Bitch For a Reason

Kill me now.

I don’t know, go for the jugular if it’s going to do the job quickly. On second hand, too messy. How bout give me a bottle of the aging Xanax bottle on the bedside that you convinced your doctor you needed. No sweat off your back. Okay, enough of the melodrama. There is a valid reason for this banter. In some odd, twisted way I have died inside metaphorically numerous times, even more so now that I’ve entered the void of dating.

Yes, I’m spewing again. This tango called “dating” is an intricate mess and is tiring: Who leads, who follows, can we take turns… and are heels a necessity?

Note: If you’re unfamiliar with my writing I’m a divorce, single Mom of three. What that means, is that I not only do I have limited time between playdates and PMS to actually date, but I have to expunge energy into the allure of looking good.

 Thus my rampant dating spree with the free time I’ve had.

My adventures began with online dating since I was having little to no free time for exploration in my world of “Mommyhood”. I don’t think it’s important whether it’s online or accepting an invite from a potential suitor, in the end we are two strangers. Each merging with a story or hidden past, bringing our past into the present of how we have arrived at this current juncture. Now. Here.

Hopefully, if the baggage and the drama haven’t diluted the soul, I believed-notice the past tense, that two people could merge together to build a future.

Here’s the thing: I didn’t know what I wanted; I simply knew what I didn’t want. It’s as though the universe has played some wicked joke because it seems the only characters-yes characters, that have entered the world are filled with empty conversation  and are all what I don’t want.

I have been spanked(mind you consensual) twisted in yoga poses, worked out in gyms I wouldn’t work out in, listened to wistful promises, been offered to be whisked away on romantic adventures, propositioned by married men (no thanks), young studs that would probably ejaculate prematurely once I peeled the layers of silk off and yet in the end, nothing. Nada.

 Nothing that has come close to a tug or slight sway of a waning heart. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t know if I’m even ready to embrace that notion: L.O.V.E. But can I at least smell it’s jasmine promise? I have a friend that finds love in a second, a minute or even in a week. She is an all encompassing soul but I am far too careful to allow that love to be shared. Selfish yes, but as a mother and a woman trying to ground herself spiritually and morally, I’m a walking contradiction.

            Here’s the thing. After failed attempts at finding or meeting a compatible person, you can only turn that void and the incessant voice of blame on yourself. You start to wonder: Is it me?

So, I carry the aura of a diva. So what?

I have been counseled by numerous friends that in order to invite the right men into my life I must allow myself  to peel open the lotus of possibility: in other words stop being a bitch. Now the word “bitch” has many connotations. My bitch term mind you is not the whore or degrading adjective often used. My “bitch” means that I have certain simple rules I adhere to: RESPECT. What’s wrong with that? I simply think a woman should be “treated” by her suitor and over time incorporate what she has to offer in exchange for the hospitality. Not sex necessarily. But whatever the couple feels kinetically is a connection.

Now those few that are part of my private circle, know I am a sucker for kindness and simplicity. I have the terrible attribute of being opinionated and honest. That does not bode well for many men. It seems to intimidate, petrify or make them shit in their pants. Why? I don’t know. Because I don’t have time to waste and I don’t want to invite a partner between my silk sheets for a temporary adventure? Done that. Did that. What’s left is an empty carcass and a soulless journey.

Where are the men? The real men that appreciate a woman that is sensual and can even can cook a damn good meal: a woman like me that isn’t going to be a leech and not call you every waking moment. Wait. Is that the problem? That I am independent and challenged enough in my daily ritual that I don’t need to be the princess in distress. Well I am in a quandy by the propaganda of bullshit about love. And I am somewhat a damsel in distress, but I don’t dare burden my potential mate with these issues. Is that why I am not being offered that man who will protect and serve me as I had hoped I would be able to reciprocate?

            So if you kill me off, on my epitaph kindly print these words in BOLD.

            “She was a bitch for a reason”