 Here are a couple of things I know to be true. One, my first reaction to nearly any volatile situation is never the right one. And two, even when I succinctly and directly ask for what I need, there is still a damn good chance I won’t get it.
I wrote a few weeks ago about how I have taken on three new, major clients. There are some wonderful benefits, challenges and frustrations associated with each one. As expected. By and large, though, the frustrations are few, and I can already tell I’m going to rock them all. Eventually. The initial fear I experienced related to two of the three has all but dissipated. Those clients love me, and I’m kicking ass on their projects so far. But No. 3 is a different story. I still have a lot of anxiety about how in the hell I am going to successfully pull off the mission I’ve chosen to accept without royally fucking up at least a portion of it.
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 So I joined an online dating service a couple of months back at the urging of a friend who met her boyfriend there. It’s one that requires a paid subscription, which I hoped meant the quality of people on it was a little higher than say, WannaHookup.com.
Unfortunately, that has not proven to be entirely true for me. Early on, I was subjected to guys WAY out of my age range (either 25 or 65), who said only, “Let’s kick it” or “What’s up?” Until I figured out the filters, anyway. I participated in online dating many years ago, when it was still relatively new, and I was not impressed. The men I met did not look like their profile pictures, or they weren’t really single and just wanted some action on the side. Why I thought it would be different today, I don’t know. In two months on the site, I have ignored about 95 percent of the e-mails, winks and favorites I’ve received. In the first week, I felt so inundated and overwhelmed by the sheer number of messages that rolled in, I underwent a complete mental shutdown.  I am sunburned, scratched, scabby and inordinately sore. Like, when-I-sit-down-I-may-never-get-up-again sore. And I couldn’t be happier about it.
See, I spent about eight hours outside this past Saturday, and it was not to watch the Thunder Over Louisville air show at the waterfront, although I’m sure that was fun for people who like that sort of thing. No, I was doing my first major yard work blitz of the season. I was so excited about firing up my mower and dusting off my pruning implements that I had trouble falling asleep the night before. (I probably wouldn’t be in quite so much pain if I hadn’t let my personal trainer beat the shit out of me on both Friday AND Sunday, but I digress.) I mowed, edged, pulled weeds, cleaned up leaves and other rotting vegetation, took out the remains of dead tree all by myself, and trimmed ornamental grass and ground cover along my front sidewalk. My teenage son came out front at one point and, upon seeing me knee deep in a pile of monkey grass wielding garden shears, said dispassionately, “That looks like a really big job.” Gee thanks, kid.  It’s getting green out there, thankyoubabyJesus. And I don’t mean drive-a-Prius-and-recycle-gum-wrappers green. You’ve probably noticed that spring weather is finally starting to transform the browns and grays of winter into emerald hues and colorful blooms.
It’s about friggin’ time. I may have mentioned once or twice how much I loathe the cold. So right now, I seriously feel like a grumpy bear coming out of hibernation. This ol’ bear is hongray — for the sun on my shoulders, the warm pavement beneath my bare feet and the scent of peonies wafting under my nose. I’m SO ready to dig out my straw pool bag, fluff the beach towels and inspect my raft for leaks. Some of my happiest memories from childhood are set against the backdrop of sunbeams and sticky summer weather, so I always get a little nostalgic at the first chance the temps allow me to hang up my winter coat. Perhaps even a little over-eager, but what the hell. |
About Amy HiggsA former newspaper columnist, Amy takes her random, slice-of-life stories to the web. After 12 years, she's still just saying. Archives
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