The Dirty Truth Blog
August 8
Choosing to be happy!
I was walking in Whole Foods today when an older gentleman came up to me in front of the dessert case (their Chantilly cake is awesome, BTW). Anyway, he comes up to me and says, “You look so sad.” Was this man psychic? Or did something about the way I was carrying myself illuminate sadness?
Many of you know, I lost the love of my life when I was twenty-two in the most horrific way imaginable. I wonder if that just shows, like some scarlet letter. I’ve been saying that I’m happy, that I’m alright, but this old man took one look at me and knew I was lying.
I do believe there is something to be said of the old adage ‘fake it till you make it,’ but apparently I’m not even faking it well (no pun intended. Not that I’d have to fake it. My vagina hasn’t been used in so long, it’s probably got dust bunnies up in there). So I realized, I’m still holding onto a lot of stuff. I realized being happy isn’t about doing things, buying things. Being happy is about letting go of the darkness, the pain, the grief that you hold onto. I’m getting rid of it tonight, right now. That last little bit of darkness is being thrown into the flames of happiness. I’m not saying I’ll never be sad again. It’s not about that. It’s about the hold the sadness has on me. Not anymore! It’s been too long. Ask yourself: what would your life look like if you just let go of all your shit? I know what I want mine to look like—so tonight, I choose me. I choose happy.
*
ANNALYSE
One hand on the gas, the other on the clutch, I shift gears on the bike. I don’t usually go this fast. Maybe it’s because I’m pissed at Holt, or maybe it’s because I’m trying to outrun my feelings again. Either way, there is power in riding a Harley on the open road. It’s completely different than driving a car. It’s the difference between really living and just watching life pass you by through a window.
All your senses become richer, more real. Sounds hit you one after another. The temperature can change in a few seconds. You just have a better visual of what’s coming ahead. Riding is commonly referred to as the most fun you’ll have with your clothes on, and Logan used to say the same thing. At no other time are you completely one with something else, moving together—vulnerable. He’d say that if you want to just get somewhere, you can take a cab, but if you want something more than that, you ride a Harley. Riding was sacred to him.
It doesn’t hold that same feeling for me. For me, it’s just about being close to him, but it’s not working today. I don’t make it far before deciding to turn around, realizing I’m doing the same thing I always do, trying to outrun my feelings, and I promised myself that part of my life was over. So I head home, park the bike, and reach for my phone. Maybe Meg’s up for a talk? I could use some sisterly advice, but instead I find a text from Holt.
Holt: I’m not sure where to start. I prefer the tiramisu from Whole Foods. I’m wondering how your husband died? Please don’t ever fake anything with me, not one smile—nothing. I’m not going near the vagina comment. I’ve already been accused of being a pervert. Finally, choosing happy isn’t as easy as you make it sound.
He’s actually right about that last part. It’s not easy to choose happiness, but it is a choice no less. At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter what’s going on in your life. There are some really miserable rich people. There are some really happy poor people. There are people with illnesses that smile all day long, and there are people who have every reason to smile that never do. The only difference between these people is a choice each one of them made. A choice whether to focus on the stress, the negativity, the monsters in your head. If you want to be happy, you have to choose it, fight for it.
Me: I like the Tiramisu, too. I’m not ready to tell you how my husband died. I think we already established my vagina is off limits to you. And I never said happiness was easy.
*
This is me choosing happy, floating in the peaceful lake behind my sister’s house. I look up into the blue sky from the little kayak and take a deep breath. It’s taken me a long time to get to this point—to be able to sit in the silence and just be still. Moving fast had been my mode of operation these past few years; it kept the fire from burning me. But over those years, I’ve learned how to sit in the fire and enjoy the warmth, at least sometimes.
But there’s not much warm about November evenings in Arkansas, so the chill in the air is forcing me to paddle in. It’s for the best, because I see a bunch of neighbors outside talking and playing badminton. That’s not my normal scene. I’m naturally shy, and team sports were never my thing. Still, I promised myself I’d start living again, and this is part of it. I can’t hide behind the words of my laptop forever. Logan wouldn’t want that.
