a post not exactly about breasts

My tire went almost-flat and I switched it out with my donut. I wore a pink and white striped knee-length skirt (and of course no bra) while I did this. Then I went inside and made pumpkin chocolate chip cookies that are fantastic. I mostly followed this recipe but instead of eggs and seasonings I used up the rest of the pumpkin pie filling (that already had eggs and seasonings in it) that I'd made a few weeks back...luckily it was still good because I wanted these cookies. I ate four, he left with 8 or 9. There are at least 35 left. Yeah, lots of cookies.

He and I, to use familiar vernacular, "updated our relationship status." We'll date, but not exclusively. That's fine. I feel quite fine about it. I'm updated, up to date, down to date him and whomever. That's la vie.

I told him he needed to date so he could be sure he'll find whom he needs. He asked me 'what do you need?' I spoke for a moment about how I need a man who loves God and honors the Priesthood power He accords him, but who can still relate with the world. Not partake of it, say, but just know how to maneuver through it without letting it get him haughty or naughty. heh. I just made that up. And then I mentioned how I hope I will marry a man who is patient and kind. Not because I'm necessarily obnoxious and mean, for to need a balance, but just that, like some humans, I can have moments where I'm self-absorbed and not exactly aware of others' needs. I try, but I do notice that I can just totally miss opportunities to praise and recognize what wonderful things they do and how wonderful they are. In general I try to recognize this; however, I am not perfect.

I told him I used to be more thoughtful and considerate. Then there were certain boys who came along and sort of broke me down, and now I don't care as much. It was a good thing at first. I cared more than those boys wanted me to, so, to rid myself of the ridiculous stress of imbalanced romantical reciprocation, I learned myself how to turn off caring. I had to turn off the caring because I unwisely decided that it was somehow preferable to remain in contact with a soul-sucking person who didn't care and match myself with their level of not-caring than to move on and find someone who deserved my caring. Instead of ridding myself of the boy, I rid myself of the caring.

Let this single-line paragraph emphasize to you that this practice is lame: lame because it cripples.

My eyes drew distant memories on the wall and I stared blankly at them as I spoke to answer his question. Then my eyes decided they were done drawing and wanted to play cowboy. Wrangling alongside some galloping emotions, my eyes lassoed in a few tears.

He stated that I was crying and wiped away a tear. This was funny to me. Guys are rarely comfortable with the release of woman tears. I bet they wish there was some way of capturing these mysterious microorganisms and dissecting them, to understand what they're made of, how they really form. He informed me that I was crying, not because I didn't know that I was crying, but because he didn't know what to say, but that probably something should be said. He asked if he made me cry. I assured him no. He asked me why, then. My right shoulder shrugged toward my chin and I said, 'sometimes my emotions come out my eyes.'

Guys, there come times when a woman cries. It is safe to assume it could be because of you, because that can make you tender, make you stop and think and ask and comfort; but, you know, sometimes the emotions truly do just get pent up a bit too long and they flutter free from those glassy windows that open to her soul. Sometimes the words that are trying so hard to escape through the lips can't find a way, so their only route to expression is to dissolve out through the eyes.

Other times she thinks of a sad story and makes herself a character in it. Sometimes that sad story is her own past and the pale humor of irony mixes with tears, watercolors of reality to fill in the permanent outline of that past, for her to paint a new understanding of it.

That's basically what I was doing. We all have a sad story, at least one. Momentarily I remembered the character I played in that story and I wept for her. Just a few tears.

He told me I'm beautiful. I wasn't seeking any compliment; my tears just came. But it was nice to hear anyway. So what if the tears are what brought the words from him. It's nice to hear.

I still care. But after all that pageantry I made myself go through in the past, icing on the fake smile so that my heart might believe that I didn't truly care, eventually she believed that she didn't truly care. Now it's hard to turn on again.

Sometimes I think of the opening line in that groovy song Black Horse and a Cherry Tree by KT Tunstall. "Well my heart knows me better than I know myself, so I'm gonna let it do all the talking."

If instead I had let my heart speak, and then listened to her, I would have dropped the boys that she knew were no good for her. Instead my emotions absorbed my attention and I "stopped [her] dead for a beat or two" so I could do things my own way, and she hasn't forgiven me yet. I thought she didn't know what she wanted, I wasn't sure how to trust her. Now I recognize that she has had a very keen intuition all along, and, now she doesn't trust me with it. I kept thinking I need a change of heart, that she needs to be healed because she's broken, or has been broken. But I think maybe she's fine.

I need a change of impression.

And that reminds me. I'm going to experience the pressure of a mammogram this week, in the spirit of breast awareness. Hot dog, is that ever going to make me aware of my breasts. Just because I haven't reliably posted about my experiment this week doesn't mean I haven't been being aware; it's just that you're not aware that I'm aware. But I am. Stay tuned.