I'm not ready.

Ready or not; there are moments in all our lives when we come face to face with everything that scares us; like a mirror reflecting all the imperfections of every decision we’ve ever made.


In my limited experience on this planet, I have learned that, "I'm not ready," is more often than not, code for, "I don't want to do that." My number one break-up line is "I'm not ready for a serious relationship." I realize that I'm calling myself out here, but "I'm not ready," is fucking bullshit. It's not that "I'm not ready for a serious relationship," it's that "I don't want to be in a serious relationship... with you."

"I'm not ready" is sugar-coating on the bitter pill of truth. No one wants to hear, "I don't want to be with you." So instead of telling the truth, we fluff it up, stretch it out, and massage it until the bullshit comes oozing out, and the whole nasty mess is right there in front of us.

There are only 3 circumstances where "I'm not ready" is an applicable and legitimate excuse,

1) Circumstances where a learned skill is needed in order to complete the task at hand. For example: Driving a motorcycle - Kind of important that you're "ready" BEFORE you take this on.

2) Physical appearance - I frequently utter the phrase "I'm not ready," to appease friends who are wondering how it's humanly possible to actually spend the amount of time I do, finding and putting on my pants.

3) Any and all forms of standardized tests - No one is ever ready for these, and saying "I'm not ready" before you put your pencil to that unforgiving scantron, is totally normal procedure.

Other than the above list of legit excuses, "I'm not ready" almost always means, "I just don't want to."

When you want something, when you really really want something, all the silly excuses tend to fall to the waste side. Ready or not, the things in life that we really, truly long for, are above the "I'm not ready" bullshit.

If you think about it, when was the last time you were ready for anything?

EXAMPLES:

Leaving the womb - Totally wasn't ready for that. In fact, I'm still recovering from the trauma of that event.

Learning how/where babies come from - At 8-years old, I was appalled, and actually refused to believe "sex" was how babies were made, until 7th grade. Definitely wasn't ready for that information.

First REAL crush - Lucas Austin... I was a 6th grader with the mental poise a freshman would have envied. He was an 8th grader with the intellectual prowess of tree moss. This might be where my attraction to older men started, but I digress... To accurately profess my love, I made Lucas a bouquet of paper flowers from my Pretty Petals flower making activity kit. I thought this was the "pimp" thing to do. I thought I was a genius, expressing my feelings so creatively. I was wrong. No one told me that this was the worse possible way to get a boy to like you. No one told me that boys were only interested in pizza and boobies. Since I had neither, Lucas and I didn't really work out. He went to high-school the next year, and I kicked 7th grades ass. I threw away the stupid paper flower activity kit, but not before I used all the scented paper to make my own paper flower boutique, which I very dramatically ripped to pieces in front of a stuffed animal audience. I was definitely NOT ready for the reality of junior-high lust.

Getting my drivers license - Those who have driven with me, might say that I'm STILL "not ready" to operate a motor vehicle, To you I say, imagine how AMAZING my driving abilities were when I was first learning! Within 2 months of getting my license, I managed to lock myself out of the car 5 times. One of those times, the car was still on. Ya, I locked myself out of a running car. I don't know how it happened, but it was further proof that I was most certainly NOT ready for the epic responsibility of driving around several tons of metal, resting next to tank full of flammable liquid.

In fact, it's shocking to most people that I haven't accidentally blown myself up; in a car, or with the help of other explosives/precarious circumstances involving flames.

Most recent example:

Graduating College - Hello real world, I'm not ready to make friends with you just yet. I still have a lot of fucking up to do. Would you mind coming back next year?

I wasn't ready for any of these things, and minus leaving the womb, and learning how babies are made, I wanted all of them. I wanted to make a grand gesture that exposed my 6th grade love, regardless of whether or not is was the lamest idea ever. I wanted to get my drivers license, even though I was terrified of totaling a car (which I actually did end up doing many months later, there was a trolley car involved, and I don't like talking about it because it's painfully embarrassing, so I'll have to save that story for another blog). And last but not least, I wanted to graduate college, even though it was ridiculously fucking hard, and adapting to the real world after being in school for what seems like forever, isn't exactly a cake walk.

Bottom line; "I'm not ready," is an excuse. Plain and simple. It's an excuse not to tell the truth. Because when "I'm not ready" is involved, the truth isn't that we're "not ready," it's that we "don't want to."

So, for the sake of being honest, I'm going to take this opportunity to divulge what I really meant, when I said I "wasn't ready."

"I'm not ready for a serious relationship." = "I don't want to be in a serious relationship... with you."

"I'm not ready to get married." = "I don't want to marry... you."

"I'm not ready to move in together." = "I don't want to live... with you."

"I'm not ready to say 'i love you.'" = "I'm just not in love... with you."

