Put it to Bed.

Every night, I go to bed with Ted.

Ted is just one of those guys that gets me, you know?

He accommodates my strange sleeping positions (which all revolve around where Guji lies, of course), he puts up with my many alarming wake ups whenever I think I see someone creeping across my closet. He doesn’t judge me when I drool, he keeps me warm, protects me, is deliciously stylish, and of course adores the fact that I sleep absolutely naked next to him.

Ted is also the brand of bedding I sleep on, Ted Baker, specifically.

You thought I had a lover, didn’t you?

Tricked you!

Apparently though, not every man I come into contact with thinks of my sleeping tendencies the same way as Ted does, especially in regards to what I (don’t) wear to bed.

See, the first time I had the pleasure of showing a man into my bedroom, I was insulted.

Standing statuesque at six foot two, it’s only fitting that I sleep in an above average captains bed, which is taller, just like me.

So when the boy entered my room, he took one look at my bed and said, “Well that bed is intimidating.”

Which wasn’t altogether a surprise to hear, considering I’ve been described as that word nearly all of my life. And I get it, not everyone can handle a whole lotta woman (or a whole lotta bed apparently). And after hearing that, I simply showed him the door.

The second time came more recently. I had an opportunity to show someone my house, someone that I really fancied, and I was once again.. dissapointed with the response.

He had been looking at my robe rack (vintage negligees and sheer nighties: yes, I have an entire rack dedicated to all of my robes) and of course we got on the subject of what one wears (or doesn’t wear) to bed.

I myself am a believer in sleeping naked. I cherish the after hours in which I can air out and feel nothing but Ted (my sheets, remember) under my body. I’m marvelously comfortable in my skin, enjoying the pleasure of lying in the nude. I simply cannot stand getting pajamas or underwear wrapped in my you know where whenever I turn over, so skin to sheets it is.

Maybe I’m weird, but I always embraced that side of me when I slept, and apparently all the men I meet don’t quite embrace it as lovingly as I.

After sharing this detail about my sleeping preferences, we were walking out of my bedroom and he said, “I’ll be sure to avoid sitting there,” motioning towards my bed.

(jokes on you Buster, I’ve sat in every corner of my house naked, including the fainting couch you were just sitting on)

I was stunned though. Floored. Was he kidding? Apparently no.

I guess when a beautiful woman tells you she sleeps in the nude, you avoid the bed she’s sleeping in and run right outta there.

“It’s contaminated, the bed has germs! It’s swarmed with sin from a heathen who sleeps *gasp* naked, absolutely naked! Avoid like the plague, run for your lives!”

That was how I felt, like this dirty and dastardly woman.

I didn’t know sleeping naked would have such an opposite effect on men!

But then I started thinking: maybe I’m inviting the wrong men into my house?

I deserve to be with a man who appreciates that about me, who sees my (lack of) nighttime attire as an invitation.

Wait wait wait, let me stop you there. You sleep naked? How about I sleep there naked too?

It’s also my house and my rules.

(also no shirt no problem)

As I continue to navigate the river of rocky relationships, I’m learning to discover who I am and what I deserve, and being made to feel dirty for sleeping a certain way is not what I want in a partner.

I’m also beginning to fully accept who I am and all the quirks that go with me (butt naked sleeping tendencies included), tired of letting someone else control how I feel, because I refuse to feel anything less than with a man.

With that said, I’m putting that subject to bed.

And you can bet I’ll be naked when I do.

Queen of Hearts.

You’d think that I’d be used to a broken heart by now.

One could even say I’m the queen of broken hearts.

I’ve got the signs down to a tee:

That sixth sense of imminent disaster, the pounding of my heart when those first deadly words of rejection tear through my eyes or whip through my ears. That sinking feeling of dread, disappointment, and the pure shattering of my heart as I accept his testimony of truth: he doesn’t like me.

Alas, I am not used to it.

As tears pool themselves in my eyes, as they plop plop plop down onto my cat’s back as she sits here on my lap consoling me with her purrs, I feel the weight of this broken heart, and all the pieces of it I have to pick up and put back together again.

You know that guy I liked, the one I was preparing to bravely confess my feelings to?

Well, it turns out he doesn’t feel the same way about me.

After weeks of feeling confused about our status, after being dropped off night after night wondering, “What are we? Friends? Dating? Stuck in the middle?”, I finally broached the subject with him.

Being one of the rare men that actually agreed to talk to me in person about it, I invited him over and sat curled up in my chair as he explained why.

The reasons don’t matter here, what matters is that I felt rejected. My feelings, left out there in the open, were left unreciprocated and it hurt.

Somehow, I managed to keep the tears at bay as he listed all the reasons for not being ready to date me, and while I appreciated the honesty and the boundaries he was clearly setting, I still felt that all this time, I had been let on.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” he said. Yet there I was, heartbroken nonetheless! He talked about not wanting to be “another one of those bad guys” that broke my heart, but I was already mentally adding him to the list of heartbreakers.

Time has passed since we last talked, and since then, I’ve had lots to think about.

After meticulously sifting through my emotions and extensively talking about what happened with friends and family, I realized something beautiful in this heartbreak.

I made it out okay.

Surrrrrrre, I was rejected, but I’m forgetting the courage it took to confess my feelings in the first place and all the growth I experienced because of it.

In the past, I probably would have let this “friendship” go on longer, hiding and denying my feelings, avoiding the possibility of rejection and loss. I would’ve suffered in silence just to keep him in my life, but this time, I thought, “no more.” I put myself out there, fully naked and vulnerable and though it was met with an awkward answer, I feel at peace because at least I was truthful, to myself and to him.

Despite all the pain I’ve suffered in the past with men who weren’t right for me, for all the ones who ghosted me, stood me up, who made fun of me, who felt intimidated, or who didn’t appreciate the goddess that lives in this bodacious body, I feel I am making progress in managing my feelings and controlling how much I let this heartbreak linger. I’m tired of letting men affect me so deeply and this time, I refused to let the pain outstay its welcome. And I am proud of myself for recognizing and reigning my emotions to a manageable level.

This will probably not be the last time some guy breaks my heart. But I can say with certainty that it’s getting easier to move on and realize when something needs to be said. And I would rather have my heart broken hearing the truth, than sacrifice my happiness, never knowing where I stand with them.

Surprisingly, we have both agreed to remain friends. Swept up in the emotion, the fantasy, and the attention of a male, I came to the conclusion that maybe we’re better off as that, and as uncomfy as the conversation was, it was needed, and I’m glad we had it.

And that broken heart? I picked those pieces up and put them back together, all by myself: the Queen of (no more broken) Hearts…