Progress Report

When we last left off, it was December and I was recovering from a spinal tap and a recent diagnosis of Idiopathic Intracranial Hypertension causing Papilledema. It's been about three months since then and I thought it was about time for an update.

Since December, I have had two neurologist appointments (for my brain) and two neuro-ophthalmologist appointments (for my ocular nerve and vision). 

I was very nervous about visiting the neuro-ophthalmologist in late January. At this point, I had been on my medicine, Acetazolamide, for nearly two months. During those two months, I had also managed to lose around fourteen pounds. As weight gain is often a contributor to IIH, this was especially important. 

During my appointment, I knew the doctor would run the same tests I was now accustomed to in order to gauge the progress, if any, with my ocular nerve. These tests include a visual field test (staring into a machine and clicking a joystick-like contraption when you see disturbances), an eye pressure test (a puff of air), and laser mapping of my ocular nerve (this one's easy -- just stare at an "x" while a light takes photos of your eyeball). The issue with the last test is that it requires dilation, which necessitates a ride home from my husband while I sit there near-blind looking like an addict (hello, large pupils!).  After the tests are performed by technicians, I await the doctor's report.

The minutes spent waiting for this report always feel like hours. Did I improve? Am I going to go blind? Will I have to be medicated forever? Can I, for god's sake, have one measly glass of wine at some point?? My medicine and alcohol are not friends, you see.

Upon entering the room with my report, the doctor seems unusually jovial. I can't make out his expression due to my dilated pupils, but he informs me that I have made "massive progress" and that my ocular nerve looks just about normal now. He even utters a "wow" at one point. He asks how I've managed to lose so much weight over the holidays to which I reply that it is easy to do when you fear for your eyesight! I remark that it's nice to know there is light at the end of the tunnel.

"No, Lauryn," he says, pointing to the exam room door. "The light is right there, beyond that door. You are past the tunnel!"

I try my best (successfully!) not to Kim Kardashian ugly cry from happiness!

He informs me that I should be skipping out of the office with a huge smile on my face and that we will see about lowering my dose of medicine at my next appointment if my progress is steady. I take his advice about the smile but pass on the skipping.

Fast forward almost a month and a half to yesterday. I still have two weeks until my next follow up appointment, but something pushes me to reach out to the doctor to update him on my progress. I send him a note, updating him on my weight loss (another four pounds down!) and confirming that I haven't had any noticeable trouble with the papilledema over the past month and a half. To my astonishment, he replies that there is no reason I should not be able to come down to a lower dose of my medicine due to my weight loss success and that I can now take one pill twice a day instead of two pills twice a day. I am elated, and this time I do just about skip to my car for my nightly commute home.

Writing this, I have spent nearly 24-hours on the lower dose of my medicine and am feeling great so far. I'm hoping and praying that I continue to feel great! I am extremely thankful for my now-strong eyesight, especially since my previous visual field tests proved it was waning this past November. I have learned, over the past few months, that our bodies take time to adjust to changes and that we can't rush them. I have around nine pounds left to lose to achieve my original goal weight and am hoping, by that time, I will be ready for the "low" medicine dose and then no dose at all. For now, I am content on my new "medium" dose of medicine although the goal of being medicine-free will always be in the back of my mind.

Spinal Tap

This past week, I had a Continuing Professional Education (CPE) seminar. The credits earned from which are necessary to remain in good standing with my CPA license. This particular CPE was held at a hotel in a Boston suburb which I, and apparently a lot of other attendees, had never before been to. The hotel from the outside was massive and there was an event board front-and-center in the lobby which was conveniently silent to the room I needed to find. It seemed a lot of others were also noticing this, as there were about ten middle-aged men standing around said board in silence, just staring at it. 

"Excuse me?" I said rather audibly to a passing hotel worker. "Which way is the accounting seminar?"

"All the way down the hall on your left," he replied.

