When boy meets girl

So I have a bone to pick with some fellas! Okay, it's not really something I'm mad about, more like something I can't understand because it's never happened to me.
The first culprit is Hulzy. Ohhh, don't even pretend like you don't know what I'm going to say. Buying your girlfriend designer bags and sunglasses! How many boyfriends actually do that?! Well, only the really exceptional ones, obviously. Naturally, I am not mad about this, just had to get your attention... okay, maybe a smidge envious, but mostly really happy.
Because I do recall a certain ex-boyfriend of mine telling a sales girl in the mall who politely suggested he purchase a particular knock-off designer bag for me (that I was oggling) that he would never waste the money. I am pretty sure he snickered with an evil smile after uttering the nasty statement as well. And if he'd had a handlebar mustache, the sod would have been twirling it, while I huffed in indignation over his complete disdain for one of my greatest loves--the designer bag. He was a sweetheart, I know. Can't really figure out why I let that one slip through my fingers.
Anyway, I digress, we were talking about someone actually upstanding and I got off topic. James. A.K.A Hulzy. My best friend's boyfriend.
I don't come across many men in my life that really wow me with their character and do things like tell their girlfriend's best friend that she is beautiful even when she does nasty things like talk about how much she hates shaving her legs or that she's feeling quite bitchy because the period's on its way.
Yes, I can really let it all hang out around men who are akin to adopted brothers. Jordan puts up with it. Why shouldn't Hulzy?
And really he doesn't have to. He could do the easy thing and just wow my best friend. He could buy her designer bags and treat her well, and make witty banter about her need to stop in wal-mart and socialize with people named Ellie-Mae. But no, I'd say he goes the extra mile in caring not only about her, but caring about what she cares about, including her family and friends. Indeed it isn't very often that I meet men that impress me this much and it really is no surprise, because Hulzy is one in a million. As is my dear Emily. And she deserves someone who treats her like the rarest and most beautiful of all diamonds to ever be discovered on planet earth. That is how dear Emily is to my heart and how dear James is to me, for taking care of her long after I very begrudgingly handed over the reins.
Another man, who is doing a damn fine job of impressing me, and this is a very tall order, is a certain Mr. Iowa. Not many of you will know who this is, but suffice it so say, he waltzed in sweeping my other best friend off her feet at a time when she couldn't have needed it more.
It is no easy thing for me to watch some man come in with his sweet words and kind gestures and take over what I think is my job, caring and loving my best friends. Holding their hands when they get sad, threatening warfare on anyone who harms them, telling them they are beautiful, amazing, two of the most perfect girls in God's creation, and then in walks a man who really means it and he gets a lot more props for doing a job I've been doing for years. But that's okay. When it comes to my beautiful friends finding the man who makes their heart pitter-patter and causes their steps to be a little more jaunty, well I can't help but thank God for searching the world over with a fine-tooth comb for men who are bold enough to prove themselves to not only my girls, but to me. And so far fellas, you are making me proud.

