hunches at lunches

I always seem to be making the wrong decisions.  I don't mean it in the broad scoped, God smiting sense of the meaning, although I've been known to make more than a few of those as well.  But between the Pick Me Summer Salad and the You'll Regret This Liver Bisque, for some godforsaken reason, I will always pick the latter.  Then I will proceed to hold it against my sister for wisely choosing the salad, and wallow in silent self pity for the remainder of the meal. On a test when the answer is quite obviously B: Canadians, my gut will nudge me toward E:  all of the above - so tempting in it's unpretentious, all encompassing attitude.  I mean, why put E as an option if there's no hope of all of the above being correct?  No matter that I read word for word from the textbook and Canadians are the only plausible answer.

 Do you want to save this document before closing? Nope.  Would you like a 6th margarita? Yes, please.  You should probably bring a jacket.  No, I'll be fine.  ...I'm starting to wonder if my intuition is out for revenge on me.  Is this some sort of conspiracy to make my life a small scaled living hell?   I suppose being a little chilly at the concert after not bringing a coat is not exactly the end of the world, but still.  I live on the small scale.  My day to day happiness, as much as I hate to admit it, rests solely in the hands of decisions like "heels or flats?"  And when my feet are bleeding and covered in blisters, I curse my intuition's sick sense of humor.  I've tried the old WWSND (uh hem, what would Skelly NOT do?!), but even then my sheisty gut feeling talks me into renting I Don't Know How She Does it on Blu-Ray.  Before I run out to make cloth bracelets with the acronym embroidered across them, I think I should try embracing the rocky daily journey I'm afforded by making awful decisions. So what if I have some digestion issues after the liver bisque, and honestly when are Canadians EVER the only plausible answer?  Obviously my hunch is there for a reason, and in this world of constant conflicting opinion, as soon as you lose that little compass within, you lose your place among that conflict. You lose yourself.

In honor of William Martin Geibel...the third.

This weekend I went to a wedding, and while I was listening to the vows, I thought to myself how unimaginable and otherwordly it seemed to feel so wholly certain about someone else.  For better or for worse as long as we both shall live. And then I started counting on my fingers...and then my toes, the years that have passed since I was last in a real relationship.

Sure I meet nice guys...good looking guys, smart guys, guys illuminated by a ray of light from the heavens and a neon blinking sign accompanying them reading I WILL SOMEDAY MAKE AN EXCELLENT FATHER.  And yet I always find something wrong.

He's too tall.
His car is really nice...too nice.
He used the wrong version of "there" over Facebook chat.
He texts back with questionable efficiency.
He texts back.
His dental hygiene is borderline obsessive compulsive.
I think he has a girlfriend already?
He's good on paper.
His friend's best friend once ran over a squirrel with no remorse.  I can't date someone connected to a cold blooded rodent murderer.  Would YOU take that chance?

I don't remember how to be in a relationship.  How to be someone's someone.  I suppose I did it at one point.  Did I say the right things?  Did I nod in the right places and yell, "That's absurd!!!!" when appropriate?  Did I mold my life around his in agreeable compromise?  Doesn't sound like me.  I don't remember how to learn someone so well that his interests become mine and mine his until there is no line separating a him from a me; until all that's left is an us.  I don't remember what it's like to go out and have the one person you could possibly ever want already beside you to fill your buzz with a contentment.  I don't remember feeling secure about someone else's intentions.

 At this point in my life, with a thousand and one more pertinent issues to attend to like crying in front of Monster.com, and drinking wine with my mom, even just being around men seems like a distant memory from another lifetime.  I've always expected the next best thing to magically waltz into my life, but then as the days pass and the only man you see is your father or your 72 year old neighbor, George, you wonder why you took for granted that guy with the nervous tick.  And then I remember that I'm actually really happy without being anybody's somebody, and I should just wait til that bolt of lightening hits.  Besides, relationships are probably like riding a bike, right??  Speaking of which...I don't remember the last time I rode one of those either...

wait, this isn't Super Mario Bros?

Around Easter time I started hearing people yell some sort of incoherent phrase at parties.  Did that guy just yell "Rollo" before jumping into the pool completely clothed?  Does he really want a chocolatey treat so badly that he needs to drench himself to prove his dedication?  I haven't had a Rollo in years, I really wasn't even aware they still made those.  I commend him on his devotion to the somewhat dated candy, and his lack of shame in making it known to all at the party.  But right before I went out to stock up on Rollo's that I was convinced had made a huge comeback,  I started realizing that the R sounded more like a Y.  And then it hit. YOLO.

This is the single dumbest acronym ever invented.  Are we really that hard up for vocabulary words that we need to resort to recycling lyrics from a man who goes by Tyga?  Is that some sort of ghetto tiger? I'm not entirely sure, and I don't like being tricked into sounding like I have a speech impediment when I go to say someone's name.  My apologies to Tyga if that's his God-given name, but for some reason I have a feeling that it's not.

You Only Live Once.  You all DO realize that this is a total rip off of Carpe Diem, and THAT is Latin ...so you at least have a chance of sounding cultured.  When you say YOLO you sound like you just got detention for fighting at the 7th grade semi-formal.  Which brings me to what YOLO has come to stand for.  In the company of Generation Y, you can now partake in any idiotic, dangerous, illegal, ethically compromising, or morally questionable act, and simply yell or tweet YOLO and all is forgiven.  Frankly, it's understood and encouraged.  I debated tweeting really tame stuff just in hopes to counterbalance this craze like, "eatin this watermelon. #YOLO" but honestly I'd rather steer clear of being hash tag associated.

I don't know, kids. Can't we just go all old school and let the idea of YOLO be a silent, abstract piece of knowledge like it was back in the day? Circa January.

hash tag gettheheckouttadodge

There are a lot of things I don't get. I don't get the point of watching televised golf. Or watching golf live.  Or playing golf for that matter. I don't get algebra, and I definitely don't get why verbally saying "hash tag" has become a thing. But what I REALLY don't understand is this idea of giving up on following passion and becoming attached to a place. We're not polar bears, we don't need a slab of ice and sub zero temperatures to survive. So why stay in the arctic?! I could go on for days filled with metaphors involving other climate specific animals and trees with deep roots, but I think you get the point. I never want to experience this self-perpetuated feeling of being "stuck". That this life I'm leading right now is all I will ever have, and I can't leave because my boyfriend thinks I'm pretty and I have a tedious yet steady job working for Mr. Man. Anywhere has the potential to be home. If we're gonna talk about this in terms of needle point, home IS where the heart is...your heart. And lucky for you, your heart is permanently installed in your sternum.