In a flash, all ten men rushed to cut in front of me towards the hall on their left, speed walking to the room I had just been given directions to as if asking for help was their idea.

How badly I wanted to yell after them! "YOU'RE WELCOME!" But I didn't -- I decided to save my sass for another day.

On the long walk down the hall, I got to thinking about why so many of us have such difficulties asking for help or advice. I thought a little further about my own recent experiences and noted this seemed to be even more difficult to do when it came to medicine or our health. For instance, I was so nervous to have my spinal tap done yet could only muster the confidence to ask my friends for advice -- not the doctor or nurse. Worse, I was hesitant still to ask follow up questions to the minimal advice that I actually got. Therefore, in hopes of helping someone out there who is also too timid to ask, I am going to walk you through my experience* with a spinal tap.

Upon arriving to my spinal tap appointment, which for me was an outpatient procedure, the nurse at my neurologist put me in a large room with two chairs and a hospital bed. I brought along my husband because I am, in fact, a big weenie and the extra chairs seemed to be there for this very reason. The nurse asked me to undress and put on a hospital gown with the opening to the back and told me I could leave my underwear on if it made me more comfortable, which it did. I was also thankful to have shaved my legs at this point (don't laugh, it's winter!) as my jeans were a no-go. My nurse asked if I wanted a blanket, which I originally declined, but thankfully she knew better and brought it anyway. Never turn down a blanket in a hospital setting! Even if you get sweaty when you worry, like me, you will eventually be freezing. 

Next, my neurologist came in to give me some papers to sign, to talk with me a little about what I could expect after the procedure, and to let me know that he would be performing the spinal tap himself. He had me sit on the bed facing away from him and pushed on my hip bones and spine with his hands in order to locate the exact point the needle would be inserted. He then marked a few spots on my back with a marker. As pathetic as this is, the pressure on my hips and back was already making me queasy -- for some reason, I don't typically feel queasy from pain but only from being examined in a medical setting...I know, I'm a weirdo. Anyway, at this point I asked to lay down on my side and told him I was feeling lightheaded. It is important to note that usual me would NEVER have spoken up about this -- I would've just dealt with it. However, the fear of passing out with a giant needle in my back was greater than the fear of sounding like a wuss -- so I said something. Luckily, the doctor said I could lie down on my left side and that he could do the procedure with me laying down as well as sitting.

If you get queasy easily, it's probably best for you to stop reading now :-)

I told the doctor that I am an over communicator, and I like to know what's going on at all times (see previous post about perfectionism, type-a-ness, etc.). This was important for me because I obviously couldn't see what was going on back there. He let me know that he was going to numb the area with smaller needles and that it might sting a bit. It did sting, but only mildly.

Now with the area was numb, the doctor let me know that he would be inserting the larger, hollow needle and that it sometimes took a minute to get it to where it's supposed to be. He also noted that it would be important for me to let him know if I feel any "zings" down either of my legs, as that means he bumped in to a nerve and knowing which leg the zing occurred in would help him reroute to the correct location.

I honestly didn't feel the needle itself going in at all -- thank God. I did feel a good amount of pressure, which was unsettling, and some of those "zings" the doctor talked about, which were super weird and uncomfortable. I spoke up about the zings and he was able to get the needle in place within a minute or two at which point I felt a small "pop". These few minutes were probably the hardest part of the entire procedure. Although I didn't feel pain, per se, I did feel extremely uncomfortable and was death-gripping husband's hand. Important note -- I once again would not have spoken up at all about these zings if the doctor hadn't asked me to. I would have figured they were part of the procedure and just something I had to suck up and deal with. 

At this point, naive me thought I was home-free. "How long does the needle need to stay in," I asked. "About ten to fifteen minutes time is needed to collect the fluid," the doctor said. WHAT? I thought. I can't make fifteen minutes with this thing in my back! I asked husband and the doctor to talk to me. "Tell me a story," I said. And they did -- we talked about pizza and ice cream and migraines and med school and why the heck Massachusetts is so expensive and before I knew it, the fifteen minutes were up. I was warned before the needle was removed from my back but didn't feel a thing. 

