No Job, No Car, No Problem!

My name is Jenny.  I am your typical great catch who has spent her entire life looking for love in all the wrong places.

Looking back on my adolescent life, I envisioned my future differently than my childhood friends saw their own.  I didn’t share their dreams of having a Barbie and Ken wedding.  Never did I picture myself with my future husband raising a family of two girls and two boys, each child a year apart in age.  Rather, I enjoyed constantly breaking rules and pushing limits, maintaining my existence as the black sheep of anything I was forced to be a part of.  Yet despite my uniqueness, by no means did I think I would be so alone at thirty.

I was born to an extremely loving, but terribly hard working family.  Raised on a farm with parents whom constantly strived to give their children better lives than they were dealt, my life revolved around completing laborious duties from sunrise to sunset.  The oldest of four children I was expected to set a positive example for my brothers and sister.  I was pressed to insulate, sheetrock and tape and texture my own bedroom, otherwise I would freeze.  There were months my family lived under beams and 2x4’s covered with plastic without electricity, water or television.  I lived in a simple, uncomplicated world.  My clothes were hand sewn by my mother, who spent her mornings chasing me down to detangle my wild, curly hair with that dreadful bristle brush.  Stacking two tons of hay, cleaning a pig pen or being spit on by the llama were the highlights of my weekend.  I was Laura Ingalls Wilder of the 80’s.

I did not have a lot of boyfriends growing up; in fact I only had one.  I was fat but hilarious, the perfect girl for every boy to treat like a sister and nothing more.  On top of my weight problem I had the head of a Chia Pet, a rowdy undisciplined mane that was pulled tightly back and braided…on a good day.  I overcompensated for my hair and weight dilemma by having the orthodontist put brightly colored rubber bands on my full set of braces.  I’d wear orange and black for Halloween, red and green for Christmas, pink just because it was summer.  My feet were five inches wide and only eight inches long.  You could have used them as putters in a great game of golf.   To put it simply, I had a complex.  Wouldn’t anyone in my position?  I was never asked to a school dance and was always the last pick in dodge ball.  Not even the bus driver would acknowledge me chasing the yellow automobile down the road, wailing my arms frantically.  Though to give the bus driver credit, if my hair was brushed out he likely mistook me for a tumble weed.  Deep down inside I knew I was special and irreplaceable, but on the outside I hated myself. 

At the ripe age of sixteen I met Joe, my very first boyfriend.   He was the only teenage boy to ever pay attention to me.  Joe led a life much like my own, except he wasn’t a dork.  I’d spotted him at 4-H competitions throughout the years but to think he would ever talk to me was out of the question.  Then the unthinkable happened, I officially met Joe at summer camp on a group night hike.  He was tall and lanky and wore his cowboy attire well.  His big brown eyes drooped like a basset-hound and his smile lit the dark path ahead.  “Hi, I’m Joe,” he said quietly as I worked to not drop dead out of sheer shock.  Despite my being too frightened to say much back, he stood comfortably beside me for the duration of the walk.  Just being two feet away from Joe sent my nerves into high gear.  We snuck away after the hike to lye in the bed of a pickup truck and innocently study the stars above and share our dreams.  From that day forward, Joe was my boyfriend.  And not only was Joe my first boyfriend but he was also my very first kiss, a moment I will never forget.  Poor Joe waited months to officially kiss me using...well…the tongue.  But the terrifying occasion arose after spending a fantastic afternoon together at the county fair.

Strolling romantically out of a Tanya Tucker concert, hand in hand, Joe stops and reaches to pull me closer.  Standing in his arms I look up at the sky and stare at the tall lamppost above.  I work to focus on anything in order to avoid returning Joe’s deep gaze.  The nerves in my stomach are bouncing around like a pinball machine.  While I shake all over Joe leans in to kiss me.  As nervous as I am though, it feels good!  I go with the flow and think to myself, wow I like kissing!  Why is it that when you are sixteen a kiss will last for ten minutes and you don’t acknowledge who is walking by yelling vulgarities?  Because when you are sixteen you get caught up in every moment.  And I am certainly caught up in this one.  The kiss goes on and on.  It’s sloppy but sensual.  My mouth is soaking wet and I fear spit bubbles may be floating around the circumference of my chin or my nose.  I suddenly fear the kiss has gone on this long because I don’t know how to end it properly.  Do I just close my mouth on his tongue?  Do we have to kiss for a particular length of time?  Should I pretend I am about to sneeze?  Wait!  Why would I even want it to end?  I notice that Joe’s lips begin to close a bit but I am still open mouthed, trying to figure out what sport is being played with my tonsils.  And that’s when it happens.  Joe pulls away and I suck in making a horrific farting noise with my mouth.  I feel my eyes fill with shameful tears.  “Um, sorry,” I say making a scrunched up face, flushing a deep color purple.  I yearn for a free moment to blow on my own arm to see if I can replicate the sound.  Perhaps I can blame it on something else.  Any excuse is better than just not knowing how to kiss.

