For about the first six weeks after he told me he was done, I couldn't stand music at all. That was almost harder to take than the leaving. I used to love dancing around the kitchen while I cooked, listening to ridiculous pop songs and waving kitchen utensils in perilous ways. (He always warned me to be careful, but usually he was the one who cut himself. It was the protective powers of ABBA, I think.)
But right after my life split open, even the opening notes of my favorite songs felt like knives in my stomach. One day, being careless with the car radio, I heard a few notes of Pink's "Learn to Love Again," and I started crying so hard that I had to pull over. Every pop song is about love. Finding love. Losing love. Quiet love. Loud love. Love in the time of cholera. I couldn't take it.
My solution was NPR. Lots of it. Morning Edition as I got dressed became a soothing background hum, and at times a reminder that my brain was pretty hungry for material. This American Life at the gym was both a perfect timer (since most podcasts are just about an hour) and pleasant fuel for my little crush on Ira Glass.
The music is starting to come back, though. It started when my good friend took me to see Sixteen Candles (the band, not the movie) at some street fests. They play 80s music -- the music I loved before I knew him, and still love now. A couple of evenings dancing like an idiot in the street, and I was ready to try some music in the car. I learned that Taylor Swift still needs a hobby, Ke$ha is still ridiculous, Adam Levine's voice still makes me cringe, and that I can sing along to ridiculous pop songs again. I reopened my playlists and started dancing around the kitchen again. I don't feel that open, artless joy I used to feel yet. Sometimes that damn Pink song still makes me cry. But music is back.
Right now, I'm listening to a playlist I created a while ago, when things at work were unpleasant. The name of the playlist is "Defiance." Time to dance.
**********************************
Some songs on the Defiance playlist:
A Better Son/Daughter. Rilo Kiley : http://youtu.be/Lh6liDtDThk
Titanium. David Guetta: http://youtu.be/JRfuAukYTKg
Girl on Fire. Alicia Keys http://youtu.be/J91ti_MpdHA
Dancing with Myself. Billy Idol http://youtu.be/FG1NrQYXjLU
Lose Yourself. Eminem http://youtu.be/jgn-rq3ibzE
Lover of the Light. Mumford and Sons http://youtu.be/nMJUbZrNnA8
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
Sunday, August 25, 2013
Interior Design
I have a fresh, new perspective.
I literally have a new perspective. I just re-oriented the couch in the living room to the way I wanted it when we first moved into this place together. Little cat got over her dislike of the change when she discovered she could now move from the window to the top of the couch without touching the floor. She is playing "the floor is lava," and I am playing "I am an entire, complete human being."
He didn't like the couch in this spot because to him it meant you could only see a wall of concrete. I see that wall of concrete, yes, but I also see a wall of windows and my own building reflected in the late afternoon sunlight. I see spaces created and subdivided on a human scale -- carved out to hold and protect these lives we carry around. In my view, but out of my sight, people are living their joyful, contented, complicated, messy, happy, grateful lives. If they can do it, maybe I can, too.
Little cat comes down from her perch at the top of the couch, sniffing the cushions and silently meowing at me. Briefly, her pupils enlarge and she pulls back into fight mode. I understand her fear. Change makes me want to fight, too, little cat. I scratch her head and she relaxes, just enough. She wanders back to her water dish, familiar and unmoved. Meanwhile, I look out at the view and feel . . . different. Joyful, contented, complicated, messy, happy, Grateful.
I literally have a new perspective. I just re-oriented the couch in the living room to the way I wanted it when we first moved into this place together. Little cat got over her dislike of the change when she discovered she could now move from the window to the top of the couch without touching the floor. She is playing "the floor is lava," and I am playing "I am an entire, complete human being."
He didn't like the couch in this spot because to him it meant you could only see a wall of concrete. I see that wall of concrete, yes, but I also see a wall of windows and my own building reflected in the late afternoon sunlight. I see spaces created and subdivided on a human scale -- carved out to hold and protect these lives we carry around. In my view, but out of my sight, people are living their joyful, contented, complicated, messy, happy, grateful lives. If they can do it, maybe I can, too.
Little cat comes down from her perch at the top of the couch, sniffing the cushions and silently meowing at me. Briefly, her pupils enlarge and she pulls back into fight mode. I understand her fear. Change makes me want to fight, too, little cat. I scratch her head and she relaxes, just enough. She wanders back to her water dish, familiar and unmoved. Meanwhile, I look out at the view and feel . . . different. Joyful, contented, complicated, messy, happy, Grateful.
