Grown-ups

We're adults. When did that happen? And how do we make it stop?
-Meredith Grey

Yup. We're grown-ups. I know this because today I took my car in to get an emission inspection and then wrote a check to the county commissioner to renew the tag on my car. (Special thanks to the state of Georgia for requiring all car tags to be renewed on your birthday. What a great birthday gift!) All the while thinking, this is such a grown-up thing to do. It is solely my responsibility to do this. If I don't do it, I will get a ticket. College is not grown-up. In college, my dad would have taken care of that for me.

Don't get me wrong. There are some awesome things about being an adult. Most of them, really. As a kid, I never would have been able to eat half a pint of Ben & Jerry's in the middle of the afternoon, straight out of the carton. I couldn't stay out as late as I wanted or drink tequila or watch any movie I wanted to. And of course there's the sex. We can't forget about that.

But before we get caught up in our Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough, orgasmic reverie, a letter arrives in the mail from the county tax commissioner demanding a check so that you can drive to work legally. Or your car insurance. Or the student loans. (And to prove that I have been a grown-up for awhile now, I have officially paid off the entirety of my student loans. All of it! Am officially debt-free. Go ahead. Congratulate me.) And all the decisions that have to be made. Where to live? What to do with your life? It's all so very difficult. And stressful. Very stressful. But that's why we have ice cream. And the sex.

Wanted: Person

I need a new person.

This morning I received news from Conrad that he had been in the hospital last night. Apparently after hours of pain and limited vision, he got a friend to drive him to the emergency room. Apparently he had a chemical burn to the cornea from working in the lab. Scary! After making sure he was ok, which he is, I realized something. He didn't even tell me about it. I don't blame him for not asking me to take him to the hospital (I live 15 minutes away) but he didn't even mention it. Yes (Violet) I know he's not my boyfriend and he doesn't have to tell me anything, but come on.

If I was at home alone freaking about my burning eyes and loss of vision, I would be freaking out to him about my burning eyes and loss of vision. He's my person!

"You can't be sleeping with your person."

Ok (Violet) so Conrad and I may not be the Meredith and Christina of persons, but we have each other. Sometimes. When we feel like it. For right now anyways.

"Yeah you're not his person."

Yes (Violet) I'm not his person! No amount of pain, burning, or possibility of irreversible damage could get him to even send a complaining text message. I am not his person. So why did I think I was? Maybe because I talk to him everyday? Maybe because he's my closest/most geographically desirable friend right now? Maybe because things between him and I are the best they've ever been? (and by best I mean worst).

"You need a new person."

I know (Violet), I totally need a new person. One who will call me to take them to the hospital. One who I will freak out about things to. One who I'm not sleeping with. Now accepting applications.

Deterioration of the Fight or Flight Response

"Human beings need a lot of things to feel alive. Family. Love. Sex. But we only need one thing to actually be alive. We need a beating heart. When our heart is threatened, we respond in one of two ways. We either run or we attack. There’s a scientific term for this: Fight or flight. It’s instinct. We can’t control it. Or can we?” –Grey’s Anatomy

For some reason I was thinking about this quote from Grey’s Anatomy today. It’s been a while now since MM broke my heart. I’m sure you all are getting tired of hearing about it, but I’m finally starting to get over it. I think that quitting my job really helped. I’m happy now. I don’t wake up every morning thinking about MM and dreading going to work. I’m starting to feel like myself again rather than a watered down version. OK so I still don’t jump out of bed singing “Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah, Zip-A-Dee-A! My, oh my, what a wonderful day!”, but who does? I’ve been taking advantage of my freedom. I’ve been going to the gym. I even have an interview for an internship next week. (Hoorah!) I’m feeling positive about my future. There is only one problem…

While I’m no longer pining after MM (v. good), I’m finding that the experience has heightened my flight instinct (v. bad). So I ask you, can we control this? In December, when I first tried to revisit online dating, I panicked and gave into the flight response. I clearly wasn’t ready. However, with my fresh optimism and zest for life, I thought maybe I should give online dating another try after all. I decided that this time I wasn’t going to take it as seriously. I wouldn’t get obsessed and overly excited about guys before I even met them. I was still a little worried that I wasn’t ready, so I was hesitant to even tell anyone. I guess I was embarrassed by my own indecisiveness. (Apparently optimism doesn’t overshadow indecisiveness.) Plus I wanted to make sure I was doing this for me rather than because of some unspoken societal pressure.

