Now, before y’all think I err on the hairy side of feminism, LET ME EXPLAIN.

Every three weeks for the last five years I remove my leg hairs with wax. This has undeniably made a difference to the overall quantity and texture of my hair. It now grows back much thinner, lighter and in patches as opposed to thick, dark and all over the place. (There really is no poetic way of discussing body hair.)

The only problem with this method is the one awkward hairy week right before my appointment.

In winter and in singledom, this week is fine. But in summer and in coupledom, this week is tricky. So for two of the six weeks we were together, I was howdoIputthis not exactly smooth. Sure the thought of shaving did cross my mind. But I could not bring myself to put a razor on my legs. I could not bring myself to waste the five years of patient waxing simply because I was seeing some guy.

I also didn’t  really care. I felt sexy and pretty and great, even if my legs felt like porcupine edges of a hedgehog. Admittedly I didn’t want him running his hands down my legs during those between appointment days. And when he did, I would push my face under his arm and say, ‘I know it doesn’t feel good but in five days I’ll be smooth again. Promise.’  He didn’t seem to mind. But having said,  I also thought he really liked me. This turned out to be wrong.  So in the absence of any real information on the matter, sometimes I think that hebroke up with me because I didn’t shave my legs.

(WHAT? It is totally within the realm of possibility.)

Regardless of his attitude towards my body hair, I often think about my attitude to this scenario. Does the fact that I wasn’t motivated to shave my legs for this man mean that I didn’t like him enough? Or does it mean that–finally–at 28 I’m comfortable in my own skin? Does it mean that I have accepted my body the way it is?

Because despite its imperfections on hairy days or bloated days or fat days I still feel sexy. The truth is that I feel my sensuality within me all the time. It lies beneath the surface of my flawed skin. It’s not written on smooth, almost airbrushed legs.  Rather I feel it in the way that I swing my hips when I walk. My sensuality isn’t only revealed in a lacy, push-up bra;  rather I feel it when I touch my collarbone. I feel it when my breasts rise ever so slightly when I breath.

And so if I feel happy (and sexy) the way I am and if I chose not to change this because of a man, I’ve got to ask:

Is this what it feels like to be confident?

Is this what it fees like to be a real woman?

I know this because I feel it. First it comes as a breathless, stabbing pain in my chest. Then it descends to my gut as if I’ve just been pushed out from an airplane without a parachute. It is at once painful and terrifying.

There are minutes where I believe that this is the way it will be. Period. I will live a life of quiet, peaceful unfulfillment. It is at once a choice and a resolution. But mostly its a defense. A wall I’m building around the disappointed fragments of my heart (and mind).

And yet there are minutes where I feel so hopeful that I almost shed actual fucking tears. This optimism that I will find a person that will love me seems so incredible to me. Because ordinarily I believe in evidence based facts. And I have absolutely no evidence to suggest that I will. These unfailing minutes of faith feel at once beautiful and delusional.

These lonely minutes are usually few and far in-between. Some weeks pass without a single minute. Other times, there will be days filled with countless of these minutes.

Today was one of those days. Today I felt all one thousand four hundred and forty minutes of  painful, terrified, beautiful and delusional loneliness.

And how would you ever find a way to justify that?

Initially, I reacted in the arrogant way that we all react sometimes. I am different. Then I made a judgment. Who are these silly women that believe that one person (and a piece of paper) can satisfy their every idiosyncratic need?

She began to cite the most common needs that women expect to be fulfilled through marriage. It was an exhaustive and long list. I rolled my eyes at the silliness. But, five minutes in I felt myself nodding in agreement. Ten minutes in, I began to furiously scratch an imaginary itch on my arm. Fifteen minutes in, I began to cross my legs, unfold them and then cross them again. At twenty minutes, I actually huffed and puffed. Finally– mid-session– I exclaimed to my therapist,

‘Goodness woman, I am so damn irritated and I don’t know why.’

It turns out that I am one of those silly women. I  have the expectation that The One will somehow complete me in every single way possible. To further my own embarrassment, I smugly stated:

‘Look, I’m not going to settle. I’m not going to compromise. I would rather be alone than be with something that doesn’t give me EVERYTHING I want.’

‘You are willing to compromise an entire relationship rather than to compromise some of your needs?’ she countered.

[She should have yelled CHECKMATE here but she didn't because she is a classy lady.]

As the session continued, I realized that I don’t even know what my needs are. I could see that I do naturally compromise (no matter my defiant denial of it) but I tend to compromise my most basic needs. I do this because I have never actually thought about my needs.Sure, I routinely think about the characteristics and traits I want my elusive future Man Friend to possess.But as a single woman, I feel like I have been brainwashed to believe that ‘need’ is a dirty, desperate word. The verb ‘to want’ implies an independence that is sexy and desirable.