Thursday, August 22, 2013
Episode IV: The Conclusion
Want to hear about my happy ending?
Well, like me, you're going to keep wanting.
He cancelled. Said he had a "work-related emergency" and had to fly back to California. What a waste of a pedicure and bikini wax. And now I'm supposed the get back on the horse that I never even got to ride in the first place?
Well, at least I got to feel sexy and desirable for a minute. That was fun. And I practiced some new writing techniques. Now, to the stables!
Well, like me, you're going to keep wanting.
He cancelled. Said he had a "work-related emergency" and had to fly back to California. What a waste of a pedicure and bikini wax. And now I'm supposed the get back on the horse that I never even got to ride in the first place?
Well, at least I got to feel sexy and desirable for a minute. That was fun. And I practiced some new writing techniques. Now, to the stables!
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
Freudian Ears
I went to Starbucks this morning for a coffee. So, I ordered my coffee, and I heard the barista say, "Get a room?"
Sheesh, dude. I don't even know you, and I haven't even had coffee yet.
Then I realized that what he actually said was, "Room?" As in: do I want room for cream in my coffee?
Oops.
Sheesh, dude. I don't even know you, and I haven't even had coffee yet.
Then I realized that what he actually said was, "Room?" As in: do I want room for cream in my coffee?
Oops.
Episode III: Email Seduction
He's not the most good-looking guy, and certainly doesn't have that David Tennant, skinny-Euro thing I like. But I'm buying condoms and waxing my crotch because the boy can write. He has got this subtle email seduction thing right down to the ground. If the live meeting is half as good as the email exchange, I may lose my ability to speak.
I wonder if I'm being a fool, falling for lines that, when analysed, aren't really all that creative. But he's the first person who has bothered to write these lines to me. I have decided the enjoy the sexy little butterflies I get when I read his messages. I have decided to take this for what it is. A fun night, where I am an alluring woman and he is an avid suitor. And maybe we both get our rocks polished, or whatever the kids are saying these days.
As a side benefit, I'm getting better at sexy writing. I think this has been lacking in many of my attempts at fiction, so now that I have a bit more practice, I think I'll be able to create better characters. I'm certainly more creative with the double entendres -- they aren't all penis-shaped anymore. I've just sent off a message making good use of the phrase "come to you," if I do say so myself.
Can't wait for the reply. I've got rocks to polish.
I wonder if I'm being a fool, falling for lines that, when analysed, aren't really all that creative. But he's the first person who has bothered to write these lines to me. I have decided the enjoy the sexy little butterflies I get when I read his messages. I have decided to take this for what it is. A fun night, where I am an alluring woman and he is an avid suitor. And maybe we both get our rocks polished, or whatever the kids are saying these days.
As a side benefit, I'm getting better at sexy writing. I think this has been lacking in many of my attempts at fiction, so now that I have a bit more practice, I think I'll be able to create better characters. I'm certainly more creative with the double entendres -- they aren't all penis-shaped anymore. I've just sent off a message making good use of the phrase "come to you," if I do say so myself.
Can't wait for the reply. I've got rocks to polish.
Tuesday, August 20, 2013
Episode II: Bikini Wax
I wanted to see Marie. Marie shares my indifference to makeup and general disdain for the excesses of the beauty industry. Marie has also been divorced. She has been through the "first sex after" thing, and could maybe help me understand it all.
Marie was not working, so I went to Rana. Rana's appeal was that I didn't know her very well. Also, being European, I thought maybe she would be supportive of an adult woman who still wanted to keep some pubic hair.
Just as I expected, Rana worked quickly, efficiently -- I hardly thought about the fact that a relative stranger was looking at a part of my body that I rarely looked at. I was telling her about my "sex date" and letting her talk me into a French bikini with a little off the top, rather than the very modest bikini wax I had planned.
I told her, "Nothing off the labia," but when she gave me the mirror, I saw that half my outer labia was raw, red, and stripped of hair.
"My god," I said, "that looks so weird!"
Rana transformed into the Angry Romanian. She snapped off her gloves. "You mean 'clean.' 'Clean' is the word you're looking for." She gave me curt instructions for caring for my skin then left the room so I could dress.
