Thursday

Thursday never had enough money. She loved to go out with her friends, or alone, actually, any night of the week. She liked being at home sometimes to recover, but generally she liked being out on the town.

Thursday could be found in the bookstore, sipping lattes and flipping through British tabloids that were too expensive to purchase. She'd buy a book from the newly-remaindered table though. Or she would be glued to the brown leather sofa in the cigar shop not smoking but drinking wine and listening to the music. Maybe she'd be at a rooftop bar, watching the city as she downed another Dark & Stormy. If the weather was poor she'd be at the local indie theatre with popcorn and cherry Coke.

Thursday lived for Friday. Every other one, that is. Payday.

Wednesday

Wednesday's mother worried about her. She was always rushing around trying to please everyone who expected her company so she never got time to rest. Or meet any nice young men either, but Wednesday didn't much care about that anyway.

Wednesday was a good employee, showing up on time (or early) and leaving promptly at closing time (or a few minutes later). She had meetings to attend, or concerts, or church and choir rehearsal, or the gym in the evenings. She liked having things to do.

Wednesday resented having such a full schedule sometimes, though. She wished she could take off a few days for herself. A trip abroad might be nice, she thought. Or even a few states away. Something just for herself, to spend time doing what she wanted to do. Writing, reading, walking, eating... somewhere different with people she didn't know, or even alone. Yes, that's what Wednesday wanted. A chance to rediscover who she was, what she wanted to do, where she wanted to live.

Tuesday

Tuesday would describe herself as a cautious optimist. She had survived the first day of the workweek, and she was reasonably sure she'd finish it out without any major issues.

Tuesday was also possessed of a calm and reflective nature. She enjoyed coming home after work and taking her dog for a walk. The time spent walking around the pond in her neighborhood was the most precious of her week. She could think about her day, make plans, ponder dialogue for the book she was writing, and play with the puppy.

Tuesday wanted to have someone to share her life, small as it was. She had been on a few dates but she hadn't found anyone yet who suited her well enough. Maybe someday. Until then, she'd keep hoping, dreaming, and walking.

Monday

Monday is tired and a little angry. She wishes the weekend had lasted longer, even if only for a few hours. Somehow the last part of the morning speeds up and she lies in bed wondering if it's worth it. Getting up. Going to work. Talking on the phone, sending e-mails, catching up on the news. What's the point? She had read once that something was "unromantic as a Monday morning." She agrees- Monday mornings are the opposite of romantic. They are desperate, dark things.

Monday always wears black. She feels it matches her mood, and she's especially gratified when the weather coincides. Like today was chilly with swathes of cloud. Monday rushes from meeting to meeting with only the thought of 5.00 to get her through the day.

Monday lives for the evenings when she can stop rushing. She can sit with a book and a glass of wine. At last the day is over, and the night is beginning. She feels the darkness descend, and she smiles.

Sunday

Sunday slept in. When she finally woke she had her tea and read the paper. After she'd put on her dress, hat, and shoes, she touched up her lipstick and perfume. Sunday always smelled faintly of lavender. She drove to church.

Sunday had always gone to church. It's what her family always did, and it's what she still did. She wasn't sure why sometimes. It was familiar, comfortable. Then there were those moments of joy when she felt loved. She felt this was important. 

Sunday enjoyed lunch with friends after church, but sometimes she wanted to be by herself. She'd run errands, or go home and read. She'd crochet until she threw the hook and yarn down in frustration. She'd plan the week's menu then throw it out and start again. She'd do laundry then not fold it. She'd dread Monday, but she knew that if she didn't face Monday she couldn't be Sunday again.

Boys, boys, boys

I wrote a lot today about boys (and I use that term intentionally) and how our relationships (although 90% of them are more the lack of a relationship) affected me. Why I am who I am now and how I hope to become someone even better. How's that for a sentence?

Therapy costs too much and blogging is free so I'm going to muddle through some things here. If for some reason you find yourself going "I think she's talking about me, and she's got that wrong" I'm sorry. It may not be exactly factual but it's as true as I remember it.