It is absurd and that is the reason I have begun to think about my needs. These are the most important ones and I am not willing to compromise.

Equality

I do not believe that men and women are the same, but I do believe that we are equal. Therefore there needs to be some sort of balance in most aspects of the relationship. Men who subscribe to strict gender roles will stifle me. Equality will also impact the way we make decisions as a couple. I need my opinion to be just as important as his. I need us to be a team.

Acceptance

I need a man who will let me be me. An anecdotal example: if he is outdoorsy (something which I really am not) he will not try change me, or judge me, or deride me for not going to the gym. I am not willing to lose my sense of self for a man. This is not to say that I am not willing to change a little. I also want a man who will show me new experiences. But ultimately, I need to be loved for exactly the way I am.

Emotional Freedom

I need a man that is able to appreciate the complexity of my brain and who will be able to be an active participant in our emotional and intellectual worlds. What does this mean? I am a romantic, a dreamer, a philosopher and I believe in the goodness of people. I need a man who will be able to match that in some way.  This need however, is most important in the way we deal with conflict resolution. I fight to be understood and I fight to understand. I need a man who will want to resolve our differences in a constructive way. Time and time again.

Financial and Emotional Security

I need a man that is ambitious, hard working, practical, smart and who possesses an entrepreneurial spirit. He does need to provide for us both [See Equality] but I need to know–that in the worst case scenario–he will be able to push through. As for emotional security, I need a man who is strong but who can also acknowledge his weaknesses. I need a man who will do his best to choose to love me everyday and I need a man who will not run screaming into the abyss at the first sign of trouble.

Eye Candy

I need a man that I will be happy looking at for years. I like tall men with  kind eyes, naughty smiles and lean arms.

When I look at the above list, I feel a sense of understanding and relief for my past affairs. I have not yet met a man who would have been able to meet these five needs. It is disappointing but it is also liberating. While there are no prospects on the horizon, I am one step closer to knowing what I need which means I must be one step closer to getting it.

And there is nothing dirty or desperate about that.

Have you ever thought about your needs?  What are they? What about the ones you absolutely refuse to compromise?

My entire body wakes up. It is unexpected. But inevitable. I want this. I want this desperately.  But I don’t kiss back. My lips are numb. 

He has a girlfriend.

He stops. He stands up. Then immediately sits back down. And the only words I can think of saying are, ‘You cannot do this.’

But it is pointless. He kisses me again. And this time I give in. I kiss him back. It is a slow and curious kiss. Our tongues search for an answer to a question that remains elusive.  He strokes my hair with one hand and with his other he cups my chin to meet his lips. He whispers ‘Dammit. You are so lovely‘ into my mouth and my mouth catches his words and I swallow them whole. It is wrong and I know it. He is not mine to kiss. His compliments are not mine to receive. His face is not mine to stroke.

Just as unexpectedly as it started, it ends. My eyes are closed and my head is spinning from one too many illicit kisses. I hear my front door close softly. He is gone. I am alone.Everything is as it was.

Except now I know that I am weak enough to cross lines that I shouldn’t.

I’m sorry that I’m writing to you twice in such a short time span, but its been a surreal week and I feel like I need to talk to you. When I say need please don’t freak out and jump out of a moving vehicle to get away from me. I don’t mean to criticize before I’ve even met you, but that would be an extreme reaction. And we both know that between the two of us I’m going to have to be the dramatic one.

The thing is on Saturday night I watched in horror as one of my favourite people in the world went up in flames. A freak accident caused by a dangerous combination of a rather adorable sheep costume for Carnival and a tiny flame from a tea light.

Man Friend, it was terrifying.

After spending six hours in the burn victim’s ward of the hospital, I feel emotionally bankrupt. I’ve been challenged in my life and this one goes directly into the Top 10 of the chart. Watching a person I love in pain is hard. (Even if they are surprisingly and charmingly chirpy!) The knowledge that there isn’t anything I can do to make it better is even harder. But I’ve learned that in the darkest moments of a person’s life my mere presence is the best comfort I can provide.

Presence, Man Friend. It is such a simple concept yet at the same time so complicated for me. As a closeted phobic, the act of being present is incredibly challenging. I’ve missed out on all sorts of occasions and I’ve disappointed people I love because of my inability to surpass certain limits I place. I’ve learned, though, that there are three kinds of presence available to all of us. There is physical presence–the act of actually being there. Then there’s emotional presence–the act of showing care. Finally, there’s thoughtful presence–the act of expressing presence in the absence of physical presence. (Have I just blown your mind with my analysis? You’ll have to get used to that. I’m a woman of detail.) I rely heavily on emotional and thoughtful presence to be present. Some people accept that and other people simply can’t. I hope that you’ll be one of the people that does.

