I Am Not A Rainbow Sharer, And That Is Why My Friends Hate My Boyfriend.

    When I was little, somewhere around five years old, I remember going for Sunday drives with my grandparents. I would sit in the back seat of our powder blue station wagon and stare out the window as the country side slid by. 
    These Sunday drives were what occupied a little bit of our families time in between morning church service and evening service. We would pull onto the busy road, our farmstead was nestled against, and my Grandfather would take the exit onto the highway, and we would drive north. Up the highway and back down the back roads. Or vise versa. The scene of cornfields, farm spreads similar to ours, and small, corner towns, with small country churches, only changing with the season. 
    I remember looking out the window, the fence in-between the land and the highway, across the new cornfield with little tiny plants starting to poke up, stretching all the way to the blue, spring sky. A rainbow! The colors spelling out Roy G Biv were arched across the sky like a decorative drape. I smiled, excited to see it. I began to raise my arm to point out the window, an exclamation on my lips, and I stopped. 
    If I didn't tell anyone, if no one else saw the rainbow, than it was only mine. Everyone else's silence assured that neither of my grandparents had spotted it yet, only I had. Therefore it was my secret. My secret rainbow. All mine. 
    I lowered my arm and pursed my lips closed. I anxiously looked back and forth between my grandparents in the front seat and my rainbow out the side window. When the rainbow began to slide behind the car, I looked on unabashedly, certain, no one would see it now. 
    We took the exit off the highway and turned onto our rural, tree lined road. The rainbow gone from sight. But, I still had it, locked in my memory. My very own rainbow. 

    Thirty-five years later, I have lived a string of romances with the wrong guy. The "wrong" part, punctuated to my friends by my unwillingness to share the good stuff. As a woman and seasoned dater, you learn quickly that with the wrong guy, the positives are only an intermittent string of occasions. As these were so few and far between, like rainbows, I never wanted to share them. Keeping them locked inside, to hold onto, forever. 
    After three years with the right guy, I am still guilty of the same. Someone who was commitment phobic, like me. Who had a difficult time sharing his feelings, like me. Or showing much of any intimate, positive emotion, like me. Therefore, after a couple years in, when we both start opening up, creating those loving, positive moments, I am desperate to hang onto them. 
    Sure, I throw a tid bit or two to my closest BFF's. But, the bulk of it, I hide away like a squirrel who stashes a winters full of food. I just can't bring myself to lessen the intimacy of it, by sharing it. 
    On the flip side, when I am angry, or when, as men do, he does something stupid, I share, share, share till the cows come home! Desperate to vent. To hear my friends agree with my frustration! To get it out and shout at someone, just so I don't blow up at him. 
    And so here we are. Three years in. And my friends aren't fond of my boyfriend. Because, I am not a rainbow sharer. 

I Can Fake Kindness

(This is my first post on my new tablet. HOPEFULLY, paragraphs will be allowed. Fair warning, I still cannot seem to locate a spell check button.)

"How are you today, young lady." Her voice was gentle and kind like the grandmother she probably was. I continued with the transaction. Ringing up her purchase, bagging her item. It is almost effortless to be kind to someone kind to you.
"Do you have a larger bag I could have," she asked. Continuing to explain the item she purchased from a vendor and the inadequate bag he gave her.
"Of course I do!" I assure her reaching for a large plastic bag. Than I remember the gift with purchase reusable tote bags we have. She may not have purchased the target item, but her kind voice was enough to qualify, to me.
She was ecstatic at the brightly colored bag. She blessed me again and again and I really just enjoyed making her day.
I turned to my waiting audiance, my assistant manager, Jake and my friend, Bobby. Both standing in shock, mouths agape.
"See!I can fake kindness." I yell. Demonstrating a previous accusation.

Nice, is not a word used to describe me. I am perfectly ok with this. However, as I explore the world of online dating, men continually request women who are kind. This really put a kink in the whole thing, for me.
But, lets be serious here. If us women are known for an ability, its FAKING. We fake happiness at unexpected houseguests, we fake liking that family member, we fake being neighborly, we fake knowing whats really going on. And youre all waiting for me to say it, we fake orgasims. So, why not kindness?
But, here is my question.....isn't "fake" kindness still kindness?

Everyone Needs A Job

When I was very young, I wanted to write. Poems, I was certain would be my natural specialty. In my scrapbook, I still have my first recorded poem. I wish I had a unicorn. I would ride it all day long. Odd that never panned out. In middle school I wanted to be an astronaut. I couldn't spell astronaut, so it was simply a verbal response. And highly influenced by the movie space camp. In high school, it was a lawyer. I wanted to wear tailored suits, sexy heels, argue with men and make a lot of money. In college, I landed a part time position in the school library. A combination of an early application and seven years volunteer service in libraries. This was the closest to my dream job. The librarian, Art was a perfect boss. Scolded me for walking around barefoot. Looked the other way when I ate behind the counter. Must important expanded my meager knowledge of book repairs. I was already reattaching loose pages and rebinding books with crude materials and sloppy technique. Art ordered an array of professional materials and guided my work. I loved it. Restoring documents could have been my profession. Until I made one of my classic bad decisions. Fast forward nineteen years. I'm a successful retail manager. The profit I bring my company every year is staggering compared to some of my Co workers. I pride myself on my ability to spot new talent and train up accordingly. I've cleaned up many an underperforming store, with this company and others before. I am content. I make a nice living. I was content. I say in a darkened theater three days ago watching a movie preview on the screen before me. A young boy on a selfish quest unintentionally effects the lives of strangers. Bettering their lives. At least, that's what I perceived from the preview. As the random photos of a wide variety of people only unified by their smiles or contented faces dotted the screen, I silently slowly began to redirect myself. Hello, my name is Cynthea. I'm twice divorced, been single forever. A mother of two amazing children with their own gifts. I started my adult life shy. Afraid to go to the grocery store by myself. I married my first husband because he wanted to. Oh and I was a princess and didn't want to work. I also had never been educated on finances and economics and believed if you had A job you automatically made enough money got everything you ever wanted. I was pretty upset when my husband showed me his paycheck. I married my second husband for essentially the same reason. Than. I got a clue. I'm the front runner. The leader. Organizer. Director. I walk into a situation, access and delegate. Follow up. Verify. However, when this all stops, when that life runs out... Nothing I accomplished (through my job) will matter. Not to anyone but some wealthy corporate execs. I want to be the silent person no one knows that provides that smile. I want to PROVIDE. I want to get my hands dirty. I want to work in relief. When I get home after a long day at work, I don't want my contentment to come from knowing all the sale pricing is done. The store made 10% over plan today. The planner is set. I'd like to know one less family will be homeless today. Forty people will fall sleep with full stomachs. A child learned to read and write five new words today. And I was a part of that. I understand I'm not going to submit an application, hop on a boat to Bangladesh and cure disease and famine. I understand I will have to start at the bottom. I also understand any skill set is valuable. And I too can make a difference. With my hands. *Not only is this obviously my first post, it was created on my phone. With little exploration of features. Also, the page isn't allowing me to reach the spell check button. My apologies. It will get better. ;)