The Pajamas Must Mean Something

With a cold glass of white zin in my hand, I sat around the new pub table in the bar to swap stories and get caught up on the latest buzz.

One of my friends shared about a brief relationship with a gal, which ultimately ended due to her being a little too demanding (and, in my initial observation, slightly crazy). Earlier that evening, text messages were fired off. The casual 'oh, how are you doing' & 'what are your plans' came up...... which he barely could respond back to before another text message was sent. Another slough of them followed. Then, out of the blue, she brings up a pair of pajamas he had left behind and how it must "mean something".  →→→ insert electronic :-) here.

Oh boy, I thought to myself. This isn't sounding good. I would be right. My friend, busy at that moment doing errands, was a bit overwhelmed possibly or just tired from a long day. It ended in him telling her to burn the pajamas. (Hopefully, for this gal, if she took it literally she did so in a well-ventilated area. ....)

We laughed. A commitment in a pair of worn pajamas? Are you kidding me? It was comical. It was crazy. We are talking about a pair of pajamas. Not him asking for his own drawer or to stock her cupboard with his favorite breakfast cereal. It was simply a matter of him leaving without them. After we milked that scenario for what it was worth, we moved on to the next topic of discussion. But it obviously got me thinking, because here I am blogging about it.

How often do we invest in hopes, fantasies and dreams of something more? Surely this gal saw the forgotten pajamas as a status symbol, a Freudian slip of sorts, that she interpreted as him being interested in something more. Something more.

As a woman, I am force fed romance, chivalry, bliss and happily-ever-after-eventually. I see it unfold in the tv shows on primetime, articles and links to the Huffington Post on my newsfeed, magazines poised so carefully as they line the racks along the registers at my grocery store not to mention in the lyrics of songs on the radio, downloaded music on my phone & the archaic cds in the visor of my car. Results of polls taken are reported on weekly tv magazine show. Images of men chasing after women, expensive gifts presented in commercials, and men showing up unexpected at the front door, late at night, in the rain, because he wants to talk. Or can't sleep.

Do you see what I mean?

This is what your average Joe has to compete with. What my buddy had to deal with. What she has to fight against. What I have to tell myself, over and over again, is not the norm.

In 2004, after another failed marriage, I unexpectedly re-entered the dating scene. I say unexpectedly because I definitely wasn't looking. I was a single mom trying to juggle my new relationship status along with attending college full time and working four, ten hour shifts. Not quite 30 years old, I figured my time could be better spent slaving away at my studies, reporting to work half awake, and raising my toddler. Marriage and men equalled mayhem.

Then, a co-worker came to my rescue and went to tend to my sick little boy as a result of my manager threatening to do something to my job if I left. Not exactly ideal, being that I had no idea what his parenting skills were and how he dealt with young, sick children. When you are young and stupid, and maybe a whole lot desperate, you take the offer and pray he isn't some psycho.

I remember being enamored by the gesture. Afterall, he had worked a straight 18-24 hours and was clocking out for the day. He didn't owe me anything and I didn't suspect prior that he was interested in me. But he was kind. And kindness, as The Huff Post reported, is often mistaken by women as flirting.

All these years later, after hearing about this jilted woman and a pair of pajamas, I can't help but ask myself how far off the radar she might have been. My buddy is a friendly, likeable guy. Might she have factored that into her equation and this forgotten article of clothing was clearly another hint? Perhaps. Or maybe it is more than that. Maybe all of the crap us women encounter no thanks to the media, the music, and more has contributed to the distorted vision that we grapple with in our minds. When left to our own devices, we force the mismatched puzzle pieces to somehow "fit". We tell ourselves that the corner piece COULD fit in the center and turn it upside down, to the right or left, but it doesn't allign. It doesn't fit. But we tell ourselves maybe it could.

So with hearts on our sleeves, a dry mouth or lump in our throats we go off the deep end and reveal the theory we have conjured up......only to have a response like "burn the pajamas" to come across the screen of our phones. Not even Bon Jovi's 'Livin On A Prayer' can save us now.

Gods In My Life

I like to think I worship God and have no other gods in my life. There's a commandment that is labeled the first of ten and thanks to my Catholic upbringing I still have it memorized -- 'I am the Lord your God who brought you out of slavery. Worship no gods except me'. I may not be wearing visible shackles and chains but bondage I am in.

A few weeks ago, there was a series that started at my church. It is based upon a Christian author's book called "7". (I haven't yet read it but it is next on my personal book club list.) A group of women friends decided to do this challenge to address the excess in their lives. Week one was on excess things. You know, the stuff we store up that fills our closets, sheds and sometimes offsite in storage units we pay for monthly. I committed to purging 56 items a day, to represent 7 items for each person living under the same roof I do. Unfortunately it was not much of a physical challenge. It was, however, a lesson in spiritual and mental discipline to hold myself to my commitment.

Week two we just wrapped up. It was a food challenge. Crap. The food challenge was set up a few different ways. One challenge was to fast thru a meal and limit my food intake to two meals a day. Another challenge was to only use seven food items, excluding water, spices and limited olive oil. I did both.

I thought carefully as I found my seven food items. I had my kids in mind and thought of staples in our daily menu. Cereal and milk. Two down, five more to go. Veggies & fruits? Salad and dressing. Dang, there's another two. I'm no math major but if my skills serve me well, I have 3 items left.

I thought long and hard about my remainkng three items. Where could I get the most bang for my buck? Meats or pasta, bread, rice, or potatoes. Hmmmm. A poultry item, beef or pork. I had it all in my freezer. After much contemplation,  I settled on turkey, beef and potatoes. I could make it on these and so possibly could the fam.

I'm still gleaning from this experience. The eve before my fast, I felt somewhat melancholy. I wouldn't have the freedom to pull up to my neighborhood coffee stand (appropriately named ADDICTED) that week. Coffee and flavoring weren't on my dirty 7. Forget the quick meal ideas I reverted to of pizza or sandwiches (too many items & none on my dirty 7 list). I created my own reenactment of my final meal as a free woman. I ate whatever munchies and free items.

Gods I serve? Oh, I was just scratching the surface.