I was then asked to lie on my back for thirty minutes on the hospital bed. It was at this point that the blanket I was adamant about not wanting came in oh-so-handy. I asked the doctor what the purpose of laying on your back was and he told me it was a great question. Apparently, the field of medicine is superstitious, you see. Years ago, neurologists thought that laying on your back after a spinal tap would decrease the subsequent and dreaded low-pressure spinal headache. However, this thought has never been proven and the practice is followed more out of superstition than factual medical evidence. After thirty minutes were up, I got dressed, made my follow-up appointment, and was treated to ice cream by hubby. I'm glad hubby was there because this procedure is not really something you want to drive yourself home from.

For the first 24 hours after my procedure, I felt great, cured, like I could take on the world! Around hour 24, I started to develop a headache that worsened when I stood and got better when I lay down. This type of headache is known as a low-pressure spinal headache and is caused by the removal of some of the spinal fluid. For the next 26 to 48 hours, the headache became so bad that had to call out of work and could not be in anything but a horizontal position. For a six hour span within this time frame, I couldn't eat or drink anything, even water, without it coming back up. After hour 48, I felt leaps and bounds better and could walk around the house or even take a short drive to get groceries. I took it easy through the weekend as my lower back was pretty sore and by the one-week mark, I was feeling as normal as I could remember feeling -- I had no residual side-effects from the spinal tap and my eye and head problems were subsiding, with the help of my new medicine. 

I'm hoping that you never have to experience a spinal tap but if you do, I'm confident that the above will help you navigate it. Don't ever be afraid to speak up about what you're feeling or to ask questions, whether in a medical setting, at an accounting seminar, or during whatever else life throws your way.

*I am definitely NOT a medical professional of any type and this blog entry is meant to be purely anecdotal.

God's Plan

God* teaches us humility, and humanity, in funny ways.

For those who don't know me very well, or don't know me at all: I have been type-A since I came out of the womb. I am the planner, the fixer, the do-it-all'er, the purist who must have all the checks in their boxes with no colors outside the lines. In Kindergarten, I once told a classmate that the picture of the girl he was coloring can't possibly have purple hair because purple hair doesn't exist. I mean, now it does, but maybe it didn't in 1994, I don't know -- I digress. You get the point.

Thus, in late June 2018, when Husband and I landed ever-so-happily in perfect-for-us Boston, we decided it was time to have a baby.

We had so many friends who had children -- many of whom got pregnant within the first three months or, even luckier, the first month of trying -- that we didn't give much thought to the process. At first, Husband was even planning the kid's birthday to ensure it was after tax season. In hindsight, the though of this is so comical it hurts.

Month one went by uneventfully. We weren't paying much attention to the "schedule" because we weren't "those people" who got all stressed about trying to conceive.

Month two was difficult because I was dealing with some health issues: debilitating migraines of the hemiplegic sort. This made me irritable, tired, and -- most notably -- scared. If you aren't familiar with hemiplegic migraines, think of the signs of a stroke. Facial numbness, numbness on one side of the body, cognitive dysfunction, and impaired motor skills all accompany these types of migraines. Picture walking back to your office with a coffee, feeling your right hand go numb, and then not being able to physically open your office door because your body won't cooperate with your mind -- fucking terrifying. After having one to two of these a week, I was immediately referred to a neurologist who ran some tests and prescribed medication to mitigate these specific types of migraine aura I was experiencing. Thankfully, the medicine worked and by late August I was migraine-free.

Month three was game time. Suddenly, I had turned into "that woman" that I judged so harshly in the past. Every day I would take my temperature, pee on an ovulation stick, adhere to the "schedule". Hardly what you would call "taking it easy" or "conceiving without stress". Looking back, I wonder why I didn't give myself more of a break; but then I re-read paragraph one of this post -- planner, type-A, goal-oriented -- and it all makes sense. 

