Chipped Polish & Wornout Jeans

I guess I’ve been thinking too much again. I’ve all but given up on ever getting to be with Jake, although I miss him terribly; I still do not know what happened, and I still wonder if he left because I was a mess. I can be so harsh and abrasive, and I’m a mass of contradictions and trouble; I came with baggage and damage because the one person who’d promised me forever lied to me, cheated on me, and never had the courage to actually end the relationship, and I got scared a lot. Sometimes I feel like I was way more trouble than I was worth. I know I should move on because that would be the wise decision, the strong choice, but I have yet to get over him, even though it has been well over a year since he said it was over. My heart still break when he crosses my mind, and there are times when I need to hear his voice telling me it’s alright, and I know that can’t happen.

It seems others haven’t given up hope; my mother swears that he’s going to come back, though I find that hard to believe. She says that he still loves me, but I highly suspect that she is simply saying things to make me feel better; I’m sure that he’s moved on, and I hope he is happy. He is good man, and he will make some very lucky woman very happy; I hope whoever that woman is, she is grateful and kind and loving because he deserves that. My grandmama, who fell in love with him the moment she met him, is convinced that I will turn around and there he’ll be; she firmly believes that I just have to be patient and he’ll be back. I don’t think so. A tiny part of me still hold out hope that he will call me or show up, and I occasionally have these stupid heartbreaking dreams where there’s a knock at my door and I open it to find him standing there, waiting. I’m sure that someone else has come into his life, someone less damaged and crazy, and he’s happy. She probably swears less than I do, and she’s probably more of a lady than I’ll ever be. I think my nanny still secretly hopes that he will come back because he was smart and funny and well mannered and everything a good Southern man should be.

I will admit that there were times when the only bright spot in my day was the sound of his voice on the other end of the phone or a text message saying hi; no matter how crappy my day was, he could make me smile. I could be crying and miserable, and he’d make it better. I have moments, when I’m in tears and falling apart, that I reach for my phone and have to remind myself that I can’t call him, that he won’t answer, and he certainly will not come and kiss my tears away. I miss his smile, his laugh, the way he had so much faith in us and in God and in everything; I miss the way he held me tight, and I miss the way he’d sing in my ear when I was feeling terrible about myself. I miss the way he understood me better than anyone else, and he knows more about me than anyone else in the world; I shared all of myself with him. I just miss him. (I know you probably aren’t reading this, Jake, but on the off chance you are, I miss you, and I still love you.)

I’m trying hard not miss him so much because missing someone who isn’t interested in you is pointless, but it isn’t working. I’m trying not to wish we were still together, but it’s almost impossible. When he walked out of my life, I lost my best friend, which sounds really cheesy, but it’s true.

I apologize for my lack of frequent updates and interesting things to read here at Chipped and Wornout; although  it feels odd to apologize for my lack of updates to just three followers. Maybe there are lurkers, I don't know. If you lurk and don't comment, how do I know that you are there? And if you lurk and don't follow me, how do I know you exist? Anyway, apologies for the lack of content.

When I was a teenager (oh man, how old did that phrase just make me feel) I had this pair of worn out jeans that I loved more than any article of clothing in my entire wardrobe. That demonstrates just how much of a tomboy I really was back then because while all the other teen girls around me were obsessed with wearing the cutest clothes, I was in love with a pair of jeans that had somehow managed to last three years and hundreds of washes, had particularly wide flared bottoms, were faded in all the right places, and had holes in a couple of places. These jeans were so shaped to my body that they fit perfectly and were extremely comfortable; it killed me with they finally became too short for my suddenly long legs and too tight for my hips. I immediately began searching for a pair of jeans that were like those that I loved so much, and I finally settled on a pair of light wash Arizona flares, snug at the hip, flared widely at the bottom. I bought two pairs of the style, and I wore them as often as possibe. They fit perfectly, and they were the essence of my personality in denim form, which may sound silly to most people. I always felt my best when I could strut (yes, I did strut in those jeans, with that lovely Southern belle swing in my hips) around wearing that perfect pair of jeans. I was even wearing them well worn as they were, the day I agreed to be Jake's girlfriend in October of 2008. Actually that day was one of the last days I got to wear those jeans because they developed a hole in a place that rendered them unwearable, and I could never find another pair in that style. I was terribly saddened by the loss of my favorite jeans. Well last Friday while shopping with Mama (Spring Break found me at the 'rent's house in the Boro) I found a substitute, that, while not equal to my glorious jeans, is adequate for my needs. I've never liked the idea of buying jeans that are pre-distressed, but I really liked the way the fabric felt and they were the only decent flares in the whole section. (What happened to jeans that flatter women with wider hips? Seriously, skinny jeans make your hips look bigger, while flares balance you out.)