I reach my sister’s dock, but am at a loss for what to do now. This is the tough part, getting myself out of this damn thing without tipping it over. I look to the left and right, trying to determine the right way to go, then suddenly I’m jerked forward. Grabbing the sides of the kayak, I look behind me. Holt’s eyes are focused as he pulls the kayak with me in it onto the bank. Damn, he’s strong! The kayak is at least fifty pounds, plus my weight. Which I’m not sharing, by the way.
“Thanks,” I say, trying to straighten my windblown hair. I pull my aviator glasses down just a tad to catch a glimpse of the gray color of his eyes.
“Sure,” he says, offering me his hand. I take it, stepping on the bank. His eyes slide down my body. “You should have on a life jacket.”
“When I kayak or when I ride my motorcycle?” I ask.
He tries not to smile, but he does. “Pissed, huh?”
“Observant, aren’t you?”
“Motorcyclists are twenty-five percent more likely to die and five times more likely to be injured than a passenger in a car,” he says.
“You looked that up just to lecture me, didn’t you?”
“Not the point,” he says. “No more motorcycle.”
Did he really think he could go all alpha male on me? Usually, it would be hot as all-get-out to see a man in control, dominant, but right now alpha equals asshole! Note to self—I should do a blog post on that. Where have all the good alphas gone? “Who do you think you are?” I say, walking away. “You’re not my husband or my father. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t let my father or husband order me around like this.”
His fingers lightly touch my elbow. It isn’t a grab. I barely feel it, and as quickly as he touched me, it’s over. “I’m a doctor. I’ve seen what . . .”
“You’re a gynecologist! You’ve seen what a motorcycle can do to a vagina?”
Oh God, I’m in trouble. He’s got the dirtiest look in his eye. “I’d imagine the vibration would feel pretty damn good.”
I can’t help it and bust out laughing. “You are impossible.”
“And it’s the law to carry a life vest for every person in a kayak,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “You like rules.”
“I like order.”
“Ordering people around,” I say.
“Only certain people,” he says.
Don’t ask me why, but the thought of him “ordering” me around made my legs clench together, or maybe it was the mention of vibrations. Either way, the idea of him taking control of my body didn’t sound bad to me at all. It would be nice to not think so damn much all the time and just feel something good for a change.
“Holt,” someone calls out. “Come join us.”
“Come on,” he says, sticking his hands in his pockets. “I’ll introduce you.”
Two tiny, grandma-aged women sandwich Holt in a hug. He’s so much taller than them, their heads fit under his armpits. But Holt’s smiling a real smile. He likes these women. “Annalyse, come meet Judy and Carla.”
Judy and Carla? I know Meg told me something about her other neighbors, but I can’t recall what. They both hug me tightly, like we are old friends.
“I’ve got to check in with the service. I�
�m on call tonight,” Holt says. “Probably be on my phone all night.” He flashes me a little grin as he walks past me. Guess he wants to talk some more, or maybe I’m just going to be his texting buddy, or perhaps he wants me to be his camwhore—who knows?
“How about some pound cake, honey?” Carla asks. “Made lemon today.”
Now I remember what Meg told me. Carla is the one who likes to cook. Meg warned me that she’d keep me stocked in baked goods. “That’s very sweet,” I say. “But don’t go to any trouble.”
“Already made,” Carla says, turning towards her house. “Just let me run in the house and grab you a slice.”
Judy rolls her eyes and says, “It’s how she relates to people—food.”
“So what other neighbors have you met?” Judy asks. “See you met Holt already.”
I try my best not to blush. “Oh, I just helped him the other night. It was nothing.” She gives me a look of disbelief. I’m such a bad liar, I don’t even believe myself. “Oh, and I met Doug the other night at the party.”
“That’s going to be interesting,” she says, a twinkle in her eye. “The two single guys on the lake and you.”
“Ménage isn’t my thing,” I say, trying to keep a straight face.
