My Psycho Psyche

I'm updating twice this week, mostly because I just had to call in sick and I'm home in bed with a blocked ear (things you shouldn't fly with: a blocked ear) and nothing better to do.

Also, I'm updating because my subconscious is getting a little out of control.

Look, I realize I'm lonely. That's normal. There are times when being single is a lot of fun, and I am totally comfortable and confident with just being my awesome self, by myself. And then there's other times, times like right now in which I just straight up feel lonely and really miss the companionship of having a boyfriend.

I know, congratulations, Self, on single-handedly undoing the feminist movement. Except that we all know I don't believe that, that I have very firmly stated that there is nothing wrong with the desire to have love in your life.

Have you noticed that this post already sounds like I'm arguing with myself? That's probably a pretty accurate depiction of what's going on with me lately.

Unexpected Struggles

The past week and a half has been a struggle.

Not just in a #thestruggleisreal kind of way. I mean the word in its truest sense: I mean I had to make a forceful and violent effort against obstacles to continue going about my life.

Being a flight attendant is not an easy job. I wouldn't usually call it an intellectual challenge, but it is an emotional one much of the time. Passengers have called me names and yelled at me this week. I have worked with coworkers who saw how young I am and decided they needed to knock me down a peg, and spent days treating me with condescension and disrespect. One passenger mocked me for an entire day because I told her to sit down during takeoff. Another yelled at me for checking to see that her seatbelt was fastened. A woman tried to get in a fight with me because I smiled at her while politely asking her to stow her bag for takeoff. A man intentionally tripped me while I was going down the aisle. Things like this happen all the time, but the past 10 days they all sort of clumped themselves together and happened at once.

Be nice to your flight attendants, guys. We're there for your safety. We're literally just trying to help you. We know that traveling is stressful, and the seats are too small, and delays are miserable, and you have to get to your business meeting/cousin's wedding/grandmother's funeral/Carribbean vacation on time, but there's also only so much we can do. Don't forget that we're human, too.

Because in the midst of all that, I was also squatting down to ask little kids what they'd like to drink at their eye level and making their day. I was rushing against the flow of deplaning to help a young man with a gushing nose bleed. I was letting a little old woman lean on me so she could get to her seat without any trouble. And I was following procedures to make sure that you are 100% safe while you travel today.

But you're not here to read about me complaining about life in a combined customer service and safety professional role. You're here because if my inbox last Sunday is anything to go by, you're dying to know what Mr. Mess had to say.

Paris, Suburbia, & A Great Big Mess

Ladies and Gentlemen, the Captain has turned on the seatbelt sign. Please return to your seats and strap the hell in because this story could pass itself off as the plot of a CW drama.

At some point I'm going to have to do a major backtrack to fill you in on some personal history, but for now let's just start with last Thursday. I was wallowing in my misery over Mr. Charming's drop off the face of the earth, sitting an airport standby shift for work. As you know, a Reserve day is when a flight attendant is on call. Airport standby is served at the airport being Johnny-on-the-spot for those last minute emergencies like a crew member getting in a car wreck coming into work or getting suddenly ill in the middle of the sequence. They need someone to send to the gate immediately to try to keep departure on time. Usually we get a standby shift once or twice a month when on Reserve. You following me so far?

So I'm at the airport, in uniform, reading my book and hoping I won't get sent anywhere and instead I'll get to go home after my six hours shift is up. I was still feeling pretty depressed and I wanted to go home and watch a sad movie and eat chocolate ice cream. But it was not meant to be. Instead, God and Crew Scheduling saw fit to send me to Paris.

Paris.

Rejected

Oh, let's be honest. We all saw the writing on the wall. We knew this was coming. I won't even pretend to be blindsided myself. In spite of my occasionally lacking judgment skills when it comes to dating, even I can't kid myself.

I haven't heard from Mr. Charming in over a week now. In fact, I haven't heard from him since he told me he'd let me know if he was free Friday. In other words, apparently I don't even warrant so much as a

>>>> can't make it sry

text.

But guys? It still hurts. Even when you know you're headed for a fall, see it coming miles away, when the thing actually happens, foresight doesn't make it any less…ouch.

In Which Both Charming and My Chill Are Absent

The facts were these:

I saw Charming last week, right before leaving town for my cousin's wedding in Atlanta. I was having the great "Are We Exclusive" internal panic you may have heard tell about. But I had calmed down a touch. I was convincing myself to go with the flow and let the conversation come up naturally.

I left town and didn't hear from him the entire weekend. I resisted the urge to send him the requested photo, partly because the only time I apparently warranted a photograph the entire weekend was when I was holding my niece. I had a feeling a photo of me and a baby might send a weird message.

I got back to town and bit the bullet by asking how things at work were (he'd had a spot of trouble about a missed trip and I had been waiting all weekend to hear if it had been cleared up).

Exclusion Anxiety with Mr. Charming

Remember last week? When I was working on finding my cool again and not being insecure about my dating life and whether or not a guy likes me? Well, all of that was going quite well, until I went to my friend Lana's for dinner last Monday night.

With Lana's husband Mark out of town for a few days, and Mags' boyfriend Gordon working late, the three of us were having a girls' night in to gossip freely. In between breaks to check on Lana's baby, who is going through a "I cry if anyone but Mom holds me" phase, Mags was discussing the new apartment she and Gordon are moving into in a few weeks, and Lana was explaining Mark's disappointment that his job keeps sending him on business trips when he wants to be home with her and their son.

And then the subject turned to me and my doings. I filled them in on all my work aspirations and how the job has been going, but what they really wanted to know about was Mr. Charming.

Call Me Miss Insecure

I'll be blunt. Dating Mr. Charming has reawakened a part of myself long since forgotten, a part of myself that I absolutely, uninhibitedly do not like: the insecure part.

Before anyone jumps to any unsavory conclusions about the man in question, this is not his fault.

…unless you're blaming him for the fact that I like him, in which case, what a bastard.

But short of that, this is mostly down to me, and perhaps a little bit of the blame also lies on the men who came before. Oh, and absurd gender roles that society has forced on us.

You see, after that oh-so-charming first date with Mr. Charming, I found myself in unfamiliar territory. I was stuck waiting around to see if he would ask me out a second time. This might sound incredibly arrogant, but the truth is I haven't been in this situation very often. Most of the time, as you're well aware, I feel lukewarm at best about a first date. It is a rare occasion that I go beyond a second date with someone. The select instances that I have, I've been sucked headfirst into a hurricane.

For the record, this nearly always turns out to be a mistake. The primary examples are the infamous Misters Manipulation & Mess. Here's an overview: