Hope Dies Last

I own a pair of plastic shoes. With metal studs.

(Yes, before you ask, I was possessed.)

Nothing else can possibly explain this:

To be fair, I have never worn them. It appears I only practice good judgment after I have handed over my credit card. (Um…Reason #3, 488 I’m still single?)

Do you have any items in your closet that cause you to pause and say, ‘What the hell was I thinking?’

Your weekend project is to crawl into your wardrobe, find your tackiest pair of shoes, accessories, clothes WHATEVER and then head over to the Hope Dies Last Facebook Page here and upload your photo in the super, cool album I’ve aptly titled ‘WTF?!’

Let’s share in mutual embarrassment, shall we?

I read all your comments and I read all your emails and most of the time they make me smile so broadly that all you would see, if you could see, is gum and teeth. My real, spontaneous smile is dorky. But sometimes, your comments and your emails, make me sad. Because you, and you and you relate to some of the more painful seconds of my life.I hate that.

No matter our combined experiences, I grip onto hope because I have no other choice.  Hope has saved me from becoming stone hard, and cynical.  Sometimes, hope has tortured me and keeps me back; thinking of situations long past their expiration date. Very rarely, hope eludes me. And when it does, when I can no longer see or hear or feel hope, when I am no longer able to find inspiration, I read some words that a friend once penned with me in mind:

Hope fades.

It seeps through every crack until it doesn’t have enough to glow, and I know
that you’re tired. I see the blinds come over your eyes when you’re through with
looking out for that night-light you can keep in your pocket all the time.
Don’t put down that red lip-stick, don’t you dare. You need to draw
eyes to your lips because that is where people see your sunrising soul-
through your wise words and quirky quips,
the quick curve of your smile.

Hope fades, but it never dies.
You taught me that.

I will never put down that red lip-stick. (OK, maybe I will. But only to replace it with my pink one): don’t you dare put it down either.

Share with me, what inspires you to hold out for hope?

…I’d start by flipping it the right way up; it’s been upside down for way too long.  (Better Off Ted was cancelled and Two and a Half Men is still on the air? Seriously?)

…it would be compulsory for talented, ambitious, hard workers to have actual, paying jobs.

…gentle, well intentioned, well timed honesty would be held to a higher esteem than comfortable, easy to handle lies.

…women that pretend to be dumb to get ahead would be locked up.

…men that pretend to want a relationship to get laid, would join them. (Y’all can procreate together.)

…we would travel by teleportation.

…the unattached would wear rings. (I think we are the ones that need to recognize each other far more than marrieds do.)

…there would be fines for those who do not reply to text messages, emails and phone calls. (I’d be über fair though. The statute of limitations on this would be one year.)

…pink shirts on straight men would be illegal; punishable by public mocking.

…witty, devilish, intelligent, sarcastic, responsible, available men would have NO CHOICE but to be insanely attracted to me.

What would you do if you ruled the world?

(Inspired by Stacy over at Chasing Paradise)

Recently, I was told that I come across as a bit of a man-hater. Had I been on my game I would have responded, ‘Man-hater? Pah! I’m a people-hater!’ Alas, I was tired, a little disoriented and what with the ex-lover sitting at the next table and all–a lot defensive. My mock outrage felt scripted.

‘What? No. Way. I. love. men?’

Admittedly, men do piss me off more often than not. But there is one little attribute that most men possess, that I not only love and admire, but also envy — their simplicity. I wish I could be simple. I wish my brain worked that way. However, as hard as I try, I will never go from A to  B without a maze of torturous thought. I like men because they manage to reign me in and balance me out.

Take for example the way I processed my last break-up.

I spent some time with a man that made me believe in men again and then he put an end to it. It was a short conversation and no explanation was given other than ‘It’s over. Let’s be friends.’ My mind screamed, why won’t he give me a reason? Why won’t he talk to me? I was told, early on, by a man that: “It is over. He just wants to be kind now.”

I just want him to be honest.

I would sit with my girlfriend’s in the first few weeks after the demise and we would discuss it all; in every excruciating detail. When I was alone, it was my mind.

I just want him to tell me what I did wrong.

I believed my thoughts could be  retroactive. If only I had done this, if only I had done that, it would have worked out. But pretty soon, someone would tell me that I did nothing wrong and that he is an idiot.

I just want him to feel regret.

My life went on and I met many men; some of them even gave me a little bit of attention.

I just want him to see how other men see me.

Time trickled by and I forgot the colour of his eyes.  I cooled down, I understood, I didn’t blame. I just kinda missed him.

I just want him to talk to me.

But he didn’t for his own reasons. And so, gracefully,  I forced myself to move on.

I just want him to be happy.

It was, of course,  only partly true. I wanted him to be happy as long as I was happy too. But he moved on and fell in love and I didn’t. This turn of events left me unmoved but gave me the motivation to get over it.

I just want him to have never existed in the first place.

Months later, I bumped into him and he looked at me in a way that he shouldn’t look at me. And he touched my arm and then said, ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t touch you.’ It was confusing. So I began to talk and talk and talk again. I got angry. How dare he? Who does he think he is? How can he treat me in this way? Then I realized that I never meant a thing to him and that he doesn’t think about me and that it is indeed over (it had been from the day it was actually over) and there is no drama here, no profound explanation for the end, no out of the ordinary experience. It was an ending just like all those other endings and the only sure thing about all endings is that they’re a preclude to a beginning. And so finally, ten months later, my delayed thoughts aligned with his.

I just want him to be kind.

I don’t hate men. I adore them. I love their simplicity. I want them in my life, I need them in my life because when I let them, they make me simple too.

‘I’m sorry to interrupt your conversation, but would you pretend to be into me? Just for tonight?’

The words are out of my mouth before I am aware if I am being serious. He agrees immediately with true sportsmanship and a laugh. ‘Move closer then.’  I shift my chair, my body and my hair toward him; small cues that I hope another man will pick up on. See, I’ve watched this other man flirt, I’ve watched him exchange numbers, I’ve watched him be a ‘we’ and for the longest time I’ve sat alone or next to a girl friend, my eyes sparkling with a furiously false indifference, quietly losing the inevitable battle that arises between two ex-lovers.

But tonight I’ve got a man sitting next to me. He is dark, unshaven, and obscenely funny. His smile is cheeky; the only common attribute between them. Besides their naughty twin grins, they are mirror opposites.  I would be an idiot if I didn’t take advantage of this. I would be an idiot if I don’t pretend, just for one evening, that I’m wanted. And now my rented man is telling me that the other one is sneaking glances in my direction. ‘I’m not going to get beat up am I?’

I shake my head. He doesn’t even reply to my emails. Why would he punch for me? ‘Well, he’s definitely looking at you.’ My back is turned, I can’t confirm this. I’m flipping my hair and crossing my legs. I’m pretending that I want this other man. It’s not hard. It’s transference. I just take all that unreasonable and unfinished want from my right and direct it to my left. I rest my chin onto my hand and cock my head to the side, pretending adoration. But I’m not listening to a word. Why is he looking at me?

Later, I ask the same question out loud; I’m only half hoping for an answer. The ones I get aren’t helpful because it doesn’t even matter. He can look all he wants because all he will see is this facade; this lie I built to convince him that I’ve moved on, past him, sitting next to someone better.

I see the truth though. I won’t care for the reason he still looks at me until the day I don’t have to ask a man to pretend to be into me.