Magic

David wakes me up.

It's not an unusual thing. He's usually up by 5AM and comes in to kiss me goodbye before he leaves. Usually I'll wake up just enough to have a conversation with him I'll forget by the time my alarm goes off. Sometimes I'll say something insane and make him laugh before he leaves ("Why are you putting catheters in the cats?" was one of his favorites).

This morning somewhere between telling me about taking out the garbage and doing the laundry, my eyes drift open and I grab his hand.

"I was dreaming about magic," I tell him.

* * *

"I thought you always wanted, like, a billion kids."

An old acquaintance from college likes to throw this in my face whenever she sees me reacting to a baby crying in public or a toddler having a meltdown on public transit.

I'm never reacting for the reason she thinks. 

I've tried everything I can to get her to stop talking about it, to stop making the joke. There were lots of things I wanted in my early 20s and there were lots of things I thought I wanted in my early 20s.  This is a small hurt, but an old one, and I've learned how to deal with it.

Sometimes it's easier to bear someone's unthinking cruelty than explain why it's cruel.

* * *

When I was a kid I used to fall asleep pretending that I could do magic. 

I would imagine that I was living a giant treehouse and that I was a princess of the woods. On nights when I couldn't sleep I would imagine riding on my oversized wolf, followed by my size-shifting cat. We were adventuring out to find and destroy the Tomes of Black Magic, which were scattered throughout the mundane and magical worlds. I fought every kind of monster I could think of, but those confrontations were always physical or besting the monster using my intellect. Magic was always only used when I returned to the treehouse. 

Magic was about creating.

* * *

"What are you thinking about?" 

We're waiting for the number twenty-three on our way to a movie. I've been watching a little girl walking through the twilight with her father, puttering along next to him and singing to herself. 

"I just feel a little wistful." 

He sees where I'm looking. "Yeah?" 

I nod. "It's hard, knowing that it's an experience I'm never going to have. I was once watching some friends, the ones you met last week? I remember watching them playing with their daughter and realizing that I'd never feel what they were feeling." I pause. "And I know, I know that I'm making the right decision, but sometimes I want it so badly it feels physical." 

I stop, expecting some platitude about how sometimes correct decisions aren't easy, or that there's always time to change my mind, or any of a hundred other things a dozen different people have told me. 

He just squeezes my hand. "I know."

* * *

"Here, take this," David whispers, handing me his handkerchief. 

We're seeing a play by one of my favorite theatre companies in the area. Their stuff always destroys me. It's beautiful and moving and always makes me cry. This particular show is about magic and authenticity and love and has me sobbing, loudly, during the final five minutes. 

It's also, I think, about illusions. The lies we tell ourselves to keep ourselves safe from reality. 

That's really what's making me cry.

* * *

David and I can't have kids. 

I suppose the more correct thing to say is that we can't have kids without a lot of expensive and invasive medical intervention that neither of us would want. 

I got a little weepy just writing that. 

Here's the thing. I don't know if I've ever seriously wanted a child. I agonized about it a lot in my late 20s. The logical decision, given my mental health history and income and a feelings about actually raising a child, is to not have one. It's a decision that I'm comfortable with about 90% of the time. 

I'm sure I don't have to explain the difference between making a decision and having it made for you. 

It's oddly devastating to know that we can't have something I was pretty sure I never wanted in the first place. David is the first person I would have ever considered having a baby with and it's a choice we'll never really be able to make. 

Which makes things complicated.

* * *

So here's the part where I'll be comparing motherhood and pregnancy to my feelings on magic and creation. Or having one of those uplifting moments in memoir writing where I realize that I can channel my creative impulses to writing or my work or volunteering or something. 

Yeah, no. 

Because the thing is that if suddenly ohmygodmagicisreallyreal I wouldn't magic myself a baby (I've read folklore, I know how that one ends). I also wouldn't magic myself into complete serenity about my choices and become a renowned writer. 

Well, maybe that last part. 

Now, at thirty-five instead of five I realize that magic isn't about creation. It isn't even about choice. It's about the illusion, the ability to convince yourself that you ever had any fucking option.

It's another in a series of grim but true revelations I've had in my mid-30s. But even that realization doesn't really change things. 

I still wake up dreaming of magic. 

Men are From . . .

"Oh my goodness, what a cute puppy! Is she yours?"

"If I say yes, will you pull my pants down?"

"Um, I just found out that I have to wait until April for the new Game of Thrones season, so that feels like enough disappointment for one day."

* * *

"This is the song Magic Cock Cake from our new album Smush 25:8."

I'm laughing so hard I'm almost peeing my pants. 

I'm grateful for a lot of things about my divorce. It was reasonably amicable, I got the cats, I lost twenty pounds, and I don't live in a house with anime scrolls and swords on the wall anymore. 

What I am most grateful for is that I seem to have won custody of my ex-husband's ex-girlfriend. 

He introduced us early on and we got on like a house on fire. She's well-read, likes to yell about feminism, loves to drink gin while yelling about feminism, and is a real weirdo. 

Oh, she also makes me laugh so hard I nearly pee my pants. 

I'm hanging out with her while she's on a lunch break and have been talking waaaaaay too loudly about my sex life. She decides to turn a recent story of my misadventures into a death metal album and launches into a rendition of the song on the spot.  

When I can finally stand up again she gets quietly serious. 

"Kel, you seem really happy. Like, really happy." She pauses. "I'm glad." 

Me too. 

* * *

"hey luv the black lipstick like my fav color cuz noone uses it"

"Thanks. It's actually a dark purple. I like my gothiness to be within the bell curve of work appropriate."

"u into latex?"

"I'm sorry?" 

"rubber?"

". . ."

"u goin 2 rubberball 2019? come suck my cock its so gooooood"

"Dude, if I wanted a mediocre dining experience, I'd just go to West End."

* * *

"You don't sound like yourself."

"I agree."

"Me too. "

Over the months, my makeup group chat has evolved into a lot more than makeup. 

It's become a place to talk about work and sex and relationships. I mean, it's also a lot of photos of me trying (and mostly failing, hilariously) to get the perfect cut crease, but it's more than that. 

"You sound mopey."

"^This."

"And most of the time you walk around like 'GIRLS I AM A BADASS AVENGING GODDESS WHO'S GOING TO CHANGE THE WORLD."

"She's right. So stop being so fucking hard on yourself."

"Yeah, mope if you need to, but tomorrow get up and be your BADASS SELF."

"And stop being so fucking had on yourself."

* * *

"hey girl. you look so sexxxxxy."

". . ."

"i'm looking for a virgin so we can para-bond without any drama."

"Well, unless you have a time machine, I'm afraid I'm not your girl." 

"well, your sexual partners shouldn't exceed three people."

". . ."

"you look like you'd be good at fucking."

"Know how I got that way?"

"yessssssssssss." 

"By fucking more than three people." 

* * *

There are six different women in four different timezones howling with laughter. 

I've just sent a screenshot of a text that a guy has sent me after ghosting on me two months ago, apologizing for ghosting on me and (we're pretty sure) trying to make a booty call. 

"Honestly," I say, "I'd have more respect if he just came out and said "Hey, I didn't want to date you, but wanna fuck?""

There's a lot more laughter and I am not the only one who decides to pour myself a gin and tonic. 

It's a pretty stereotypical divorcee thing to say, but for the most part I am so over men right now. 

There's a lot about life that is going really well. This is the happiest I've been in probably two years. My life feels like my own again, and almost none of that has to do with men. 

It does have a lot to do with women.