Wanted: A Good Friend

As is the case with moving to any new locale where you know very few people, you have to start the daunting task of re-acquiring a friend base. This was easy in the second grade:
"Will you be my friend, Elizabeth?"
"Sure Cassandra. I really like your backpack."
"Thanks, my mom bought it for me. I really like your tights."
And, a friendship was born. Pure and simple. One that could probably last you at least until the fifth grade. Unfortunately as an adult, simply asking someone to be your friend will most likely not get you said friend, but make them wonder if you have some sort of social dysfunction.
But as true as it was in the second grade, upon meeting someone I can usually tell within a short time whether or not that person is someone I want to be friends with. Well, that's dandy, but it's sort of like dating--something I loathe--you have to put your best foot forward, exchange phone numbers, wonder if the other person actually wants to hang out with you or if they were just being polite when they said, "we should do coffee soon," start planning get-togethers that both parties are fond of, save all the really gory details about your life for a time when you know they're in it for the long haul.... blah. blah. blah.
It's a big headache! And furthermore, what if you really aren't meeting these would-be friends?! Then you're even farther up crap creek without a paddle, because all the legwork seems welcome compared to no prospects whatsoever!
After making very distinct plans with a prospective friend last night and feeling excited about all the ways in which this friendship could blossom, I was a fit to be tied, when said person NEVER CALLED, as the little worm was supposed to. Even after I hinted that I was getting tired and weren't we still doing something.
Nothing. Nada. Zilch.
I woke up just as angry as I had gone to sleep. Since moving to Green Bay I have met one person so far who I feel truly gets me. And he's moving! My darling Mr. Pierce is leaving me for Madison. Wow, that could be a movie title. Okay, anyway, I am very happy for him and the whirlwind of opportunities unfolding for him, because he deeply deserves it, but I am very distressed for me. Who will go adventuring with me, sample chili at cook-offs and take me on dates to Kavarna?! Who, I say?
I had a bit of a spazz-attack on the way to work this morning over this current conundrum and desperately prodded God for solutions. Do I have to put a bloody ad in the paper saying:
Young, hip girl needs friend. If you are adventuresome, witty, like board games and old-fashioned movies, and feasibly can hang out all the time, then you're my gal/guy. Heavy drinkers, druggers, or partiers need not apply.
I mean, that's just a rough sketch... I haven't given it much thought or anything...
Okay, but honestly, what am I to do? I am totally batting zero here!
And yes, I have met some really great people thus far, don't get me wrong, but I mean, it's just these people might be content hanging out with me once a month or so, and really if I go to one more movie or wine tasting by myself...
Bottom-line: I really have grown quite fond of my own company, more fond of it than I ever imagined I would, however, I'd like to share it with someone else before I become a crazy bag lady who starts talking to squirrels for lack of human companionship.

I've failed 100,000 times...

You know what I've never really been able to do that skinny people can do? A cartwheel. And it struck me the other day that I really wish I could do one. Oh, don't get me wrong, I've attempted many a cartwheel, much as I've attempted many a diet, but it just never quite clicks. I flip to the side, I fall before I can complete it. In short, I am way top heavy and gravity just doesn't agree with me there. It says, ehh, try again when you're fifty pounds lighter. But then I somehow end up 50lbs heavier and the years have passed me by and I've just quit trying as I know my limits.
Well maybe Easter, this time of resurrection and rebirth is an important time to start realizing this. Not just that I actually still do long to complete a cartwheel but that I long to do loads of other things that I have sort of given up on because of either my weight holding me back as a physical restriction, or an emotional one.
I was talking about this with a friend of mine the other day and I told him about how I was out with some friends who were playing catch with a football and someone went to throw it to me, and I instinctively said "no way!" and ran to the side of the hastily developing game of 500. At first I was mad I said, no way. What was I thinking? I like playing 500 as much as the next non-sports savvy gal. But the more I watched the girls and guys toss around the football and call to me to play, the more uncomfortable I became. I felt as if I were to go out there and mess up, as I probably might (as everyone was) I would look more stupid because of my weight. Yes, it's a sick mentality, but it was there, holding me back.
And I guess the floodgates have opened, because I vehemently said to me friend that I didn't want to be on the sidelines of life anymore. I really want to be in the game. I don't want to be afraid, and I don't want to give up because it's always been hard and will continue to be hard. I want to do this, not because being thin would somehow make me fit in. No, I have always marched to the beat of a slightly off-beat jazzy drummer, but I simply would love to know what it's all about.
I want to run and do cartwheel after cartwheel. And maybe because of the fact that it's always been a struggle and I've had to fail so many times to actually get there, I won't take it for granted as I'm sure many people do. How can you truly know how magical a cartwheel is if you've never gotten the dizzying chance to experience it from beginning to end?
I guess I am going to have to find out.