Month three was the month we got pregnant. I will never forget the feeling the first time two little lines popped up on that stick. Happiness! Then fear; what if we can't do this? But happiness! A baby? Oh wow it actually worked, huh. More happiness! So what if I suck as a parent? All the feelings buzzing around and around in my head. I think Husband and I spent the first 48 hours in pure shock.

Immediately the planning crept back in. I need to make a registry. I need to decide what the nursery will look like. I must order a baby book. And when is the appropriate time to tell our friends and family? The obsession went on and on and then one day, after a few weeks, something just felt wrong.

At this point, I had previously taken a slew of pregnancy tests. From the cheap-o ones that you have to be a cryptologist to decipher to the bougie ones that just said "Pregnant" or "Not Pregnant". I had kept all of the positive tests and also had photo evidence because, well, I'm me. I decided, one morning around the six-week mark, to take another test. I think I knew in my heart it would be negative before the words "Not Pregnant" confirmed it. I sat there in the bathroom in shock, letting it sink in that I just had an early miscarriage (or chemical pregnancy). I called my husband and told him the news. And for a few weeks after that I cried randomly, wondering if there was something wrong with me and asking why God had determined that my body wasn't fit to carry a baby.

"Miscarriage" is not a word you'll hear often in conversation, even among close friends. It seems our society has made it a dirty word...something to be ashamed of. In my own experience, I've had people, even family, tell me that I should keep such things to myself. For a while, I thought they might be right, but no longer. Sharing experiences sets you free and maybe my experience will encourage one other person to share theirs, leaving them that much less alone.

Months four and five were also no good. Emotionally, we just weren't in the game. Physically, our bodies seemed to know this. We ended up taking these months off, whether purposefully or not.

And then there was month six. Month six is this month. At six months, if you are over the age of 32 (which I am not), you qualify, at least per my doctor, for fertility assistance. At six months, if you are me, 29-year-old Lauryn, your brain decides to fight you once more. 

At my quarterly neurologist appointment two weeks ago, I was diagnosed with Idiopathic Intercranial Hypertension causing Papilledema. Not a doctor? This means that my brain is mysteriously swollen and it has put so much pressure on my optic nerve that I am at risk for blindness. For about two months prior, I had been having trouble focusing on things and was feeling like my head and neck were inflamed, which I relayed to the neurologist. I was not overly alarmed by these symptoms at first because they were leaps and bounds better than the migraines I was experiencing over the summer. The neurologist called for an emergency eye exam coupled with an MRI, MRV, and spinal tap. Luckily, these tests confirmed no tumors (MRI), no aneurysms (MRV), and no other weird diseases (spinal tap). Unluckily, the eye exam and spinal tap did confirm increased cranial pressure, which resulted in a new prescription of medicine. Also, the spinal tap and resulting spinal headache were quite horrible and left me horizontal for a decent chunk of the past week. Did you know that they need to leave the spinal tap needle in your back for ten to fifteen minutes while collecting fluid? I sure as heck did not. Eugh.

When I look back on the past six months, in light of recent events, I can't help but think that God has a plan. Does that make me a religious hokey? Maybe. Is it possibly because I am sick of stressing and thinking about the plan of my own and want to give it up to God? Probably. Either way, it's safe to say that no fetus would have wanted to be growing under all the physical stress that I have endured over the past six months. Further, my new brain-fixing medicine is not safe for growing babies nor pregnant ladies, so I'll be taking it slow for at least another six months, minimum. It makes me so anxious to think of what I would be going through if I had this issue while pregnant and I am thankful every day that it happened while I am not.

For now, I'm going to focus on me for a bit with particular emphasis on taking care of myself and my health. After all, I still have over two more years until I'm 32 ;-)

*A.K.A.: The big man upstairs, the universe, Allah, Jehova, Yahweh, the almighty, and/or creator.