I've always known that female friendships are powerful as fuck. Women in my life have served as mentors and friends and unpaid therapists (sorry for the extra emotional labor).  I thought I knew how special they were and that I valued them enough. 

Yeah, right. 

The past year has been all of the best and all of the worst of my life. I have sobbed over tea and snuggled my goddaughters and vowed that I was never going to date again. I've screamed with laughter over terrible pickup lines and toasted to XX chromosomes and made another woman a cake as a thank you for getting me laid. 

The women in my life have gotten me through the hardest moments of my life. If I could I would bake every one of them a cake.

These dudes, though. 

Fat Girl Fashion Rules

Fat Girl Fashion Rules

1. Always wear black. It's slimming and hides all kind of flaws. 
2. No sleeveless tops! Michelle Obama set the bar HIGH for sleeveless, so always have a cute wrap or a fun cardigan with you.  
3. Weigh yourself every day. Base your outfit on how much weight you've gained/lost in the past twelve hours.  

***

"You need to throw out your scale."

"What?"

"Or have your fiance hide it."

"Huh? Wait, why?"

"You also aren't allowed to count calories anymore."

"Are you trying to keep me fat?"

Therapy appointments have been combative recently. 

"Because you fixate on it and do your body more harm than good. I also want you to list five things you like about your body right now."

I cross my arms over my chest like a shitty teenager. And sigh. And roll my eyes. 

"Okay, now it's seven."

"I could pay my mother less to do this."

She eyeballs me. "Do you really want to open that can of worms today?"

"Ugh. Number one . . ."

***

Fat Girl Fashion Rules

1. Disguise your thighs! Never mind that "Thunder Thighs" sounds like an Asgaardian compliment. Hide those thighs! Unless they don't touch. In which case, keep rocking that Diet Coke Diet, girl!
2. Buy some shapewear! The Kardashian gals do it, why shouldn't you? 
3. Invest in sexy lingerie! Regardless of what they say, your boytoy does not want to see you naked. 

***

"Wow."

"Yeah."

"I mean . . . wow."

"We should high five."

"It's usually good, but that was . . ."

"I know, RIGHT?"

It's quiet for a few minutes while we catch our breath. 

"Hey?"

"Yeah?"

"Did your therapist tell you to turn on the light?"

***

Fat Girl Fashion Rules

1. Skinny jeans are for skinny girls. 
2. Channel your fashionable side through getting REALLY GOOD at makeup. BONUS: You can contour away your double chin!
3. Wear things that flatter your body! STYLE INSPIRATION: Fashion forward nuns in the 1950s. 

***

I mean, I get it. I really do. People come in all shapes and sizes. We're brought up in a culture of Photoshop and fast food. Skinniness is not an indication of moral superiority. Forget fashion rules, wear what you want. Love yourself and all your flaws. No, not flaws.  Flaws are being cruel or greedy or arrogant, not being chubby.

I also, you know, live in the world. I listen to my coworkers brag about how far under their calorie count they've managed to say. I remember the long conversation I had with brilliant, funny, beautiful women I knew in graduate school that wasn't about grace or ecclesiology, but was about how badly we all wanted thigh gap.  I've gone into stores that seem to assume that all fat girls want to hide their bodies under yards of fabric, stick to monochromatic clothes, or that we don't deserve anything pretty, fun, or for Christ's sake, that doesn't look like a mumu. 

I do what I can. Every morning I look in the damn mirror and list the seven things I like about myself. I develop both the ability to gently laugh at myself and cry silently in front of the mirror. I leave the light on during sex and don't hyperventilate. I stop getting on the scale, counting calories, and reading Harper's Bazaar. I buy the clothes that I actually want to wear and try to be brave enough to wear them. 

Shot at the Night

"So, you know, just don't get clingy. You aren't the only egg in my basket."

I sit up, mouth hanging open.

It takes a special kind of arrogance to tell the woman lying next to you, after having performance related issues all night but before telling her "Yeah I don't care. That sounds like a personal problem," not to be clingy.

He continues. "Well, I mean, right now you're the only egg in my basket. I'm having trouble meeting people."

"I'm pretty shocked to hear that."

He doesn't hear the sarcasm.

"I know, it's really hard, isn't it? But I'm just trying to to be honest with you."

I'm no longer in the mood to pull any punches.

"Well. While we're being honest. My parents' thirty-third wedding anniversary is coming up, two of my best friends are marrying one another tomorrow, I just had my heart stomped on about two months ago, and I'm coming off a five year intimacy hiatus, so . . ."

"You're using me?"

"Merely assuring you that I have no intention of becoming clingy."

***

"Give me my fucking cell phone back." 

I am pretty clearly displeased with what's been happening.

I seem to have finally made myself clear.

Someone has installed Tinder on my phone. Not only installed Tinder on my phone, but has also set up a profile and started looking for hookups for me. Against my express "Haha, funny. Knock it off. I don't want you to do that." 

It takes about a second and a half for me to uninstall Tinder. Once it's off, I slam out of the party I'm at, sit down in a lawn chair out back, and start crying.

I don't know how many different ways I can say "I'm not interested in this."

I never thought it would have to be more than one.

***

We're in a bar off Bourbon St. when Michelle checks her phone, smirks, and tells me:

"Your friends are trying to convince me to get you laid while you're here."

I give her a nuclear eye roll. "Yeah, I can guess which one wants you to set me up with a one night stand." I take a drink of my beer. "I'm an emotional trainwreck right now. This trip is a gift and I fucking hate one night stands under the best circumstances. So, really, I appreciate the thought, I really wish people would be actually helpful instead of stupid helpful right now."

She snickers. "I would have been shocked if you would have taken me up on it." She finishes her own beer. "And it would have made sharing our bed complicated." 

"Yeah. Sorry. I'm really not interested."

"Why are you apologizing for not being a whore?" 

We get the giggles so badly we momentarily drown out the band.

Conversations with Women

"Hey, what are you reading?"

I've kicked off my high heels and have snuggled deep into the corner of the couch. There is, I suppose, technically a party going on around me but I haven't been listening. I stretch the kinks out of neck and reach for the beer that's been rapidly warming next to me. I lift the book out of my lap and show her the cover.

"A comic?"

"Yeah. It's called Preacher.  It's about . . . theology. I guess. An absent god. It's incredibly violent and extremely well written and I just finished issue one and I can't stop reading it."

She gives me an odd look.

"What?"

"You're sitting here in high heels and a minidress, at a party, reading a comic book?"

"Would it be better if was an actual book? And it's not actually a party. We see one another three times a week. And besides," I say, gesturing to the shoes next to the couch, "I had the good manners to take my heels off."

She shakes her head and asks the question again, for emphasis. "You're here, at a party and you're reading comics?"

"It was a tough week."

"Between the comics and the dress and the heels, you are some nerdy guy's fantasy girl, you know that, right?"

"Yes."

***

"If they don't treat you well while you're dating them, they're sure as shit not going to treat you well when you're married."

We're sitting out among her flowers, sharing a bottle of wine, having a conversation we should have had ten years ago.

"My big thing is that I want them to get along with Daddy."

She shakes her head. "Kelly Marie, as long as they're good to you, your father will learn to love them, I don't care if they're a card-carrying NRA member who hunts every weekend after opening day." She sees the look on my face and laughs. "Or if they're a skinny nerd who couldn't shoot or fix a car to save his life. They just can't treat you badly."

"I know, Momma. I know."

I don't know she hears the catch in my voice but she gives me a hard look and pours us both more wine. "You've dated some actual honest to goodness assholes, haven't you?"

"I have."

"Men aren't supposed to treat you like that. You know that, right?"

"Yes."

