An Open Bleeding Letter

I wish I had waited to write, instead of doing it at 1am when I was still worked up. I wish I wasn't the type to say things that aren't necessarily true in order to safeguard my feelings. I wish I hadn't felt the need to safeguard my feelings. I wish I had the courage to trust in someone else, but truthfully, I'm the biggest coward. I wish I hadn't been right.

You never made me promises, and I never asked for anything that I knew you weren't capable of giving. I should have asked anyway. We might have left off the same way, but without this feeling of betrayal. Betrayal which I would have forgiven then, had there been no deception, and could even forgive now. If you asked me. You haven't. In fact, you haven't even said you're sorry. An admission of guilt is not the same thing as an apology. I forgive you anyway. This is the story of my nurturing mother heart.

You say it was self sabotage, which is something to which I can relate. I caught myself repeatedly, but the difference is, is that I already know I'm broken. I told myself that it could never last, to just enjoy the time I had. I was setting myself up for failure. In short, I wrote my destiny. I only let you see the surface of me, and in this, I'm slightly thankful. This ordeal would hurt so much more if you had a bigger piece of me. I never let you see my whole life, the one behind the curtain. Would it have made a difference?

I don't think you realized that the wake of destruction behind your actions was going to be this wide. Did you think I was never going to find out? You were quite nearly in the clear. I can only imagine the panic you must have felt when I told you where I was going and with whom. I can only imagine the relief you must have felt when I didn't call you crying. Do you know how foolish I feel now? I was self righteous in my naivety. I had no reason not to trust you. I must have looked like some poor pathetic naive little girl with her head in the sand.

I hate that I miss you. I would have missed you without this mess. I would have missed our hikes, our talks, our tearing apart of your car. I would have missed you in bed and out. I would have missed you. I didn't need to hate missing you. I don't need to bleed over you. Yet here I am. Still waiting for you to say you're sorry.

Change of Plans

If you had asked me 8 years ago what I would be doing at 30, I would have told you without hesitating that I would be celebrating 6 years of marriage, living in Redondo Beach and have 2 children under my belt. I would never have considered for a second that I might be a single parent living in San Pedro, credit shot to hell, overextended and underpaid. I had a plan! But of course, 8 years ago I was 22 and what the hell did I know?

That's the funny thing about plans: they never end up how you think they will. At least mine don't. Ever. I wake up some mornings and wonder how I got here. But then I look over at my sleeping child and I know that I wouldn't change a thing. People often ask themselves if they could go back in time and change it, would they? I have pondered that same question, and even knowing what I know now, I know that I would go back and do exactly what I did before. I honestly believe that we do the best we can as we're doing it. Unless we're psychopaths, in which case, yikes. But the average person is a good person.

We make choices, good or bad. The outcome isn't known until it's done, and every action has an equal and opposite reaction. Our lives are dictated by the choices we make, and every choice made after is a product of that first one. It's a constant domino effect. I chose to destroy the relationship I had at 22. The one that might have landed me solidly in my 'plan'. I had my reasons for doing so, and I did. And every choice I've made since then has landed me here, wondering what today's choices will bring.

The Dreaded 3--0

Yesterday, when I woke up, I was 29 years old with mere hours left in my twenties. Last night/this morning when I went to bed, I had entered into a new decade. 30. Thirty. Thir-ty. I've been practicing saying this for a few weeks, so my tongue wraps around the number nicely. It's also a plus that I happen to prefer even numbers. Most odd number years just end badly for me.

Turns out, I'm actually happy to enter my 30's. Single mom sounds better in your 30's than 20's. As though having a child out of wedlock in your 20's labels you as a loose woman. Nevermind that it was late 20's and I have no regrets. Stigmas are what they are. I don't feel yet that I've reached my prime. Which is funny, seeing as when I was entering into my 20's that 30 seems far away and ancient. How very very wrong I was on both accounts.

There are things that I want to accomplish this year, regardless of age, but now I think I'm turning them into goals for the decade. Things to do before 40. Not a bucket list, but just goals. For example, I want to be a better cook. I was a late bloomer with cooking. I burned myself on a waffle maker as a child and it put me out of the kitchen until I was 19 and living on my own. Even then, it started slowly. I picked up things here and there working in the restaurant industry that I would take home and practice. I looked online for recipes to work on making what has already been made. Then I started to get fearless. Now I try and throw things together that I think will taste good. There are complimentary colors, I like complimentary flavors. I work off feel vs recipe (unless, I'm specifically working off recipe), and there are no measurements for what I tend to make. I like winging it.

Part of this particular goal in cooking is french food. I am, and have always been, something of a francophile. Which is hilarious to me considering that while I have a passporte, I have yet to exit the United States with it. I had meant to go for my 30th this year, but it didn't work out. Mostly because of actual work. But that's another story. I digress... So I've been looking for French cookbooks lately, something I can start working out of ala Julie & Julia, only without the Julia Childs bit. I've never been a huge fan, and French cookbooks for Americans just seems somewhat patronizing. I'm sure there are some out there that will label me as blasphemous, but that's how I feel. If I'm wrong, I'm wrong. I want authenticity. Which, let me tell you, is hard to find in the Barnes & Nobles and Borders of this world. I'll continue looking for what it is that I'm looking for, and hopefully will have some good stories to tell about the adventures in the kitchen which will ensue. In the meantime, I'm trying to build up my cookware. Today I added souffle cups to my wish list. Along with a terrine and a hand mandolin.

I hope by the time I hit 31 that I'll have come farther in my cooking goal. This year is going to be an adventure.