Why are you so Wyrd?

Cari, you ask, why all this witchy stuff lately?  Why this sudden departure from glitter, unicorns, and fairies to this darker shade of magic?

Well, let me tell you. 

     I have always been enthralled by the allure of the possibility of magic.  Since childhood, mythical creatures, hidden worlds, and untapped power has captivated my imagination.  Just like a letter to Hogwarts, there seem to be themes pertaining to coming of age, especially for witches, that a certain critical period in their lives will unveil a new universe of potential. I was waiting with bated breath for some magical transition into adulthood where I could be a sexy, fabulous, independent witchy woman.

     Nothing happened on my 13th birthday.  I was so disappointed.  I stayed awkward, unattractive, and positively powerless.  Where was my Sailor Moon-esque transformation sequence?  I grew up on Kiki's Delivery Service, Harry Potter, Sabrina the Teenage Witch, Sailor Moon, and Practical Magic.  These were not hideous hags, they were full of women blazing their own trails and muddling through the monotony of daily life with the whimsical addition of magical shenanigans.  I wanted so desperately to wake up one morning floating above my bed, to find a talking cat, or to successfully take off on a broom. I used to shove kitchen spices and herbs from the garden into the bamboo handle of a broomstick and jump off the retaining wall in our front yard in the naive hope that the right combination of botanicals and intention would get me in the air.

    As I got older, I kept my fascination for the esoteric and occult.  It transitioned into my love of fantasy in literature and film.  What's more, it crept into my style, with professional business witch attire.  The arcane sneaks in with my adoration of the natural world.  The most wonderful things come from nature.  Plants are pretty dope.  Crystals, some of the most amazing things on the planet, are made from heat and pressure.  It's something I always try to remember: the most beautiful things are formed from uncomfortable situations.  Now my apartment is dripping in crystals, tarot imagery, and sacred geometry.  Not necessarily because I believe in their powers, but because of life-long and deeply-rooted appreciation for their aesthetics and the hope that comes with the possibility of magic through connection to the wonders of nature and the mysteries of the universe.

     These Wyrd Sisters help remind me of my amazing sisterhood of strong, intelligent, and supportive female friends.  Every time I pass my fridge, I am reminded that no matter what happens in life, I have a wellspring of unconditional love from my friends.  Just as an aside, Wyrd is a concept in Anglo-Saxon culture roughly corresponding to fate or personal destiny.  It is also the root of our modern word for weird...coincidence, I think not!
    During grad school, I was whole-heartedly exploring my identity as a feminist.  Many struggles in my life were coming to a head at that time, most of which revolved around my belief that being female was a burden, something I wished I wasn't, and a crushing sense of futility for the horrors women, across the globe and throughout history, have endured both biologically and sociopolitically.  Sexual harassment, women's health issues, the mole man stalker, and my own past relationships culminated into a maelstrom of disenchantment with femininity. 

    The juxtaposition of highs and lows is what really gets me feeling defeated.  It was right after my first art therapy conference.  I felt so accomplished, empowered, and like I was on the right track with my life.  A scary looking man on the bus down Commercial Drive told me he wanted to cum in my hair.  I instantly deflated.  Suddenly I was a scared little girl, reduced to absolute nothingness by a few words from a strung-out hobo.  Later, I was so angry that I went silent, looked out the window, then got off the bus at a random stop and ran until I felt safe enough like a small, scared, wounded animal looking for a private place to die.  Why can I never stand up for myself?  I sincerely hate feeling weak like that.
     Women have been dragged by their hair and raped in caves since the dawn of humanity.  As a group, we have put up with a lot of shit for a very long time.  Just because we can handle it, does not justify our oppression, but we continue to thrive in even the worst conditions.  I was feeling so defeated and like no matter how strong a person I become, I will always revert to instinctual disassociate-then-flee-mode when faced with sexual harassment and intimidation.  One of my classmates reminded me that fleeing is a survival strategy.  Freezing and fleeing may not feel the most heroic, but they are adaptive strategies to get through the dangerous stuff.  That helped me a lot actually. 