One of my first messages was from a guy who wrote some BS about the “dichotomy of women-folk” and told me to check out his profile and see if it spoke to me. It definitely did. It SCREAMED douche bag! Here is an excerpt from his profile for your enjoyment:

I’m a breast man, no two ways about it (get it?). My dad always said, “[Name removed], if it’s more than a handful, it’s wasted!” My father was a wise man. Any bigger than D’s and I’m gonna notice that you got D’s on your hips, belly and thighs too. I don’t like a lot of eye make-up, because I like pretty eyes. No spiderlashes! Not every girl I dated was a model, but I like cute girls. I like waking up next to my girl and believe for a moment that an angel spent the night and kept her wings in her purse while she slept. Then I steal her halo before she wakes up!

Yes ladies, this man is on the market! The breast man went on to state the following list of dating “exclusions” (because you know that the women are just fighting for the chance to date him and he needed to narrow down the playing field): no divorcees, no separatees, no amputees, no mommies, no drugees, no diabetes, no lime disease, no STDs. Well at least he made me laugh.

I’ve been talking to another guy who seems nice and normal. He wants to meet up this weekend, but for some reason I’m hesitant. I told him I wasn’t sure if I was free tonight, but I’d let him know. In reality I had absolutely no plans. I just wasn’t sure if I was ready. The panic is still there, but I can’t live my life in fear of getting hurt. I guess I’m going to have to fight the flight response. This brings to mind fainting goats. Fight or flight? Sometimes you really just can’t decide! Please send positive thoughts my way!

Post-Breakup syndrome

Upon returning to reality yesterday after my weekend away with the Highlander, I knew we had come to the end of our road. The cons were just adding up far too quickly. I thought things were settled on Sunday when I said "Maybe we shouldn't see each other anymore," but apparently he thought I was saying that out of anger, because when he came over on Tuesday to pick up his cat (who I was very sorry to see go), he told me he was "confused" about us. "What do you think?," he asked. "I don't think we should see each other anymore." That ended his confusion.

And after he left, I was rather quite jolly. Here I had managed to end a relationship that in all aspects was extremely convenient, and would have been easy to stay in, but for all the wrong reasons. We both managed to act like mature adults, going out with a hug and a goodbye kiss (0r two), and the promise that we would hang out again, and wouldn't let our differences stand in the way of the budding friendship between our cats.

But it wasn't long before the post-breakup syndrome set in. You know, that sudden realization that you have no idea where your next kiss or cuddle is coming from. Or realizing that you are a mere 10 days away from your next birthday and are once again 100% single. (Why, oh why couldn't I have held out for the birthday?! No. That would have been immoral and wrong.) And finally, that sinking feeling that you really and truly haven't made any plans for the weekend yet. Because let's face it: when you're single, you have to work to fill up your evenings. If you don't put forth some serious effort, you will end up spending night after night watching Grey's Anatomy with your cat. (And that's only acceptable on Thursdays.)

My PBS was not helped by the fact that High sent me a sappy text or two about how sad he was. Call me crazy, but I see a break-up hookup in our future. But for now, I shook off the sappy texts and emailed my girls that I was now 100% single and needed some help in filling up my calendar. (This is why it helps not to ignore those girls while The Boy is still around. I pride myself in NEVER doing that.) They'll come through for me. They always do.

Paging Dr. McDreamy

We here at WWBD? love Grey's Anatomy. Seriously. I can't speak for Scarlet and Grayer, but I take the show as gospel truth regarding the happenings at all hospitals. Which is why I was seriously disappointed at how my Saturday turned out.

My mom was visiting over the weekend, and unfortunately, our Saturday plans were derailed when I had to take her to the hospital (nothing serious, she's fine). We were a few hours into our 13-hour stay when I said (in only mock frustration) "This is nothing like Seattle Grace! Where are all the cute doctors?" No sooner had the words left my mouth when there was a knock on the door... and in walked a cute doctor. Cute enough for even my mother to notice. "There you go, Vi," she said after he had left. "There's your cute doctor."

So why was I disappointed? Cute as he was, he was no Karev/McDreamy/Sloan clone, and I saw him for a total of 15 minutes, all of which occured before I went home to shower and change, and was therefore wearing my glasses, no mascara, and had greasy bangs. Ugh. On top of that I was bored all day. I didn't see a single doctor or nurse running, no severed limbs, no bombs in bodies (quite grateful for that one, actually) and worst of all, I did not see a single intern getting it on in the on-call room/supply closet/empty patient room. This is no Hicksville General either; it is a major hospital in the middle of a major city. (Actually, I was told had I gone to the one nearby, I could have possibly witnessed a myriad of gun shot wound victims.) Clearly there is something wrong with this hospital, because there is certainly nothing wrong with my Seattle Grace.