It’s only just begun, and already we’re becoming inundated with messages everywhere.
TV.
Radio.
Even the World Wide InterWeb o’ Goodness.
Everywhere we go, everything we see or hear is revolving around one thing: Valentine’s Day.

Yes, I know, writing about it only proliferates this day, this Hallmark-acclaimed “holiday” where couples everywhere seemingly get all mushy, perfect strangers fall in love, and everyone, everywhere, is engaging in perfect, abundant lovemaking. (Not sex, of course – only luuurrrvvvv.)

Or at least according to the media.

They assert, via one electronic medium or the other, that all women swoon over candy, jewelry, and – the most prevalent – flowers. That this simple token of affection (if you count $80 for 12 roses ‘simple’) will make even the coldest heart melt, sending the one you love (or lust, or perhaps just want to see naked) straight into your arms. Is it worth it? Does this overdone tactic really work?

I wouldn’t know…with the exception of my Secret Admirer flowers last year, I’ve never been the recipient of an overpriced Valentine’s bouquet by a suitor. Birthday? Yes. Flowers from Pops? Yep, that too. One year I even received a drawing of flowers by a beau (made with office supplies of a neon yellow highlighter-filled daisy…at the time I thought it was charming) – but as a wooing effort from a wooer – nilch.

Not that it would have done any good – it’s a defacto standard for women in this generation to ‘pooh pooh’ the idea of flowers on Valentine’s Day…we’d “rather have them any other time of the year, why spend twice as much?” We’d of course prefer something sentimental, something personalized, something unique to us, and our relationship. While, of course, those latter gifts are fantastic and always appreciated, I’m not convinced that we (as a collective group of woo-able 20-somethings) would rather have those instead of flowers.

Because sometimes, reason be damned, us girls are just girls and as cliched as it is, a Valentine’s Day present by any other name…is not a rose.

I promised myself I’d say what I wanted to, speak my mind. An unstated resolution for the coming year(s), I was tired of finding myself unsure as to where I stood or even what happened. “Closure”, that 21st century catchphrase, was what I felt I deserved.

And yet, with my determination set and my mind resolute, I wondered just WHY I had to set my determination, just WHY I had to resolve my mind. Why this didn’t come natural to me was a question – and why am I not alone in this matter? Why are girls so afraid to ask for what they want, to ask the very questions to the people that could provide them with the answers instead of continually lamenting to our friends that we still don’t understad? Why are we so afraid to rock the boat?

It took me months, and in some cases, years, to gather up the courage to intentionally turn the conversation into the realm of the uncomfortable. In my mind, it was so easy to know that I deserved an explanation, deserved better than I got, but saying those words was hard, a lot harder than even I had counted on. And, ironically, it really didn’t matter – asking the question wasn’t going to change anything, the situation was permanent. Still, I nearly hesitated, but didn’t, gathering up an internal courage that I shouldn’t have needed to finally stand up for myself. And I asked it.

It’s funny – people who know me wouldn’t ever think I’m one to hold back, one to contemplate asking for what I want. I mean, I’m quick with the wish list, been known to drop hints (sometimes more subtly than others) about flowers or lingerie (sorry, the Nordstrom catalog just arrived)that I’d love for the big upcoming V-day, and, well, in other such *personal* matters I’m not exactly the silent type. But when it comes to asking what went wrong, what happened, why you broke my heart, well…sometimes the anticipated answer makes me clam up.

Apparently, when love is involved, mum’s the word.

I studied genetics, and within this science the evolutionary benefit of the opposable thumb is often emphasized. And yet, as the evolved beings in reference, we take it for granted. That is, until we lose the use of this brilliant appendage.

I had a little ‘skiing snafu’, if by ‘snafu’ I mean ‘huge, big, snowballing crash in an ungraceful way of dangerous disastrousness.’ Because really, that’s what happened. The aftermath included a lost ski or two, some misplaced poles, and a brief assessment to try and figure out just what was hurt. The later self-diagnosis included a sore bum and a thumb that was pointing the wrong way. That is, until I put it back in place.

Some call me ‘accident-prone.’ I prefer ‘bravely injury un-averse.’ Regardless, this was a non-drinking-related, pretty messy spill that has resulted in a new fondness for Vicodin and a nearly-immobile right hand. Yes, that was my RIGHT hand, and yes, I’m RIGHT-HANDED. Which poses a problem.

I had planned to write about all the trials and tribulations of being one-handed, but found this article instead, and really, my hand hurts. Just know that I’m in the same boat as this lad, and am really, really desolate that I’m not in Sydney like I planned. Sucks, right?

*Sigh* So read away, think healing thoughts to my black & green thumb and potentially injured tendons & ligaments, and leave me a comment (they work again – yay!) And repeat my mantra: at least there’s the Vicodin.

I’m not used to the cold, at least not in the last ten years. Which is good, since I’ve left the now-cold Atlanta for the temperate West Coast and summer-like Sydney. I’ve brought a few jackets, but don’t plan on wearing them.

A bit of sunshine, some warm temps, those are the Prozacs of the winter. A surprisingly warm day can change your entire mood, make the day full of possibilities instead of the requisite, “is it really Sunday so tomorrow is Monday and I have to go to work” days. Instead, we head outside, to run or to train for the 10k that we’re running on March 13th or just to get a bit of Seasonal Affective Disorder-preventing Vitamin D. Unexpected warmth…that’s the making of a good day.