***

"Why would anyone recommend that book to you?" 

"In her defense, she didn't know I get anxious about serial killers."

"Well, what did you do then?" 

"So then all I could think was "What if she's only being nice to me so she can lure me there to murder me in some horrific way?"" 

She groans.

"Then I realized it was probably the combination of sleeping pills and anxiety making me a little crazy and decided it might be best to just close my eyes and fall asleep. And besides, statistically she's way less likely to be a serial killer than if she was a guy." 

"At least you're getting a lot better at recognizing when you're being crazy. You know that, right?"

"Yes." 

***

"Am I crazy for being pissed about this?"

"Absolutely not. Huge invasion of privacy aside, it's as bitchy and judgmental as the female relatives you were dealing with last weekend."

"Everyone here seems to think that I'm being crazy and that it isn't a big deal."

"It's an extremely big deal." I can hear the invisible italics. "It's hard when people don't extend the courtesy to you that you extend to them. To wit: that you see their lives, decide "that's not for me" and still manage not to be an asshole about it." She pauses. "Are you still out in the rain?"

"I am."

"There is nothing wrong with the choices you've made, you know that, right?"

"Yes."

***

We're sitting, quietly, on opposite sides of the porch reading separate books. Mine, a stack of X-Men comics from the library. Hers, a thick biography of Madeleine Albright. 

My feathers are ruffled from a series of rotten interactions over the past week. We're hanging out today because we've both been traveling and haven't seen much of one another lately, but I'm not in the mood to open my mouth. So here we are, sitting on opposite sides of the porch, reading. She occasionally tells me some fact she finds interesting from her biography, I sometimes read a joke from my comic, but we say fewer than fifteen sentences over the course of six hours. 

Eventually she closes her book and I reach over for a hug. 

"You are the only person the world I wanted to see today. I love you very much, you know that, right?"

She smiles back. 

"Yes." 

The Downsides are Obvious

"So I was wondering if . . . maybe . . . I mean, if you'e comfortable with it . . ."

"Jesus, Kels. Out with it."

My college friends don't stand for a lot of prevarication.

I take a deep breath. "I haven't been sleeping well. I was wondering if we could snuggle a little bit before we fell asleep."

She starts laughing and pulls a pillow into her lap. "Yeah, you weirdo. Come on over."

We turn on a movie and she starts to stroke my hair. "Sorry." I mutter, sleepily. "It's the mild autism. I like to be touched when I'm upset."

She laughs again. "It's not mild autism, Kels. It's called being a human and living alone."

I'm asleep before I can smartmouth back.

***

I've got sex on the brain lately.

As if my writing from April to present left any question of what I'm spending my spare time thinking about.

It's the sudden confluence of a lot of factors, not the least of which is a cessation of hormonal birth control (which, for Christ's sake, can we find a birth control pill for men already?) and (if blogs for ladies are to be believed) the arrival of my 30s and ohmygodthebiologicalneedtopassonmydna. Regardless of the factors, the truth is, quite simply, that I've got sex on the brain. 

Given my current status as a single person and the fact that I literally cannot give it away, I've been a little edgy lately. The downsides are obvious. The upsides, if there are any, are that I'm currently ramping up training for a fall race, so I'm doubly motivated to spend five days a week at the gym or running in circles around the Twin Cities. 

Just in case you're wondering, running eight miles doesn't actually take the edge off. Neither do ice baths, conversations about baseball, or depressing television shows. 

I've never had as much empathy for 13 year old boys as I do right now. 

***

The high-pitched noises I'm making are crazy. 

Kelly Marie, you bourgeoisie,
The French Revolution was a near tragedy.
The peasants had no bread, 
The King lost his head, 
and under Maximillian saw forty-thousand dead. [. . .]

It's my annual Bastille Day party. I love holidays that celebrate the overthrow of tyranny in service of democracy, and my family is part French, so Bastille Day is a big one for me. Every year I get a group of friends together, make a huge meal, quaff a great deal of champagne, and talk at length about  . . . whatever. History. Art. Science.

It's one of my favorite parties, a long, lovely night in with the people I love most in the world. This year we outdid ourselves. Not to brag, but the food was superb, the conversation sparkling, the champagne in abundance. It was warm enough to eat in the garden and it was just a fantastic night.  We were going around the table making toasts to the evening, to the company, to the food, and when we arrived at the last person, he announced that he had written a special toast, in honor of my love of French history. He proceeded to give a toast to the French Revolution in rhyme, that he wrote specifically for me. 

Squee.

***

"Colin Firth's voice is like the Balm of Gilead." 

"You got the audiobook, didn't you?" 

"Yup. And it's fantastic."

"When are you listening to it?"

"Bedtime."

"Oh Lord." 

"No! that's not what I meant!"

I have a lot of issues with insomnia, and as a result have to be careful about what I do immediately preceding bedtime. Staying up with a book is nice, but I need to start shutting off lights at least a half an hour before I want to fall asleep. But, you know, just sitting in a dark apartment trying to unwind isn't particularly relaxing. Music keeps me awake because it isn't nearly monotonous enough. Inevitably while listening to podcasts, right as I'm falling asleep I hear an idea that catches me and pulls me back awake.

I had, for a few months in my early 20s, a boyfriend who like to read to me while I was falling asleep and it was the perfect solution. I could slip into one of his shirts, pull on my eye mask, curl up around my body pillow, and listen to him read. His voice was quiet and steady enough that I would be asleep in ten minutes. The next night we would talk about what I remembered hearing last and start again. 

I know. Blorch. I promise, that's as sweetly sentimental as you'll ever hear me get. 

Anyway, like an overstimulated child, I love being read to sleep. And I missed it. For years I looked for a suitable substitute to that guy. 

So when Audible introduced the Sleep function to their mobile app, I nearly cried with joy. 

 These days, around bedtime, I slip into the sheets, pull my eye mask over my eyes, wrap myself around my body pillow, and listen while Colin Firth reads me The End of the Affair. 

It's not perfect, but in a pinch, it'll do. 

***

"You've gotten really good at being alone."

"Um. Thanks? I mean, I've been at it for awhile. So, I suppose . . ." I trail off.

"No, I mean it. Between the body pillow, the audiobooks, the clever method of zipping up your own dresses, you've gotten really good at being alone. I don't think I could ever manage without my husband. Although" she smirks, "I imagine there are some things that are less enjoyable than you could wish."

She looks pointedly at my bedside drawer and I know she snooped while I was in the bathroom. 

Can we all agree that smug married people are the fucking worst? 

I nearly bite my tongue in half trying to keep from verbally skewering this woman. I'm better friends with her husband, and have often been invited out for long bro-y nights of throwing darts and drinking beer. I'm reasonably certain that despite being a solo act, my floor show is better than hers is ever going to be. 

But good manners and a desire not to send her crying home to her husband aren't the only things keeping me from unleashing the verbal harpoons.

I've become really good figuring out the other parts of relationships that I miss. I've got sleeping alone down to a science, I have friends who are intellectually stimulating and emotionally supportive. I'm living a life I love and find tremendously valuable and fulfilling.

I miss sex.

I do. I really, really miss it. I miss the sheer physicality of being with another person. I miss the way physical contact can grind your rational brain to a halt and keep you from being able to remember your own name, let alone how you look without your clothes on. I miss when you suddenly find yourself in an awkward or unanticipated moment and you both burst out laughing. I miss being left breathless and leaving someone else the same way.

Jesus. I even miss the nasty looks from the neighbors when I bump into them in the hallway. 