I know, I know, you're thinking, what the heck Nic, why obsess over pants? Also you are probably wondering how a pair of jeans can be the essence of a person. Just like me, those jeans are worn and faded, but still strong enough to handle just about anything. They are full of spunk and fire. They aren't plain, average, or ordinary. They are different, and they make a statement. Well lets put it this way, it was very appropriate that I was wearing those jeans the day I agreed to be Jake's girlfriend. I was coming off a bad relationship and in my typical way I was on fighting back. I was scared to death, but hell bent on recovering, and I really liked him. In fact, as we stood by my blazer in the parking lot, I was thinking "Hell, boy, asking me out already. I know you like me, and I've been flirting shamelessly as obviously as possible so you should know I like you too. If you don't I'm going to have to do it." (Please hear this statement with a Southern drawl) That is typical Nic behavior, and there were a couple of moments that afternoon when I almost grabbed him and kissed him since it seemed that he wasn't getting the idea; that would surely have gotten the point across. I couldn't just stand there and let this not happen. So I sort of drew on their power.

Yes dear readers, behold the power of wornout jeans. I'm sorry this entry is so dull and pointless. Maybe next time I will come up with something interesting.

One of my favorite lines from Sweet Home Alabama (aside from Jake's "Honey, just cause I talk slow don't mean I'm stupid.") is the line in the cemetary where he tells her "Who says you can't have both? You can have roots and wings, Mel." The ex-boyfriend, affectionately called The Coward by my friends, who came before Jake once told me that I wasn't what he called a "nester". He said I wasn't the kind of woman who needed to settle down with a white picket fence and nice little family with lots of kids. He told me that I was the kind of woman who simply needed a home to come back to after my latest adventure was over; I wasn't the kind of woman who was meant to be a happy housewife. I needed a companion for my adventures, someone to go with me on the wild ride that was the life I wanted. He said that I didn't need a man in my life, I simply allowed one into my life because I desired a companion, and because sometimes I required a reminder that I need to eat and sleep and take care of myself when I get all wrapped up in taking care of everything and everyone else. I laughed at the time; I was twenty years old, and I had no idea what kind of woman I really was or what I was meant to be. Funny, now that I think about it, perhaps in a way he was right. I want both; I want to have roots and wings.

I want to have a home that is my own to come back to, a place that is my own sanctuary, but I really don't want the perfect little house in a subdivision with a little backyard and a white picket fence. Somewhere tucked away with the rest of my old sketchbooks and notebooks is a design for that house in my dreams. It's all laid out in detail, carefully drawn on graph paper. (I was in maybe the seventh or eighth grade when I drew it, and I was sitting in the huge living room of my Nanny's house as my Pa drew a layout for a project that never happened.) It was perfect, designed to suit both my personality and my career choice, and I have dreamed of that house for a long time. It's changed over the years, just a bit; for instance extra things were added when the person I wanted to share my home with made suggestions. That house, sitting on five or more acres of the best land I could buy, is where my roots would be. The life I want to lead isn't exactly simple. I want to do something big. I want to save the world. I want to be able help children in need and stop the evils of abuse and child trafficking; I want to make a difference in this world. I want to fight crime, put the bad guy behind bars, and change the world. I want to spread my wings, and I want to fly.The path I want to follow is not one that lends itself to settling down, and even if I wanted to settle down, now is definitely not the time. I predict long hours ahead of me, and sleepless nights. I can see the difficulties that my life will bring. I can see a little shoebox apartment, just a bit bigger than the current Shoebox I live in, one bedroom, and maybe a little dog. Nothing fancy, just place to rest my head.

