Thanks for seein' about a girl, friend. here's where I'm writing my own history—for you, for me and anyone else who needs to laugh to keep from cryin' every once in awhile.

el*oh*vee*e

What is it about this word that makes hearts flutter?That begs one to pause and to ponder? To implore oneself to consider and reconsider and consider yet again?

Plucking the petals from a daisy I once chided myself as a young girl with "he loves me, he loves me not" pausing to consider each petal as though it had captured the particular instance ascribed to its fated pluck.

He loves me = He smiled at me today. We made eye contact. He loves me not = Um, he smiled at some other girl, too. forget that trick.

It could all be so simple, but I'd rather make it hard.

I am struggling to complete this conversation with myself. What are my thoughts about the word and love itself? What do I think it is and what do I want and hope it to be? Are my views even realistic? What is real anyway - isn't love whatever it is to me and that's it?

I think so, but because I think about this topic a lot, I feel I've reverted to my nerdy self - the person of old who thinks too much.

For instance. I can think of a million songs that soundtrack the various euphoric stages of love - the glee and the giddy, the petulant pondering, the unrequited longing - but my goodness, how easy it is for me to shield my true thoughts and feelings with a song, or a quote or the change of subject brought about by a joke.

Thankfully, this topic seems eternal to me. I feel I will always question it in attempts to measure its existence, to try and make sense of it as it pertains to my life ... and what a life this is turning out to be.

Earlier today I caught up with my old roomie, and she remarks, "Can you believe we are almost just four years from 30? I never imagined myself at 30 before."

Chi'ren, for some reason I was struck by this, and realized, that I, too, had never thought of myself at 30. Then I realized I'd also never thought of myself at 25. This got me to thinking about my lack of planning (the dismissal of goal setting), but also about my loss of self-imposed reflection, of which I have always been so fond and so committed. I do not write in my actual journal as much as I used to. It is the place where I hash things out, whereupon blank pages life as it is etches itself onto the page charting my course.

I believe that you can't know where you're going unless you know where you've been. I feel I'm in danger of not knowing where I've been of late. It's important to me, the idea of being able at some point to look back and know what I thought at a certain time, what the world looked like through my eyes, what was going on. It's important to me because I feel parts of myself are changing - views and opinions, desires and wishes - while some parts of myself don't necessarily change - beliefs and bare necessities.

The never imagining myself at 25 or at 30 or any other age has made me afraid that I have become comfortable with just drifting, and that would be fine if I weren't constantly asking myself the same questions year after year. But I swore to myself that I'd never settle for just anyone or anything, and I realize that this includes me. I am not satisfied right now with a "c'est la vie" or a "que sera, sera," and by this I mean that thinking maybe love will find me, perhaps it's just around the corner, or it could be in front of my face - these are consolations that I can no longer accept. I don't want sorry consolations. That's no prize.

What I do want, and what I need is a test of faith, and maybe some mistletoe ;)

Cue the Haddaway.

That for which I am thankful.