I looked again at my half-naked labia. Weird. Weird is what I meant.
Marie was not working, so I went to Rana. Rana's appeal was that I didn't know her very well. Also, being European, I thought maybe she would be supportive of an adult woman who still wanted to keep some pubic hair.
Just as I expected, Rana worked quickly, efficiently -- I hardly thought about the fact that a relative stranger was looking at a part of my body that I rarely looked at. I was telling her about my "sex date" and letting her talk me into a French bikini with a little off the top, rather than the very modest bikini wax I had planned.
I told her, "Nothing off the labia," but when she gave me the mirror, I saw that half my outer labia was raw, red, and stripped of hair.
"My god," I said, "that looks so weird!"
Rana transformed into the Angry Romanian. She snapped off her gloves. "You mean 'clean.' 'Clean' is the word you're looking for." She gave me curt instructions for caring for my skin then left the room so I could dress.
I looked again at my half-naked labia. Weird. Weird is what I meant.
Monday, August 19, 2013
Sex Date Chronicles, Episode I: The Condom Incident
I thought I should bring condoms, since I couldn't guarantee he would have them. I went to the CVS when I was sure to have two or three other things to buy, and late enough in the afternoon that the Curious Nona of the self-checkout wasn't working.
After a bit of confusion in the family planning aisle, (what do they mean, "pleasant scent?") I settled on a small packet of three condoms, tucked it behind my other purchases, and headed to the self-checkout.
Now, I know I have nothing to be ashamed of. I'm a grown-ass woman in my 40s. I have sex. (Or, rather, I want to.) And I am being responsible about it. This should be the opposite of embarrassing. This should give me the same feeling as when I bring my own bags to the grocery. But, since this country got the Puritans and the Tea Party, I am trying to be discreet about the whole thing. So, I slip up to a self-checkout station, out of notice of the (male) self-checkout minder. I quickly scan the condoms and drop them into a bag. Scot free!
Until the assistance light starts flashing, telling me the coupon box is full. Coupon box? I didn't use a coupon. I look around, stuff some loose papers down into the coupon box. The light still flashes. I have to ask the minder. And, of course, as soon as he steps over, the light stops flashing, and the self-checkout is sweetly ready to serve me. I say a polite thank you and start to scan my other items.
"Did it scan what's in the bag?" the minder says.
"Huh?"
Before I can think, the minder reaches into my bag and pulls out the condoms. Which didn't, in fact, scan. Now I'm a potential thief. I grab them out of his hand. Snatch them, more like. (Hee hee. "Snatch.") "I'll do it," I say, in exactly the same tone and volume my 3-year-old nephew used when talking about his shoes.
Mortified, but trying my best to look like some confident, sex-positive uber-MILF, I complete my purchase and scuttle out the door.
After a bit of confusion in the family planning aisle, (what do they mean, "pleasant scent?") I settled on a small packet of three condoms, tucked it behind my other purchases, and headed to the self-checkout.
Now, I know I have nothing to be ashamed of. I'm a grown-ass woman in my 40s. I have sex. (Or, rather, I want to.) And I am being responsible about it. This should be the opposite of embarrassing. This should give me the same feeling as when I bring my own bags to the grocery. But, since this country got the Puritans and the Tea Party, I am trying to be discreet about the whole thing. So, I slip up to a self-checkout station, out of notice of the (male) self-checkout minder. I quickly scan the condoms and drop them into a bag. Scot free!
Until the assistance light starts flashing, telling me the coupon box is full. Coupon box? I didn't use a coupon. I look around, stuff some loose papers down into the coupon box. The light still flashes. I have to ask the minder. And, of course, as soon as he steps over, the light stops flashing, and the self-checkout is sweetly ready to serve me. I say a polite thank you and start to scan my other items.
"Did it scan what's in the bag?" the minder says.
"Huh?"
Before I can think, the minder reaches into my bag and pulls out the condoms. Which didn't, in fact, scan. Now I'm a potential thief. I grab them out of his hand. Snatch them, more like. (Hee hee. "Snatch.") "I'll do it," I say, in exactly the same tone and volume my 3-year-old nephew used when talking about his shoes.
Mortified, but trying my best to look like some confident, sex-positive uber-MILF, I complete my purchase and scuttle out the door.
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