Sharing hugs with Mike

“So…” this begins by saying that I was somewhat intimidated by him. For possibly being too dumb for him. He was mathematically smart and he only said things that…
connected. And he was aware of everything. I mean, he was a nice guy. Too nice that it was intimidating.
With his flaming red hair that was going blond, his large body, and freckles all over his imperfect skin
I had a thing for him. I know for a fact that our personalities would have totally clicked
but I shied away because
of all that intimidation
mostly ’cause I felt too stupid around him
although I know he would’ve liked for me to have opened up more.

One night during happy hour with other colleagues, he caught my attention during the pool game. I pretended to play but I was concentrating on him the whole time. That night I thought about him, and lets just say that it was a very sad and vehemently lonely night. Not because I wanted him in particular; I wanted that something– that substance, soul, core, love, fun type of deal that makes you alive. I thought about him as a substitute that night, and it was the most intense night ever.

Years go by, blah blah blah, and he’s leaving. I finally got to speak to him without reservations and said that he would be missed. In the most professional of ways. He said something about ‘many years together,’ and because I’m a very touchy-feely person, I reached out for a goodbye hug. He rushed in to give it

And it was the biggest, tightest, longest, warmest, the most comfortable, reassuring, crushing, and deepest hug ever. After he let go of squeezing my small body in comparison to his big one; I felt like I had just come out of a spa; rejuvenated, flushed, and all. Or released after some deep intimacy with somebody.

That could have been it. We had hugged in front of people when saying goodbye, and people could have seen it, understood it, and moved on. But no. This other girl came over and reached for a goodbye hug too after seeing us. He gave her a big hug as well. God damn it. Way to steal my thunder.

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Mini life goal sort of complete

A mini life goal is sort of complete; I finally had an awkward face to face small talk with an older man who was somewhat into me. Maybe small talks aren’t a big deal if you’re a regular chick who’s aware of the big picture. But for people like me who grew up with big biases and assumptions around how the opposite sex may be, small talks, especially around men… actually, small talks with ANYBODY, is difficult.

Frankly, it’s because I find it boring. I’m not an introvert and I think that I’m pretty fun, active, and outgoing… ten percent of the time. It’s just that there’s nothing interesting about how their day was (unless it was unique) or how the weather is. I tune out pretty easily. Unless you want to get deep, weird, or goofy, then I might either get weirded out or super interested in you. There’s no winning here. I used to put up with it, but small talks are getting harder and harder to make.

Yes it was still awkward, but I finally managed to have a small talk with an older man. The key point here is an older man, and not the small talk. First of all, I’ve always been into older guys. I used to think that I was older than my age in my mind when I was younger (although it turns out I’m actually quite immature and I love it now that I myself am older. Yeah!).

Anyway, I’ve been rejected by older guys for being too young for most of my life. I mean, so what if I was fourteen and you were… wow never mind.

As I was saying, the time it hit hard was when I was nineteen and got rejected by a thirty-two year old true love that I met within an hour. You can read about it here.
I fake rejected him, hoping he’d turn around, but he never came back.

After college, I was desperate for a job and was having a hard time getting employed. I just wanted a sugar daddy at that time. I just wanted to look good, be somebody’s arm candy, and lead an easy life where I could buy face creams, maybe be somebody’s secretary, and only worry about wrinkles when I get old.

That failed; I ended up having a successful career and pretty much became a self-made independent woman. I myself can be a sugar mama now if I wanted to, and there’s really no need for a wealthy older man.

The weird thing is; as I got older, the older men that I liked started getting older too. Soon enough, I was into slightly out-of-shape balding guys. That hit me in my early career; I was freaking out because the town where I was living in at the time had no college-aged guys around, and then it dawned on me that my demographics of interest were now aging family men that were standing outside cleaning up their yards.

Now that I’ve finally realized that I’m officially deep in my thirties, I can no longer keep saying “that middle aged guy over there” as if they were some comical alien breed. It’s hitting me again; middle aged guys are actually not older guys anymore…. they are within the legit socially acceptable sphere.