And regardless of whether or not it's simply the result of not having my body pumped full of artificial hormones or the fact that I may finally be tired of being alone (somehow I doubt it's the latter) for the first time in years I'm at a place where maybe what's in the bedside drawer isn't as satisfying as it used to be.  

Games

"Just tell me the title."

"I'd rather be flensed."

"It can't be that bad."

"It's horrible. You'll think less of me as a person."

"I thought the smutty parts were the embarrassing part of reading a trashy novel."

"Nope. It's the titles. Far and away. And I am never, ever telling you the name of this one."

I started a new romance novel series. 

They're Regency (of course), they came highly recommended by a friend (who has begged to remain anonymous), they have ludicrous, embarrassing titles, daft plot twists, and feature (among other things) chess, double entendre, fencing, duels, and games of strip dominoes. They're absurd. 

They're also delicious. 

***

Some friends of mine, newly single, are discussing a relationship advice book that they've both read. I'm drinking bourbon and doing the crossword on the other side of the room, eavesdropping and biting my tongue so hard that I'm afraid blood might start spurting out of my mouth. 

They intentionally started the conversation when I was preoccupied with something else. Given that my relationship advice comes almost exclusively from Dan Savage (to wit: communicate clearly about wants, needs, and expectations, be adventurous, treat your partners kindly and respectfully) I don't truck with a lot of books with titles like The Rules. 

The dating advice under discussion is one admonition over the dangers of employing polysyllabic words away from being a real Leave it to Beaver trip back to the 50s. 

Don't dress provocatively. Act like a lady. Don't cuss or make crass jokes. Don't have sex prior to four months into the relationship. 

What the book boils down to is: be an unobjectionable, boring, good girl. 

As a lifelong employer of four-letter words and mini-dress aficionado, I'm infuriated by this advice, and by the fact that two smart, funny women I know are swallowing it. 

Another friend walks in during the midst of an animated discussion between the pair about what exactly counts as provocative dress, overhears fifteen seconds of the conversation, sees the look on my face, and pulls me out of the room, thrusting my Kindle into my hands. 

"Here. You look like you're about to slap someone. Go take a walk and read some of your trashy novels. They can't be anymore antiquated than the advice you're getting in there."

I start to laugh. 

***

I like games.

I'm not talking about the shitty I'm not returning your phone call until forty-eight hours later kind of games. I'm talking when you meet someone who's up for a little one-upsmanship. I like the process of finding something that will make the other person laugh, blush, or shiver. I like the feeling that comes when you know you're on your game and that your middle-of-the-afternoon response to their text was brilliant and a little sassy and just enough to keep them thinking about you until supper.

I like gamesmanship, I suppose. I always have.

It's exactly the kind of thing dating advice books advocate against. Avoid that dress that shows off the freckles on your decolletage. Under no circumstances should you send that coyly worded text. Good girls don't give it away, much less ask for it. 

Phhhhhhhhbt. 

***

I'm usually surprised by how progressive historical romance novels can be. 

I'm serious. They leave those shitty dating advice books in the dust. 

Not only do they celebrate asking for it, but they understand that half of the fun of getting to the smut is getting to play the game. Romance writers understand that there's something to be said for cheeky notes, for besting someone in a fencing bout, for sneaking away in the middle of a party for a little (verbal) harpooning. 

More than that gamesmanship, though, is the progressive secret at the heart of every romance novel: 

There's someone who's going to appreciate you for the person you are. 

Is it a little after-school special and simplistic? Yeah, a bit. But I'd rather think that there's someone out there who appreciates a carefully worded text and a little bit of sass than follow some ridiculous, tried-and-true rules about being a good girl. 

And besides, I've got all these mini-dresses. 

Repressed

My family is full of Repressed Irish Catholics.

When I was 14 my mother gave me The Talk. It consisted of the following:

"Kel, do you know how to keep from having a baby if you don't want one?"

As a good little Catholic girl, I quickly responded, "Abstinence!"

She nodded and said "Do you know the other ways?"

Uh, yes, theoretically? I was terrified to admit it that I even knew they existed. I whispered my answer. "Birth control?"

She nodded. "I think we're done here," and walked out of the room.

***

At 18 I was a precocious little shit.

The precociousness wouldn't have been as much of a problem if it was accompanied by some self-reflection. But I was my Tea-Party father's nightmare--the kind of kid who was ready to be molded and influenced by whatever I read and any adult who took an interest in me. So when I went to a college that encouraged us to read Millet, Dworkin, and Daly I soaked up their ideas without much reflection. Their opinions and theses became things that I would expound on a great length during dinner parties and classes. I did this not just as a first-year student, but all the way through my academic career.

My senior year in college I was in a Women's Lit class. It was taught by one of my favorite professors and I was confident enough to speak up in class.

By speak up in class, I mean intellectually eviscerate people who disagreed with me.

When the single guy taking the class dropped it because "There are too many man-haters in the room" I didn't take it as an opportunity to reexamine some of my more barbed remarks. I scoffed: "Typical guy."

***

I was 17 when I had my first boyfriend.

I don't doubt that we were really cute. A couple of nerds (Him: Math, music. Me: Sci-Fi, Fantasy. Both of us: LAN parties) who were ohmygodsoawkward together. My father, more accustomed to boys who played sports and were interested in cars wasn't quite sure what I saw in him. My mother kept trying to feed him.

I also don't doubt that we were completely revolting in that way that only sexually unsatisfied teenagers can be. We made out constantly, publicly, and really handsily. And not very well (So much tongue. Jesus). But I  still remember it with the kind of rosy-tinged fondness that accompanies your first love. Probably because it was the first time I realized "Oh. That's what that feels like."

There's one moment in particular that I remember with frightening clarity. Michelle and I had lifted weights after school and there was no part of my body that did not hurt. I went going to his house, ostensibly to watch an anime that he loved. He teased me the whole way downstairs because I had a hard time walking.

Once he got to the couch I, being a real empowered 17 year old, jumped him.

When we surfaced for air 90 minutes later he asked "What the hell was that about?"

I wasn't sure.

***

"What do you think left you more fucked up, Catholicism or radical feminism?"

I'm having a late-night Skype freakout to my old college roommate. The only good thing about her living in Thailand is that we're twelve hours apart and when I'm panicking at, say, 12:36am on a Saturday, she's awake and able to take a phone call.

We've been talking about sex and relationships for a few hours, in the open way you do with a very old friend. The bit of the conversation that leads to the question is about how, in our youngest days as feminists, if a partner asked us to do something (a bit of grooming, perhaps, or the dishes) our response, invariably, was "Fuck off." Do you know why?

Because our partner asked for it.

Trust me, the cuntiness of that mindset is not lost on me as an adult.

But for whatever reason, during my early 20s I thought that someone expressing a sexual or social desire was automatically stepping on my Rights as a Woman. How dare you ask me to shave! Women are supposed to have hair, that's why we haven't evolved to be hairless! (I know.) No I won't do the dishes because women to the lion's share of housework and I don't care that you made dinner! (I know.) You want me to put what, where? Noooooooooope. That's demeaning to the Sisterhood! (Trust me, I know.) I had some intense ideas about sex, relationships, and desire.

It's galling to think of the way I treated the men I met during that period of my life.

(It's also amazing to think that I managed to lose my virginity.)

And yeah, the feminism I was reading certainly outlined (or outright argued) some of those ideas. As intellectual exercises, they were interesting and led me to a lot of fascinating conversations. They're also part of the reason I work so damn hard in women's issues. I am indebted to a lot of those writers.

At the same time, they made me into a bit of a prude.