What I’m trying to say, Future Man Friend, is that sometimes when you need me I might not be able to be there, but know that I’ll always be there for you.

Present and waiting,

Your future lady friend

Hope

p.s. And you thought that this letter would be about how much I need you. That just goes to show that you’ll never quite get me. And I suppose I’ll have to get used to that.

‘As a school girl of nine years old I would get more excited about Valentine’s Day than any other day of the year.  Would this year be the year that I get a card from a secret admirer? This thought would keep me up at night and on those mornings I waited impatiently for my brother to wake up so that we could go to school already!  I wanted to hear the sound of the soft knocking on the door. The Valentine’s Squad would come in holding baskets filled with envelopes and–on the rare occassions–flowers.  They would apologize to the teacher for the interruption and then begin to call out names…’

Go on over there to read the rest and be sure to leave a comment!

I’ve been feeling restless lately. I’ve been lying in bed for far longer than is healthy. I am frustrated. I want to hang on the hands of a gigantic clock and I want to pump my legs–with all the strength I have–and swing. I want to swing and swing–round and round–until I have moved time to the exact, second before we are supposed to meet.

I have a lot of questions about that second.  How will we meet? Will it be through friends? And if it is through friends which ones? Will we meet randomly? And if so where? Will we meet at a party? At the supermarket? At the Bar? How will I know its you, Man friend?  Will you talk to me all night? Or will I watch you from afar simply knowing? Will there be an instant understanding between us?

I don’t know have any of those answers. But I do know how the after will unfold because even though I haven’t met, I feel like I know you. You’ll be absolutely ready for the type of relationship that I am ready for. I imagine that when we meet you will be tired of the dating ‘game’.  I have a feeling that you’ll be playful, please be playful, but you will make it clear–in no uncertain terms–that I’m it for you. I’m definitely going to do the same because a) I love teasing and b) I’m not one to pussyfoot around feelings.You will call me and you will send me unexpected text messages in the middle of the day. You will reply to my emails and before we know it, before we have even had a first date, it will have been established that these crazy kids? They get each other.

I have a feeling that this is the way it will unfold. And I feel restless because I want to email you right now. I want to email you and tell you about how much trouble I am having with the poetry section of my writing course. I want you to reply that you’ve never had that problem  because you’re awesome. (You really are!) Then you would send me the world’s most terrible rhyming poem to make me smile.

Roses Are Red

Violets Are Blue

Hope is being silly

Should I be her muse?

Future Man Friend, I’m  hanging on to that clock and I’m pumping my legs and I’m swinging. I’m swinging around in circles hoping to fast forward time until the exact second before we meet. Because I’m restless and I miss you and I’m scared. I’m scared that I’m not going to the right places to meet you. I’m scared that I don’t yet know the person who is supposed to introduce me to you. I’m scared that I won’t recognize its you even when we do meet. I’m scared that you won’t recognize its me when I’m standing right there in front of you.

I don’t know who you are and I don’t know where you’re coming from but I want you to know that I’m the girl with the wide brown eyes, the hopeful mind and the open heart;  tapping her foot impatiently.

That’s how you’ll recognize me.

How will I recognize you?

Butterfly kisses from across time and space,

Hope

(More letters to Future Mr Hope here.)

]]> http://hope.gr/2010/02/02/restlessness/feed/ 5 http://hope.gr/2010/02/01/blog-scam-awareness-day/ http://hope.gr/2010/02/01/blog-scam-awareness-day/#comments Mon, 01 Feb 2010 13:12:23 +0000 Hope http://hope.gr/?p=2051 In collaboration with a number of other bloggers, we have declared today as Blog Scam Awareness Day.

Last year I wrote a detailed post about my personal experience with a particularly popular blog designer. You can read the full post here.

Since then, that post is consistently the most viewed post on Hope Dies Last. It is also on the first page of Google when you search the name of that Design Studio followed by the word complaint. This clearly suggests to me that there are many other people out there that have gone through a similar experience. In fact, there are people that were scammed after me that shouldn’t have because my post didn’t reach a broad enough audience.There are people that were scammed after me because I gave up.

This is my attempt to correct that.

Blog Scam Awareness Day is a day to reach out to all bloggers in a united and concerted effort to protect each other; to share our stories so that others will not fall into the same trap.

The facts as I know them are these…

Name: Jessica Bailey Sanderson [Also goes by the names of tattooed mama and mamabearjess.]

