Steph Not Stephanie

This morning I had one of my patented Steph Freakouts™. Oh good, we haven’t had one of those in a while. Welcome, old friend.

Friends always tell me they don’t know how I keep putting myself out there. I say it’s because I don’t know any other way to be, but I wonder – how much am I really out there, emotionally speaking. Sure, I put on the heels and the makeup, I smile and I go on the dates, but am I hopeful? I try to aim for cautious optimism, but I think a part of me is always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I had another lovely evening with Bogart, and drunken texting turned to conversation around this maybe becoming a thing, which quite frankly is scary as hell. I’m embracing the idea of not holding back when you like someone (and like him I do), but we all carry around those damned suitcases. The idea of truly putting myself out there, not being the prat-falling, bad date anecdote poster girl leaves me at a bit of a loss. When things become things, people get hurt. That’s when there’s something more on the line than a what-could-have-been, instead they become a what was, what did, what went wrong, what I did wrong. I’ve carved out this very comfortable space, made a name for myself, and I tell a great story. Funny stories can’t hurt you.

Don’t get me wrong, the hurt isn’t forever. Broken bones mend, scars become all but invisible; but sometimes, when it rains, there’s the old familiar ache. It rained today. The great thing about rain, though: it stops.