There was this guy in high school who asked me if I'd have sex with him. I declined, obviously, but he said he thought I'd jump at the chance. He thought I'd be easy because no one liked me. Quote. So fat = not wanted in my 16-year-old mind.

Later on in high school I'm at a party in a garage. There are several kids I don't know and 2 I do. They decide to play spin-the-bottle and the last person I kissed was another girl when we were 9. Surprised? Here I am in a room of mostly strangers, 1 friend who's the birthday boy but too young for me, and the guy I have a crush on. He probably knew it. I didn't want to kiss anyone because I'd always been told you shouldn't kiss until you're married and even if I didn't believe that completely, I didn't want the first time to be in a garage in front of strangers. Too much pressure. The bottle never landed on me anyway, but I watched the boy I like kiss at least one girl. Later in the street he offered to kiss me. I think he really wouldn't have minded, but something in me wouldn't accept a kiss willingly but meaninglessly given. I think I cried most of the way home.

I went on a crappy date with a new crush in college, and cried when he gave me candy and not flowers. It wasn't even good candy- fudge and Chiclets ferfuckssake.

Next semester, and after that guy started dating someone else I found someone new who was nice to me. We went to a play the night before school ended and he gave me a huge bag of peanut M&Ms. I'd have taken wilted carnations with joy. Mum and Kathy ate them on the drive, drowning out my sobs with the crunchy candy shells.

I had a party a few weeks later, and still invited that guy. He didn't come, but my friend did. We tried spin-the-bottle again and while no one kissed on the lips (we were all good Christian kids you know), I remember kissing that spot just under his ear and thinking I could like this. He didn't seem to mind either. My best friend asked him later that night why he wouldn't go out with me and he said he respected me too much.

Which I heard as "I don't think she's pretty." That might be wrong, but that's how it felt.

This was reinforced all through school. I did manage to have one boyfriend- but my mum says he doesn't count since we never did anything. That's not true. He did hold my hand for grace before dinner twice.

I know. Pathetic. I even asked him to kiss me once. It was dark, and we were hidden by columns. No one would have seen. I was wearing my best dress. He had given me beautiful roses and I thought I loved him.

"It's not worth it."

I think I nodded meekly in agreement as I tried not to cry. There's a picture of me taken later that night; I'm clutching my bouquet and grinning. I told myself that he shut me down because he wanted to wait until the moment was right. Now I think about it he may have said something like that. Or maybe I wished he had. Anyway, I wanted it so much but I knew waiting was the right thing to do and I should follow his lead. It hit me later- years later- he said "it's" not worth it but I understood it as "you're not worth it." I've lived like this most of my life, thinking I'm not worth it but then feeling that yes, yes I am worth it and feeling guilty over being prideful so I'm back to self-loathing.

Anyway, two weeks later we'd broken up because his parents wanted to save me a broken heart if we kept dating and decided not to get married. They wanted us to decide, 2 months into a relationship, if we were going to marry. If not, well, best end things now shouldn't you children? So he dumped me. He was probably nice about it but I just remember running back to my room and begging to come home for Thanksgiving after all. He dumped me- this boy I'd loved since 3rd grade. I had diaries with pages full of him. This was the worst rejection yet.

I kept it inside, mostly. But I started to harden myself- I gained weight thinking that if a man wouldn't get close I wouldn't be hurt again. But silly me, I still developed crushes.

The popular boy with the silver voice who listened to me, gave me advice, and managed to make me feel like I was special while holding me at arms' length.

The darkly brooding would-be novelist who amused and infuriated me in equal turns.

The poet always pining for another. He was the one I loved best. I spent hours talking to him, educating myself in literature and music he liked (thankfully I turned out to have similar natural taste so I enjoy these things still). I tried to impress and flatter, to make him see how good I was for him. Never worked. When he wooed and won another I withdrew, angry and sad. People knew and maybe thought less of me but I couldn't face them. Someone asked me why I couldn't be happy for them and I remember with shame shouting that I found it difficult to be happy when someone else has the pleasure I do not. I regret seeing him as a trophy (although I suspect he might like that) instead of a person to be loved in that moment. Later I had to leave him, and leaving him was one of the hardest things I've ever done. I cried the whole way home that night, and halfway to Charleston the next day.