     One of my 2019 mantras is "What Would Cher Do?".

    “You said a man is not a necessity, a man is luxury,” Jane Pauley said to Cher in an iconic 1996 interview, to which Cher replies, “like desert, yeah. A man is absolutely not a necessity...my experience with men is great because I pick them because I like them. I don't need them”.   Cher, a veritable bad bitch, has been a huge inspiration to me.  She was the first celebrity I saw that made me proud to have brown eyes.  The true Dark Lady, she's given us witchy anthems and was part of the coven in 1987's The Witches of Eastwick.  She's sultry, 100% comfortable with her sexuality, and has a captivating confidence that has spanned her stardom for over 50 years.  An independent woman, Cher has been helping me shnap out of it since I first watched Mermaids (1990) on TV one fateful Sunday and I was drawn in to those giant dark doe eyes.
    Cher is an amazing legend, icon, and star, but what was I going to do about anything?  There had to be some constructive steps to take.  First, I acknowledged my anger.  I really bottle up my rage so it was good to let it out in artmaking, crying in front of people (a huge, almost insurmountable act of vulnerability in my books), and talking about it.  Around this time, Trump got elected.  It was also the dawn of the "Me Too" movement.  Like most things in life, talking about the things that hurt and scare us is a pretty sure fire way to start to feel better.  If not only for the catharsis of facing the issue aloud.  One of my big goals for this year is to continue open dialogue with friends, family, and anyone who needs to talk about the state of womanhood in this rancid world and offering support to work constructively toward a more empowered state of being.
    I tried to think of the way I felt before I started getting objectified by boyz, menz, and the dang patriarchy.  I thought back to my childhood, when I was fearless, loved being a girl, and was able to embrace the duality of collecting caterpillars in a princess jewelry box. I was so excited to grow up and enjoy the wonders of being a cool, sassy, sexy lady.  I wanted to be a hairdresser on the moon!  Someone had to be there to make the astronauts look fabulous, why shouldn't it be me?!  I used to be so precocious, full of belief and enthusiasm for Girl Power.  What the hell happened?
     I realized that I had lost my connection to the hopefulness for magic in womanhood.  This is all probably just a metaphor for regaining self-confidence after abusive relationships, but I choose to see it as a prophetic epiphany inviting the surging power of the divine feminine into my life.  This is where witches come in for me.  Witches have had a rough deal for being themselves, and I can relate.  Witches generally are independent yet gain strength from their covens.  They know the tells from nature when the balance is changing.  They follow instincts and act on intuition.  They also can work selflessly for the greater good of nature and helping heal fellow humans.
    The more I learned about therapy and cross-cultural healing practices, the more connections I made between ritual in magic and ritual in therapeutic processes.  Holding sacred space for rituals and even meditation is pretty similar to creating a safe space for open dialogue and simply being with someone in therapy.  Both are acts of creation.  One is perhaps slightly less tangible than the other, but the principles are more or less the same. 
     Something I would like to research further is the draw of the empathetic weirdos and outsiders of the world to the healing arts.  Not just women, these folks are plagued by the gift and curse of empathy.  We all know the trope that people who have been THROUGH IT, pursue careers in psychology (TRUE), and I think the same can be said for our ancestral healers.  They tended to be on the peripheries of society with specialized knowledge of healing and helping through practice, experimentation, and trusting their guts.  They were usually ostracized or had some kind of taboo about them.  Unlike real doctors, us quacks have a lot more freedom to play with our holistic healing methods which can seem ooky, spooky, freaky, and creepy.  Some shamans are exalted, but our North American witches were certainly demonized.  That nods to gender inequality and the perceived danger of an empowered woman, she must be in bed with Satan!
    Mmmm, not necessarily with Satan, but through nature, earth, plants, the moon, water, and vibes? Sure thing!  You spend enough time existing quietly with nature, and she will teach you things.  I have learned a lot of traditional folk witchy wisdom from my mum.  Does she identity as a witch? Nope.  Do we agree that we would have been burned alive if we existed hundreds of years ago? Certainly.  Strong winds tend to blow the leaves of deciduous trees upside down, therefore it is safe to guess a storm's a brewing.  There is a certain smell before it rains.  There is also a palpable electricity and heaviness to the atmosphere before summer storms.  Robins make a really specific "glooping" noise before it rains.  Some plants are edible.  Some plants are poisonous.  Wow, groundbreaking.  We both suffer from migraines and if they aren't hormonal or stress-related, they are probably predicting a big change in the weather which can be attributed to atmospheric pressure and the pressure inside my hereditary-linked messed up sinuses.  Same with my eczema. Do my hands hurt?  Yes, then it's about to get really cold. Does a dog want to eat your toe?  Yes?  They you probably have a nasty ingrown on the way.  Nature just knows things, and if you know nature, you know those things too.
    Needless to say, I love nature.  I can almost not contain myself for how desperately I want to escape to my cabin and shirk all my responsibilities to be a hippy witch and just burn things all day and beach-comb for animal bones for home decor.  After this work week, my mum and I are going for the long weekend.  I will recharge my batteries with the pull of the tide and push of cold February ocean winds.  My reverence for nature knows no bounds.  Ecological consciousness is central to my being.  I am that person who carries reusable cutlery and metal straws around with them, has growlers to refill with kombucha at the packaging-free grocery store, and uses 100% recycled toilet paper.  I call myself a secret hippy, but in reality I am a straight-up Eco Feminist Witch, and honestly, I am getting to a point where I am proud of it.