"I'm not ready to have sex." = "I don't want to have sex... with you."

I could go on, but I think I've exposed enough open wounds for one evening.

I feel like it's pretty safe to say that none of us are ever ready for any of the things that happen in life. Hell, if I could, I would totally vote to go back to the womb. The womb was cozy... warm... and connected to an endless food source. Since retreating back to the bubble of my formation, isn't exactly tangible without copious amounts of hallucinogens, I guess I'll have to settle for reality, or a version there of. I would say that "I'm not ready to become one with reality," but we all know what I mean to say, is "I don't want to become one with reality."

I think the hardest part about being human, is finding out that everyone else is human too; proving that, underneath the shells we define ourselves by, we’re all the same, completely vulnerable, unnervingly fragile, and likely to bleed to death when stabbed in a major artery.

I might not be "ready" for reality just yet, but regardless, I'm running full speed ahead into my future. I'm going to get lost, I'm going to misplace my compass, I'm going to try and fail, I'm going win, lose, laugh and cry, all the way into my coffin.

The first-aid kit is packed.

I'm ready to trip and fall into the abyss.

Skinned knees welcome.

Bring it Universe.

Hit me with your best shot.

love you mean it. 

I think the universe and I are in an abusive relationship.

I'm pretty sure, somewhere out there, in the vast expanse of space and time, there is a video-feed of my life, that several alien children are watching, and no doubt, hysterically laughing at. Sometimes, when I'm experiencing a particularly spastic moment of FAIL, I actually look around to see if I can spot the camera recording the immediate disaster at hand.

Yes, I'm aware of how self-involved the above theory is, but I don't care, it's true. I really do feel like this the majority of the time. And I would even venture to say, that a lot of people who happen to experience an unnerving amount of spastic awkwardness throughout each day, feel similarly.

Let me give you an example:

A few days ago, while I was at the gym, I happened to notice a particularly attractive male specimen. Now, to be fair, the gym in North Beach is full of "carbon-copy-cut-out-Ken dolls," so seeing someone "attractive," isn't exactly news. However, anyone who knows me at all, can relate the fact that I'm not a huge fan of generic looking "hot guys." Sure, the "Ken-doll cut-outs" are nice to look at, but in my overall experience, they're dumb as shit, and the ones that aren't borderline retarded, are usually, HUGE DOUCHEBAGS, who have somehow managed to delude themselves into thinking they're actually intelligent, or even worse, "funny" and "charismatic."

I'm sorry, but just because you obtained a degree by coasting through college on a baseball scholarship, doesn't make you "smart." Some of the stupidest people I know have college degrees. It should also be noted that, having a high batting average doesn't necessarily mean someone can read. It means they can hit a ball with a wooden stick relatively well, and with a certain amount of consistency.

You know who else was good at hitting things with big wooden sticks? 

HOMO ERECTUS

Ok, I'm getting off topic here. Truthfully, I have no problem with hot guys who are "reading comprehension challenged." They're fun to play with... kind of like POGS were in the 5th grade.

Anyway, this guy I saw just had such a beautiful face. I don't know how else to describe it, other than, he was simply,"so salty". Now, I realize that with my track record, he was probably an idiot, but as we all know, beauty is intoxicating, and blind to most rational judgments.

So here I am at the gym, staring at the pretty man like a fucking voyeur, when all of a sudden, he turns around, and notices me gawking at him like a creepy-stalker-girl. I, of course, get super flustered, and overcompensate for my awkwardness by being even more awkward. I decided that I was being silly, and that it's okay to look at people. Besides, I have a strict "no dating anyone from the gym policy." I've learned that lesson WAY too many times, hence the policy; formulated from many many bad dates, and uncomfortable post-rejection run-ins. So, I turned up the Kanye in my earbuds (no I'm not "mad" at him, and I don't give a fuck about his d-bag VMA drama either), and proceeded to run on the treadmill.

I was under the assumption that my earlier moment of awkwardness was all the awkward I would be experiencing at the gym that day, so after my run, I went to lift some weights.

I have never been so wrong. 

During the hour or so I was at the gym, every time the pretty man walked within a 20-foot radius of me, I would:


a) drop a weight
b) trip over my feet
c) walk into a machine
             or 
d) all of the above. 


This happened about 10 or so times, until I finally decided to leave the gym, before I actually injured myself. I'm pretty sure someone rigged my sports bra with a shock collar while I wasn't looking, because that's the only explanation for my uncontrollable spastic reflexes.

(Yes, I still stand by the above theory as the most logical explanation for my extreme lack of coordination).