Midway through senior year, a teacher said I should stay on for grad school, since four years wasn't enough for me to catch a man. Maybe I could wear one down over another year or two, he thought. A man said that to me. Again I wasn't good enough. That didn't work, nor did staying on for one more year. But I don't need one. I've nearly 29 years' worth of experience being alone and I've got it worked out. There have been a few dates in the intervening years but nothing serious. I swooned inwardly when this one guy said he would not abandon me. He was probably joking, and he did. I lived. And I will live. Cynically and sentimentally. After all, I am a woman and can be as contrary as I choose.

We're all thinking about it.

"Why shouldn't heaven consist of all the great pleasures? Eating, drinking, making love: if it's all so wrong, why do we have to do it to stay alive and propagate the species? No, I think heaven will consist of nonstop bacchanalia. Down in hell they'll be worrying about STDs and premature ejaculation. Anyway, if you don't watch out you'll have to go to a special, fenced-off area where they keep all the virgins."

"In heaven or hell?"

"I'm really not sure. You ought not to chance it."

"I'd better get busy."

"I wish you would."

-Audrey Niffenegger, Her Fearful Symmetry

I read this today. Lately I've been writing (one serious story but mostly rubbish), and this exchange sounds like something I'd write on a good day.

I've been reading and thinking a lot about sex lately. This may or may not shock you, depending on how and how well you know me. As a 'recovering fundamentalist' I do think about it, and how my views have been colored by what I've been taught and what I've observed. As a friend so excellently put it, "the church screwed* me now no one else will." I'm not brave enough to publish some of my own thoughts as I am still cobbling them together, but I have read that my feelings are not unique among female single Christians. I struggle with being alone, but mostly for the following reasons: a single income stretches only so far; wrestling a duvet into a cover is best attempted by two; it'd be nice to have someone drive me home when I've had too much to drink. I'm sure the sex is nice too. But I've gotten accustomed to being on my own (aside from a lovely roommate who can tell when I'm in a funk and so to tread lightly).

But back to the sex. It's everywhere. I've noticed it in books I'm reading about writing. So many writing prompts are about sex. Write how you felt the first time. What was the weather like? Write a sex scene but make it funny. There's a chapter in Her Fearful Symmetry that explains why the twins are still virgins. It's a theme throughout the book, this desire to couple but fear of leaving the other behind.

I wanted to write something else and the thoughts were there earlier. They're gone now. You're stuck with this. So am I. I think I want to write a pseudo-memoir about the kind of girl I was and the one I'm becoming. The one who grew up terrified of God but now embraces him/her/it and the mystery that is existing. The one who prefers questions to dogma. The one who swore she'd wait until her wedding night but now thinks if she can stand to let a man get close to her he probably will get lucky before he even puts a ring on it. (Somewhere in a parallel universe my university-aged self just died.) Names and situations will be changed to protect the very guilty and criminally naive. I joked once that I wanted to write a Christian fiction novel where neither main character was particularly attractive, some characters were not religious (and did not come to Jesus by the penultimate chapter), and one of the protagonists died or left the relationship and had a great life. The kind of book that features a female lead who is a sometimes potty-mouthed social drinker of faith (my caricature in the brilliantly moving and occasionally irreverent spiritual memoir of a friend, coming to bookshelves near you sometime in the next few years I'm sure). It'll have to include the curse I remember friends pronouncing if we pissed each other off- "May you die a virgin." Because we couldn't think of anything worse.

Or maybe I'll publish a tawdry bodice-ripper of an e-book under another name if I can ever bring myself to type the words "throbbing" and "member" in the same sentence. Oh, wait...

*another term was used but that may offend some readers

The Pub

6.00 p.m. Today. "My" stool at the bar. Dublin Down pub on the island.