They wouldn't have done so if I wasn't also another Repressed Irish Catholic in a long line of Repressed Irish Catholics. Given little information on the particulars, sex (theoretically) was mystifying and a little bit scary. As a result of 18 years of Repressed Irish Catholic-ness, there was a right way to have sex (after marriage, on your back, with an openness to children). The little bit I knew about my own sexuality, the bits I knew about desire and what I found desirable, ran counter to that in startling ways that I didn't have the ability to articulate, but ways that I knew were bad, wrong, distasteful.

Mix up all that fear and guilt with a precocious shit of a young woman reading feminist theory by Andrea Dworkin and it's no wonder I had such messed up ideas about the way relationships were supposed to work, or that I was so blisteringly bitchy to men that they remained obsequious and zipped up around me.

It's taken six years to dig out of the hole created by that mindfuck of a cocktail, but if the recent uptick in my late-night dopamine production is any indication, it's been time well-spent. I still have my books of feminist theory. They're on the shelf next to a couple books by Dan Savage and a comic book called Sex Criminals.

I'm much less of a prude than I used to be.

Yahtzee

"Do you ever worry that you won't find someone who's. .  ." She trails off.

I smile. Grimace, really. "A Yahtzee?"

"Yeah. A Yahtzee."

I've had a few close friends go through intense breakups in the past year. In addition to the money dropped on wine, flowers, and takeaway (the ends of relationships are an awful lot like the start, aren't they?) I've spent a lot of hours helping them dissect What Happened and Where Things Went Wrong.

It's been surprisingly cathartic, despite the fact that I'm alone.

It's nice to know that the things that worry me (being alone forever, how to meet other people, how horrible my boobs look outside of a bra designed by the Army Corps of Engineers, that relationships are the one part of my life that I can't seem to figure out) are things that worry other smart, successful women. It's remarkably comforting to know that we're the same kind of crazy.

Tonight we're talking sexual compatibility and the head trip that comes when you're with someone who gets under your skin in ways you couldn't have imagined. It's also the part of my relationships that goes south the quickest, and for reasons I never would have anticipated.

"Yeah." I respond. "I do worry about it."

***

My brain gets in the way. 

I'm no MENSA candidate, but I'm no Prince Myshkin either. 

Maybe it's not so much my brain, but my curiosity that gets me into trouble. I'm sure the fact that I have a little bit of an obsessive personality also causes some problems, but I hate hanging everything that's wrong with me on that one aspect of my brain chemistry.

Anyway, my brain tends to get in the way.

If I'm reading something that genuinely interests me Ryan Gosling could be doing a striptease in my living room and I wouldn't notice. I have a tendency to say "Just five more minutes" when I'm working on a project. I get unbelievably excited (we're talking jump-up-and-down excited) about historical events and when I finally understand things like orbital velocity or the Doppler Effect. 

My brain gets in the way most during dating.

Anxiety is constantly trying to shank me with thoughts like ohgodwhatifhe'saserialkiller? Depression has kept me from bothering to engage with anyone. Trying to find the off switch for what's going on in my head when I'm with someone has kept me tied up for hours.

Being in my head can be problematic.

My brain its at its most combative and angriest when I'm out with someone who, well, isn't up for either some conversational jiu-jitsu or casual conversation about . . . well, who cares? My interests range from cryptography to bicycle repair to Motown, so it doesn't take much to keep my attention.

But there's gotta be something.

Intelligence, or lack thereof, isn't just a dealbreaker. My (reptile) brain wants it, needs it as much as the evolved brain that's in charge most of the time. I'm not talking about, I don't need someone with a 1600 SAT. Don't get me wrong, I'm going to find a guy who can help me see constellations or understand the Arrow of Time, well, sexy as hell. Intelligence--curiosity and an adventurous spirit, really--is hopelessly knotted together with, well, some more basic needs. My brain gets in the way, and the only way to slap it into submission seems to be finding something, someone, really who can engage it. And that submission, finding someone who can keep up, keep ahead, keep under my skin has always been the tricky part.

I keep coming up a few numbers short of a Yahtzee.

Trouble

"You are trouble."

I'm cutting vegetables at the counter when his arms slide around me and his voice murmurs in my ear. I set my knife on the counter and lean back.

"Oh, really? You want to tell me how, exactly?"

I can feel him smile.

"I'd rather have you show me."

I forget about the vegetables.

***

I was once (somewhat sassily) described as a member of "the pearl-wearing, julep-sipping, classics-reading set" during an argument. 

As I was actually wearing pearls at the time and had just finished haranguing someone about never having read The Great Gatsby, I was forced to acknowledge the truth of the remark. I can be tightly wound. A book I finished recently (Sam Wasson's fabulous Fifth Avenue, 5 A.M.) talked a little bit about the same phenomenon, admittedly in a different context. There are the good girls, the buttoned up girls in the world and there are the Holly Golightlys, the girls who can only be described as "trouble." 

My grown-up life, as I've written elsewhere, is remarkably buttoned up.

It's an approach that has served me well, especially while navigating the early years of academia and starting a career. It's not just easier but smarter to be cool and reserved, to keep your head on your shoulders and play according to the good girl rules. And for as much as it feels like [insert feminist rant about the patriarchy winning here] it just makes more sense to follow the rules.

Being a good girl paid off. It continues to pay off.

I hate it.

God, I even detest the phrase unless it's, you know, being used in some sort of transgressive specific context.

I have a naturally hot temper, a (at best) bawdy sense of humor, and an almost pathological need to stir things up.

But regardless of the desire to smart off to someone in a position of authority or the need to tell a dirty joke in mixed company, I manage to stay pretty buttoned up.

I manage to stay good.

***

I lied.

I misbehave.

Quietly. In small ways that either pass unnoticed or are so insignificant they pass without censure. I mosh at punk shows. I use "the c-word" and "the f-bomb" in familiar company frequently and with great relish. My favorite panel in Saga is dirty enough to be considered NSFW.

The tininess of the infractions frustrates me to no end. Because, admittedly, I don't want to be tiny bits of trouble, I want to be (as Sam Wasson puts so marvelously in his book):

Two big handfuls of heat-packing trouble.

I'm an adult. I get that you can't be the person you are with your best friends when you meet new people. I'm not looking for permission to cuss at board meetings or wear a mini-dress to work. I don't intend on making "Closer" by Nine Inch Nails my karaoke song. The problem is that the more time I spend working or meeting new people the more time I'm spending  in my good girl mode. The more time I spend buttoned up and toned down the harder it is misbehave even in the small ways that make me feel like the person I am.

It's been far too long since someone thought I might be trouble. 

Turn It Off

My lunch appointment is laughing at me. I'm her guest at The Saint Paul Grill, which is where you would go to have a long Mad Men style lunch in St. Paul in 2014. It's the sort of restaurant that makes me nervous, where I don't want to eat anything and spend most of the lunch worrying about whether or not I've got something in my teeth.

Things are not off to an auspicious start.

I'm flustered by the fact that maître d‘ has tried to pull my chair out for me (I just sat down in it), has tried to adjust it for me once I'm in it (I pulled myself into the table, gabbing the whole time), and has now tried to put my napkin in my lap (I jumped). Despite my expensive dress and the Tiffany's I'm wearing, I still feel like someone's country cousin.

Once the maître d‘ has stopped hovering and my lunch appointment has stopped laughing I settle my ruffled feathers. Thankfully, she's an old friend and a mentor, and I wonder if her choice of restaurant was a much a lesson in how to act around major donors as it was a convenient place to catch up with one another.

