as before. More frightening to me yet, is the pinching feeling that has started to besiege me, at the spot of flesh where the bottom of my skull meets the upper region of my neck. The pinch, which is the result of being soaked by tidal waves of sheer realization as if I was to walk in on a cheating significant other, signals to me that if I am truly to be ME, the driven, achieving, contented, MsHap, than I will have these days, these weeks, this sort of frantic schedule until I am to be all burned out, used up, under. And it's not that I am capable of this lifestyle, don't find myself secretly wishing for it. It is just that I haven't strung more than a handful of good days together in so long, that to do so, is going to require an entire upgrade on my part, and not just in that "pop in a disc and tweak the bugs in my software, upgrade my anti-virus scanners, and gain the ability to have all the things I'm working on simultaneously exist on my screen." No. I am going to have to re-learn how to operate, have to delete more than cookies and temporary files out of my being, digging deep into my memory to rid (although only physically, because for some things there is no forgetting) of the detrimental, lazy, masochistic routines and mentalities that I have given myself over to since I was 18.

That was 8 years ago. 8 years of self-medication, degradation, lack of respect for myself. 8 years of disappointments, wrinkles on the brow lines of my parents, lies. 8 years of yo-yo weight loss and gain, unnecessary stress, and more heartbreak than one should ever have to endure. 8 years of wondering if I will ever live up to my potential, the talent and skill set that I have to hear I possess from people around me, be it my sister and brother, a close friend, or random individuals that I serve California rolls to at work every day. 8 long years of waking each day, even on those in which I wished I wouldn't have, knowing this potential exists within, and not the type of potential that scouts buzz about at the NFL combine, or the potential that exists because some fluke occurrence has created hype. No. Knowing instead that I have IT, laying so close to my surface, wanting to explode, energy forced still under the weight of my bad choices, my bad attitudes, my ingratitude towards God and his grace. Potential just marinating there, itching to be transformed from stagnant to kinetic.

Enough is enough already. It is time to plug in and re-boot. Re-release myself. And unfortunately for some, if you're a bug who only serves to build me up, only to watch me crash later, you won't be making the cut. And it doesn't mean you weren't fun. I've had a million great times, and have a million more to come on my plate. I just need to remember the majority of the great times. To not feel guilt when I think on them the next day. To not need your help to piece together an event that I should be able to easily recall. I am intelligent. I am in control of my destiny and self. I am much, more stronger than I have ever given myself credit for, stronger than I even believe myself to be now. Alt. Control. Delete.

Watch me burn.

The art of masochism

Definition of "masochism"- A willingness or tendency to subject oneself to unpleasant or trying experiences.
Definition of "masochist"- Me.

Passengers aboard flight 041110, this is your captain MsHap speaking. From the title of today's address, you might be under the impression that I am experiencing some level of pain, but that would be just as far removed from the truth as any promises that any politician has ever made in efforts to be elected to some office. I am feeling better currently than I have over the past 11 days, and I am honestly a little startled to have just now realized that I have only been away from he and our normal routine for about a week and a half. It has felt like, and this is uber cliche, an eternity. The last time we broke up in January, we had literally ZERO contact over the course of the exact same amount of time, and if he had not unexpectedly texted me during one of the Colts playoff games, I don't know how long we would have gone without speaking. But this time has been so much different. I've had random contact with him since around 5 days ago, mostly via text, and seeing him for about an hour at a time out in public on two different occasions, and yet, I have remained a card-carrying, certified, yellow taped disaster area despite this contact, inwardly at least. Until last night.

I knew (or at least wished, hoped, prayed) that if I kept myself in his mind's eye and literal eye on a somewhat regular basis, that I would slowly break him down. Despite the fact that since the beginning of this month, I have managed to throw myself down off the pedestal I once posed on before him, giving him insta-flu symptoms when someone mentioned my name or he caught a glimpse of my face, I have endured this break-up with the feeling, although so very slight at times these past days, that what we have, what we are together, far transcends a simple sexual chemistry, lives far and above lust. It is the stuff that dreams are made of, if by dream I mean a nightmare. One in which, at least in this life, you have to wake up every morning to realize that you are in love with another, and they with you, but as the deck has been stacked previous to your developing into an "us," the only way to a happily ever after is to re-shuffle the deck and dole out a new hand to everyone involved. Seems simple enough right? Bad hands are folded and thrown back into the stack on a daily basis, even when at face value they seem fine, can be put into contention and with enough bullshitting yourself and others, actually bring about some level of success. In life, it is a known fact, that not everybody feels the need to chase pocket aces by folding whatever else they get in hopes that at some point, on some night, they will get them. Two same suit, or a pair of sevens is all some will ever need to keep playing, keep smiling, keep living. For he and I, we are that coveted pair of aces, but with one major hitch. If we lay ourselves out on the table, play our cards and dare anyone around us to have a better hand, there will be no rejoicing, no Jersey Shore fist-pumps when we win, trump everyone else. There will be pain, innocent suffering, public scrutiny, and regret. Yes, we will have each other, and that would be necessary. Because I am not certain there would be any one else around when we cause the house of cards to tumble down.