World Tour

One year and four months ago, almost to the day, my accounting job at one of the nation's top broadcasting and digital media companies moved myself, my husband, our dog, and as many of our worldly possessions as we could afford to ship or fit into a U-haul...to Texas. 

This came as a shock to many for various reasons. (1) Texas is...well, Texas. It's in the middle of the country. There's a lot of dirt and cows and people that say y'all. Granted, we were being moved to Austin which, as any good Texan will tell you, is a blue dot in a sea of red. At least they weren't moving us to Lubbock (sorry, readers from Lubbock!). (2) Very few people from Central Jersey ever leave Central Jersey -- land of unicorns, rainbows, and porkroll. (3) 97% of my family, friends, and people I knew in general lived in the 365-mile, 6-hour stretch of land that bordered the Atlantic Ocean and extended from D.C. to Connecticut.

Husband and I in Austin, TX

Regardless, Husband and I packed up our things, sold our home, said our good-bye's, and became Texans.

I started working in Texas a few weeks a month in April 2017. By August 2017 we were residents. And by January 2018 we knew that Texas was just not going to be the place for us. We loved the city of Austin in general -- the creative restaurants, the walkability, the friendly and outdoorsy vibe, the live country music at literally every bar you went to, and the college-town feel (hook 'em!). Even "Dirty" 6th Street grew on us. But the stress of my demanding job, the heat -- man -- the heat, and the lack of proximity to family really started to set in. We were torn on the decision to leave Austin and to look for living arrangements elsewhere because we had made so many really great friends there in such a short time -- the thought of leaving them was heartbreaking. In our hearts we knew that leaving was ultimately the right decision and that friends would be friends no matter the distance between. In April 2018, I gave my one-month notice at work and by June 2018 we were packed up again, driving across the country, and moving back to the East Coast.

You can take the girl from the ocean, but you can't take the ocean from the girl.

I think I always knew, deep down, that I would need to live by the ocean. Over the years, I stuffed that thought down, pushed it away, sat on it, pretended like it didn't exist, or -- worse -- told myself it was a weakness. Moving to Texas helped me realize that it's just part of who I am and that's ok and definitely not a weakness or something to be ashamed of. Fittingly, after much deliberation on the husband and wife front, Husband and I decided to move to Boston, Massachusetts. Near the ocean? Check. Smaller city with restaurants, museums, and things to do in general? Check. Good job market? Double check. Closer to family? Five hours versus twenty-seven!

View from our bedroom in Revere Beach

I immediately felt at home in Boston.

We moved to a small neighborhood called Revere Beach, which is six T-stops outside of city center. We found an amazing apartment that is on the ocean and close to near-by areas like Cambridge, Gloucester, and even Cape Code and Portsmouth, NH. We assume our family and friends approve of our new location as we've had almost non-stop visitors each weekend since September -- even some of those friends we love so much from Texas! We know the dog approves -- he can't get enough of people watching on the deck and walks on the beach chasing the seagulls. Husband and I were able to find new jobs immediately, which was reassuring and definitely an ego boost. I started in late June 2018 working as a Controller for a distributed elastic SQL database company -- say that five times fast! -- in Cambridge and Husband started in early July 2018 working as a Tax Supervisor for one of the largest accounting firms in the world in Boston's Financial District -- did you catch my proud wife moment, there?

Community Boating on the Charles River

Since we've moved back to Boston, I've been able to get back into sailing through a wonderful organization in Beacon Hill called Community Boating and Husband's been reffing multiple hockey games each weekend. In all fairness, he was able to ref hockey games in Texas, too, but it always seemed so foreign there and often felt, to me at least, just plain wrong. There's something really comical about Southerners watching a hockey game -- 'get the puck y'all!'.