It's a long, lovely lunch. We talk about the business we're both in, I tell her about my achievements and challenges from the past year, and she offers advice and commiseration. We start chatting about mission and vision of the organizations I work and volunteer for and it's like all the missteps from the preceding hour vanish. I'm articulate and passionate without being overbearing. I tell her a story that makes her tear up a little, another one that makes her laugh, and by the time the waiter brings our check around she reaches out and pats my hand.

"You're doing fine, kid."

It's one of the proudest moments of my adult life.

About twelve hours later, I'll have one of the most mortifying moments of my adult life. 

It's stupid, and shouldn't be something that keeps me awake (which it does). I hijack a conversation. That's it. Something that started out as funny and playful turns into a conversation about the internet and objectification. It's not the first time I've done this (at last count, this has happened upward of seven times. This year.), and even as I'm doing it I'm thinking thisisnotthewayyouwantedthiseveningtogo but I just can't stop myself.

I am so mortified by my own behavior that I don't sleep. At all. I spend the night puttering around the apartment, reading a book about Thurgood Marshall to distract myself and right around 3:00am start with a few hours of unproductive self-probing. And here's what I realize while unproductively pulling out bits of my personality and examining them. Ever since I was a tiny girl I have had a tape playing in my head that runs on and on and on about women and objectification. About equal pay and Title IX. About domestic and sexual violence. And on. And on. And on.

I don't know how to turn it off. 

It's not always a bad thing. My dedication to ending domestic and sexual assault helps me overcome shyness and stage fright and communicate passionately and effectively. Thinking about Alice Paul or Marie Curie makes me feel less like someone's country cousin and more like one in a long line of women who are trying to leave the world a better place than they found it. Reminding myself of how far women have left to go keeps me motivated and engaged enough to read through a stack of grant applications that will benefit women's health when the only thing I want to do when I get home is to curl up with some trashy television and stop thinking for awhile.

Feminism, my particular intense brand of it, has been responsible for some of the best, proudest moments of my life. Hearing my name announced cum laude, with distinction as I accepted my college degree, booking my first grant for an organization dedicated to ending domestic violence, and crossing finish lines would not have been possible if I didn't feel like everyone with a XX chromosome was peering over my shoulder telling me to work harder, do more, be better.

I don't know how to turn it off. 

It's not always a good thing. I am constantly reaching out to my friends for pro-bono help with my nonprofit work. I am apparently incapable of having a funny, playful conversation with someone I know to be a feminist and a good person without jumping on my soapbox. I have, on more than one occasion, worked myself to exhaustion because that goddamn tape is always playing in my head. One in four Minnesota women experiences domestic violence. Every two minutes a person in America is sexually assault. 90% of them are women. You're still only making .80 to the dollar. You can do more.

Feminism--again, my own particular intense brand of it--is also responsible for some of the more embarrassing, ridiculous moments in my adult life. Sexual miscues that leave me cringing for weeks afterward, conversations that degenerate into shouting matches, relationships that ended too soon because I wasn't willing to make a commitment that required a sacrifice, perhaps wouldn't have been possible if I didn't feel like everyone with a XX chromosome was peering over my shoulder telling me to work harder, do more, be better.

It's something I've got to learn to turn off. 

Regency

It will not stop raining here.

The weather, combined with the fact that my landlords have turned the heat off despite the temperature tanking, combined with the fact that I haven't actually had a hug in awhile, combined with the fact that I've been, uh, tense recently, combined with a zillion other things had me trawling the internet for good romance novel suggestions on Sunday afternoon.

Here's the thing. Ms. Proponent-of-Birth-Control, advocate for the Women's Economic Security Act, gets-into-weekly-fights-about-pay-equality has a secret shame.

I love Regency romance novels.

I'm completely unembarrassed by the fact that I occasionally indulge in a trashy book (this is why Kindles were invented, isn't it?). It's the Regency thing (and, ohmygod, the titles) that I find humiliating.

When it comes to romance novels I have intense author loyalty. Unfortunately, my favorite author seems to either be invoking radio silence while finishing a new book or has stopped writing (a thought that actually terrifies me), so I turned to the internet for suggestions. Given my intense mortification over the Regency thing, I read some reviews and decided on a contemporary romance.

Huge mistake.

Let's get past the fact that there were grammatical errors in the book (Yes, my blog is riddled with typos and incorrect grammar, but I'm not a published author. With an editor.) and the fact that the story was totally fucking preposterous (I'm not expecting an Octavia Butler level of plot development) and jump straight into the fact that the romance part of the gorram romance novel was completely unexciting, leaving me to wonder:

Is there anything more disappointing than a disappointing romance novel?

***

I've never received flowers from a boyfriend.  

In fact, the only man in my life to send me flowers has been my father. For years my mother would ask about the men she (with her crazy sixth sense) knew I was seeing. What we did, who paid, if they ever did anything nice for me, when was the last time one of them bought me flowers. 

She could hear me rolling my eyes over the phone. "Ma. I don't need that stuff." 

I could hear her rolling her eyes over the phone. "Yes, honey, but some day you're going to want it."

For most of my 20s I thought she meant that I was going to want those things because I was lady. As a lady, it was pre-determined that I would want my partner to send me flowers and give me Tiffany's. Retrospectively, of course, what she meant had less to do with the trappings and more to do with the idea that it's nice to see someone put forth a little effort, a lesson I only seem to have learned after never having had a date offer to pick up a check. A lesson that sunk in when I was laid up with strep and asked the guy I was dating if he could bring me some soup and he said "Sure, if I'm not too drunk. I'm going to go play poker first." A lesson that finally stayed with me after a paramour announced "Yeah, I know you didn't, but I did and I'm bored so I'm going to bed."

Is there anything more galling than having to admit, years down the line, that your mother was right?

***

As I said, Sunday's romance novel was disappointing for a lot of reasons. The part that gets me the most though is that the whole thing reads too much like an OkCupid date where you both know what the score is before you even leave the house.

I love Regency romance novels because, yeah, the smutty bits are there, but there's a bit of a build-up to it. It's one of the things I love about the constraints of setting the novels in the Regency period. Things are put on a slower timetable. There's lots of character development and because authors are taking cues from Idon'tknowJaneAusten there's lots of verbal sparring and sexy one-upsmanship. Yeah, they're not flowers or paying for a date at Cafe Barbette, but they're the sorts of things that make me swoon (among other things). The characters are putting in a bit of effort prior to taking a tumble. 

Yes, the fact that I read the novels, the fact that I find them so enjoyable is slightly mortifying, but dating can be unromantic and disappointing enough. I don't want to relive it in my romance novels.  So you'll forgive me, but I'm going to go try my luck with The Viscount Who Loved Me. 

Seriously. These titles. 

Super

I recently had to retake the Myers-Briggs for a volunteer gig that I'm contemplating. It seemed like an odd thing to have to do, but I like the organization and was willing to take it for them.

I got an INFJ.

I always get an INFJ.

I've taken the Myers-Briggs tons of times and regardless of the mood I'm in, what's happened recently, or the time in my life, I always get an INFJ.

***

As a kid I read comics intermittently, as I could get my hands on them. I loved loved X-Men (Holy Hannah, Jean Grey. How could you be a budding feminist and not love X-Men?). I was a dreamy, not-terribly-down to Earth kind of a kid, apt to lose myself in reading or games that I played alone. 

I grew into an equally dreamy adult. 

I was also a terribly shy, incredibly introverted kid in a family that (like everyone) prized extroversion and the ability to be outgoing under almost any circumstances. My father, who can (and will) start a conversation with anyone could not (and maybe still doesn't entirely) seem to understand my desire to go through life simply being left alone. 

