The Butterfly Stage

      Relationships can be divided into many stages, including but not limited to the Flirting Stage, the First Kiss Stage, the Newly-Together-Annoying-To-Anyone-Who's-Not-You Stage, the Long Term Stage, the Committed Stage, etc. Then there are the not so fun stages filled with all the problems that could possibly arise between two people, but let's not talk about those. Just today, I came to the realization that the stage that had previously achieved My Favorite status has now been bumped to second place. The Cat and Mouse Stage of non-commitment and constant flirtation has been replaced by the Butterfly Stage.

     The Butterfly Stage falls somewhere between the Flirting Stage and the Newly-Together Stage, and has the potential to be both the best and worst stage at the same time. This stage often involves more intense and fluctuating emotions than any other, at least amongst the positive stages. My friend and I coined the name from the tickling feeling that starts in the very pit of your stomach and spreads like an electric current throughout your entire body, as if a thousand butterflies were fluttering their wings beneath your skin. The same feeling occurs in different degrees, but more and more often the longer you remain in this stage. When the feeling peaks, you are usually ready to move on either into the Newly-Together Stage or, as not every ending is happy, the Moving On Stage. 

     Now, the Butterfly Feeling is complicated and difficult to describe to someone who has never felt it and cannot instantly relate. This is where the conflicting emotions display themselves most clearly. See, this one feeling contains the excitement of adventures to come, the thrill of not fully knowing how the other person feels, the danger of putting your heart on the line, the nervousness of wanting to see/talk to him, the comfort of knowing he wants to talk to you too, the worry of not wanting to seem clingy, the other worry of not wanting to seem too distant, the risk of exposing some part of you he might dislike, the urgency to reach the next stage so at least you will know, the fear of reaching the next stage and knowing, the anxiety that you're overreacting to the situation, that humor of recognizing how many emotions you are currently feeling at one time, and the hope that he's feeling this way too!

     The Butterfly Stage can be a bit overwhelming, but it has always been my favorite part of a relationship. After this stage, the rest of the relationship is a piece of cake (delicious at first, but too much can be harmful, and if left unattended will quickly go stale)! The thing is, I've been fleeing from relationships and the unavoidable emotional baggage for years now. I just haven't found someone worth leaving the Cat and Mouse stage for... until now. 

     Somehow, without warning, intent, or permission, I have stumbled into the Butterfly Stage. I'm not ready to talk about him. I'm not ready to say I want a relationship with him. I'm not even ready to say I'm all that thrilled that I came to be in this phase. But I am ready to admit that I'm here and I can't stop smiling when someone says his name. I can't stop thinking about the last things he said to me. I can't stop wondering when we'll talk next. I'm excited, nervous, afraid, cautious, thrilled, worried, giggly, nervous, distracted, confused, overwhelmed, content, and anxious all at the same time. But above all, I'm happy. I love the Butterfly Feeling. I love knowing I have his attention, but being afraid to lose it all at the same time. When did this game involve more adrenaline and challenge than the Cat-and-Mouse game? Did I just forget or has this boy changed the whole game?

     Whatever the reason, I have found new joy in the Butterfly Stage and have no desire to move on any time soon. Who knows, maybe in time, I'll reconsider my current aversion to relationships. .... Maybe.


 

30 Day Letter Challenge: Take 2, Day 7

Day 7: Letter to a Band/Singer

Dear Ewan McGregor, 

     Marry me. Okay, so maybe you're not in a band, but you are definitely one amazing singer. And perhaps you are 40 years old and married with 3 kids, but I'm willing to look past all that. See, I noticed you were good-looking the first time I saw Star Wars Episode 1 and still somewhat in Episode 2, but you were somewhat overshadowed when Episode 3 starred the stunning Hayden Christensen. (Looks aside, you are still by far the better actor). But this is not about acting, which is why you didn't truly capture my heart until Moulin Rouge, which premiered when I was 11 and you were 30. I didn't recognize you at first, but my heart melted at the first few notes.


     Even now as I play some of the songs from that movie, I can't focus well enough to write this letter to you. You simply have the voice of an angel and I would love nothing more than to have you serenade me. I don't think I would be able to say no to anything you asked of me, so long as you asked it in a song. Nicole Kidman and Eve Mavrakis (your wife) are very lucky women. 