“Don’t be sorry.”  Joe smiles softly.  “It’s okay.  That was nice.”  We walk to his car hand in hand, he smiling and I replaying the grotesque gastric noise I made with my mouth.  It replays like a broken record.  Over and over I think about the sound.  Even to this day I laugh at my own awkwardness.  But in my own way I’d made it an experience I knew I would never forget. 

Now looking back, I think Joe loved my family more than he ever liked me.  Enjoying my parents company is the reason Joe stayed with me for the six months he did.  Sadly, my only relationship ended, Joe cheating on me with my very best friend.  It was my first heartbreak and the hurt ran deep.  It demolished me and my walls grew twice as thick and three times as tall as they had ever been.  I vowed to not let anyone in again, it hurt too much.

By the time I was seventeen I was truly a survivor.  I could build my own house, scientifically explain every organ of a living cow and sew enough outfits for a family of four.  I could survive heartbreak and take on life…all on my own.  I could also move out, away from the farm and into the big city.  The day after graduating high school, that was exactly what I did and I never looked back. 

Living on my own, I applied what I was taught as a child and worked incredibly hard.  I talked the talk and walked the walk, continuously climbing the corporate ladder.  I dropped out of college and decided the only way I was going to learn was hands on, not out of a book.  I was smart in a different way from others.  I learned how to be popular.  I tested drugs, got wasted at parties and hung out with a much older crowd.  But despite my poor decision making, I maintained a level head.  I was able to pull myself out of trouble before getting in too deep.  This was just how I learned.  I learned by messing up.  I was still the black sheep that I had been as a teenager.  Three years of living on my own and still not finding a man who was even remotely interested, I decided it was time to move away from my small town.  I wanted away from the familiarity and into the excitement of something new.  I was going to move to beautiful San Diego!  I was going to lose weight, manage my curls, party like a rock star and find my soul mate. 

After two and a half years of being single in San Diego I met the only man I’ve ever truly let in, who sadly in turn destroyed me.  He doesn’t deserve his own chapter; just a quick debriefing is enough to bring you up to speed.  I met him at work and we were together for three years, though he never once referred to me as his girlfriend or told me he loved me.  Still, I truly loved him with all my heart.  Amidst our relationship, (or whatever it was), I found out he was addicted to cocaine.  Rather than getting out, knowing you can’t change someone, I tried to save him.  I worked overtime trying to be his guardian angel.  I survived years of abuse from this man.  He was constantly unhappy with me.  He yelled at me because of the way I cleaned his house or because I’d show up unannounced wearing lingerie and gifting him an opened beer in hand.  He convinced me that I could never and would never be able to do anything right for any man.  In the end, he wrecked my car, assisted me in gaining $5000 in hospital and lawyer bills, and left me for a man, while I walked away broken financially and emotionally.  It’s taken me years to let go of the dreadful connection.  But over time I finally got over him and from it I grew stronger and even more independent. 

My now over ten years in San Diego have been amazing.  I have gained so many wonderful friends.  I have lost numerous amounts of others, transplants whom were only here for a couple of years.  Currently I have a great job that I absolutely love.  I travel to other countries and explore the world…on my own.  I own my own condo and drive a brand new car that is only in my name.  I am in fantastic physical shape, getting high off only endorphins.  I am spiritually bound and wonderfully optimistic.  I cook, I sew, I clean, I smile and laugh often.  I’m a great catch.  I am not egotistical.  I own the things I do because I have worked hard for them…all by myself.  So why then have I still not found my soul mate? 

Is there a time that we as women become too independent?  Too successful?  Too happy?  Despite all of my analyzing, I am unsure.  But I refuse to give up.  Ahead lays the conveyor belt of men I have dated over three long years. These are my most memorable stories.  Tales that prove I refuse to surrender to being forever single.