He and my mom had whispered conversations about whether or not I was a loner. 

They also, I suspect, worried about my inclination toward geeky things. Harry Potter and comics, The X-Files and Tolkien. I distinctly remember a look that passed between the two of them after they had taken me to see The Fellowship of the Ring and I enumerated the ways in which the book was different on the car-ride home. 

Retrospectively, I feel for them. They were raising a nerd without being nerds themselves. My adolescence would have been a little bit less rocky for all of us if I had either turned up as a jock or a delinquent rather than the the quiet, bookish, rule-following kid I was. 

Like a lot of social out-casty, nerdy types, I found  a lot of solace in SFF and comics. I liked to fantasize about one day discovering my mutation or finding out I had a superpower. It got me through the tough moments of adolescence. I secretly believed that there was something special about me. That I would be able to save the world because there was something specific about me that would enable me to do things other people couldn't. 

I think I always imagined that I would grow out of my interest in SFF and comics. That when I turned into an adult I'd start reading and watching adult things, like Anna Karenina and Citizen Kane. 

Ha.

***

"Hey!"

I'm on my way out of a fairly long evening. It's been a work networking thing and I've been smiling and chatting with different people all night. It's been incredibly fun evening, my cheeks actually hurt from smiling so much all night, but I am completely exhausted and not looking forward to a snowy, slippery drive home. 

One of the other attendees comes bolting out the door after me. I'm buttoning up my coat and weighing the pros and cons of getting a coffee before I leave when he accosts me.

"Hey!" 

I'm feeling considerably less bubbly than I did when I arrived, but I smile anyway and say "Yes?" 

He looks a little uncomfortable, like he didn't think out this encounter entirely before hailing me. "You're on Twitter under your real name, right? I mean, I'm not following someone else?"

My smile becomes considerably more genuine. "Yup. That's me. But you should really be following my work account to get a better idea of the role we fill in St. Paul."

Before I can tell him our Twitter handle he shakes his head and says. "No, that's not what I wanted to talk to you about. I wanted to ask you" he hesitates. He is obviously nervous and super uncomfortable. "Hey," I tell him "I can guarantee that I've said something weirder in the past 24 hours than whatever you want to say." 

He smiles and blurts out his thoughts "It's just . . . you Tweet so much about being an introvert. How did you do that?"

"Do what?" 

"You were amazing in there. I mean, it was crazy. I would've pegged you as an extrovert."

My smile genuinely grows again. This isn't the first time I've had this conversation, so I have an answer at hand. "I actually get that question a lot in professional settings, so it's not weird for you to ask at all." I can see him relax, and I forge ahead. "I really love the work I do. It's important for me to help other people understand why I'm so passionate about it. That makes it easy to talk about." 

I've given him something like the truth, and while it doesn't entirely satisfy him I can see an escape opening up. I extend my hand, give his a firm shake, and say "It was great to meet you. I'll see you again in a few weeks." 

I slip out the door and get into my car without scraping all the windows. Now that they're covered with snow, the car serves as a mini-sensory deprivation tank.

I just need a minute. 

***

I get a lot of (affectionate, I think) ribbing from my friends about the amount of feelings I have and the intensity of those feelings. At this point, I think we all accept that it's the way I'm hard-wired and there's nothing I can do about it. 

Well, that's not quite right. 

I do spend a lot of time trying to tone things down. I keep a fair amount of my geeky enthusiasm for things under wraps until I know someone well enough to let that side out. I am not an easy person to be friends with because I will rhapsodize on any number of odd things. When there's a project about which I am passionate, I will dig in with everything I've got, sometimes to the detriment of my own health. I am weirdly in touch with my own emotions and hyper-respectful of anyone else's. I am easily frustrated when others don't react as intensely to something or quickly notice when someone is upset or hurting. 

I've said it before, but it merits repeating. Going through the world hard-wired like this makes me feel a little bit like a freak-show. Because I simply feel things so much and am apt to get so passionate about things that I think matter (modern feminism, jazz, ending domestic violence and sexual assault) I suspect  know that it's difficult for other people to relate. 

It can be a surprisingly lonely way to go through the world.

***

I am ohmygodbeyondexcited for the new Captain America movie.  

I love Captain America. 

Oh my God, how could I not? I'm a history geek with a super-hero fetish of course I love Captain America. 

There's also, you know, a little bit of the fantasy in the Steve Rodgers to Captain American transition, that those of us who are less than our best can somehow be transformed into the best possible version of ourselves. 

Maybe I never entirely grew out of wanting to have a superpower. 

***

It turns out that, as far as Myers-Briggs is concerned, INFJ's tend to be sort of rare.

It's something I discover after this last round of personality testing. I actually read the information the well-meaning volunteers give me rather than simply ripping it to pieces and using it for notepaper. I'm a little shocked by what I read, and how accurate a description of my personality it is. Turns out I'm an odd combination of idealism and decisiveness, profoundly introverted with the ability to communicate passionately, intensely (especially via the written word!) about the things that matter to me.

When I finally get out of the car to scrape the windows down, I think about the guy I just talked to inside and his observation that I seem like a pretty extroverted-introvert and I think about my passion for esoterica and the weird intensity I apparently display when I'm talking about something that interests me. I reflect a little on the evening I just spent and how bone-tired I am at the moment and how much good I did by simply talking about something that moves me.

And when I get in the car and hear and advertisement for The Winter Soldier I start to think a lot about superpowers. About how as a little girl and as a teenager, and yes, even as an adult, I want(ed) to have world-saving superpowers.

I feel corny for even thinking it, but I wonder if this weird mash-up of personality traits just maybe might be my own version of a superpower. It's certainly not as cool as telekinesis or the ability to move between dimensions, and I'll never be able to save the whole world from certain destruction, but the ability to get people excited about ending domestic and sexual violence, the capacity to recognize when someone is upset or hurt or furious (especially when they might not recognize it), that's gotta be worth something.

Naked

"Ren Fest was made for you!"

I roll my eyes. The geeky men in my life have long been on a quest to get me to attend a Ren Fest. As with their quest to get me to play D&D, I've managed to hold firm. I've heard every possible explanation of why I would love them, but this guy is reasonably charming and we're on our way back to my apartment so I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt.

"Why would I love Ren Fest?"

Surprisingly he doesn't go for the historical reenactments, the wordplay, the unselfconscious geekiness that occurs at Ren Fests (these are all reasonable arguments people men have made to me over the years.)

Nope, instead he just goes right for it. "Because you could actually wear clothes that would look good on you."

You know the expression "my jaw dropped"? I always thought it was an exaggeration. I grew up as the Liberal Democrat child of two Tea Party Republicans. I know that when someone says something absurd your jaw doesn't drop. Your eyes roll. Your head shakes. Your feet carry you out of the room. But jaw-dropping? Doesn't happen.

Except this time it does.

Because, yeah, while I'm at home I have a slight tendency to live in leggings and a Cosby sweater. But when I'm out on a date? Trust me, I can bring it. I know exactly what to emphasize (uh, boobs).

Tonight, for example, I'm wearing a red dress that makes me feel like Joan from Mad Men. Yeah, that Joan.

But apparently while I'm going for a vibe of unselfconscious sexiness with a dash of waittillyouseewhatI'vegotonunderneath! what I'm actually projecting is more of a vibe of Wench! Get me another ale. 

***

I can count, on one hand, the number of people who have seen me naked. 

It's not because I'm a prude or because I dislike sex. 

Both of those suggestions are, in fact, laughable.

Yeah, we all know where this is going. 