In summation, we're unsure of if Boston is our forever home, but it's a pretty awesome for-now home. We've been able to check a lot of our must-have boxes off through moving to Boston and that's definitely a win in my book.

P.S.: If you're going to keep reading through the older posts, judge lightly. Those were written by a different (and younger) me at a different time -- but they're all-in-all too hilarious to get rid of ;-)

OT: My Parents

My parents, albeit not perfect, taught me many things.

My dad owned (and owns) his own business. He left the house at 6:00am and was home by 4:00pm. My mom stayed at home, raised us, and left cute notes in our lunchboxes. We had dinner on the table by 5:30pm every night. I used to think this was normal.

We were told that dinner was family time. We were taught to clean our plates and not leave until excused. There was absolutely no simultaneous television watching. Actually, I never even had a tv in my room until I went away to college. Tv was “the downfall of society”.

I couldn’t ride my bike across the main street in town until I was almost in high school. I never had a curfew, mostly because I don’t think my parents thought I had enough of a social life to merit one. Until sophomore year of high school – I came home at 2:00am in a friend’s Porsche. Insert 10:00pm curfew here.

I was not allowed to watch Rated-R movies until I was actually 17, which explains why I can’t make it through a horror flick to this day. And I was definitely not allowed to go over a boy’s house unsupervised.

I was taught to respect my elders, not backtalk (minus those few year in middle school and college – sorry mom), and put other people before myself. I was taught never to judge – you never know what someone’s situation is or what they are going through. And never, ever, ever talk about money. I learned quickly that, many times, people with the flashiest lifestyles have the smallest bank accounts.

Most importantly, I was taught that I could do anything.

It wasn’t until recent years that I discovered not all parents provided the same encouragement. Things that fell out of friends’ parents mouths, “you won’t like that, don’t try it” or “that’s not for you” or “you could never do that”, have never crossed my parents lips. It left me dumbfounded, hearing parents say these things to their children. Why would they do that? Why would they limit their kid’s desire to reach for the stars?

As a kid, I mixed the paint colors. My sister and I played outside all day long and we got dirty. We trudged our little row boat through the creek mud behind my parents’ house which, I can tell you, smells awful. I even cut my bangs off once, in third grade (that picture is priceless). I told my parents I wanted to be a doctor, so they sent me to NYU. Then, mid breakdown, I told them that there’s no way in hell I wanted to be a doctor, so they encouraged me to find a career that was more suitable. I told them I wanted to move out, so they bought me a couch. I told them I wanted to get a job in public accounting, so I got one (thanks, in part, to my father). I told them I wanted to buy a house, so they helped. And for my next endeavor, I tell them I want to buy a BMW and, my dad says, surprisingly, that I deserve it.

That, my friends, is the beauty of encouragement. Never once did my parents tell me I was not capable of achieving my goals, nor did they try to sway me. Of course, they interjected opinions and advice when necessary, but they never imposed those opinions on me – just offered them up as food for thought.

Today, I have my first-ever prospective client meeting. Chances are it will result in nothing more than a (non-billable) business relationship, but it is so awesome that it is happening. I don’t think it would be if my parents had raised me any different, so thanks, guys, for raising me to not suck.

“Nothing is impossible. The word itself says ‘I’m Possible!’” – Audrey Hepburn.

OT: Busy Season is Dead and Bad Tan Lines in Florida

There is so much that has happened over the past two months, none of which I can tell you. I know that must be infuriating.

 

Actually, most of which I can't tell you.

 

I'm writing this as I'm siting on the deck of my grandmother's ocean-side cottage on the west coast of Florida. Post-busy season treat to myself, you see. I am, in so many ways, an extroverted person. This is all a bad cover-up, though. Really, I could sit on this deck by myself forever and write and listen to Bon Iver and the ocean. I belong here, by the ocean. As much as I try to stuff it down and cover it with business woman, once-upon-a-time Manhattanite, and self-proclaimed fancy-pants, I can't hide it. Not when you really get a good look at me.