She busts out into a hearty laugh. “Oh, I like you already.”
“Judy, what are you doing to that poor girl?” Carla says, holding the cake out to me.
“We were just talking about Holt and Doug,” Judy says.
“Stay away from Doug,” Carla says. “But Holt is a good boy.”
“Carla considers Holt her grandson.”
“We’ve got two youngsters to watch over now,” Carla says. “You and Holt. Although he thinks he’s looking after us.” They both start laughing.
I look towards his house. “What’s his story, anyway?”
“Not sure,” Carla says. “Moved in about a year and half ago. Sweet kid.” I have to smile. Holt has to be in his early thirties. “Works a lot. No women. We’ve never seen him on a date or bring a woman home, not even on Friday or Saturday nights. He’s always here. But I don’t think he’s gay.”
Judy slaps Carla on the arm. “The boy’s not gay. Two old lesbians like us would know if he was.”
The lemon pound cake goes down the wrong pipe, and I start to choke. They’re lesbians! That’s what Meg told me! Good Lord, I’m so clueless! “You need some water, dear?” Carla asks.
“No, she needs gaydar,” Judy says, laughing. “You had no idea, huh?”
“Meg told me,” I squeak out. “But I forgot.”
Judy just shrugs. “That’s good. It means you don’t give a rat’s ass who’s in my bed.”
I take another bite of cake. “You’re right. I really don’t care.”
“Then you must come to our meeting tonight,” Carla says.
“Meeting?” I ask.
“We have a social lesbian group that meets once a month,” Carla says. “Judy wanted to give it some silly name like lesbefriends, but we’re just a bunch of lesbians who get together, drink, and talk.”
“But I’m not a lesbian,” I say.
Judy throws her arm over my shoulder. “We won’t hold it against you.”
*
So if you’ve never been in a room full of lesbian women, I highly recommend it. I swear these ladies are the funniest women I’ve ever met. And Judy and Carla have adopted me as their granddaughter already. Within five minutes of meeting them, I learned that Carla was married for over twenty-five years and has two kids, both of whom refuse to speak to her since she came out. And Judy is what Carla affectionately refers to as a “gold star” lesbian, meaning she’s never been with a man.
So after dubbing me an honorary member of club lesbian, I find myself bearing my soul to Carla and Judy on their back patio. It’s unlike me to be so open, but these women battle a fire I can’t even imagine, and I have a feeling they will have no problem standing in mine with me. I don’t know why I am surprised. Women are good about stepping into the fire. I’ve seen it all over the world. Women holding the hands of the dying, taking care of the sick, and risking their very lives for those they love. Don’t witness that kind of bravery in the male species as much. It’s more about who’s got the biggest bomb.
Carla has one of my hands, Judy has the other, and we are sitting here spilling all our secrets in some kind of Kumbaya moment. “You’re fighting the good fight, honey,” Carla says.
“Am I?” I ask. “Because sometimes it feels more like running in place.”
“The world has a way of putting us exactly where we need to be at the exact moment we need to be there,” Carla says, nodding in the direction of Holt’s house. Turning my head, I see the outline of his body in the darkness.
“Better get to cleaning up,” Judy says, leading Carla inside.
“You come by anytime, sweetheart,” Carla says. “The door’s always open, and I’ve always got something cooking.”
After giving them both a huge hug, I head across the yard towards Meg’s house, or Holt’s house. I’m really not sure. God, I need a sign of what to do here. It’s obvious we like each other. Well, maybe like isn’t the right word. Maybe it’s obvious we both lust after each other. He’s not interested in a relationship, and I’m not ready to jump into that, either. My stomach lets out a huge growl. Two pieces of pound cake and a half bottle of wine do not dinner make. I take my starvation as the sign I was looking for and step up onto my patio, seeing his shadow slip into his back door.
Did I make the wrong choice? Standing in front of my sister’s freezer, I’m no longer hungry. But ever the mother Meg is, the freezer is stocked with containers full of homemade stew, casseroles, and soups. Instead, I make a huge cup of hot chocolate, grab my phone, and go out to the patio to finally call my sister.