As it is with relationships. We’re creatures of habit, of expectations. While expectations are needed (and lowering them is not an option, at least not to this girl), the very act of expecting causes things to go awry. It’s as if God is laughing at us, trying to dictate our life or expect what will happen next. Silly us, we should know better.

Leaving for three weeks throws a wrench in these plans…we don’t want to expect anything to happen, especially when in the midst of a semi-newish relationship, because that will surely send the universe and providence into a tailspin, wreaking havoc on what we do want to happen. And yet the lack of expectations seems somewhat pathetic, as if we’re eager to accept less than what we deserve. Inherent in a trans-continental (and trans-intercontinental) romance comes challenges…keeping in touch, keeping that spark, takes effort. I don’t have any expectations, or at least am trying not to.

So how do I learn how to except the aftermath of my non-expectations?

More to come…

My karate instructor talks about muscle memory. She urges us to pivot when we do a jab or a high punch, over-exaggerating our movements because she says that as we advance, our muscle memory kicks in and it becomes second nature to do the move correctly with the appropriate form.

I over pivot. I trust my muscle memory.

Apparently, my brain also has muscle memory, since it is loathe to break habits and patterns. Patterns including our actions and reactions around certain someones from days gone by, certain someones who – for a reason I can’t yet explain or even justify – still mean something to us when logically, they shouldn’t.

And it’s not that we forget what they did; we’re not forgetful, we’re forgiving. People always want to look back and remember the good times when what we really should be remembering is that he wooed us, dated us, dropped us, then re-wooed, re-(quasi)-dated, and dropped us all over again. I mean, if it happened once, shame on him…since it happened twice, shame on us. And three times? Even I, in the depths of despair and depression when I think that perhaps it’s “meant to be” after all (whatever that means) know better. I just need to REMEMBER that I know better – that’s the struggle.

I need a forgetful muscle memory.

Ten years. I honestly can’t believe it’s been ten years. Not that I’m not older (that is quite evident as my bedtime becomes earlier and earlier each year), not that I’m not wiser (though you wouldn’t always know it given my choice of boyfriends long past), not that I don’t feel like I’ve come a long way from the days of Demon pride and the high-kicking Demonettes. (Don’t ask…) But ten years…wow.

I’m helping to plan our high school reunion, a hefty feat once you think about the difficulty of tracking down 290+ students in a short amount of time. True, classmates.com and things of that sort are supposed to be helpful, yet I’ve started with the grassroots (read: ghetto) tactic of a mass email. Viral marketing at its best, I’m asking those people I stay in touch with to pass on the email to those people that they stay in touch with; the end result, hopefully, is a relatively robust list of long lost classmates.

But ten years. I know I’ve changed a ton, and from people who I have recently reconnected with, it’s safe to say that they have as well. We’ve lost that shiny varnish of youth, the innocent optimism that guided us through many a late night cram session (or, let’s be honest here, a pounding hangover during the next morning’s exam) and kept us going even when we realized our (former) boss epitomized the phrase “Scary Tyrant.” And yet, a little heavier, a little more forehead showing (at least for the guys), getting back in touch with people whose names I had nearly forgotten has shown me one thing:

I’ll be the only girl at the reunion whose maiden name is still their last name. Who knew that Ohioans got hitched so soon!?

It’s not that I don’t have anything to say, it’s just that it’s so easy to not say anything. What with the travel and the many, many days off and the pesky cold and its partner in crime, the pesky cough, I’ve been busy as of late. Busy doing very little, but oh so much.

I could get used to this not working thing.

Today is the last day of my very long, very extended vacation. I’ve found solace in my pj’s, enjoyed their velvety or flannely or cashmery goodness, convinced that a good set of pj’s has medicinal powers.

I’ve learned just exactly what my cats do all day, a big clue on why one of them is pushing 21 lbs. in all his darling voraciousness.

I’ve been inundated with nearly three feet of snow, and spent two delightful hours trying to clear off our driveway while it continued to fall. Despite it all, it really was beautiful.

And I’ve welcomed in the New Year with people I love (in a great dress, no less) and am excited to see what the next 362 days will bring.

In the midst of it all, I was greeted with the unexpected; surprises both good and bad, experiences that tested my assurance, my grace, my ability to act like the person I am proud of instead of the person who, at times, takes the road of regrets. These eighteen days ‘away’ from the norm have included a lot of thinking, some reconnecting with people I’m not sure I want to reconnect with, digging up thoughts and feelings and emotions buried long ago and bringing them into the forefront. These eighteen days, they were lovely, but they weren’t always easy.

Well, it’s here. 2005. I didn’t do a ‘Best of 2004’ list like I had planned (read: loosely considered) because, basically, I wasn’t feeling creative or introspective enough to list the things that were great (cute boys, super weddings, tons of laughs) and things that sucked more than a Dyson (jackass boys, to name a few.)

I had also thought about talking about the best music of 2004, and though I’m U2’s biggest supporter these days (if you don’t have “How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb”, RUN to the store RIGHT NOW and get it. I’ll wait.) and Damien Rice still makes me swoon, figured that was overdone and wasn’t in the mood.

Then, I could have talked about resolutions, but those aren’t yet resolved. I know there’s a few things I’d like to do in 2005 (besides making out with Michael Vartan, which again tops the list) but figured I’d keep those to myself for at least a while (or until I’ve accomplished a few of them, at which time I’ll of course brag.)

So, in the meantime, welcome 2005. I’ve got great hopes for you. Don’t let me down.