Previous Owner of: Cuppycake Designs, Delicious Design Studio, Web Design Gal. [Please note: The current owner of Delicious Design Studio is not affiliated with Jessica in any way and is as much, if not more, of a victim as the rest of us]

Number of bloggers she has taken money from but never fulfilled her obligations: Anywhere between 20 and 80.Possibly more.

Average amount she has taken from each blogger: Based on other accounts I have read, this is probably between $100-$150.  [I payed $222.] In addition, according to Flippa [formerly Marketplace] in May 2009, she sold her business in an online auction for $50, 000.

In October of 2009, I was informed that Jessica had set up a new company–Web Design Gal. But after being confronted by another scammed blogger, that site was removed. As it stands now, she very well could be operating under a different name.

Our goals:

1. To increase awareness so that this particular designer does not continue to work in this way [under any name]. But to also discourage others who may want to take advantage of the anonymity that the internet provides.

2. To attempt to collect a detailed and comprehensive list of all bloggers who have been affected by Jessica.

3. To protect each other.

What can you do?

If you have also been scammed or know of someone who has been scammed by Jessica, fill out this form.

Spread the word.  Twitter, link or repost.

And finally, I know that some will disagree with this course of action. I–myself–have been hesitant to name and shame. It feels dirty. It goes against my nature. Please be aware that most of us have exhausted all the ‘right ways’ of complaining. I have filed complaints with Paypal, the Better Business Bureau and the FTC Bureau of Consumer Protection. This has achieved nothing. And every time I hear of yet another person who lost money and got no design, I am filled with disbelief and rage. How is it possible that in a tightly knit community of bloggers that inspired the Love Harder movement [Go! Donate! Shop!] we have allowed this to happen? How is it possible that this person has not been held to account?

If blogging camaraderie can inspire us to Love Harder, I also think that blogging should inspire us to protect each other.

Even if, sometimes, it feels uncomfortable.

Thanks to the following bloggers for taking a stand with me.

Tattoos & Cupcakes

The Tambourine Queen

Mom In Real Life

On this particular day however my over confidence got the better of me. It could have been the rain, it could have been the greyness of my mood and the earliness of the morning but as I reversed and turned, I nipped the stationary car next to me.

It was early, cold and raining and there was no one else on the road. Not a single soul. My instinct was to jump out and inspect the damage I had caused. Thankfully, it was minimal; nothing a paint job couldn’t fix. No indentations just a tiny scratch. I then took a photo of my handiwork. Still not a single soul. I felt that I needed a presence; some other person to tell me what to do. Perhaps, a crowd. To condone me for my appalling parking skills or to applaud me for my humanity.

But as with most events in my life, it was just me, the rain and this drama I had created.

‘I could leave and no one would ever know it was me‘ I thought.

Instead, I parked (making sure not to hit him again) and wrote a note on the back of a receipt.

Dear Black Astra Driver,

I am so sorry. I accidentally bumped into the left side of your car as I was parking. My number is [redacted]. Please call me. I’d like to make it up to you. Again, I am so sorry!

I left the note on his windshield and went home. My shopping plans canceled. Thankful that the darkness of my mood was now–at the very least–confirmed by a concrete reason.

My number was never used for reasons I do not understand. But every now and again, I think of that day. My action and then my reaction. I think about the way that I took responsibility. I think about that thought that ran through my mind while I was there in the moment. How easy it could have been to avoid, to ignore, to deny and to carry on shopping because there was no other human around to notice the damage I had caused. How easy it would be to carry on living and never acknowledge the inconvenience I may have caused another person.

And then I think about the men (and friends) that have denied me a conversation. I think about the people that have refused to take responsibility for the scars they have left me. I have defended these people because that is the way I am wired. I can find a justification to almost all the bad things that have been done to me.   Tragic [and extreme] case in point: I can find no hatred within me for the person who stabbed my father to death. This was the early 90s in South Africa; apartheid was the parent of all black people and my father was white.  His dying will never be justified to me.  But–in my mind–the actions of the man who held that knife can be justified by that much larger social issue.

But then I realize that I had a choice on that day. A split second choice between running away or admitting I made a mistake and accepting the consequences. Whatever those may have been. If I had that choice, then most of us [barring the sociopaths among us] have that choice. And I think to myself that I’d like to meet a man who takes responsibility for his actions. A man who mans up and has the awkward conversation with me. I am not interested in a person who has witnessed the pain they have caused me and chosen to look the other way. I am not interested in a person who takes the easy way out. [Even though I can understand the reasons that they do.]

Some may argue that this is a high expectation. But I think it is probably the very least we should expect from one another.

Some compassion.

A little acknowledgment of our own mistakes.

Some sort of sincere regret.

I’ll take it.

Even if it is in the form of a hastily written apology on the back of a forgotten receipt stuffed underneath a windshield wiper.