    I don't always know what to do.  Everyone says, "just be yourself", but what if yourself is a cackling hag who enjoys the peace of overgrown and forgotten places, too many candles, and sitting quietly alone in the dark thinking really hard?  Sometimes I go out and pick up trash by myself.  I'm weird.  I'm wyrd.  I am an Eco Feminist Witch and I will be in my crystal lair.  If you seek me, please send a black cat, rat, pigeon, or possum for speedy communication.

*As an aside, I am still hoping that channeling my witchy energy will help me be more comfortable being seductive, but that is an epic fail so far.  Not even the most potent magic could get me to not behave like an anxious robot.  A really cute, snatched robot, but a robot nonetheless. #cronelife*

First, the Worst.

Reader beware, you're in for a scare!

     Finally, the moment we have all been waiting for.  Let's talk about my first date from Bumble.  I think online dating is really contrived.  I hate the idea of meeting a soulmate online.  I think it's disingenuous.  I think it is depressing.  I never wanted to be this person.
    However, it turns out that it is really hard to meet new people when you're not in university anymore, you work in a primarily female field, all your friends are in committed relationships, you always wear big "fuck off" over-ear headphones at the gym, and you don't leave your apartment for anything other than gym, work, chores, and events with your girl gang and couple friends.  I still feel conflicted about trying to date, it really stresses me out.  But I do looooooove the validation that I am a desirable human (hey, I may be trash, but at least I am self-aware enough to admit that a shred of basic bitch lurks within). No, not trolling the sea floor for any and all dicks, but trying to accept the power to say "no" when something is not exactly what I want instead of jumping into a relationship because they happened to catch me in a single moment and my standards have been v e r y  l o w from past unfortunate relationships and formerly low self-esteem (if someone makes you feel like a fat, embarrassing goblin long enough, you believe it).
     Getting back on the man-horse seemed like a solid idea at the time.  I had no idea the emotional journey it would catalyze as I experienced the fear, anger, and frustration from my own behaviour in response to basic kindness, enthusiasm, and genuine interest.  That will be an ongoing process, probably forever, but I understand myself a lot better now and do realize that the emotional manipulation has been very strong from two dramatically different sources with horrifically different motivations with the same effect of fucking me up, fam!
    Admittedly, one of the assets of online dating is that you have a huge pool of people you would otherwise never cross paths to test the waters with.  One of the things I have decided is that I will be avoiding men my age like I avoid paid canvassers soliciting for donations on Granville Street.  Crossing the road and focusing my eyes forward for someone who seems to actually have their shit together and is 3 to 5 years older.  Career you love as much as you want a perfect, gorgeous, hilarious, princess capable of bad bitch behaviour when it counts?  Sign me up.
     I am not perfect, by any means.  But I do realize my worth and I have done some deep diving and critical analysis into why the fuck my previous relationships have been so catastrophic.  It's a true fact that women are generally more emotionally mature than their male cohorts.  I have been a mom-stand-in, unlicensed therapist, and sex receptacle since I was 15. Questionable and ill-advised, hell yes, but we can't go back and unfuck our first boyfriends now can we, Susan?