 

I'm not sure whether I'm looking forward to going back to New Jersey or not. I am, because I miss my people and my dog, my house and my bed; I'm not because it's extremely nice to only have to think of yourself for once. It's so much simpler. And, to top it off, I actually managed to read a non-accounting related book cover to cover. The later is nice, but I wouldn't trade it for the former. Selfishness is only good in small quantities, I figure.

 

Things I can tell you? I can tell you that busy season's over, thank god, and that I have resumed my previous position as home-owner and do-it-yourself'er. Everyone has to have a vice, right? Mine is Pinterest. Whether this is out of actual interest or necessity, I'm not sure. When you are nearly 25 (yikes) and have a dog and a house to care for all by yourself, you tend to be....how to put this....poor crafty. Two super-awesome benches made out of cinder blocks and 2x2's? I'll take it!! That will be $50 well spent, in my opinion. Throw in a fire pit and I may never leave my backyard.

 

That is my goal for this summer, by the way. To make my backyard magical. Screw the front yard. Who hangs out in the front yard? I will save that for next year and for when I am an official grown-up and on the down slope to 30. But the backyard? Or, rather, the tiny minuscule plot of grass that I call the backyard? It will be gloriously awesome.

 

So far my accomplishments towards this goal include (1) visiting the Lowe's and demonstrating that I know absolutely jack about grass...or planting grass...or grass seed; (2) raking the icky mossiness that is covering the backyard, or part of it; (3) putting down lime, grass seed, and fertilizer with a spreader...which took me 20 minutes to figure out how to use; and (4) watering the stuff (and praying for rain) in hopes of it actually growing.

 

I fly home from Florida Tuesday morning. Hopefully, the stars will align and I will see tiny, stubby, grass-looking things sprouting from the ground upon arrival. Cross your fingers for me.

 

Side note: I have a black thumb.

 

Lauryn

OT: A-Game

First dates are like interviews. You need to look presentable, be on time, and your breath should not be remotely funky. You also should not make any odd requests (i.e ask for a bagel - true story) and you should certainly be self-sufficient enough to find the place and come prepared.

 

This leads into a huge pet peeve of mine.

 

In my last relationship, I wore the pants. I was the initiator, the decision maker, the responsible party. I was the offeror of ideas, the conversation starter, and the person who made sure all of the bills got paid on time. I was the one who had it all together.

 

I am sick of being that person.

 

I will always be "Type A" and, yes, I like to be organized. But I also like to be fun and spontaneous. Problem is, I will sacrifice the latter for the former, which is why I need someone who is willing to bear their share of the weight and be independent enough to take it in strides. This way, I can be organized and fun at the same time.

 

On a first date, you need to bring your A-game. This date is the prerequisite of all to come and behavior on said date will only be magnified on future outings. I am a little old fashioned in the sense that I believe the man should handle the first date. The less fair of the sexes should pick the place and time. They should be able to choose a decent wine without it seeming like a foreign language, should not make any odd requests or broach any touchy subjects, and definitely should not reveal anything of themselves that is less than their best. Honestly, the only things they should be asking the girl for are her number, a second date, and maybe a kiss. And on number three there, I don't even believe in asking for that, either (don't be a pussy, just do it).

 

I cannot believe I just said the "p" word.

 

And, yes, they should pay. Sorry, guys.

 

Someone I know recently said that they would be scared to date me because of how I feel about dating and men...my requirements, so to speak. To that I replied that I only hold others to the same standard I hold myself. Why would dating my potential future husband lie outside of those standards? If anything, it is maybe more important than everything that it fits within these standards.

 

I am not looking for a perfect person or someone who checks ten out of ten boxes. I am just looking for someone who doesn't lean on me like a crutch and has their shit together. I am looking for someone who is confident and can handle themselves without me having to hold their hand. I am basically looking for myself in male form. Is that conceited?

 

If it is, I don't really care.