Slow show

I liken love to fireworks. I’ve never been in love or anything close to it. I rarely get past initial infatuation with guys. But I HAVE been to a fair share of fireworks shows in my time and I am going to take that analogy and run with it. After all, I think I want this whole blog thing to be some kind of record of my unjaded enthusiasm for love, life, people and events… an outlet for optimism… a written record of a late bloomer in regards to love. Anyways, fireworks. After 21 years of countless fireworks shows in various places, these choreographed lights and explosions finally did something for me in February of this year. I doubt that these particular fireworks were any more exceptional than fireworks I have seen in the past, there was just something about that day, the music, the time, the place and the company I kept. All these factors came together to evoke an unbridled enthusiasm on the entire audience… or maybe just me. I like to imagine that love will have this same effect. The factors come together and, BAM, Lesley falls in love. Suddenly, it all means something. I look at him and see those fireworks and feel that bright-eyed enthusiasm. There’s the element of danger. Someone could get burnt, but we’re brave and stand steadfast. My love life as it stands now is a series of sloppy fireworks shows. It’s a compilation of good stories. It's trivial or anecdotal at best, like neighbourhood street toughs playing with firecrackers on Halloween.

I want it all. The love, the passion, the romance, the heartbreak. I want it all so badly. I listen to people talk about relationships and even at the mention of hurt or heartache I get jealous. Jealous?! That’s crazy right? I would love to care enough about someone for them to break my heart. Ya, that’s crazy.

So who, or what, is siphoning the gas from my fireworks show? Has the fuse even been lit? Maybe it’s just yet to reach the gunpowder.

I’ve been fairly single for a long time now and have gotten pretty good at it. I can open my own doors and carry my own groceries. I can pick up at a bar, get a guy’s number and usually get a date. I am THE best wing-man and can get my FRIENDS laid, no problem. I’ve gotten comfortable in a certain degree of independence and self-sufficiency, which I like. I can zip up and down the most difficult of dress zippers on my own and I can look in the mirror and call myself beautiful. Though, there was that one night I was unzipping my red dress and the zipper got stuck in the waistband of my tights. I couldn’t pull the dress up or the tights down and I was stuck in both like a fucking onesie. See, there are some things I can’t always do by myself, or at least it would be nice to have a little help sometimes.