Saturday, September 25, 2010

Guide Me Home

Dear Diary:

I'm 32 years old, and for a while now I feel as though I don't fit in anywhere. I don't really belong to any group of people, and my social circle is somewhat small to tell you the truth.

My childhood was what one could call a nomadic existence, moving about every three years while my dad worked his way up in his chosen field. It wasn't easy to make friends, and it wasn't easy to keep lasting relationships with those whom I did consider friends because as soon as I felt comfortable, I was uprooted again.

It wasn't until high school that I really fit in anywhere, and oddly enough, my best friends and I were somewhat outsiders, yet since we each ran in different circles, we were outsiders that were on the inside with everyone. Those friends I consider brothers, and we still keep in touch regularly. But I haven't lived in Texas for about fifteen years now.

Anyway, I don't really feel like I fit anywhere, and I really don't have any direction in my life. I have no fucking clue what I want to do, and I have no clue what I am doing.

My daily existence consists of a monotonous routine, and while it takes up just about every waking hour I have, I wouldn't call it particularly invigorating, or happy. It's downright boring. Some would even call it sad.

So I stroll through life aimlessly, with no real direction or sense of purpose. When I was waking up next to someone every morning, I felt purpose, meaning, direction. Not so much anymore.

And while I have a house, it is more of a project these days. Working on the deck, seeding the dirt patch that constituted my front "yard" and working on things here and there. It isn't a home. If home is where the heart is, then I am homeless.

I want to be home.

"Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones..."


Monday, September 20, 2010

TheDivorcedGuy 2.0, V. 2.1

Dear Diary:

Five months ago I stepped on a scale and weighed 264 pounds. During the month of August, I was in a cast and could not exercise, and that, coupled with being in an absolute funk and emotionally eating and drinking, put me back to to 264 pounds.

Over the last month, I have felt my clothes getting tighter, and there are some shirts that I cannot even wear at the moment. This bothers me. What bothers me more though was that I could not find any motivation whatsoever, nor could I find inspiration to do what I know I needed to do. I chose a life of convenience, which included not moving much, and eating what was available as opposed to what was healthy. Food is fuel. Sure, some of the shit tastes mighty good, but it is just fuel.

Then today, when I was thinking about working out, but also thinking about how bad my back was fucking killing me after doing hard physical labor this weekend, Jolene over at To Be Determined shared with me a little video, which can be found here.

I won't lie and say that I was not deeply touched by that video. I won't lie and say that I didn't cry watching it. I also won't lie and say that my attitude toward my body has not caused me bouts of depression, which causes me to leave the rest of the world alone and revert inward, blocking everyone out while I try to deal with it because I feel ashamed.

But then I watched this video. In fact, I cannot get that video to stop playing in my memory. I found it to be more than inspiring. At its foundation, it is a story of hope and perseverance, of achieving goals, and of slaying the ghosts of one's past in order to define one's own future.

It's inspiration.

The difference between Ben, and even Tyler, and myself is that they both seem to have a built in support system of family, friends, and the like, that are right there with them. And when I say with them, I mean right there, not 3000 miles away. I don't have that, not anymore. I had that support system with my ex-wife, and we lost weight and got healthier together. I lost 60 pounds when I was married, working together with her to achieve that. I won't lie and say I don't miss that.

But, as Ben said, "if you want to do it, all you have to do is do it."

And I just did. 3.5 miles in fact.

Welcome to TheDivorcedGuy 2.0, V2.1

Monday, September 13, 2010


Dear Diary:

She is probably the most laid back, yet outgoing woman I have met.

Words that I would use to describe her are intelligent, lively, thoughtful, entertaining, fun, youthful, ambitious, determined, self-aware, graceful, kind.

Who is this you might be asking? She is the girl I mentioned roughly a month ago that my friend is trying to set me up with. We have gone out twice.

She is a bit of an enigma. She is in her early twenties, yet she has gone out with me, a 32 year-old slightly overweight divorced man, twice. And we have a good time. It's very calm, yet fun at the same time.

Our first date I met her at a place that had a decent beer list, as I had mentioned to you earlier that she is a beer drinker. We talked, had a couple of pints, and then went and grabbed a bite to eat. As we were in an area with many options within walking distance, we just walked around and I pointed out different places, and she suggested I just pick one. So I did. And I hit a home run with my choice, to the point she is recommending it to all of her friends.

She looked strikingly beautiful, and is confident, with eyes you could get lost in, and a laugh that is infectious. While walking part of me could not help think that every person around us was wondering how the fuck I was with her.

She can also eat, and is not afraid of doing so. There is nothing more frustrating than going out to dinner with your date to a place that is known for a certain type of food and your date ordering nothing more than something light, like a salad, or a leaf. I thoroughly enjoyed how she was not afraid to have what she wanted. I found that appealing. Our second date included a walk near the water and stopping in a tavern for a couple of pints, followed by dinner overlooking the boats. I had fish, and she had prime rib.

She is tall. Blond, tan with a gorgeous smile. She wore something that showed off her figure while remaining tasteful. While walking we encountered a little dog, and she wanted to pet it. She is mature yet with a child like innocence.

She is not out of my league at all, but she does scare the fucking shit out of me.

Saturday, September 11, 2010

Forever Mine

"It may not mean nothing to y'all
But understand nothing was done for me
So I don't plan on stopping at all
I want this shit forever mine, ever mine, ever mine"

Dear Diary:

I've worked for everything I have. I've taken on risk. I've lost. I've won. I like to think I have won more than I lost.

Now, that is not to say that I have not had help along the way on occasion. But, help ends at a certain point, generally fairly quickly. Whether it was someone giving me an introduction, or helping me work through something financial, I have then taken their assistance at Step 1, and busted my ass to get to Step 20, and beyond.