I say "my" stool because the last 3 times I've been to the pub I've arrived earlier than my group and I've sat in the same place each time. It's on the backside of the doublesided bar. My back's to the open back door, and I can see who's coming in the front door. Best view for spotting my pastor when he walks in for the monthly Theology on Tap chats we've been having. I can usually be found halfway through my first pint (half Harp & half Guinness) or whiskey (Redbreast, if it's been a bad day) when the group arrives.

Today I'm here because it's writers group tonight at 7 down the block at my church. I've the time to kill, and I'm hungry and thirsty. The guy behind the bar is not familiar to me; I'm not exactly a regular but the normal fellow knows me well enough to ask if it's a pint or Redbreast stronger night. Still, he introduces himself as J. and pulls me a nice pint. I order the chicken potpie because several people I know like it, and the lamb sandwich has been extirpated from the menu. Maybe I was the only one who ever ordered it. RIP lamb dip.

It's a quiet night in the pub. I'm the only one at the bar, and there are two other groups in the place. Both doors are open, and the breeze rushes through. My sleeves flutter and I smile. Since J. the bartender is not very talkative, I pull out my new journal. I've written a few lines about the pub, how it looks like it came out of a kit. You know the look. Dark wood, squeaky stools, assorted Guinness adverts and Irish proverb signs decorating the place. The token dart board hanging in a corner. Football matches on the telly no one watches. In case you forget you're in America.

At this point the lone server asks me if I'm writing in a journal. I say yes, but it's more observations and parts of stories than musings on my life. She says she didn't think people did that anymore, wrote in actual journals. What was I writing about? I tell her that I'm writing a book about an art museum and a boy, and she listens very politely and wishes me well.

Meanwhile, an older man has wandered in and sits down at the corner of the bar. He orders a vodka with a little bit of tonic- no, just a bit more- there you go- two limes and tells me J.'s a good guy, just needs a bit more practice with the drinks. But seriously, a good man's hard to find. Unable to resist I lift my second pint and agree.

Talking to guys around my own age is difficult for me. Nigh impossible. Older men at bars? It must be my thing. Within 5 minutes we've exchanged hometowns, tales of travels, school histories, what we want from life. He squints roughly every thirty seconds, I notice. His drink disappears quickly, and soon he's schooling J. about the quality of tonic. Not that it's bad, mind you, but the stuff from the gun just isn't as good as the old-school stuff. He says he'll bring in a bottle of his own if J. will hide it under the bar and use it only when he comes in. I wonder why he doesn't just make his own at home but then again maybe he comes to the pub for sparkling conversation with girls like me.

The music is more audible with fewer people in the pub, and I'm humming along to the songs I know. Which happens to be all of them. The man, D., is impressed as I sing along with Gaelic Storm through "The Leaving of Liverpool."

That's something I want to do more of. Sing in pubs, I mean. I've only really done it once. When S. came to visit me, we went downtown to a few places but found ourselves ending the night in Tommy Condon's. This guy was singing in the main dining room, and I was bummed that we were in the next, separated by glass. I could hear well enough, and sang along merrily to every tune he played. S. was amused since this was something she'd have done; I'm usually much more staid. Not that night. I sang my way from Kerry through Glocca Morra to Dublin. I have this idea that someday when I actually go to Ireland I'll go to a pub, drink a pint of Guinness with farmers and we'll all sing together. I'll end up dancing across lager-stained plank floors then finish the night leaning against some man weeping over how they killed Bold Robert Emmet, and I hope that I too can die with a smile.

And we're back

Back online. Mostly because I can't sleep, and may as well post something. Since last time...

Got a job. Bought a flat. Have a roommate so will not lose flat. Gained the weight (and then some) back. Have sad excuses for why. Developed a taste for whisk(e)y. Started writing a book. Debating grad school. Wondering why was not born in different country and century as seem better-suited to that. Still melt at the sound of Anthony Kearns' voice. Had a crush on Mr. Bates but affections have been transferred to Branson on Downton Abbey.