So, as of last night, I was right to feel that he could not possibly keep stiff-arming me when we know that we love and exist in this realm, this scope of feeling, as long as I made it clear to him, and believe me when I say this for once, that I am finished playing the stupid games that I had before. We were not together for long last night, and nothing was "fixed" in that meaning of the word, no return to our former selves consummated. But the atmosphere between us was different, passion choking us to the point of him on some level, finally tapping out to me, offering me the understanding, even if unsaid, that it isn't over. We are not done. And with this realization, is where I drew the inspiration for my title tonight, "The Art of Masochism," because with every victory, whether small or great, is understanding. I understood then, just as I do now, as I honestly have from the start with he, that this would be a story told in equal parts ecstasy and pain. And although I do not hurt now, as I stated early on, I am not jaded, I understand that in this portion of my life, in this particular relationship, that I am a cutter, and he is my razor blade. But no one gets to see these marks but me. Because they are tucked away inside. Some will see the outward, external manifestations that accompany these strategic slices I inflict, in tears, grimaces, food not eaten. I have to be absolutely stuffed with scar tissue by now. And although his razor blade becomes a little more dull with each light switch symphony we conduct, that only means that to feel the same eventual joy I have before, that I have to drag him across me harder and deeper. I wonder at what point I will eventually bleed out.

However, no promises have been made, or plans created. I just know that I felt like home last night. And that, having felt like I had been marooned on a deserted island these past weeks, is something I will welcome despite the knowledge that home in this sense, is temporary, unstable, and a nut house. Welcome back, welcome back, welcome back. And now, the 60/40.

1. Good- I am in increasingly better shape than I was when this all went down, and have 6 runs planned this week, one being a 10 miler. Last week's 8 was like a free visit to the shrink.
2. Bad- I have a ridiculous amount of school work on my plate this week and a schedule of obligations (most I have been putting off like the plague) to rival it.
3. Bad- Mickelson won the Masters today. I was secretly pulling for Tiger. Not that I'm all bandwagon and live in the hype. But just because I understand, from the pit of my stomach, what it is like to mess up, BAD, and have to try again, make yourself better, and struggle to balance failures with current progress.
4. Good- I had a wonderful dinner with my best friend from work and his family for his wife's birthday this evening. It included mussels, a little Cabernet, veal in cream sauce, and desserts galore.
5. Good- I am thinking about getting another tattoo. A Spanish sentiment, on my side (rib area).
6. Bad- I heard that area hurts the worst, and I am not excited about having to hide another tatt from the parentals. I can still remember my Asian mom screeching and blowing a head gasket when she saw my sports tramp stamp a few Easters ago when I was showering.
7. Bad- I am walking back into no-man's land. I am a creature of habit.
8. Good- The Yankees beat the Rays today and now are 4-1. As for you Cubs fans...ouch.
9. Good- Kid sister has her first out of state AaU tourney this weekend (fri/sat/sun) in Chi-town and I haven't been there since the summer. Can not wait. Ballerific.
10. I feel 5 lbs lighter physically and 25 lbs lighter emotionally.

Escuchar (Listen)-She Bangs- Ricky Martin. He just came out people. I know, I know, we have known this from day one. If you listen to the song closely enough, you can almost swear now he's actually singing "He Bangs."

Mirar (Watch)-She's Outta my League, in theaters now. Genuinely cute story plot, great chemistry between the main couple, and really funny dialogue. Gratuitous use of the word "fuck." My kind of movie.

Pensar (Think)- Blessed are those who drink, for they shall inherit a buzz. --Unknown.

Leer (Read)- A Separate Peace, by John Knowles. Classic.

Is it in Me?

