Competition

I have been thinking lately of why women compete with each other so much.  I see that we are set up to compare ourselves to one another -- by media and pop culture in general -- but I wonder why we choose to accept this setup.  As a woman in the midst of dating, of trying to find a partner, it seems like the whole world wants me to put down other women in order to raise myself up.  I'll admit that sometimes I fall into that trap, but I am trying hard not to do it.

It has been said to me: "You can't compete with all those 20-year-olds out there." Lately I am fully comfortable responding: "No.  I can't. And I really don't want to." This is a comfort born of a lot of struggle and continual nourishment.  Most experiences of my growing-up years contained implied competition.  If my friend looked good, that somehow meant I looked less good.  If that boy dated her, it meant he wasn't dating me.  If I lost weight, that meant someone else's body didn't look as good.  

Now I see how ridiculous this is.  I am trying to spread this message to other women around me, but it is shockingly difficult.  "Listen," I said to a friend of mine, "If you are at a party, dressed to kill and feeling confident and a beautiful woman walks into the room, that does not make you any less beautiful.  You can acknowledge that someone else is attractive, or smart, or talented -- and the magic is that it does not take away any of your attractiveness, intelligence or talent."  

My friend nodded, and looked skeptical.

Last week, I was around a woman I have known my whole life, and I expressed some frustration about not having any clothes that fit and she cut me to the core, saying, "Stop bragging about how skinny you are." 

I'm fed up with keeping quiet about how wonderful I am because I fear the consequences.  I am not in competition with 20-year-olds, or with anyone.  I am making a resolution now to tell everyone I know how wonderful, talented, and beautiful they are as often as I can.  Because since when do kind words become boomerangs that come back and cut me at the knees?  If they are boomerangs that return, then they return with strength to build me up.  I'm starting now.

You (yes YOU) are lovely and amazing.  Pass it on.

Dance Map

Last night I went to a Beats Antique concert.  I went because I am becoming a huge fan of Zoe Jakes -- primarily for her dancing.  The concert attendees were encouraged to wear masks, costumes, painted faces, basically to let their freak flags fly.  When my friend and I walked into the venue, we both had the same thought -- "We are old."  The dance floor in front of the stage was writhing with 18-22 years olds, dancing with the intensity and abandon only found in youth and marijuana haze.

During the show, we ran into a woman my friend knew.  She was taking burlesque classes, loving every minute of it.  Later, my friend told me that this woman was just starting her divorce journey.  It strikes me now both of us, in our Mapless state, turned to some kind of dancing.  I fell head over hips for bellydance, and from the sound of it, she was doing the same for burlesque.  I can't speak for her, but for me it became a way to fall in love with myself.  

Years ago, when I was still married and believed I always would be, I took a few dance classes.  One day, in a rare moment of feeling sexy and open, I tried doing a little dance for the Ex.  And he laughed.  And I froze.

I am sure that his laugh had nothing to do with shaming or belittling me.  I am certain that he was reacting to the strangeness, the newness of this thing.  His repressed wife trying to move in a way that was alluring and enticing -- that just never happened.  In my repressed state, though, I took his laugh as a judgement, and felt overwhelmed with shame.  I never danced in front of him again, and shortly after that I stopped taking classes.

In the first month after he moved out, when I was just starting my practice and slightly panicked about life, I saw a card for a dance and fitness studio nearby.  I decided to try bellydance.  Gradually, I emerged into someone who loves this dance, and even wants to perform it in front of people.  I found my lost creativity and my battered confidence.  Throughout all the (mis)adventures of the first year, bellydance was there.  

So, when I met my friend's friend at Beats Antique, and I heard her talk about burlesque, I saw something familiar.  Another healing heart and Mapless soul, realizing the map is written on her own body.  Strength arising from movement.  No wonder we ended up at the same concert, mesmerized by a woman whose dance is fierce, unique and unashamed.  

I am remembering the note I sent my dance teacher after the first time I performed with the student troupe:

Before I get back to life and forget, I want to say thank from the core of my heart for the studio and for your open spirit that makes all these things awesome.  High awesome.  

I've shared a little with you of the the difficulty of this past year, and of the discovery that was also part of it.  Honestly, I think seeing your card at work was one of the best things that came out of this year.  Without rediscovering bellydance, for me there would have been no Costa Rica, no Rachel Brice, and no dancing on stage.  Probably over time the performances will start to blur together for me, but this past weekend was truly significant.  I hadn't been that happy and confident in a long while, so it was a revelation that I still could be that happy and confident.  