     I have felt like an old crone for a looooooooooooooooong time.  It's been exhausting putting undeserving wretches first in naive pursuits of channeling love's transformative powers.  In honour of our queen Dua, I have my own New Rules. 1: no more "fixer-uppers", only celebratory, mutually beneficial support while collaborating to maximize each other's potential and accomplish goals as individuals and as a couple.  2: no more dumb animals.  I keep getting duped by insecure man-children with daddy issues AND Oedipus complexes hiding behind a mask of sensitive, creative beta maleness.  Joke's on me! *rocks back and forth hyperventilating*  3: do they have room enough in their already career, friend, family, health, and hobby-filled lives for a meaningful relationship? If he does not violate those 3 rules, we're on to something.  Specific, critical, and mayhaps unrealistic?  Maybe, but I am not totally cynical though!  Despite my past, and the events that unfold in the pursuit of true love, I come out of every situation with a wealth of new knowledge, practice of reflective listening skills, and the potential to punch someone in the face (always a life goal!).
     Knowing my 3 New Rules, ideal age range of 28-31, and general motivation to put myself back out there, I was thrilled to start messaging with a 31-year-old sound tech in the film industry.  Now there were a few red flags even before the first date.  Over the course of 4 days, I had amassed about 300 texts from him.  Who has time to text that much?  Him apparently, but that's because you're so irresistible and interesting, right?  Maybe this is what guys who actually like their girlfriends are like?  I certainly have no idea what it's like to date someone who texts back within a reasonable 8 hours.  I was finally getting exactly what I allllways wanted!
     It was time to meet in real life.  God, I hoped we would actually like each other in person!  How convenient would it be to hang up my Bumble profile after one date?  He's older, has a real job, and seems perceptive, interested, and engaged.  Let's get going with the rest of our lives!
    Just one problem.  His name isn't Jim, as advertised.  The day before our date, he told me, via message, that his real name wasn't Jim, for privacy reasons.  For you see, he had a previous Bumble date make his life a living hell after he repeatedly rescheduled on her by making trouble for him on Facebook and messaging his family.  Red flag?  NOPE.  I believed it, and somehow overlooked that he sounds like a flake.
    So what was his real name you ask?  Let me tell you.  Tim.  Yes, that is correct, the cosmic irony was both a painful gut punch and worthy of a good cackle.  I have now come to the conclusion that all Tims are inherently evil.  Good Tims are the outliers, like Tim Curry, he is a treasure.  Anyway, I took his story about the necessity for the name switch for privacy protection, and wanted to believe that I could withhold judgement on all of Timkind for the transgressions of one bad, sad Tim.

Cari, you a dumb-dumb.

    Leading a new potential relationship with a pretty big "untruth" should have been a HUGE RED FLAG.  I am so painfully transparent that I sometimes forget people are nefarious.  Child-like optimism can realllllly cloud good decision-making.  Of course my brain didn't jump to nefarious intentions, and anyway, everything that ever happens with me and men is my fault (the female brain is fucked).  And nefarious he was.
    As I was preparing to leave for the brewery we planned to meet at, he also confesses via text that he has another "untruth".  He is actually 35.  Apparently that is also a privacy thing?  I say I'm not opposed to 35 if everything else feels right, let's vibe it out.  5 years my senior, sure!  9 years?  That is a little bit of an uncomfortable stretch.  However, I had already donned a fabulous hippy-witch bohemian jumpsuit, strapped on my sensible walking mules, and done a good no-makeup makeup look.  I needed to overcome this anxiety of my first date as an adult.  If I hated it, I had a good out: a big presentation with a specialized health team as part of a training session for work.

