To Train or Not To Train

I don't know why I'm single.  It could be hereditary.  Most of the women in my family are parenting solo.  We are quite matriarchal.  Problem is, I don't have children.  So, I'm just solo. 

Three generations of McCreary/Chambers/Golden women (yeah, that's how we roll) sat across from one another.  Wine could have been involved, but the discussion of the nature of the Golden woman's life was definitely at the fore front.  Her social life.  Her solo life.  Her boudoir.  Her, that is me, fought for the last word, as we often do in this land of ladies.  Naturally, I was quite defensive.  As I should have been, I'm twenty-six years young.  Nothing about my age screams old, run of the mill, over the hill, or in danger of spinsterhood.  Or, so I thought.  Apparently, despite the multitude of men in my life (ha!), I have been deemed naive. 

Did you know that men needed training?  Like, when parents tire of changing diapers.  It's high time their toddler learn that dancing around in circles doesn't make the pee pee go back in.  That takes training.  Or, when an owner decides he's tired of investing in Resolve.  His dog must need training.  Or when a crew member at the local movie theater desires a promotion.  No more scooping popcorn, I want to work box office.  Train me. 

To train, verb.  Teach (a person or animal) a particular skill or type of behavior through practice and instruction over a period of time.  To train.

Call me naive, oh wait, that already happened.  Okay, due to my naivete, I am unable to compute this knowledge.  It could be wisdom earned through life, but considering I hail from All the Single Ladies (commence singing and signature dance), my belief is there isn't one particular person, woman, man, who can gather what makes a relationship work and what doesn't.  Yes, the mothers in my family are superbly intelligent, but I'd like to think it has shit to do with training.  "Training" or whatever that means, doesn't prevent a husband from cheating nor a father from abandoning his children.

Let's pretend for a moment that I am knowledgeable, life and all.  I open a book, and the answers are right there for my eyes only.  Here's my wisdom, my two cents.  I am solo.  Not because I don't know how to choose a guy from a basket of guys and tell him how to dress, how to please me, how to be.  I can't fathom those words coming out of my mouth.  Well, I am, in fact, a control freak, but I don't want to change you.  You, sir, whoever you are, should be congruent. 

Compatible, adjective.  (Of two things) able to exist or occur together without conflict.  Compatible.

Sir, can you stand me for a few seconds?  A few minutes?  A few days?  A few years?  Mayhaps, a lifetime?  Do you love me?  As I am?  As I breathe?  Sounds like a vow.  I do, Pilar.  I do.

Dear 26,

Studies show (studies being the palm reading you recently paid $10 for) that you, my friend, are on the right path.  Right could be wrong.  Whatever that may mean for you, you make a decision, and it is only yours.  You own it.  You live it.  You learn it.  Will said path lead to decades of solo?  Probably not.

Be prepared for mayhaps.

Sincerely,

Mostly Pilar

P.S.  Reminder.  Be at peace with yourself.  Almost always, the elders, your peers, strangers will have something else to say.  It may be profound.  But my training tells me, if it doesn't come from your gut, well then it's probably not meant for you.  Not meant for your path.  Probably, more than likely, not in your training. 

Or you're naive.  You choose.

Painfully Obvious

I don't know why I decided to be a writer.  Most would say it's genetic.  Others might say there were no other options.  I'm terrible at science, the law confuses me, and I hate children.  Right.  I could have been a prostitute.  Classy though.  Like a geisha. 

Apparently, you're supposed to be thrilled.  Like screaming from the rooftops thrilled.  Exclamation marks thrilled.  I am a writer!  I write!  Yet, here I am.  Sans rooftop, sans exclamation, sans thrill.  My head hurts.  What a process.  This writing.  And all I can think is maybe I'm not so bad with beakers.  I could learn to argue.  I do love my nephews.  

It's painfully obvious what this is.  Life.  All of its unpleasantness is seeping through my pores.  I'm griping.  Let me be.  So instead of being proactive and writing what I should be, I'm doing what the kids are doing today.  It's a dear diary.  Online journal.  It ain't Shakespeare.  Iconic characters probably won't manifest in these words.  I'm only opening the gates for public humiliation.  You know, like the kids are doing these days.  More insecurities.  It's what I've always dreamed for myself.  So here goes.

Dear 26,

Studies (not ones you've researched, but ones you made up in your mind grapes) show that this is the age of reflection, the first of many crises.  So don't fret 26, you're not alone.  Yes, you're painfully obvious.  Painfully transparent.  Maybe even painfully dull, but you're assuredly not alone.  

Hopefully.

Sincerely,

Mostly Pilar

P.S.  Reminder.  You write because you breathe.  It's not easy, but challenge fashions growth.  You've got a headache.  Take an Excedrin.  Or drink a bottle of wine.