I started off at the lowest possible position at my job, and busted my ass to get to the top. My car and house are in my name only. So are my credit cards.

But what I am most proud of is how I fought and worked like a bastard to rebuild myself, mentally and emotionally. If steps needed to be taken to talk to someone, I took those steps, no one took them for me. No one told me, "This is what you must do and this is how you do it." Ultimately, I figured that shit out on my own. And that's how I like it, because I can own it completely, both good and bad. No excuses.

And no one can take that, the process of how I did it, away from me.

It's forever, mine.

And it's just the beginning.

Monday, September 6, 2010


Dear Diary:

I first seriously kissed a girl when I was 16 years old. I can remember ever single detail about that first kiss. I remember exactly where I was. I remember exactly how she looked. I remember who she is, and we are still friends (at least on that social networking site that shall not be named because they are not writing me a check).

I remember my first drink. I was a freshman in high school. We start drinking young in Texas, what can I say? I also remember my first legal drink. It was shortly after midnight and the bar I was working at was closed but the manager who is someone I still consider a good friend of mine opened the bar up for just us and we had a beer together.

I first had sex when I was....get ready for it.....24. I remember where I was. I remember how it felt. I remember her name. I remember what she looked like. I just cannot remember the color of her eyes. Oh yeah, and I married her.

My first divorce (and also hopefully my last) involved the same woman who I gave my virginity to.

I had another first this weekend, or after you read this it may be considered a series of firsts. That being said, let me get into the story.

I had a bunch of friends in town and we started off with a happy hour at 5:30 on Friday. Happy hour progressed to hitting up one of the bars around the corner from my house. As you can imagine, I had a headache that I believe was spawned out of the loins of Satan come Saturday morning.

I was leaving the bar around 12:30 or so and my brother who was also there motioned over for me to come talk to him, and meet the three women he was talking to. The one he wanted to really introduce me too, he tried to hog for himself, so I started talking to a friend of hers - law school student, brunette, skinny, fairly attractive, probably 25, but interesting.

My friend who was tending bar, kept the beers coming, as well as shots, and what went from a decent buzz started to get cloudy, but I saved myself by slowing down considerably and drinking a ton of water to rehydrate. I do remember at one point engaging in a fairly tame and innocent kiss with the girl I was talking to.

The girls left, and I left as well, to find the girls outside, walking back to the bar. The one I kissed, talked to me for five minutes, and I walked her home. She suggested we go to my place, but I insisted on walking her to her place.

First Number One: picking up a girl in a bar (or she picked me up, but either way, it's a first).

We walked home, she invited me inside, we started kissing, she suggested I spend the night, and suggested we go upstairs because she wanted to have sex since her housemates were gone and she wanted to let loose and not be a good girl.

So, I did what any self-respecting gentleman like myself would have done who has a woman throwing herself at him, aroused to the point her panties were wet from the view from up her skirt.

I said no.

I told her I wasn't the type of guy who was going to take advantage of a situation, and a woman, because she was drunk, and truth be told, I am not. She said she understood, and respected that I was respectful, even though she was a bit disappointed.

Now, I am no saint. I have had somewhat meaningless and more than meaningless but not quite meaningful sex with willing women, but they have been sober the first time we fooled around (and yes I have had meaningful, passionate, and intense sex with different women, don't get the wrong impression). But there is something about fucking a drunk woman and walking out the door never to see her again after getting my rocks off that I guess I cannot bring myself to do.

First Number Two: the walk of shame (although was it really? I mean, technically it was still dark out, and I didn't have sex, so it's up for debate)

Thankfully there was a 7-11 near her place that was open so I could grab some water, a snack, and nicotine (still trying to quite, I swear) for the walk home.

Thursday, September 2, 2010


Dear Diary:

It's a bit amazing what one takes for granted by the simple fact that he or she may have two properly functioning hands. For the last month, I have not had two properly functioning hands. I have had a hand, and a thumb.

At the moment, I still do not have two properly functioning hands. However, I have one good hand and one hand that opens to about 160 degrees. I can make a fist with my not quite perfect hand. I can hold things with my not quite perfect hand. I can actually use, to a large extent, my not quite perfect hand.

And you can have no fucking idea how liberating that feels unless you have gone through something similar.

I went for a run the other day, without a cast. I pushed myself, and got about 2 miles in, and it hurt like hell. But, it was much better than the zero miles I have been able to do or the last month with a club attached to my not quite perfect hand.

I cleaned my house. And when I say cleaned it, I mean cleaned it. No quick spruce up. No just sweeping. The floors are swept, couch vacuumed, floors mopped, everything dusted, shit thrown out, shit put away, stainless steel polished, granite cleaned, toilets cleaned, sinks cleaned, and hell, I even did the decorative stuff for good measure. The master bathroom will be done being cleaned as soon as I....

Cut my fucking hair.

Now, I have curly hair. And I do not mean flowing locks of curls, but more rather straight on brillo pad hair. I can grow an afro if I wanted to, that is how thick, dense, and curly my hair is. In the summer, if it gets more than half an inch long, it holds in heat like a greenhouse to the point you could probably fry an egg on my head. I cut my hair one handed. It was beyond difficult.

But not anymore. Now, I am going to have a comfortable hair cut. Ok, for me, a comfortable hair cut is taking it all off, but since it is technically cutting hair, it is a hair cut.

When I run, I will not feel like my head is going to overheat to the point that it will explode. It feels cleaner, more comfortable, and well, it's me. And I guess that is the point of it all.

I'm getting back to me. Slowly but surely, I'm getting back to actually feeling like myself.