Because I Hate Loose Ends

There are times in life when one's focus will shift in a flash. When the grey in life looks more white and less black, or more black and less white, than it had the day before. A slight change in perspective greatly alters what you want. Not for better, not for worse - things just change.

I enjoy these unsolicited turnabouts. In my experience, they direct me towards where I want to end up but never knew how to get to. And one of these out-of-the-blue epiphanies happened in my life a short time before the holidays.

Just like that, I didn't want to open my computer. Being a girl who is easily swayed away from things she doesn't want to do, the computer began to collect dust. As did this blog.

The most interesting bit is that it was easy. I had a slew of other things I wanted to do - from reading a book, to engaging in my job, to watching Christmas movies, to sewing curtains, to doing absolutely nothing and enjoying it - and so I did them and neglected the blog I had loved so much.

While this particular turnabout was unsolicited, I think I know why it came about. Work.

Can't we blame everything on work?

The truth about my work is that it matters greatly to me that I do it very well. This requires education. Reading, thinking, discussing, thinking more, reading more, etc. Sure, I slack off from being an eternal student at times, but this is not one of those times. This is one of those times when I remember exactly why I love what I do. And this love for my work is, I believe, what flipped my focus 180 degrees and sidelined my beloved blog.

Sidelined. Meaning it will remain here. I will, hopefully, come back to it. I still think in "blog" and doubt that will go away anytime soon. But for now, I'll wish you all the best and thank you for spending your time here. It was incredibly special to me.

A Pit-Stop in Pettytown

Once upon a time, I had a sweater.

Sure, I have sweaters now. All shades of the rainbow and textures from silky smooth to knotty knit. Even after living in deserts for two years, my sweater collection has grown, but none have matched that sweater.

Black, simple and understated, it had a perfectly draping cowl neck that both kept me cozy and kept me looking fine. Sleeves long enough to wrap my wrists in wooly warmth and a fit that clung to my hips and forgave the odd lumps and bumps we all find popping up as the winter progresses. This sweater fit me like a glove and was, for all intents and purposes, my woven BFF... who also made me look hot.

As spring approached, I released this knitted wonder to some much needed R&R, tucking it away in cedar-scented storage until next year's unveiling.

Or so I thought.

Next year came around and, like a fair-weathered friend, I failed to notice the sweater's absence from my winter wardrobe. Until the day she wore it to class.

She was my former friend. She is the only person blocked from seeing my on Facebook. Much like the duration of our friendship, the prospect of reuniting with this nut job would bring far too much drama to my door.  I'm usually a devoted friend to the end, but her tendency for the manic wore my willpower to that of a paper doilie - the Walgreens brand. I just didn't hold up to her overflow of bullshit.

That day in class, my attention span drove me to look for anything - read everything - more interesting than the lecture at hand. And my eyes spotted my familiar friend: not her, but it.

She was wearing my favorite sweater.

And I knew it.

I knew it because that sweater hadn't been made in several years.  I knew it because she'd never worn it before and we'd been in school together for several years now. I knew it because I'm a woman and we just know these things.

Vowing to be as mature as possible, I wrote a note.

It read: "Hey, that's a great sweater. It totally reminds me of one I used to have."

She replied: "That's because it is yours."

I replied: "Then why are you wearing it?"

She replied: "Because you gave it away to Goodwill and I took it from the donation bag."

Now, whether or not this was true is up to the history gods. I can't recall any such Goodwill exchange happening. I can't imagine a then sincere friend going through a bag of donated goods and not asking "Hey, what's your favorite sweater doing in here?" before deciding to take it for herself. But I also can't say that didn't happen. Because weirder things have definitely happened.

And I'm not here to write about fights over sweaters - which didn't happen because I let the subject drop. I'm not that petty... I hope. I'm here to talk about the weird things that happens in life - the shtick that makes your jaw hang and face scrunch and your brain lapse for anything more than WTF.

Sweaters appearing on exfriends included. Or meeting someone from my east coast hometown atop a mountain in Alaska. Or only making out with Canadians when I traveled through Europe. All have happened in my life along with many other randomly weird things. While they're bizarre as all get out at the moment, they're hilarious later on. And that's why I love my life.

Give me your weirdest, I can handle it.

What is Your Ex Saying About You?

Ever consider what your history says about you? 

In the broader sense, it says everything. But when picked apart into pieces, it paints an incomplete picture. To only view the academic part of my life would show an entirely different me. You'd see the product of Catholic school and higher education, but you'd miss out on the mischievous minx who orders furniture far too wide for her itty bitty stairwell and cracks "that's what she said" jokes.

And while the complete person stands before me, I always fall back on the sum of parts when getting to know someone. Each fact, story and, yes, rumor gets weighed into the balance. Not because I choose this method, but because I can't avoid it. It's all very subconscious.

Once a fact is known - good, bad or ugly - how do we ignore it when it contrasts with the person standing before us?

For example, when a new friend appears nothing shy of caring, how does your opinion change when she tells you she abandoned her dog at the pound because he was too much work? And when your friend complains about her mother's endless degrading comments, does your opinion change when said mother appears supportive and loving in person? 

How much do we factor in the bits and pieces to the person standing in our plain view?

What brings this up is the question currently confronting me: How much does an ex say about your love interest?

Not in the "He was always late and unappreciative" sense, or the "Keep your hands off him, you little witch!" sense. But in regards to how you view the man before you, and how what you learn will change that view.

The guy in question is all blue eyes and black hair, all well spoken and charming, all humble good manners and bone dry wit. But he dated her - the French dimwit hobag who couldn't pick out a Camembert from a Gouda. 

Not that cheese identification is a requirement, but she is French and her IQ was a few points shy of matching a goldfish. And every chance she got, her cleavage was on display from neck to navel. What she lacked in wit was not made up for in class. These things I knew about her long before I knew anything about him.

So now I see a tiny French figure who oozes cleavage sitting on his left shoulder, announcing inane things such as "Zis is zee boyfriend de moi!" and "Ooh, mon cheri, is dis chemise showing zee boobies for vous?"

I resist the urge to flick her off his shoulder, with force, right in her smarmy imaginary face, so I can see him as he was - as he really is. A man with a past, captivating my interest at present.

Yet try as I may, I can't ignore what I know. Hearing one persuasive fact, it runs all over the image standing before me, smearing what was once a perfect portrait. 

And at times in the past, improving a flawed piece of work. There have been guys I wasn't too sure of who got a second chance once I had learned of something favorable in their past - something that spoke to their character. Something that caught my wavering attention.

Even though the real man stands before me, I imagine another man made of the bits and pieces I know about him - French floozie included. The more I find out about his past, the more there is to factor into the equation. But how much is relevant?

Do I hold on to the good bits and discard the bad? Do I weigh them in at all? Or do I file them away for consideration at a later date?

And then I have to consider, what is my past saying about me?