I didn't want to marry Jake and settle down. The reason I wanted to marry him was because I love him, and I wanted to share my life with him. He was partner, my best friend, and the best thing to ever happened to me. It wasn't that I wanted to settle down; there is still too much life to live and too much to be done. I wanted to share my adventures with him, to have him by my side. It was never about settling down; it was about the fact that no one matched me the way he did. I'm hard to handle, mostly because I'm stubborn, willful, sarcastic, hard headed, full of fire and sparks and insanity, sometimes moody, almost always snarky, goofy, and all around a mess. This means that if you are going to be my partner, you have to be prepared to deal with that. There are very few men that I have met in my life who have been able to handle me. I was surprised that Jake could, but he did. Being with Jake and possibly marrying him wasn't ever about being settled down. It was about having a companion to have adventures with, someone who knew me, someone I love. I don't need a man in my life, but I chose to allow Jake in because I care about him and love him. Now he walked out, decided I wasn't the woman he wanted, and I can get by alone. I just don't want to live without him. If I must, I will go on, but I'd like to have the chance to get back what I lost. I have roots and wings, but I have no companion.

One of the downsides of living away from home is that sometimes you get phone calls that aren't exactly pleasant and you are stuck alone in your apartment crying your eyes out. You see, on Monday night Mama called because Little Bit was going in for surgery because of a bad infection of her reproductive system. Well in the middle of our conversation the vet's office called and told her that when they opened her up it was too late, and that she was gone.

Let me tell you a little bit about our Little Bit. She was a rescue rottie that someone had not treated well. She'd been starved and beaten, and then the people had dumped her out at my Nanny's farm. We brought her to our house with the intention of finding her a good home, and we did, ours. We wound up adopting our foster dog, and she adopted me. I became her person, and eventually she slept in my room under my bed. This dog, named Little Bit because she was just a little bit of dog when we brought her home, had probably known little kindness in her life before we adopted her, and she didn't have the best experience with humans. She never quite learned that she didn't have to eat so fast and that she would always be fed, but she was getting better. When she came into our lives she chewed everything from broomhandles to belts, and I think it was because she had been hurt with them so many times. It took her a little while to get used to being touched, and while she grumbled and barked a little she allowed us to pet her. Adjusting was difficult because she wasn't raised properly from a puppy, but for a dog who had been through so much before us, Little Bit was good natured and sweet.

She had grown so used to me being home all the time that when I moved to L-ville for law school, she was having a difficult time adjusting. She would pretty much explode out of the house when I arrived home for the weekend, and sometimes if I came home at night instead of the afternoon she would have to be held back to keep her from jumping off the deck when she saw me. She was very attached to me, and I was attached to her. She was my baby girl, and I will miss her very much.

In August of 2008, I was dating the ex and playing havok in an unhealthy way trying to manage a relationship that was spiraling southward. It was not an easy month, and it didn't help that it was the first month of my last year in undergrad. I was working my way to becoming a college graduate and the nerves got to me. So did the prospect of law school applications. It was that same month that Jake walked into my life. Oddly enough, he was in all my classes that semester except my English ones. He was even in mock trial, which is my domain and always will be. We talked, a lot, and despite the fact that I am usually less than approachable and friendly when it comes to new people, we became really good friends. We had a lot in common, and not just our accents. Sure enough, Jacob became one of my closer friends, and I discovered that it was a lot easier than I thought it would be to talk to him. What I didn't discover was that he wanted to be more than friends.

In September of 2008, the week after I turned 21 to be exact, I was betrayed. The ex had cheated, or maybe he'd just not gotten around to telling me that our three year relationship that was supposed to eventually become a marraige was actually over. Either way, Nic was single, but she was not really available. I did a lot of crying, and I did a lot of asking God for help, and I did a lot of hating the male species. I was sullen and unpleasant. People noticed that I wasn't exactly myself, but I clung to my misery and pretty much wallowed. It was not an attractive period for me. Jacob was there for me, and he listened as I held out hope for something to change and whined and dragged him along as I walked down memory lane. Knowing now that he wanted more than friendship, Jake's listening to me and being there for me is almost noble. I know that it could not be easy to listen to someone you want to date go on and on about the guy that broke her heart.

In October of 2008 Nic got her groove back. I have always been a flirt, and the unpleasantness had sort of diminished that in me. But then I somehow managed to revive, and I also became less dense. Perhaps it was that brick wall I started building around my broken heart, but it took me until October to pick up on the fact Jacob liked me. I flirted, mainly because it's what I do, and I started to think that maybe, as crazy as it seemed at the time, I was developing an attraction to him.  It took until close to the end of the month for him to ask me out. But he did, and I said yes, despite me reservations. We started simple, just dinner, and it was fun. We talked a lot, and we still do. Thus began Jake and Nic, and it has been a fun adventure that kept going.