     If you are ever feeling under-appreciated or just need a little encouragement, my home and my arms are always open. 


Love, 
Steph

30 Day Letter Challenge: Take 2, Day 6

Day 6: Letter to a Store

Dear All Stores Everywhere, 

      You are a necessary evil. I cannot even select one of you to write to, either good or bad, simply because I hate shopping. Food shopping, clothes shopping, furniture shopping, even just window shopping gives me a headache. I don't wish you away, since I very much need food, clothes, and my bed. However, I do not like you, I do not like that I depend on you to survive, and I do not like having to admit that I depend on you. Therefore Stores, we are at an ugly stalemate where you continue to exist and I continue to rely on you, though I do so as reluctantly and infrequently as possible. In any case, I have nothing more to say to you. 

~Steph

Words

We have so many words, each that conveys a message: 

True words that confront.

     Kind words that encourage. 

          Harsh words that inflict pain. 

               Tender words that comfort. 

                    Angry words that attack. 

                         Flirtatious words that solicit.

                              Ambiguous words that confuse.

                                   Powerful words that command.

                                        Silly words that induce laughter. 

                                   Hurtful words that bring tears. 

                              Melodic words that soothe.

                         Rude words that turn away. 

                    Educated words that lengthen. 

               Slang words that shorten. 

          False words that pretend.

     Calm words that relax.

Poetic words that flow.

Yet with all these words, why can I find none to express my feelings? Why are there no words tender enough to really comfort a hurting friend? Why are there no words kind enough to truly encourage a friend who is down? No words powerful enough to command away a friend's pain? No words silly enough to change tears into laughter? Why are there no words melodic enough to soothe away heartache?

We have so many words, each that conveys a message.

             But words are just that.... words.

30 Day Letter Challenge: Take 2, Day 5

Day 5: Letter to the Last Person Who Hit on You

Dear Jax, 

     Let me start by declaring (for probably the millionth time since that night a few weeks ago) that I still cannot believe you introduced me to your parents as your girlfriend!! Granted it was pretty funny and I may possibly have given you the idea, but I never planned to follow through with it! And then I was caught in the awful position of either confusing your parents by calling you out on your lie or lying right along with you to YOUR PARENTS! I'm sure they are still confused about the whole situation, considering how very eager they were to believe it. I just hope you don't ever tell them all the plans you've worked out for our future, such as the ones we discussed last night. You know, all the interracial babies we'll have some day. "Tomorrow people," as a character from one of my new favorite TV shows calls babies of mixed races: "Little People of Tomorrow." Although I'm somewhat amused at your suggestion of "fielding our own soccer team," I'm not sure I want to birth 11 children, much less raise that many.  A basketball team is much more reasonable in that respect.

     Let's not get ahead of ourselves here, though. Despite our brief, yet recurrent history, you and I would never work as a serious couple for so many reasons, not the least of which is the fact that we are both far too flirtatious for our own well-beings. On the positive side, you proudly represent the West Coast, where I plan on establishing my home in the not-too-distant future, but that alone is quite obviously not enough. We do have some sort of weird chemistry that keeps our friendship fun and, well, flirty, but while that makes for great entertainment for all, sparks burn out quickly. I'm looking for a fire. 

     Still, I won't deny that your attention is flattering and sometimes downright embarrassing, with your over-the-top antics. I've lost count of the number of people you've introduced me to as your girlfriend or future wife, which now regrettably includes my mother, sister, and little brother, along with the recent addition of your parents! I'll even confess that I've occasionally wondered how much of it is still a joke and if I should be careful not to be too encouraging. That is, until I hear about all the girls you "hung out" with each weekend or watch you (usually doubled over with laughter) make advances on any girl that comes with hearing-distance of your cheesy lines, which is actually quite some distance unfortunately. I no longer fear the possibility of leading you on.

     Ah, Jax, it's a shame that the world will never get to experience our adorable black/latino babies and that the USA will be shorted a much-needed superiorly-skilled soccer team, but I'm afraid we're just not meant to be. Tell ya what, though, and I'm only promising this to you with the hope that you will never get a glimpse of this letter, nor will any of my few readers ever hold me to this promise, but if we both waste our youth playing the ever-thrilling game of cat-and-mouse and both remain single and searching at the ripe old age of 42 (my lucky number), we can get married and adopt 11 interracial babies and raise them to love the best sport of all time.