Back to talking about this specific older man. I’ll keep it short…;

I’ve seen him for years and we have nodded hellos to eachother. However this time, we finally talked while he was working at the counter. I casually said something along the lines of something about him working there, and he said something along the defensive lines of, “Working here? I own this place!” He insisted that I have a free protein shake and sat me down. We had a small talk; it was really boring. He was really keen on asking me questions about my relationship and my romantic life, while I tried to just answer questions about politics and to keep it sort of “normal.” It sort of didn’t make sense. I kept trying to gauge how much older he was to me; turned out it wasn’t bad at all. Twenty two years. Yesss, less than thirty. What am I cheering about? Anyway! It was awesome to have an older man flirt with me, like legit flirt, albeit underneath the small talk. It’s what I’d always wanted. I thought maybe it’d never happen, because as I age, I’m getting right in their sphere. It’s what I’ve always wanted minus that long stream of awkward talk… I mean, what do you talk to an older man about? Like, there was nothing to talk about; first of all, because I’m bad at small talks, but also because what does a liberal environmentalist like me have in common with a capitalistic, conservative, Republican, married old man? Like nada. So I just listened to him complain about how this one woman that used to work for him won’t stop calling him because he was so awesome, and secretly wished that he kept talking so that I wouldn’t have to. But he stopped talking, and often, and I couldn’t fill that silence with words so then I’d begin with another boring jolted topic like FOX news versus CNN.

Anyway, the key point is, at least we finally talked. Using boredom and loneliness as a premise, that one rainy cold night when he had no customers… I’ll see him again, and maybe we’ll have some sporadic small talk here and there, but I’m pretty sure mentally, we both went there. By there, I mean like, “With a red… garment on, slowly crawling on top of the counter towards him” there. Anyway, I hope he’s excited, because I was, and am, thinking about the fact that it finally happened; that I had an awkward flirty encounter with an older powerful man who became really interested in me and made me feel like an arm candy.

By the way how funny that his name is Terry, the same name of the guy that rejected me over a decade ago. Nothing really significant about this though; I actually had a crush on That one.

The end.

Foreign fish in a different pond

You’re a bit unfamiliar. It’s a bit exciting, but a hell of a lot more frightening. You have only a few fishes there that somewhat look and behave like you, and a huge number of other fishes that look and behave differently.

You try to eat the algae in this pond like the other fish, but it just doesn’t suit you as well as the food that you were used to eating. You try flipping your fins the way they do, but it just flips awkwardly and you stand out. You give up and then try to just be yourself, but then you get excluded and they’ve eaten all the algae in large masses. You have no choice but to assimilate with them and to acclimate to this new pond.

It’s a major struggle initially, but you eventually start assimilating. However, among the schools of fish that thrive and have been swimming in this pond for generations, you still tend to be a bit slower and awkward when you swim with them. You keep trying, but you’re just never as good as them in synchronizing. Although you’re a bit more accustomed now, you will always stand out here.

You think about previous life in your pond, and think of it as days of yore. Flipping the fins the way you did, eating the type of algae that you ate. How you were a fast swimmer among your school of fish, but out here, you’re the last.

You hide behind a rock and feel miserable from time to time.

You seek a friend, and you begin associating mostly with a fish that’s probably a slow weirdo fish among the pack. You were a star swimmer in your pond, but out here, you have to hang out with a slow fish. You say screw it, give in, and because your weirdo fish friend was of a different sex and a variant of the same species as you; you produce a few more variant fishes. They’re colorful and inquisitive, and they swim in the pond better than you can. Among the school of fish, they stand out a bit too, but they manage to swim better and eat better than you do. In fact, they swim even better than the rest of the fishes in the school due to their genetic diversity and ability to adapt. You start worrying about them and give most of your attention to them. You slowly manage to learn to make the best out of this pond that you’re in. They grow up, make more fish, and now you’re a grand fish and you have no reason to go back to your old pond.

If you went back to your old pond, you’re the foreign fish now.

The offspring of your offspring thrive even better in the current pond, and you die and become embossed in a historic fossil.

A scientist pulls it from the dried pond centuries later, and is astonished by an unlike fish amid the fossils of like-fish. Scientists go to their labs, conduct experiments, and theorize that you were the founder of the weird gene in the present day species of fish that swim sideways. They label you as “caveman fish,” and you get written down in history and get romanticized all over media. You become the founder of all the fishes in the world, and in fact, the founder of the human species itself and get called god.

They make a fish statue out of you and someone gives a speech and everybody cries. People chant songs and get all emotional, looking at your confused dead face fossil.