Oh child...
    Anyway, bad decisions aside, we meet in person.  He looked like someone's trendy-ish dad, or uncle we don't talk to anymore.  Maybe he was?  Who knows?  They say wrinkles are the roadmap of a person's life.  His eyes and cheeks were well traveled.  I love DILFs.  I was struck by a lightening-bolt of attraction in 11th grade when I saw a Mountain Equipment Co-op clad DILF running with a stroller.  However, this was no MEC DILF.  It was clear that there were some very strategic camera angles used to create this guy's profile pictures.  I am actually a huge fan of eye crinkles and forehead lines, they show humor and intensity.  Unsettlingly, from looks and demeanor, he seemed perhaps even older than 35.  I thought, hey, if there is an undeniable sexual tension, why not do something wild for once in my life?
    That was totally off the table.  He name-dropped doing John Mayer covers on the guitar.  WRONG AUDIENCE!  I never had a John Mayer phase, he's always given me a nasssty vibe.  I think I have an unusual distaste for John Mayer as a human, he screams slimy chauvinist pig parading as a soulful loner.  Another red flag.  Time to abort mission?  Hahaha nope, I still went and had a drink with him.  As we walked, I learned that he actually was only thinking about going back to school for sound design.  He works in film as a part-time location driver...he also works at a hostel.  He also has always gotten along better with people significantly younger.

    The whole point of dating someone older was to find someone with their shit together.  This was the opposite of together.  This was a messy room in your mum's basement.  This was "staying on the living room couch for a while".  We talked over one drink.  At a certain point I decided that this was an experience (not a good experience, but an experience).  He asked to see my rings, which I made when I was taking silver smithing in high school.  I quite obviously recoiled at his touch when he went for my hand.  It was time to escape. 
     We left the bar and mutually thanked each other for a pleasant time.  He went in for a majorly awkward hug and I somewhat reciprocated, already gaining strength with the knowledge that I will never be seeing this California Raisin in training again.  I could feel my backbone fortifying with Adamantium.
    He almost instantly texted me when he was on transit.  This is a Catfish, or some kind of weird emotional manipulation I had not encountered before.  Maybe she forgot I baited-and-switched her into going on a date with me?  If I'm attentive it will placate her fervent desire for stability and validation.

Then came one of the most savage, satisfying texts of my life. At first, I started out nice.

Thank you for a pleasant introduction to online dating.  Good conversation and thank you for the drink.

He then suggested we go out again some time.  I decided to let. him. have. it.

Actually, the age discrepancy feels mildly-predatory.  I thought I could overlook it if there was some bodice-ripping sexual tension, but there was not.  I wish you all the best.
He got the idea after that.

I wish I still had the screen shots of that text, but I was too embarrassed of myself for being a dingus and making it to that point.  And so I deleted everything on my phone pertaining to old man, EVIL TIM 2.0.

So here we go again.  Single and ready to ruin any and all social interactions. <please click this link.

Loneliness

     I was watching the suspenseful series, You, on Netflix.  I had a moment where I thought to myself, gatdang I wish a man would love me enough to get a little obsessive.  You know you are in a particularly vulnerable place in your single journey when you actually think that being locked in a temperature-controlled chamber full of books in a basement and being 100% dependent on your captor is favorable to the monotonous grind of daily life.

     My brain is so good at bottling up and forcing away negative emotions, I forgot I had a real life stalker!  Granted he was a middle-aged mole man, and didn't look a thing like Penn Badgley *of course what a stalker looks like does not make the behaviour acceptable, but it certainly helps disguise the horror of the situation*.  My mole man stalker seriously looked like Bottles the mole from Banjo-Kazooie.