Passengers on board flight 040810, this is your captain MsHap speaking. I am currently sitting around waiting on the return on my kid sis with my vehicle so I can drive into town and attempt this 8 mile run that I have been so proficiently putting off for about a week. It's crucial that I get these longer runs in, slow or not, because I'm sitting about 30 days outside of the race, and competitive to a fault (not that I think I'm going to be chasing the leaders), but would nonetheless not like too many people from this area or that I know personally to be faster than me. Call it vanity, I care not. It's a bit windy outside, but thus equals the forecast of my inward state of MsHap, so it is nothing I can't deal with. I netted plenty of sleep last night, ate some food, although still not because I actually desired it, and have enough inner demons to expel to run an ultra marathon in the Sahara Desert right now. OK, that's a lie. I have neither the strength, stamina, stupidity, or penchant to endure that level of heat to even begin to fathom, let alone complete something of that caliber.

I'm not certain what I will do after I get this run in. One of the hottest guys I've ever seen around these parts has been asking me to hang out the past couple nights (last night, I held him at arms length) and he just texted me again. Certain ones of my friends are calling me stupid, blasphemous almost for shunning a "gift" like him. I just don't know if I have it in me right now to even be entertained, or distracted by anyone outside of Gordon Hayward or Cristiano Ronaldo (look them up if you aren't sure who they are), or if I'm honestly ready to just go through the post-break up song and dance just yet. Is it really fair to either of us, regardless of his intentions? Or am I just being an idiot? I have used these "filler" type of guys to get over everything from my first love at 18 to my divorce. Why the fuck would this be any different, would I mourn and move on from him any differently? Oh, that's right. Because even though we all use this new car smell mentality to get us at least mentally detached from people in our past, we all know there is a common theme to what usually happens at some point following our encounter with a "mind eraser." We either A.) try and start up some relationship with this alternate person, usually failing later because we weren't emotionally ready to get into anything with someone else at the time we chose to, or B.) just feeling worse or more empty than when we started, than if we had just stayed at home and decided instead to try and cultivate a new relationship with a workout DVD, a new sitcom, and a bottle of wine. I'm about 50/50 as to whether I am gonna go chill with him later tonight or just blow him off yet again and snuggle in with Jane Eyre and other school reading and hope the slide show of the past 8 months isn't on prime time in my mind for the 10th night straight. I wish I had some replacement batteries in my remote.

Post-run dissection, 60/40 and other stuff coming later when I get home. I've only been awake a few hours. I don't really have 10 things in my mind to even discuss with you based on my day yet.

And yet found...

Passengers aboard flight 040810, this is your captain MsHap on the loudspeaker. I'm not certain how long this particular post will pan out to be, as I am running on 4 horas of sleep, and had the kind of day in which a nap would have been not only nice, but was almost a necessity. I literally almost parked my car along a road I was driving along early evening because I thought at any time I ran the possibility of succumbing to narcolepsy and proceeding to careen into a local establishment or local elderly couple. I am obviously still alive. Great success. Oh, what a difference a day made. And not that anything extraordinary came of the events of my day, or that I cranked out a mega to-do list like I was tweaking on something, or that he decided we could try this all over again. Instead, I simply made it to all of my classes, saw and spoke minimally to him, saw my co-worker/close friend's new addition (adorable she, by the way), had a catch-up dinner with another good friend, and then cranked out some interval runs and abs/arms domination. And no, none of these things are anything that you would find me not doing again at some point, or that I don't already do with some regularity (increasingly so day by day in the time that I am devoting to workouts again), and yet, it was all enough.

Enough of what, you might muse. Enough to get me to eat again after a day and a half of not. Enough to keep me occupied enough that I had little down time to ponder potential texts to him, potential schemes. Enough to allow me some genuine belly laughs around friends. Enough to hold a tiny two and a half week old life in my arms, and have her sleep peacefully, while her rambunctious, steadily approaching 2 year old sister tumbled and giggled and made me wish, if just for a fleeting second, that I might have already mothered one of my own. Enough to keep me from further spinning out following yesterday's performance of Girl, Interrupted. Enough to have him sit across from me a little over a week later, finally look at me in the beginnings of his soft way, and tell me maybe about our possibilities instead of the resounding no's I had been getting then and since. Enough to start to feel that with time, it could be possible to just be his friend, have him in my life in that capacity and that be ENOUGH. Enough that I feel comfortable enough with the check mark's of today that I can sleep without as much weight on my chest for the first time in a while.

I'll post again, including the 60/40 and the check, check, check now check it outs in the afternoon, after some sleep. Good night.