I hate writing about weight and body image issues because, you know, this isn't Seventeen. I turn thirty this year and I feel like I should have this shit figured out. Or at least be able to better hide the fact that, when it comes to things like being naked in front of men I like, I'm a black hole of insecurity.

But then I go over to a friend's house to hang out with my lady friends and we spend the entire night talking about a TED talk about self-objectification. How, even among some of us who are with long-term, committed partners who adore us, we still have nights, days, weeks, where we simply cannot get out of our own heads. And instead of being able to come home and make dinner or watch a movie or have sex while taking all of our clothes off we're wondering if we should skip dinner because we had a burrito for lunch, counting the number of calories in this glass of wine and weighing it against what we did at the gym that afternoon, or chewing gum between meals because we're actually still hungry. 

Here's something sort of crazy. I can't even get worked up over the unfairness of this situation. I have zero desire to start lambasting the paradigm of patriarchal normative structure. I don't even want to bring up photoshopping in magazines or beauty standards, or whether or not BMI is just another way for us feel badly about ourselves (ugh, please). 

Let me be very clear about this. While hanging out with smart, engaged, interesting women I have zero desire to discuss feminist theory. 

The women I hang out with are tremendously capable, brilliant, confident women. They're quickly making headway in their various careers, are socially and civically engaged, are well-read and articulate and interesting. 

And about 80% of them are completely neurotic in some way when it comes to their bodies. 

The reason I can't work myself into a lather about how we got to this point is because it makes me inexpressibly sad that we are here. 

***

You know you've made significant strides in weight loss when your corset no longer fits. 

I'm standing in my closet, in front of a full-length mirror, trying on every piece of lingerie I own. It's been, um, awhile since I've had any reason to even think wearing any of this and now that I finally do I come to the sudden, startling conclusion that after losing nearly thirty pounds, none of it fits. None if it. Jesus. My bras don't even fit anymore (and cue horrifying montage of what my boobs must have looked like over the past few months) Realizing that I'm in danger of running significantly late, I start to consider calling and cancelling on the guy. That line from The Smiths song This Charming Man pops into my head. 

I would go out tonight

but I haven't got a stitch to wear. 

I am actually thinking about cancelling on this guy because there's a slight possibility that we'll end up together and that if we do, I'll be caught without my battle armor. 

For the record, I do recognize the inherent fucked-up-ness of using the phrase battle armor in any context regarding one's sex life. I mean, the only place it might be appropriate is if one has a Beowulf fetish (I don't). But the fact of the matter is that, staring down the barrel of literal (and figurative! Layers.) nakedness, I would rather spend Saturday night in the house, in my leggings and Cosby sweater, alone. 

Standing there half-dressed and completely indecisive I get a text saying "Hi. I'm outside." and realize that I've dithered too long. I quickly pull on my red dress, the one that makes me look like Joan from Mad Men and hastily put my makeup on. I'm desperately reaching for some sort of moment of public-radio insight, some triumphant moment where I'll realize something about the patriarchal normative structure and my body and I'll walk out the door with a newfound confidence in myself. 

Ha. Yeah, that only happens on This American Life. Instead I rush out the door knowing full well that if we do go home together I'll spend most of the night in my own head, trying to get out of the incessant loop of backchat and simply enjoy myself. 

At least I've got the dress. There's nothing bad he can say about it. 

Wonderful

I am really good at New Year's Resolutions.

It is, I suppose, the benefit of being someone who has worked in the position I do. As someone who is used to quantifiable goals, who is a bit of a nut for data (I look up 2010 Census information for fun), and who gets (as previously mentioned) really excited about holidays that make you retrospective, I'm bound to be good at New Year's Resolutions.

My goals for 2014 are relatively straightforward. I want to cross 12 finish lines this year, read fifty books, write more than I did last year, and do something incredible and challenging on/near my 30th birthday.

Such go the goals.

I've had a tradition over the past few years of including a New Year's Wish, something I close my eyes and say to myself at (or near) midnight. Last year it was that I would be OCD free by the end of 2013. While wishes, they tend toward the pragmatic. I've wished for a new job, a new bike, a new start. I've wished for forgiveness. I've wished that I'll get over my OCD and panic attacks.

2014 brought something different.

To begin, I went to an actual Honest-to-God New Year's Eve party. With noisemakers. With champagne. With friends. With dresses. It was, somewhat embarrassingly, the first New Year's Eve party I've been to as an adult (I typically work both New Year's Eve and New Year's Day) and the whole night seemed to have some sort of magical realism about it. I didn't feel like myself in the best possible way. Or rather, I felt like the best possible version of myself. Then, at midnight I closed my eyes and made the following wish.

In 2014, I want to be kissed by someone who thinks I'm wonderful. 

I know. Trust me, I know how this sounds.

***

I wanted to see the Aurora tonight. 

The chances were good. There was a major solar flare earlier this week, and the skies are relatively dim. The issue, of course, is that I live in the city. While I love urban life (mass transit, restaurants, music) I have to admit that sometimes the star-gazing gets me a little down (I did, afterall, grow up in the country). However, despite the good chances, there were myriad factors that kept me from going out tonight: busted car, lack of interest or availability on behalf of my friends, an ill-timed glass of wine on an empty stomach. 

All of these things, of course, added up to me not going Aurora questing as planned. 

***

I cancelled my OkCupid account.

It was the most liberating decision I've ever made. After a number of unsuccessful (and horrifying) dates, one or two truly terrifying encounters, and any number of interactions that make Anthony Weiner look like the paragon of chivalry, I finally broke down and cancelled the damn thing. 

I don't regret it. At least, not yet. Because I refuse to buy into the mentality of You've got to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your prince. Because, firstly, who the hell wants a prince anyway? I'd prefer a barbarian or master spy or Rumi-reading lumberjack or reincarnation of Teddy Roosevelt. And secondly, that implies that those frogs deserve a kiss anyway. Trust me, if you use the word "skinnier" in any capacity other than "If that girl got any skinnier she'd disappear. She needs to eat a cheeseburger" in front of me, you don't deserve, well, anything. 

***

Earlier in the week I got a little uppity with a friend who hasn't read a book I maybejustatinybit consider essential to being a well-developed adult. When he called me out on my snobbishness (snobbishness around books is something I really do work extremely hard to avoid) it made me start to wonder if it mattered in our friendship (the answer, of course, is no). Then I started to ponder whether or not it would matter with someone I'm dating. If bookishness or rather, lack of my particular kind of bookishness, in a potential partner would be a dealbreaker for me. I thought about it again tonight, as I wondered if an eventual partner would be willing to (on a work night) stay up late with me and drive out to the sticks on the off chance we could see something wondrous. Silly, I know, but I couldn't help but think that if it didn't matter perhaps deleting my online dating profile was a bit premature. 

Then I thought about the wish that I made on December 31st, at 11:59pm. I realize how frivolous it sounds. How extravagant and ridiculous and middle-school that wish was. But it has been too many years since I've been kissed by someone who just . . . likes me. I mean, actually likes me. Not likes me for the night or the afternoon or for-the-time-being but likes me. My relationships with men tend to be, well, rather utilitarian and brief. And online dating, at least the kind that I was doing, made those relationships (liaisons, probably) thrive. 

But I don't want that. I. Don't. Want. That. I'm tired of those kinds of relationships, those kinds of encounters. I don't need someone to geek out over the new season of Sherlock or understand the conflicted feelings I have about IVAWA straight away, but I want someone to try. I want is someone who will read The Brothers Karamazov, who will go look for the Aurora on a work night, not necessarily because those things are important to him, but because they're important to me. 

I want someone to do those things for me because he thinks I'm wonderful.