     Our first encounter was the night of my then-boyfriend's birthday celebration.  I was working at a tiny cafe in a fairly busy transit hub then, so I was going strait from my closing shift to the function.  We were seeing Rogue One in theaters so I wore a themed outfit, as I am known to do.  Serves me right for wearing a red blazer, Star Wars shirt (Darth Vader's helmet fading into TIE fighters from Old Navy's boy's department), and a pleather skirt to work.  I was just asking to incur the admiration of a socially inept, older adult creeper.  Displaying your fandom can be DANGEROUS!
     Anyway he lurked around the cafe for a while and I hid in the bathroom.  My coworker, who I might add looks a lot like an even younger more gorgeous Jennifer Lawrence, tried to divert his attention and get him to go away, but he kept asking her, "when is the girl in the leather skirt coming back?".  Eventually he left and I didn't think much more about the awkward experience.  A week or so passed and he came back to pop his head in an odd opening between the top bar and our espresso machine and yelped, "Happy New Year" at me then, thankfully, disappeared.  He came back for chocolate banana loaf a few times and requested for me to serve him when I would send a coworker to the till in my place to hide in the kitchen.  On one occasion, he asked if he can tip with "other things" and I replied, "no just money" and prayed for a swift death from the chagrin.  From the way his eyes went in two different directions behind his 1970's serial killer Coke bottle glasses, I figured he was pretty harmless, but would test my patience and compassion.
     Now I am an anxious person as a rule.  If there is a minor potential for something to go wrong, oh trust and believe I will find a way to stress about it.  I started really stress sweating about having to see this guy at work on a regular basis.  I was in grad school at the time so I only worked the same two days ever.  Even if he did have some kind of cognitive disability, he already knew I worked on Saturdays and was slowly figuring out my weekday shift.   
     One Saturday night after work, I was sitting in a bus in the loading bay, waiting for the driver to depart.  I saw the mole man leaving the SeaBus (for any non-Vancouverites out there, the SeaBus is a foot-passenger-only harbour shuttle service run by our public transit system) terminal and walk toward another bus.  I tried not to make eye contact, oh lord how I did try, but he saw me in the window and got on my bus.  He sat beside me, cornering me between the plexiglass divider.  I would have had to crawl over him to get off the bus and I went straight to freeze mode.  I was petrified at the thought of him touching me...anywhere. 

I distinctly remember thinking, I don't know if I can continue living if he grabs my ass. 

     I tried not to engage.  I turned beet red and began sweating profusely.  He asked me where I was going, where I live, what I was doing, etc.  I do not remember what my responses were, but I tried to deflect, use one word answers, and withhold as much information as I could while in a state of panic.  I started to make my plan of attack for if he followed me off the bus.  I could always use the front door and "ask the bus driver a question" on my way out.  Thankfully he got off before I did, but before his stop, he asked me when I was working next and if there was anything he could bring me at work.

Food.

Drinks.

Anything?

     I laughed nervously and said that was a very nice offer, but because it's a cafe I can make myself tea and drinks any time and make myself a meal in my break.  I don't remember telling him what day I would next be in, but he may have said a day and I may have said yes out of reflex and the sheer strong desire to end this interaction.

    I knew shit was going to go DOWN.

    The real question was when.  I had a good night with my girls, and was able to put off the worry until my next shift.  The dreaded day came.  I walked on eggshells, waiting for the mole man to pop up behind the counter.  Lo and behold, my coworker spied him coming, took the register, and I hid behind our large clear bean containers.  I tried to make myself small and hide amongst the beans.  To my horror, the bespectacled serial killer-esque mole man peered through the clear cylinders, his beady dark eyes further distorted though the oils and the curve of the plastic coffee canisters.  That image is permanently seared in my brain.  I noticed he had a bouquet of flowers in his hand.