     22 years to go. Start counting.

~Steph

30 Day Letter Challenge: Take 2, Day 4

Day 4: Letter to Something You Have That Belongs to Someone Else

Dear Orange Plastic Bic Lighter, 

     I'm not quite sure how much I'm willing to divulge about how you came to be in my possession. See, at least one, (and probably only one) of my very few readers knows your true owner or at least knows of him. It's not a fun romance story like my friends' Day 4 stories and I guarantee your owner's never getting you back... nothing personal but you're worth about 20 cents to him and the rest of the world. In fact, I doubt he ever realized he had lost you. But I like you because you bring back hilarious, if somewhat embarrassing memories of sophomore year of college. 


     I've never smoked and I don't plan on starting (ever), so there's really no point to keeping you around. I know plenty of people willing to take you or I could even just throw you away. For the past year and a half now, you've been hidden away in my desk, only used when the pyromaniac in me comes out on occasion (just to try to make smoke rings, I swear I'm not setting anything on fire). But unlike that pair of jeans that I keep around as a challenge to myself, I keep you purely for sentimental reasons (none of which have anything to do w/ the boy you belong to).  You represent for me a semester that was filled with fun, craziness, drama, mistakes, laughter, inner turmoil, friendships, and some of the best stories I'll have from my college career. There are many things I regret from that time, and many I'd love to relive often. And you are the only souvenir that remains to remind me of all these things. 

     If that boy, your owner, was a little more responsible I'd be left without any physical representation of such a life-changing period of my life. If he hadn't decided to show off and wave you around my room, threatening with each swoop of his arm to burn down the whole building; if he hadn't been so unstable, so clearly under multiple influences, so that I thought either he or I or both were going to burn that night; if he hadn't been so easily persuaded into handing you over to me, preserving our lives and those of the other 300 people in my dorm, you'd probably be in a trash can somewhere by now, all used up and of no more worth to anyone. Instead, I woke up the following morning to your bright orange plastic cover winking at me from the floor of my still-in-tact room and I knew that it was going to be one insane semester that I'd never forget and I'd be lucky to survive. 


I did survive, surprisingly, and every time I open my drawer and see you again, I know that I will never forget, either.


~Steph

30 Day Letter Challenge: Take 2, Day 3

Day 3: Letter to Something You've Owned for More than 5 Years

Dear 8th Grade Jeans, 

     You have tormented me for quite a while now, sitting in the back of my bottom dresser drawer.  Everyone who knows me knows quite well that I'm not what you'd consider a girly girl in any way, shape, or form.  I really don't care what most people think, find makeup to be too much time and work, and much prefer shorts and a t-shirt to anything nice.  But there are 2 things about my looks that I cannot help but fret about like a high school freshman girl trying to impress the seniors. One is my hair, which I brush several times a day, but the other is my weight. Not in a omg-I-weighed-myself-for-the-eighth-time-today-and-I-gained-a-half-a-pound-so-I-need-to-go-on-a-diet type of worrying, but more because I pride myself on being in some semblance of good shape (despite the fact that I HATE gyms and refuse to go).  

     But, my old pair of jeans, I also get some sort of small pleasure from wearing out my clothes before I outgrow them, and you have defied all logic in that sense.  You were my favorite pair of jeans throughout 8th grade and I wore you quite often. Even in the first year or two of high school, you were frequently grabbed along with a t-shirt in my ten minute dash to get out the door. During these times I went through at least 3 other pairs of jeans, worn out to the point of being discarded, while you remained in tact and ready to go out again.  It's not like you were even a particularly good brand of jeans! I probably got you from Walmart or Kohls and there's absolutely no way you should be in the shape you are in today.

     And so, my goal for the past few years has been to fit into you once again at least long enough to finish the job so that you can retire.  Try as I do, while I have occasionally succeeded in putting you on, wearing you for more than a few hours is more pain than it's worth. And so, dear pants, maybe it's time to give up the fight and admit defeat. Perhaps it's time to accept that I have developed hips and a butt since 8th grade and that there will never come a day when I can squeeze into you again. But I am stubborn and I hate to lose, so it may be a while before I convince myself of the need to surrender.  Until then, jeans, you will continue to sit in the back of my drawer, a reminder of our unfinished business.

If at first you don't succeed, try, try again.

~ Steph