Charming, but single

I often start posts and don’t finish them for some reason. I’ll be really excited about an idea and the post won’t come together and it will piss me off. Or I’ll leave it to breathe before I post it and when I come back I hate the post. Or I change my mind or opinion about something and quit writing. Or I write a few paragraphs because I had an idea and then I never go back to those prompts. Or, maybe, I just forget about a post and I come back and don't feel like posting it. Anyway, I have a graveyard of posts that never worked out. And I was reading through them and there are some excerpts that I like. So as a precursor to my upcoming one-year blog birthday post, I thought I’d give you some excerpts from these little abandoned masterpieces. (The writing, it wants to be read!) My friends, enjoy. Here is some of the stuff that never made it to the blog: Charming on buying a bra:

I think guys underestimate the stress that is shopping when you have large (or even medium-sized) breasts. There are problems at every stage of the game. Buying bras, for example? Terrible! It is not as easy as walking into Victoria's Secret and grabbing the first thing you trip over. At all. (Oh, to be able to buy bras at Victoria's Secret. Sigh. I haven't done that since high school.) Those sexy lace bras that guys think are so hot? No coverage! No support! (I know large-chested women who do wear Vickie's bras, but I would rather die. Victoria's Secret designs bras for women who are 34 and 36 B cups and even in a large size, my cup runeth over.) I long ago abandoned the dream of wearing an all lace bra with thin, silky straps. I looked around at the chest size of the women in my family and knew I was destined for a life of thick straps and underwires. When I find a bra that fits correctly, I probably buy three of them. And I treat them like they are my children. I handwash them and let them drip dry before fluffing them (when they are dry) in the dryer while they are inside a pillowcase. Once I have found a bra that fits, I must fight for a shirt that fits correctly too. Smart clothing designers know not to put a button that hits mid-rack on an oxford shirt for a woman. It will only cause the shirt to pucker and pull. The best shirts have buttons above and below the chest, but then you run the risk of feeling like you're buttoned up all the way to your chest. (Which is why many women opt for the camisole beneath the oxford look.)

I have a confession to make. I am a closet astrology enthusiast. I'm not crazy about it – I don't only date certain astrological signs or anything rash like that. (Of course, it's not like I'm dating anyone lately. Beggars can't be choosy!) But I like horoscopes. As silly as it may seem to believe in something that based on birth dates and moon cycles and Mars in the house of whatever, it is fun. I'm not alone. I have friends, well-educated friends with professional jobs like banker or lawyer that have their horoscope e-mailed daily and joke about my Fire Sign-edness. We know it isn't true and that everyone born in the same date range can't possibly have the same fate or luck or fortune. But little distractions like horoscopes are enough to remind you that everything doesn't have to be so serious and thought out and planned sometimes. When you are surrounded by deadlines and datebooks, it is easy to forget that there's a certain amount of stuff that you can't organize, plan or control. I am a Sagittarius. A hardcore Sagittarius. I am stubborn and emotional and I need a lot of attention. But I am also social and passionate and friendly and eager to please. A total fire sign, through and through. (And yes, I realize I could probably spin any astrological sign to fit different personalities or any horoscope to match my day. But it is so much more fun to believe that I am somehow united with all of the other excitable, loud-mouthed extroverts out there and that my idiosyncrasies are somehow related to some outside force and, therefore, are not my fault.)

At the bar, we had a unique vantage point because we were in a booth in an area by one of the bars where everyone passes through. We saw the good, the bad and just plain ugly of outfits, which kept us pretty amused. I'm not sure what was going on that night, but it was a different crowd than normal and some of them looked like they dressed in the dark. First off, ladies, I don't care what the emaciated starlets in New York and LA are wearing, the dress over jeans look does not work on anyone. I promise. Why would you take a cute dress and ugly it up with jeans and flip flops? Just wear the dress and a pair of sandals or something for crying out loud. This is even more amazing when you look around and see the number of longer-length shirts available in stores right now. You can find camis and tops that are longer and look cute over jeans without having to wear a damn dress that goes down almost to your knees. (I know this for a fact, as I was wearing one on Saturday.) Also, white shoes don't look cute on anyone. White sandals or white strappy shoes are the exception to this. But white pumps? I don't care who told you they look cute. They don't. Your feet look huge. A big hint for the men: Tennis shoes are not cool at 1:30 a.m. unless you're at a sports bar, a dumpy college dive bar, a barbecue or a post-game tailgate party. Don't show up in khaki shorts and tennis shoes to drink martinis. In fact, unless it's one of the situations I just mentioned, don't wear shorts at all. (Same goes for the ladies. Capris are acceptable; shorts are not.) This is a BAR, not the gym, not your buddy's living room, not a football stadium. If showed up to drink martinis in a wrinkled T-shirt, fraying shorts and dirty tennis shoes, most guys I know would think I was "letting myself go" or not girly or not into guys. And, yeah, those guys probably aren't worth a damn, but that's life. Guys, you don't have to spend hours getting ready, but could you at least put on jeans and a polo? Or at least a nice T-shirt?

After careful consideration, I have decided that, starting with this post, the phrase "He's Just Not That Into You" is banned from Charming, but single. It was a short-lived courtship, but, unfortunately, this phrase simply cannot offer me what I need in a trite, "Aw-shucks, golly-gee" sentiment. Phrase, it is not you. It is me. Here is my problem with this phrase and it's usage on my blog. I want to be able to talk about guys (either from my past, present or future) and my feelings (either past, present or future) without a barrage of "He's just not that into you!" from everyone I know. Trust me, I get this online and offline and it drives me crazy. Since when does expressing yourself equal not understanding reality? Isn't there some inherent value in examining your past situations and your feelings about people? How are we ever to move on if we don't look at past failures? Isn't yelling, "He's just not that into you!" akin to shoving your fingers in your ears and saying, "I can't hear you! I can't hear you!" Are we so afraid of looking at our own flaws and shortcomings that we're ready to throw away self-examination? Have we forgotten that history repeats itself if you don't make any changes?