We had that conversation once about bellydance as a hobby that is also a necessity.  I think the order has reversed for me -- it is a necessity, that most people would call a hobby.  I credit your gentle notes and observations, encouragement, and realistically high standards for making this possible.  Your world is truly a unique place where every woman can thrive on her own terms, and, more importantly, define those terms in the first place.  

Thank you for welcoming me into this world.  I'm going to stick around for a while.  

Radiation Recall

There is a phenomenon that sometimes happens to people who have had radiation treatment called "radiation recall."  What happens is this: after radiation is over with, a person may receive chemotherapy at a later date.  Sometimes this chemotherapy treatment causes radiation rashes to crop up again, sore, red and angry.  The stress of the chemo on the body causes the fragile spots to open up again.  It is one of the many potential side effects of cancer treatment.

This week feels like an emotional radiation recall for me.  The Ex is getting married on Saturday.  This was his delayed response to my last message to him.  I responded very simply that I wish him the best, which I do.  Yet as I sat still, willing myself not to be numb, I wondered what I felt.  Mostly, surprisingly, what I felt was okay.  It seemed soon, but right.  

As the message entered my entire circulation, though, the recall started.  All those places where I am healed but still weak started to open up again.  Sore, red, and angry.  The lingering doubt that anyone will ever want me.  The ego blow that someone who says he loved me so much could get over me so quickly.  The anxiety over living and managing my life alone.  My radiation recall was a clamp on my lungs and a whooshing headache.  One of the many potential side effects of heartbreak.

My recall rash came out, but it was manageable.  I went for a run, I reached out to my amazing friends, and I cleaned out a bunch of drawers.  As things calmed down, I saw again the clarity I found before my trip to Denver.  He is a good, decent and kind man.  He is not good for me.  I have true and loving friends, who when they circle around me, bring the strength of generations of women.  I have weak spots, blind spots, sore spots -- but I am fine, thriving, even.  As many of my friends reminded me, I am different now, better and more true.  

The recall came and went fairly quickly, which made me wonder if I was really being honest with myself.  But here is how I know that I am fine: The part about his message that bothered me the most was not that he's getting married, not even the (relative) soon-ness of it.  It was that he wouldn't tell me anything but the date because he was afraid it would show up on my blog.  This blog.  Which is not about him at all.  Proving once again the lack of true understanding we had for each other, and reinforcing the reasons why I don't want to be his friend.  It's not heartbreak that upsets me, it's misunderstanding -- the same misunderstanding we have always had. 

So, yeah, he was right.  It did end up here.  This is what happens when you fall in and then out of love with a writer.  She writes about it.  And truly, sincerely, with a loving heart wishes you well in your new life. 

Travel Clarifies

I am sitting in the airport, waiting on a delayed flight, reading, writing and contemplating. All this led to me sending this email to the Ex:

I am reading a book and I came across this sentence: "True liberation comes when you quit the shackles you put on yourself."  This made me think of you and realize, finally realize, that this is what you did. My first reaction to the whole divorce was to wonder why I couldn't convince you that you could relax into your shackles. You were right. And now, with time and distance and change, I realize I owe you gratitude for not believing me, for forcing this big, uncomfortable, frightening and painful change. I have relearned so much that I forgot. Thank you. And I'm sorry that you had to be in that position. 

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Now I am shaking a little, as so much pent-up anxiety releases. It was a realization with all the force of a vision. I owe him thanks for hurting me. I owe him gratitude for giving me this gift of my life and caring enough to throw me into the fire so I could find it. Before I sent that message, I had to struggle to overcome the idea that contacting him was some kind of self-defeat. I felt like the full excision of him from my life was a freedom and a comfort. But maybe it was just another way to stay stuck in that relationship. 

I am starting to get anxious about what he will think and all the negative ways he could interpret the message. Will he see it as a random, attention-seeking bomb? That was not my intention, and I can't control his reaction. It is good for me to start saying what I feel to the people I feel it about. This needed to happen before I could really be ready to start a new, serious relationship. 

The shaking seems to be over. I'm left feeling relaxed, open, and a little exhausted. Travel clarifies for me. This is why I need to do it more often. 

