Declaration of Independence

Today, after having a particularly grueling phone conversation with the Colombian, I decided to delete all the men from my phone that I do not want to talk to ever again. Would I really ever need the numbers of those two little Mexican guys that I met at Aquarius? I did see them again, but it was at Hy-Vee the next day, and it was a complete coincidence. I was just there buying ingredients for Grandma's chicken broccoli recipe. Nope, they could definitely be deleted. And the amazingly hot T? He was only interested in a one time thing, and I blew that by getting so drunk that I was put on a chair outside the bar with a bucket between my feet. My hair was not spared when I put that bucket to the use for which it was intended. I think I might have even pissed in my pants a little that night. Definitely not sexy. Thank God T and I parted ways somewhere between tipsy and alcohol poisoning, and that Jenny answered my phone and declined on my behalf when he called later. I could delete him too. He isn't from around here, and I do not think that bringing home random guys from bars is a good idea anymore. It seems a little "Secret Lives of Women" to focus on my wellness by day and random sex with strangers by night. I guess G Hollywood's number could go, too. He had nothing to offer but a nine-year old daughter and a demo CD, and he couldn't even find that in his, excuse me, his sister's car when he wanted to give me a copy at bar close. And then there was Rick. The forty-something divorcee that bought Meghan and I drinks all night on St. Patty's. He was super nice, but had more baggage than Louis Vuitton. Did I mention that he was over forty?

I was a deleting machine and it felt so good. So I decided to do what I came to do. I deleted the Colombian's number from my phone for the second time. I don't know how it is in Colombia, but in the US our days contain twenty-four hours. So, after canceling his plans with me again because he cannot spare any time to spend with me between his two hours of English classes and his gym time, I decided that the disappointment that I feel every time he does this is not worth it. I am the one who has a demanding job, college courses and volunteering commitments. I fit in time at the gym and time for myself. I am willing to make time for him, but he can't make time for me. So when he tried to convince me to see him on Sunday instead of today, I had made my decision. I told him that I would not be seeing him on Sunday, or ever as a matter of fact. He said that he'd see me on Sunday. I told him emphatically that he would not. He told me he'd call, and I told him I would not answer. He said he'd leave a message. Damn, he got me there. He tried to make me feel guilty when he asked me if I was going to say goodbye to him. I told him that I was saying goodbye right then, and that if he had anything to say to me he should say it, because it was the last time that we were ever going to talk. He said he'd see me Sunday.

I need to stand my ground. No matter how tempting, I cannot be that girl that says one thing and does another. Unfortunately, I have been her in the past and always feel like shit when I am, because positively reinforcing a man's manipulation and pleas does not help me, nor the plight of women in general. I decided that my failed relationship is not a failure, but a success. As is the case for a lot of people, I think. Ask Tina Turner or my roommate Jen. Both made fabulous comebacks after ditching the losers they were with. I am lucky that I live in a society where a man is an option, not a necessity. I have the freedom to make my own money, my own decisions and even my own babies, all in a land where vibrators abound. I like men, though, and have faith that there will be better ones in my future. If there aren't, hell, I'll just be the crazy single aunt to my brother's future kids. It's a job that I know I'd be good at, and every kid needs at least one.