Safeway is in the same shopping structure as the gym, so I headed over there in an attempt to still make the evening productive despite my gym FAIL. After racing my cart up and down the isles for 20 minutes or so, I had obtained all the food items I wanted to purchase. I got in line, but realized I forgot milk. So, in a hasty 360 degree turn, I whipped my cart around, and like the starting line at the INDY 500, I raced it down the cereal isle, balancing my lower torso on the handle bar, while my feet were airborne behind me. Under estimating the speed of my cart, and the odds that someone would walk past the end of the isle I was flying down at the very same time, I came crashing into another Safeway patron, right in front of the butter and pudding display.

In all my years of shopping cart racing, I've never actually hit another person. Sure, I've knocked plenty of things over, and definitely had a few close calls, but I hadn't made "cart-body" contact before. While profusely apologizing, and picking up all the items I had knocked out of their basket, I realized this wasn't just a random Safeway shopper, nope, that would have been too easy, and much less entertaining for the alien children watching my video feed; therefore, in an obvious cosmic conspiracy to continue to make Bridgette FAIL, the Safeway patron was, of course, the pretty man from the gym.

Mortified beyond comprehension, I began giggling like a drunk sorority girl who had just finished inhaling a crate of whip-its. I then started mumbling incoherently, and officially secured the title of the "gravity challenged insane girl from the gym," Northern California chapter.

My short-bus will be picking me up any minute now.

After regaining the bare-minimum of composure one needs in order to NOT have a seizure, I rationalized that, it's okay to be a little retarded sometimes. I know I'm retarded more than just "sometimes," but I have the amazing ability to rationalize all situations into whatever my deluded perception of reality happens to be that day.

I took a deep breath, and calmed down, assuming again of course, that this moment of awkwardness was definitely all the awkward I would be experiencing at Safeway that day.

I was wrong... again.

Much too smug about my newfound ability to maintain my motor skills in a non-spastic fashion, I leaned down to retrive an apple that rolled under the "Thomas' English Muffin" display. In one misguided foot placement, my entire leg slid sideways, and about 40 bags of english muffins came crashing down on top of me. The pretty man laughed for a second, and attempted to help me, but his efforts were thwarted as entire army of Safeway employees went DEFCON 5 on my ass in the bread isle.

There was a moment while I was laying there, covered in english muffins (I had managed to fall backwards, instead of on my face), where I was almost convinced that I could actually hear the laughter of the alien children through in the buzzing of the fluorescent lights on the ceiling.

Having turned a lovely shade of crimson, no doubt due to EXTREME mortification, I rationalized, again, that everyone has days when their coordination is fighting gravity and stuff falls on them... I bet... : /

As I stood up, profusely apologizing, again, this time to the Safeway army, I noticed that the pretty man had disappeared. And by disappeared, I mean, ran as fast as he could away from the maladroit girl (me), before the awkward became contagious. I lingered by the pudding for about 10 minutes, in an effort to make sure I didn't run into him, again, sans cart.

I finally made it to the checkstand, and bought my groceries without tripping, falling, or dropping a thing. I left safeway, and walked up the stairs to the parking lot to retrieve my car. Once again, I started to feel smug, and was sure this time, gravity had waved its white flag, and we were friends again.

I laughed to myself as I replayed the Safeway FAIL in my head. I mean, despite the extraordinary embarrassment, the whole thing was pretty hilarious. Plus, I was absolutely positive that the previous moment of EXTREME awkwardness, was most definitely all the awkward I would be experiencing at the North Point shopping center that night.

But... I was wrong... yet again.

I know what you're thinking: "Bridgette, you can't be more than 100 feet away from your car, what could have possibly happened in that short distance you had to travel?"

Well, I apparently misread gravities "white flag" as a surrender, when in fact, it was actually meant to be a "challenge flag." The challenge being, whether or not I could maintain enough focus to walk the 100 feet to my car. Easy right? I mean, I know how to walk, and I could see my car straight ahead, so naturally I assumed, I got this. 

About half-way through the first row of parked cars, a silver toyota 4-runner slowed down to let me cross in front. The headlights beamed into my pupils, and I realized that the driver was, *drum roll please* ... The pretty man! Big surprise right? ... I bit my lip and kept my focus straight ahead, thinking, "Okay, you can do this, here is your chance for redemption Bridgette! Just walk to your car like a normal person. You. got. this." 

I must have been focusing too hard on the end point, because about 2 seconds after I told myself, "You got this," I literally "fell over" my own feet in a dramatic "Matrix" style slow fall. Thankfully, I was able to catch myself, before I did a face-plant into the cement, and by "caught myself," I of course mean, "fell onto a parked car."

Yes, that's right, I tripped, and fell onto a parked car. 

Moral of the Story = I'm not really sure, but I think some would suggest that I start wearing protective padding before I leave the house.

I hope the alien children appreciate the great lengths I go to, to entertain them.

Also, I think it's safe to conclude that, the universe and I are definitely in an abusive relationship.

I have to go now.

My short-bus is here, and I can't find my helmet.