Mapless on the Road

I started this whole blog as part therapy, part rough draft space for a larger writing project.  Dear ones, the latter part of that plan is coming together.  In just a few weeks, I'll be reading from this and other works at TheNewStudio in Evanston.  Come and hear my voice, and let me see your face. 

Don't. You. Dare.

I sat in my car, weeping like I hadn't done in months, and I wrote this text message:

"I fucking hate it when I can tell someone feels sorry for me."

Then I took some laddery breaths, let the tears sit on my face, and I deleted the message without sending it.  Because, really, what was I trying to do but get someone different to feel sorry for me?  Someone whose attention maybe I felt like I couldn't get any other way.  So I put down the phone and cried it out on the way home.

This is what started it:  recently I have come to the conclusion that I don't want conventional.  I don't want the job managed and directed by someone else, I want the life created by me.  I want this, even with the insecurity, anxiety, and in-car crying jags.  I want all of this, even though I know this makes it more challenging for me to find the partner I want.  (You know, the person who will make an effort to be with me even when I'm on my cycle and sex is not going to happen, even when my schedule doesn't match the standard adult corporate work schedule.)

In order to create this life, I need to let go of lots of things.  I've pretty well let go of the hard ones (caring what other people think, lifelong assumptions about what success means,) and now comes the more labor intensive ones.  I have started giving away most of the tchotchkes and fancy things that were surrounding me in my home, and I finally made the decision to move to a cheaper place.  

I went in to visit with my real estate agent to talk over the current condo market and how I should go about getting my place ready to sell.  You may recall her -- she's the one whose first reaction to the divorce news was: "But you're so pretty!"

We sat down and went over all the comps she pulled for me, talked about my building in particular, and occasionally butted heads over unrealistic things.  (No, I will not pay thousands of dollars that I don't have for someone to stage my condo.). It was immediately clear to me that she didn't quite know how to handle this situation.  House poor seller, trying to build a business, with little to no time or money to put into the prep of the condo, and no partner to pick up the phone when she was busy with a client.  Her conversation started getting peppered with "I know"s and "It's difficult"s.  She said these things because she didn't know what else to say.  She felt sorry for me, she felt pity.  And although this came from a good place in her heart, she didn't understand that pity is the last thing I need.  That I am quite contented with my single life (most of the time) and that the absolute loss of the conventional dream with the condo in downtown (über suburb) was not a tragedy for me.  It was/is a step into the future.

But I felt a little sick and off that day anyway, so I didn't have the mental strength to do anything but keep it together until I could get to my car and cry from sheer frustration, then from feeling sorry for myself because I couldn't think of anyone to call and get coffee with at that time of day.  Fortunately, my literary training kicked in and I recognized the irony before I got home and had to discuss my real estate plans with my new potential landlord.  Water, food, and a midday nap completed the reset, and now I can think of five or more people who I could have called.  

Don't feel sorry for me, real estate lady, because my life has not followed the conventional path that yours has. Don't feel sorry for the bumps and bruises I've had this past year.  And don't you fucking dare feel sorry for me that I have chosen to sell my place.  This is my choice.  And I will also choose not to feel sorry for adventures I have had that you have missed.

No. Just, no.

I am communicating with a lot of different people via text messaging these days.  Some of those people want to do sexy things with me, and I want to do sexy things with them, and we text about it.  Written consent.  What could be better?

The problem for a word snob like me, is that people -- okay, men -- sometimes use words they think are hot and sexy, and they just are really not.  Here is my PSA on a few of those words:

Yummy

Context: "Want to play tomorrow?  Sounds yummy."

Um.  No.  Does not sound yummy.  Sounds annoying.  Yummy is what you say to get a toddler to eat a vegetable, not to get me excited about spending adult time with you.  

Crave

Context:  "Let's get together Monday.  I crave it."

Intellectually, I totally appreciate the implied compliment -- that time with me is a desire that arises unbidden and must be addressed or otherwise one will think of nothing else.  But I just don't like the sound of the word crave.  (I warned you that I am word snob.)  It sounds whiny to me, starting with a hard-flung consonant and winding down into this long hissing end.  Not.  Sexy.

Mommy/Daddy

Context: "Come over here to daddy."

There are not enough synonyms for "ick" to describe the feeling I get when these words are used in the context of sex.  

Juicy

Context: <you can imagine>

I am not a fruit.