We catch up for a few minutes, mostly talking about what she’s been up to, her flight over. She asks what neighbors I’ve met, and I know she’s really trying to find out if I’ve seen Doug again. I’m not sure what there even is to tell, so I leave out everything about Holt.
My phone dings, and I look down, finding a new text. Guess who?
Holt: Got a new post for me to read tonight?
Ignoring it, I continue to dodge Meg’s endless questions by throwing out a few of my own. “How do you like London? Have you gone to the Beefeater yet? That place is a hoot. You’ll love it.”
Meg takes the bait and starts talking about all the touristy things she plans on doing while Patrick is working, and I find myself searching the darkness for a pair of gray eyes.
“Lyse, Patrick just got back. Can we talk in a few days?” Meg asks.
After love you and goodbye, I hang up to the ding of another text coming through.
Holt: Come on, give me something!
Me: What kind of something do you want?
That was pretty good flirting, if I do say so myself. But if he answers another blog post, I’m going to rip my hair out.
“Things I shouldn’t,” I hear him say in the darkness.
He steps up onto my patio into the light. “Why shouldn’t you want me?” I ask, and he just shakes his head a little. And somewhere inside me, I know how closed off this man is. I’ve been in that place myself. “Right, the first thing you said to me was ‘I can’t love you.’”
“I was tripping on Ambien.”
“You kissed me.”
“I’m ready to kiss you again.”
Is this the part where I’m supposed to just melt? Screw that! “And I don’t kiss men that are looking for me to save them or rescue them. I’ve spent five years piecing myself back together. I didn’t look for someone else to fix me, so I’m not about to try to rescue a man who doesn’t want to be saved.”
“Good, because I’m beyond saving.”
“Do you honestly believe that?” I ask, moving closer to him.
“Some pain is too deep to come back from. It’s like my body is still here, but my soul died when . . .” And for the
second time in two days, he steps away from me.
“August 17th,” I whisper into the darkness, unsure if he even hears me.
The Dirty Truth Blog
August 17
Hope
I cried almost all day today. I told myself not to. I told myself to be happy, but today Logan would have turned twenty-seven. So I allowed myself this day to be sad, and tomorrow I will choose something different.
I struggled all day with this post. If I could post my tears, I would. I read somewhere once that tears are the expression of emotion when all the words have left you. And words have failed me today.
Logan was everything to me. And I haven’t been on one single date since he died. No man has held my hand or kissed me. I haven’t wanted that, until now. I think that’s why I cried so much today. Today, I realized I want another love like Logan and I had. I want a man to kiss me, make me weak in the knees, make me the center of his world.
I know many people wait their whole lives for that feeling, and maybe it’s selfish for me to want that again. But I do. I really do. I’m hoping this man is out there. I’m hoping he’s waiting for me. I’m hoping when he kisses me, I won’t cry. I won’t feel guilty. I guess, I’m just HOPE.
*
Telling myself not to check my texts to see if Holt’s responded, I shower, brush my teeth, comb my hair, and throw on sweatpants and a t-shirt. What else can I do? My stomach is churning, but I’m still not hungry. There’s nothing good on television. I could read a book, but I read on my iPad, which is linked to my texts. I’m being ridiculous, so I grab my phone and find his message waiting. I can’t help but notice the time. It’s an hour old. He must have read my post right away, and that makes me grin like a fool.
Holt: I’m sorry. I know I’m a moody son of a bitch. And you’re right, I’m not worth saving. I’m not the man you’ve been waiting for. And I’m sorry I kissed you like that. I’d really like a do over.
Me: You are a moody son of a bitch. This text proves it. First of all, I never said you aren’t worth saving. You are. You just have to do it yourself. Secondly, you are so hot and cold I feel like I have the flu. In one sentence you write you aren’t the man for me, and in the next sentence you want to kiss me. Which is it?
The Reason for Me Page 4