By May of 2009 we'd been on too many dates to count, and we'd become closer than I thought I'd get to anyone again. I started to wonder if there could be more to my feelings than the whole "I find this guy attractive and spending time with him is nice..." And guess what! There was. I was falling for him, even though I was digging in my heels and resisting because I am damaged goods. Turns out though, Jacob is pretty awesome with the super glue/glue gun/duct tape(because if you can't fix it with duct tape or a bandaid, well then you should probably just give up), and he managed to repair my broken shattered heart. And as I was getting ready to head into the house after the mock trial awards banquet, he said those three little words. "I love you", and I found out that I could say them too and mean them with all my heart. Apparently, its now noticeable that we are in love, which is cool, and Jake and I are planning our future.

That brings us to today, October 29, 2009. It's been a year, and it's been a great one. Here's looking forward to many more years of love and happiness and craziness in this adventure we call life.

Last post I talked about making progress, well yesterday while working out I did some thinking. I'm not sure whether that is a good or bad thing. I was thinking about how things have gone in my life, especially my size and body image. It's been a different sort of progression for me because honestly I would've thought that by now I would be more comfortable in my own skin.

When I was in the middle school years, though I went to a K-8 school, I was fairly comfortable. I was a tall girl, which isn't a great thing, but I was also sort of slim, but not skinny. My main issues were that I had scars, wore glasses, didn't have the coolest clothes, and that my parents wouldn't allow me to wear make up or shave my legs. I was not concerned with my weight, nor was anyone else considering that I played sports and was an active kid. I managed to get through those years without much concern really, even though I had friends who were on diets their doctors had put them on and who had eating issues in a way that I did not. I mentioned once or twice wanting to lose weight, simply because I had friends who were trying to do it, but in reality, as long as I kept playing sports, I could eat what I wanted and not get much bigger. And this continued for me up into my freshman year of high school. By the end of my freshman year I was still not concerned about my body image, other than my hair and skin really, and I had shot up nearly 6 inches and gained 15 pounds or so. Everything sort of evened out on my body because I was so tall. But that year was the last time I was required to take gym and life got too busy for me to keep up with sports and things.

My sophomore year I joined the theater kids, and the phrase "I can't I have rehearsal" became a huge part of my vocabulary. Slowly but surely I started to gain weight, and being so busy I just sort of ignored the fact. But then junior year rolled around and I was a "Drama II" which meant I was part of the primary acting company, so to speak. It meant that I did a lot more and had a lot more rehearsal because the Drama IIs were more than just extras in the shows. It also meant that I had to change in the dressing rooms on a regular basis, and it was becoming fairly obvious to me that I was not small at all. I began to dread changing costumes among my fellow women. I felt like a huge blimp around them, and that continued into my senior year of high school, when I dreaded prom dress shopping to some extent because I knew how hard it would be. Eventually though I did accept that I was not going be small ever again because I was built wide and tall, and that it was in my genes; I would only ever be able to be fit and curvy.

College hit, and I did in fact gain the horrifying freshman 15. It sort of happened when I wasn't looking. But in the process, I joined mock trial and was once again faced with the knowledge that I was surrounded by these sort of small girls. I found myself feeling awkward around them because they were all cute and little and I was big and gawky and gross. There came a time when I had a coach pull me aside and took me into his office and implied that next to my small, slender female co-counsel I was huge; I have never forgotten that, though I'm sure that he has, and it changed the way I saw myself in the court room. I felt like a massive vulture in my black suit and heels looming in the court room. I was always bigger than my fellow female attorneys, and while it shouldn't have mattered, it did. I kept it to myself, but it bothered me to know that I was the huge one. I felt like I would always be the fat and ugly attorney at the table, and it was crazy. I was definitely not the good looking attorney.

That brings me to where I am now. I am a 22 year old law student who is 5 foot 6 inches tall and way heavier than she would like to be. I am still not quite comfortable in my own skin; I get sort of unsettled when I notice people looking at me while I'm working out. But I'm getting a bit better. I have days when I feel great, especially after a really good work out. I may never be a size 2, but I will never be that 19 year old girl in her coach's office being told that she looks huge next to her co-counsel again.