hindsight

I can pick the baddest dress. pair it with the craziest shoe. Accessorize with the biggest bow, the chainiest chain. And a friend's purse that I've been eyeing for months.

I can whip up the tastiest meal. With the most vibrant flavor. The richest spices. The tangiest toppings. Off of instinct. Off of some hunch that this salmon could use a bit of this mango on top.

I can manage advertising production. Understand the business objective of the client and marry that with the creative objective of the art director. I can think critically about the challenge before me, and problem solve until there are no problems left to solve.

I can offer financial support to hungry siblings, emotional support to sad friends and hoodrat support to troublemakers.

But I cannot, for the life of me, pick a good guy.

I am blind to all the signs. Shitty communication skills that magically improve between the 2-4am Saturday night window. Pictures with the girlfriend he insists is his ex. The inability to answer a simple question without some convoluted, circular answer.

I don't notice that the nice, fun, enjoyable side comes out 5% of the time, while he's shambles the other 95.

I secretly laugh at people who wear glasses. All those people unable to tell me how many fingers I have up right now. For whom life and death are but a torn contact lens away, lest they can't see the 18-wheeler charging towards them.

Lest I can't read the shambles between those sweet, sweet lines.

Perhaps I should get my eyes checked.