No Details

No details are necessary, really. I'll just start out by saying this: I hate how being single is starting to affect every breath I take. Perhaps I'm exaggerating. No, I am. But honestly, I'm really trying to do my thing and not worry about it. Why did I even write the word 'worry'? Why does it even enter my mind when I ponder my life as a Miss? I wonder if the view I think others have of me is actually just the view I have of myself.

Moving on. Secondly, I really question myself. On one hand, I semi-complain that I'm on this desert island, in this box, no one around to see the me that is bursting to get out. But then when someone puts himself out there, sincerely, letting me know that he does see the me, wanting to know if I'm willing, could I possibly . . . I slam the door before it's even open a crack. What is up with that? I'd like to think that it's because I know what I want. Or is it that I think I know what I don't want? Or is it that I'm just being stubborn and have an unrealistic idea of how these things are supposed to be?

And on. Thirdly, the perceived pressure. This (married) dude told me a dream that he had about me, for reasons unbeknownst to all creation, that, in short, I was so caught up in my career that I never made time for a man in my life and that he woke up from the dream right after I said that I was tired of life, lonely, and wanted to take own my life. Maybe it's just a silly dream, but I was concerned about you, sister. I was thinking to myself, you're such a great girl and you have a lot to offer a man . . . I was thinking in my dream, why don't you want to settle down? Good googly moogly, dude. Why did it enter your subconscious during REM sleep that I would get so caught up in my "career" that I would eschew all hope of Mr. Right, kids, et. al.? I didn't think I gave out an I-don't-need-a-man vibe. But neither am I giving out a damsel-in-distress vibe. Do I have to act like I want to be rescued? Please say it ain't so.

And still on. Fourthly, connected to the perceived pressure, is a chunk of the force behind my door slamming. I don't want to enter into something just because. Hey, I'm here. I wear a skirt. Hey, you're here, you wear pants. How 'bout it? Though the pants/skirt resignation was not the situation at hand, it still remains that I can't do something because I fear ending up like I was in old dude's dream if I don't. I fear more trying to make something happen that will ultimately fail. I fear hurting someone worse than I would with my door slamming by giving them false hope with unsure, hazy words, only to have to slam the door anyway on down the road because I should have realized from the get go that I could not will myself to feel. If you know that chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream is not what you crave, why would you mull over the prospect of eating it just because strawberry cheesecake (with a graham cracker ribbon) is not readily available?

And further on. Fifthly, I feel awful. I feel like an ungrateful, stiff, conflicted, self-absorbed little door-slammer. I hate feeling the need to cushion the bottom line with explanations. The honest reasons appear as half-baked excuses once they leave my mouth. I hate being the cause of hurt. It seems like all I've done lately when it comes to my desire for someone to see the me is slam doors. I can't think of one instance where someone claimed to see the me and I didn't ultimately slam the door. Perhaps some doors will get slammed in my face sometime to even the score? Well . . . I will admit there was a time or two that I sat pining by a wall, hoping that a door would somehow appear, but we all know how likely that was to happen.

Yikes. I can't end this on such a downer. The day that I swing the door open to someone without reservation will be a grand one indeed.