So this blog is written by two delightfully fabulous women. One of us recently went out with someone, it turns out, whose mother is my age. (True story) Let me just point out here, before you read any further, that you can only be accused of a midlife crisis if you have had a history of making sound judgments. So dear readers, I’m pretty sure you know which one of us had a rollicking good time.
I’m not one to kiss and tell (I mean tell A LOT of people. As in, I wouldn’t tweet this, but I certainly texted and emailed and am now blogging about it. But I don’t think he knows. Well, if he’s reading this, then he knows now. Holla! Call Me Maybe!! Hahaha) So anyway, I’m writing about self-discovery. About two very different realizations.
One is that men are like food. Let me explain. My greatest fear was that this eye candy would turn out to be fondant—you know, fantastic to look at, but does not satisfy. In fact, disappoints (as in Ryan Lochte when he opens his mouth). The good news is he wasn’t fondant (as in he was articulate and really nice and funny). The bad news is he also wasn’t the cake (as in OMG!). I’ve decided he was a cupcake. So cute to look at. Everyone ooh’s and aah’s over cupcakes. There are high expectations. But here’s the thing, I never rode the cupcake craze. I have always found them to be overrated. C’mon, they’re merely smaller versions of cake. There’s inevitably too much frosting, and not enough of the substantial part—the cake itself. So was I disappointed? No, I’m not going to pass up a cupcake! Hey, they’re not serving cake and ice cream. So, moral of the story—assess the dessert table, and let them eat cake. Sometimes the calories are worth it.
The second realization was that this had nothing to do with him. It is all about me. Hear me out. You know how when you first meet someone, you’re worried about making a good impression? And then you’re wondering if he’s going to call the next day? Well, there is something very freeing in not caring about those things. Not caring because I owned my fabulosity. I allowed myself the freedom to just have fun. I gave myself the courage to be authentic. I have settled into the comfort of being in my own skin. It would be silly and disingenuous to say I don’t care at all what people think of me, but it is no longer a driving force. There’s a wonderful stillness in understanding the concept of “just not that into you.”
OK, full disclosure: I’m not always this graceful (Big surprise). It is a process. Especially when, it turns out, he just wasn’t that into me. True to form, I did get kinda pissed off, just a tad bit indignant. How DARE you not realize how amazing I am? I was NOT underwhelming, you dickwad! I didn’t even LIKE you! (Mind you, we both went into this with the same understanding of ‘nothing will come of this.’ But still…) Then comes the awkwardness of seeing each other in passing.
And then it hit me. I can choose to let go of embarrassment, indignation, and hurt because that’s the graceful thing to do. I can’t embrace the great moments in life if my arms are holding on to resentment and anger. I have nothing to feel awkward about. I think we both had a good time. A fine time. Just not one of those “that into you” times. So the next time I see him, I don’t need to glare and mutter “hello” through clenched teeth. Instead, I can smile genuinely and be kind and graceful. Because it’s not for him. It’s for me. I need to remain graceful for me. How delightful to know that for once, it IS all about me!
There is something exhilarating about opening oneself up to be vulnerable and authentic, and making connections with people. Not all connections should be the same intensity, and sometimes we falter and fail, sometimes we’re rejected or let down. It’s in how we respond that matters, that is what defines us. We are not defined by our hurts. And in the meantime, I’ll drown my sorrows in cupcakes.