     All my internal organs fell out of my vagina.  That all consuming, sinking feeling of disgusting horror, that only comes with knowing you have to deal with something you absolutely do not want to face, because it will be BRUTAL, washed over me.  I felt like I was going to pass out.  Thankfully, I did some preemptive Redditing and found a forum where baristas shared overly-attached customer stories and what strategies they used.
     I made his drink, disgusted at the knowledge that my back had to be turned to him while at the espresso bar, giving him a glorious view of my stacked, fairly impressive booty in light-washed high-wasted jeans.  I could feel his beady eyes melting through my pants.  Again, I wished for a swift death for myself, then at least I wouldn't have to tell the poor clueless mole man to keep his flowers.  He wanted the drink in a ceramic "for here" mug and sat at the bar, still holding the flowers.  Watching me work, I avoided his piercing, mortifying gaze the best of my ability but it was a living nightmare.  My coworker was on her break, and our friend from a nearby restaurant also sat at our bar.  He tried to divert the mole man's attention.

    Eventually I accidentally made eye contact and he tried to present me with the flowers.  I had to give him the "it is not appropriate for me to accept anything other than monetary tips for my barista services, anything beyond that is a violation of my professional boundaries and this situation is inappropriate and has put me in a highly uncomfortable position".

      The look of sadness on the mole man's face will forever haunt me.  But I had to shnap out of it and respect myself!

     Never compromise your safety for the compassion, or pity, of others.  If someone makes you feel uncomfortable or unsafe, make it known, get help, and get security!  He squeaked for a paper cup, I dumped his drink in it, and he scurried off, never to be seen again.  Once he was gone, I further blanched, began to shake uncontrollably, and had to be walked out to my dad's car.  

     For months, I felt uneasy in the area.  I lived in absolute fear.  Although I knew the mole man was probably harmless, the possibility he might go postal after being scorned in a public place was a very real threat.  I also had to grapple with the internal conflict I faced when reflecting that being the very bare minimum of professionally customer-service-nice to this man led him to create a fantasy around me.  How gut-wrenching and horrendously sad is it that one word answers and professional existence as a barista would be his idea of reciprocal loving kindness.  How lonely must one be?

    Which brings us back to me now.  I'm still feeling pretty kick-ass and empowered; however, this is the longest I've been single since before I started dating at 15. 11 years and two terrible relationships later, I have had a few moments of genuine loneliness and aching for the relaxed intimacy of a long term relationship.  Not a single second of missing an ex, but really...really...really wanting a warm breathing chest to lay on and having my hair played with.  My favourite moments in relationships have always been the down time, spent simply existing together and the calming sensory experience of tangling your limbs and the slow synchronization of breathing and heartbeats.  Dating is really hard.  It's exciting, but it stops being exciting when you ask someone to lie around with you all the time. I love the lazy stuff, but I don't want to enable another minimal-effort relationship.   

      Granted, I have not had a relationship with an actual adult male capable of planning excursions on his own.  So maybe I would also really enjoy doing things out in the world like fancy dinners or literally any thoughtful surprises.  Hopefully, the comfort of laziness will become less alluring as I experience more involved alternatives.
     I am very, very, very slowly wrapping my brain around the concept that men can make life easier.  I have a hard time fathoming that someone out there is going to be capable of helping taking care of me.  As people who have been in leadership roles for every group project know, if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.  This is something I am starting to work on. I get a pretty strong averse reaction to the thought of merging my life with someone else's, probably because that independence has been my lifeline out of toxic relationships. I have learned that it is always easiest to rely on yourself.  If you can find the internal strength to press onward while doing everything well, you will not let yourself down.
     I have cultivated a level of independence that certainly functions as a protective chitinous shell.  I feed myself.  I'm debt-free.  I live alone.  I am financially stable.  I know who I am, what I want, and exactly where I'm going.  I have my calendar planned until the end of June.  How much control over your life do you relinquish in a normal, healthy supportive relationship?  Would I still be me if a man made my life easier?  What's it like to be with someone who actually wants to be an equal partner, clean up after himself, or even do things for the sake of reducing your work load?  What's it like to have a boyfriend stay with you post major surgery and actually help take care of you (not finding out he told people he was to sound like a good boyfriend, but left town and did not respond to your mum when she told him you were going to be kept overnight at the hospital for observation because your nasal lining would not stop bleeding)?  We can cross that bridge if we ever get there.  

