confession: after going out almost every night for two weeks, i stayed home four nights in a row which felt deliciously self-indulgent.
confession: me to myself when i accidentally looked in the mirror the past few days, “dude, what’s up with your bangs?”
confession: pole-dancing hurts. i pretend i love pole-dancing more than pole-dancing hurts, but my bruises, pinched nerves, and cramping toes are betraying the lies i tell myself.
confession: i love to sweat if i’m working out. i hate sweating due to high temperatures. summer sweating makes me cranky.
confession: i hate hot yoga. there, i admitted it.
confession: as a kid, i raced bmx bikes. as an adult, i can barely ride a bike. when something is described to me as “like riding a bicycle” i assume that something is a thing i once excelled at and now suck at.
confession: the new one wiped the old one off my hard drive.
confession: i never introduced the ex to my best friend. he noticed. she noticed. so did i. they met one night without my introduction after he and i were over and she let him know exactly how she felt about him without saying a word. she’s fiercer than i am, but just barely.
confession: i totally want to make him a mix tape. he’d probably hate every song on it. which would hurt my feelings. so i won’t. besides, it is 2014, not 1987…and i’m 40, not 14.
confession: his birthday inspires me to create.
confession: i’m sentimental, but less with every heartbreak. the songs that used to be “ours” don’t remind me of him anymore. the songs i sang loudly in the car after our final split are the ones i associate with him. every time i hear “bring it on home to me” it’s just another song i love again and nothing about him.
confession: he gave me a keyboard i didn’t want because it was his. i gave his to goodwill. i ordered a new one for myself last week.
confession: the previous six confessions refer to three different men.
confession: this month her email letters are faster, clearer, realer than handwritten ones. mine are, too.
confession: she has her grandmother’s hands. i have my grandfather’s hands. life carries on.
confession: i never answer my phone…except when he calls. when his name appears on caller id, my heart dances and i cheezy grin and i take a slow breath to tame my giddiness.
confession: i’m in deep and it’s good.