A comet hits the planet and everyone dies. Your fossil gets broken into pieces, and when the world burns down, it gets smoked and evaporated into the sky and seeps into the deep dark universe. You travel with particles and the solar dust, and get rained into a far off planet. You sit as a dust there for centuries, but that planet starts moving closer to its sun inch by inch overtime. It gets warmer and warmer and it becomes a planet with perfect climate. Germs start to sprout, and a few more germs come out of you. Centuries and centuries later the germs branch off into different species, and then branch off into grubs, and then branch off into animals. Now you’re a dog, and you stare at the diving sunset from a living room. You don’t bark much, but you feel that you’re a part of everything in your ecosystem, and that everything and everyone has a root that ties to you, your planet, and the universe.

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Ageism runs deep

Ageism runs deep.

It runs (ran) through my veins bitterly.

There I was, twelve years old, just walking around the park barefoot pretending that I was in a Disney cartoon. Running through freshly cut grass (hindsight, not the best thing to do), singing to trees, pretending to be an Olympic ice skater on my roller blades in the basketball court. The occasional stuff that I did.

Those were good times. I walked on the open grass; the wind was blowing and singing sweetly to my ears. The park was empty and the sky was gray blue I think. I found a spot in the middle of the empty basketball court and laid there. Weird things happened when I wished hard, so I didn’t wish if I didn’t mean it. I just laid there… feeling; floating in the gentle flow of the wind. I imagined the man I would love one day; a prince on a horse who follows me. Who always finds me. With my hair spread out on the ground, I looked at the sky with a smile on my face. Thinking about my future, thinking about my handsome, manly, wise prince. I closed my eyes and stayed in this state of bliss; I could feel him, he was so close to me in my thoughts, he was whispering through the air to me. I sighed and gently opened my eyes.

I shrieked and abruptly got up after I saw a smiling little face pop over me and block the blue skies above. It was an obnoxious little boy; someone completely different than who I had imagined. I was so angry at that little boy afterwards. I was completely irritated that my privacy and tranquility had been ruined by some annoying little kid. I treated everyone younger than me with no real respect in my head, especially younger boys. They automatically turned into little brothers and they were seen as annoying little roadblocks along the way.

Granted he was nine and I was twelve; in my eyes I was decades older. After he caught me, he became completely smitten by me. With the basketball in his hands, he giggled at everything I had to say, like, “Get out of here!” at him. It was already annoying to be caught by a little kid during vulnerable times, but it was even worse to have earned his undivided attention and whole heart. I felt disgusted and wanted to wash him off like dirt. But no matter what I said or did, he kept wanting to be near me. It was a vile situation. I felt like a sicko thinking that a kid three years younger than me was completely in love with me. Feeling mentally nauseated and humiliated, I ran away. But then, that annoying kid started running after me. We were running down that park amid cut grass, me genuinely running away, him, giggling with a basketball in his hands chasing after me; as if I was playing hard to get. I wasn’t playing. I hid behind a building like fearing for my life, however, that obnoxious kid found me. I then ran away again and he ran after me again, laughing. I was mortified that someone could have seen this fiasco; me being chased by a nine year old. Gross, I could have been his baby sitter.

Damn, it’s weird to think that if I was a hundred, he’d have been ninety-seven. Grosssssss.

Psychos with red hair

I’m not really talking about those who were born with red hair, but I’m talking about those who color their black hair red while going grey with the belief that the red will make grey less obvious while not actually making it black because putting black on black hair would give it away. They’re sort of goofy looking; they can have some remaining grey hairs on the sides that never got dyed, so now they’re left with all three colors of black, grey, and red hairs and look like clowns. They’re also pretty OCD; taking multiple showers a day, shaving constantly, repeating lame jokes, etc. They wear their pants high up, walk around shirtless with a towel hanging off a shoulder, and they’re always chewing on candies. They also love tea, and make it minimum five times a day including one at 10pm promptly. Maybe one at 2am too, who knows, since everyone is asleep by then. Because they’re on antipsychotics, it’s a joy to make tea. They stutter songs out of tune and forget/make up lyrics and grind ginger and other spices on mortar and pestle. It makes them feel like it’s morning and that they’re right on track with life; when they’re busy making tea at 2am. It’s usually a jolly song and there’s loud thumping sounds coming from the mortal and pestle. All weirdos love tea and feel that it’s always tea time, it’s a fact.
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