     At this point, I am aiming to roll solo on Valentine's Day and celebrate my first single Valentine's/Palentine's/Galentine's Day in 11 years.  Because it falls on a weekday, I get to throw a party for my seniors and feed them tiny pink and red cupcakes and groove with a musician.  It will be sweet, heartwarming, and fun.  Then I will go home and probably do a facial and watch Anastasia.  I have nothing to be sad about. Freedom is a magical, beautiful thing, and I am trying to celebrate this opportunity to be truly free in both body, mind, and spirit.

I sometimes allow the melancholy to roll over me, but for the most part, I squish it down into my toes and carry on with my day without having to pee in a bucket or sleep on the floor of a climate-controlled chamber. 

BDE

Big. Dick. Energy.

Urban Dictionary defines BDE as:

Do you think BDE is just for men?  Hell naw, Rihanna and Cate Blanchett are prime examples of women who thicken the air with their effortless, intoxicating confidence.

    BDE has been around since the dawn of time, but it really became a thing in the Spring/Summer of 2018 with Ariana Grande spreading the good word as a queen does.  I went into 2019 overflowing with BDE.   It was the first time in about 6 years that I had a palpable joyous confidence.  It could have been the spandex dress with pointy shoulders, the holographic bondage over said dress, or the metallic red smoky eye that would later be transferred onto one of my throw pillows when I passed out alone that night, but I felt like a true unicorn again.  Unattainable.  Untouchable.  A wild, mythic creature with no master.  I didn't kiss anyone at midnight and I wasn't sad to go home alone (I giggled all the way home with best friends anyway).
     It is amazing how much can change in a season.  Three months ago the table cloth was pulled out from under the dishes and instead of it being a cool magic trick, all the dishes broke on the floor. 

     In mid October 2018, I went to the spa for the first time as a Treat Yo' Self experiment.  When I took my phone out of the change room locker after relaxing in the sauna and a facial, there were multiple manipulative texts from my ex.  How dare he ruin the biggest money move I have ever done in the sake of gluttonous self-care?  Henceforth he is blocked on all communication channels.  Today while I got oiled up and hosed down at the spa, there was not a message to be had.  Not from my mum, not from any friends, not even from my cell service provider.  That may seem kind of sad, but it was a relief.
     Relief is an interesting feeling.  Relief is like sinking into warm, soft joy contained deep within your core.  For me, it usually brings with it such an internal quietness that I can't feel the rest of the world, albeit briefly as an empath, for the satisfying, grounded, private euphoria.  So much of my career and what brings me true vitality in life is connection with other people.  But man, if I don't love not having to deal with anyone sometimes.  Relationships of all varieties are beautiful, precious, invigorating things.  But the relief I feel from sitting alone in my apartment with one light on silently eating an entire box of Leclerc Celebration chocolate-topped cookies for dinner and knowing that I don't need to shave anything unless I really want to is also a powerful feeling.
     Being alright is a state of mind.  I am choosing to approach each day as an opportunity to do things that I really want to do for my own sake.  Today I taught my seniors the difference between possums and opossums, blending natural history, ecology, and linguistics.  It was met with resounding positivity.  It proves that if you are passionate about what you are talking about, even the most bitey and rat-like things, people will listen.  It helped lead me to a bit of an epiphany.
    It is time to move from gratuitous hedonism to productive (budget-friendly) hedonism.  I am still going to do what I want, when I want, but it is time to face my new reality with the confidence and BDE that I already have on the inside.  Looking like an Instagram baddie with clear skin and a seemingly endless supply of fresh threads is only a temporary fix for the aversion I've felt to going out into the world with as my authentic, vivacious, open-hearted self.  It's easier said than done to ditch the myriad of  baggage I have, but I have way too much BDE to allow it to be stifled by my inner saboteur.