Meant to Be

Keep reading for a moment or two before you retchingly assume I’m about to spew saccharine.

First things first, between returning to Effexor in mid-July and having a severe loss of appetite related to the whole love-thing, I’m now back to roughly my pre-pregnancy weight (upper 130s). I say roughly, because as a girl who wasn’t *trying* to get pregnant, I wasn’t tracking what I weighed, so this is my best guess. Beyond the obvious lack of nutrition (which honestly concerns me, and I’m trying to make myself eat more), I have another theory on the rapid weight drop (14 pounds in the past month).

I notice that it’s as if my body’s “set point” — ie, the weight it wants me to be — becomes significantly higher with moderate amounts of negative stress. I crave foods that pack weight on me, and even when I ignore the cravings, my body simply refuses to shed the extra. When I’m happy (gee, like NOW), the weight falls off with barely any effort. I think that there’s some sort of primal programming wherein if I’m stressed, my body plans for a coming famine. Whatever the case, I feel like I’m back in my own skin for the first time in 2-1/2 years, and I’m delighted. I feel like a goddess. Having a man tell me (consistently) that he sees me that way doesn’t hurt, of course.

Yes, I’m still absolutely crazy about him.

Meant to Be

We were talking the other night, and my guy (guess I need a blog pseudonym) said that as corny as it may sound, that this felt like it was meant to be. I laughed, but then proceded to tell him how much I despise the term “Meant to Be.”

Do you have any idea how many bad decisions I’ve made in my life because I thought something was “meant to be?” Let’s just say: many.

The problem that I have with this concept is simple. At least in the way I always applied the term, there was a feeling of god/the universe/whatever being in charge, and my decisions counting for nothing. It’s not that someone took my rights away from me; rather, that I happily handed them over. This, in turn, meant that when irksome problems and red flags began to appear (especially in relationships), that I’d brush them aside. I mean, if this relationship was “meant to be,” who was I to question the nit-picky details?

So this current relationship? It’s not “meant to be.” It’s wonderful. It’s amazing. He’s everything I’ve wanted, plus many things I didn’t even realize I needed. He even can fill my wish that I tacked to the end of the Diving Board post last month:

It means I’ve decided to let myself look. And initiate. And, god willing, fall madly, crazily in love with someone. I want to think about his face, quiver when he speaks, and admire who he is. I want to fantasize about tugging on his lower lip with my teeth, running my tongue along his spine, and raising the hair on his neck when I kiss his collarbone. I want to experience wonder when I wake up and see this man whom I can’t believe feels the same about me. There. How’s that for a start?

Howdya like them apples? A month ago today, I threw that out there. Today, a mere 31 days later, I’m living it. Hooooaaaaah.

Where was I? Oh, right. This relationship is all of those things. But it’s not “meant to be.” I’m not walking into something with my eyes half-closed, trusting god/universe/whatever to make decisions for me. *I* am making decisions. I’m still looking and watching for signals that I could be making a big mistake here, and there’s still nothing. Every. Little. Thing. tells me that I can trust this man with my life and (even more difficult for me) with my heart, and that he’ll do well by me and by my daughter. My brain isn’t unplugged as in those early (albeit heady) romances that all eventually went kaplooey. It’s engaged, not instead of my heart, but alongside it.

And I like it that way. I can choose to love rather than simply letting love happen to me. What a better, stronger, and more powerful way to live one’s life.