At times, I am passive aggressive in my personal life. I will avoid people I don't want to see. In fact, I'm kind of a pro at this. If there's someone that I just don't want to see, I will just completely remove him or her from my life, stop hanging out in the same social circle as he or she does and move on. I generally don't just drop off of the face of the earth without reason or without letting them know that I'm upset with them, but I do sometimes just sever ties with people without looking back. When I do have to socialize with people I know I don't want to see, I do it with as much grace as possible. I smile and say hello, I may make a bit of small talk and then I move on. I was raised that, in general, you try to avoid being ugly to someone to their face. But -- and you must remember that I was raised with typical Southern ladies all around me -- a little gossip and groaning in private with the girls is sometimes in order. I'll defer to Ms. Dolly Parton who put it so well in "Steel Magnolias": "If you don't have something nice to say, come sit by me." Call it hypocritical, call it bitchy, call it whatever. I'd rather do my seething and whining in private than be rude and awkward to an acquaintance face to face. But that's just me.

I am a bit of a song junkie. As I've previously written, I (and many people I know) associate songs with guys I've liked/loved/lusted after, etc. Other songs just remind me of a feeling or a place or a time and take me away for a bit. There are albums that are staples to me. "Blue" by Joni Mitchell, "Jagged Little Pill" by Alanis Morissette, "August and Everything After" by the Counting Crows, "Fumbling Towards Ecstasy" by Sarah McLachlan ... I could go on. ("Dilate" by Ani DiFranco and half of everything U2's ever put out ... Billy Joel ... "Little Earthquakes" by Tori Amos ... I'm going to quit now.) I listen to these albums at least once a year, if not more. I get in moods and go through phases. It is not uncommon for me to listen to "Anna Begins" by the Counting Crows 15 times in a row each day for a week. When I get pensive, I turn to songs and albums I love, work through the emotion of the moment and then go forward. This moment belongs to a song called "Ghost" by the Indigo Girls. (Side note: I was teased mercilessly when I was in church youth group in high school because I listened to "lesbian music." Whatever.) It speaks of past loves gone sour and that lingering feeling that you'll always be in love with someone -- or at least in love with the way you remember things to be and haunted by possibility. I'm not going to quote all of the lyrics, because I already feel about 14 years old writing about a song that I can, like, TOTALLY relate to. Gag me with a martini. The relevant part: And there’s not enough room In this world for my pain Signals cross and love gets lost And time passed makes it plain Of all my demon spirits I need you the most I’m in love with your ghost I have been humming this song for days. I have karaoked it in the car whenever I was driving -- traffic reports and local news be damned, I cannot be bothered with the radio when I have "Ghost." Psychoanalyze all you want ... the song is melodramatic and doesn't really match exactly how I'm feeling now. (Not enough room in the world for my pain? Uh, I'm not in that much pain right now ...) I think the song feels more generalized to me right now. I am constantly chasing after someone I can't (or don't) have, metaphorically speaking, that is. What I'm feeling right now is as close to longing for companionship as I think I've ever been -- I don't recall ever being so focused and mildly obsessed with wanting to be part of a coupling. (Spare me the "You'll find him when you're not looking!" lecture. I know. I KNOW.) So, I'm constantly chasing after the ghost of this Ideal Man I was supposed to meet and marry and procreate with. And I come to these momentary agreements with myself -- I'm not going to worry about it, I say. I'm going to let it run smoothly and naturally. But it never fails. I'm always searching and chasing and ready, as if I can attract love just by willing it to be so. And this approach seldom works.

I had a hellish day at work, not because my life is hellish, but because I was in A Mood. When I get in A Mood there ain't nothing you can do but stay out of my way. I was annoyed with pretty much everything and everyone all day. I almost went home sick because A Mood made me feel like crap. This was the day that not smoking really hit me. Hard. Like a Mack Truck doing 80 mph. I ate an entire pack of sugarfree Orbit gum and bit my nails and tapped on the desk and generally was skittish and pissy all day. But I did not cry, nor did I go buy a pack of cigarettes, nor did I beg, borrow or steal one. I was pretty proud of myself. In the past, I've always caved at this point. Friday was the end of three weeks without smoking, and I'm feeling good about it. I've learned that I cannot have EVEN ONE cigarette. I can't even have a DRAG off of a cigarette. This is where I've gone wrong in my past attempts to quit -- I'd go cold turkey for a week and the have "just one," which always turns into just one pack. The stupid thing is that I am not addicted to nicotine. At all. Physically, my body could care less about having the substance. My addiction is and always will be in my head. I am very big on associations. When I am stressed, I associate a cigarette with relaxtion. In my mind, a glass of wine tastes better with a cigarette. And traffic moves faster with a cigarette.

When I was a child, I had this idea of what being a grown-up would be like. I would have a house that had two stories and a car that was new and shiny. I didn’t know the exact age that I would be an adult, but I knew I’d be taller. I, like pretty much everyone else I know, had these preconceived notions about husbands and jobs and what constituted adulthood. And somewhere between my Rainbow Brite and tonight, I did grow up. I do not have a husband and a house and my car is not new and shiny. But I am much taller.