Woman Down! Send C*ck!

There are a lot of things I have discovered about myself lately, but perhaps the most fun thing is that I like sex.  Kind of a lot.  I have had an amazing time playing with that knowledge and trying out all the wacky things people do in their 20s -- with the benefit of being in my 40s and generally smarter about taking care of myself.

I've been getting exhausted with play partnering lately, though, and am gradually settling in to looking for something more settled -- with  lots of communication and openness about sex, though.  I'm not willing to compromise on that.  Gradually, my friends-with-benefits are fading away, either through active or passive disengagement.  I'm getting lots more sleep, and I have more energy to focus on "serious" dating prospects.

But it has been a while since sex.  I have gone for (much) longer than this before, but that was when I still had this sense of shame and taboo around the whole thing.  Now that I'm comfortable with it, being without it is much less comfortable.

Another thing I have discovered about myself, though, is that I can be patient about getting what I truly want.  So we wait, watch the snowstorm, write filthy messages in the drifts and watch them get covered up again as the snow continues to fall.

anx*i*e*ty

anx*i*e*ty (noun), "desire to do something, typically accompanied by unease."

That is actually not the primary definition of anxiety, but it is the one that lives with me. Remember when I thought I could smell Ativan? Yeah, that still happens. I am meeting people -- actually meeting and getting to know them as people. The common thread in every person I meet is still anxiety of some kind. It even got to the point where a friend who treats anxiety disorders has offered to form a "Survivor"-type therapy group of the men I have met. The man who makes the most progress in the group gets to date me.

This "suggestion" grew from me talking about a date with yet another man who was broadcasting anxiety.  As our conversation continued, though, I realized that I kind of want the anxiety.  I mean, I get anxious about stuff, so that's something to have in common.  And, really, people who never have any anxiety about anything are kind of ---- well ---- boring.

bor*ing (adjective), "not interesting, tedious."

I am in a space where I am actively exploring and nurturing my creative self.  A certain low level of anxiety fuels this, and I find that people without even the smallest levels of anxiety are often not understanding of this drive to be creative.  Of course, high anxiety also kills creativity, so it is a continual balance.  I need my anxiety to be a passenger in the boat with me, and I really need a partner to bring their anxiety along too.  Otherwise, we just end up with an unbalanced boat.

Our anxieties are necessary to allow us to build something new -- a work of art, a structure, a relationship -- anything.  So, I am embracing my anxious passenger as part of the whole flawed tapestry.

Take us out, Kierkegaard:

Defined by Loss

In general, I try to avoid New Year's resolutions. Every day should be an opportunity to begin again, and I just don't like the pressure of the January 1 festival of resolution announcements.  I recently returned from my self-directed retreat, though, and during that time one resolve emerged clear and strong.  Not because of the new year, but because it is time, and I am ready.

Resolved: I will no longer define myself by what I have lost.

As I was walking in the woods last week, reflecting on the last year and planning the year to come, I realized that much of what I have done in the past year I am seeing and interpreting through the lens of what I no longer have or am.  This does not mean the past year was sad -- quite the opposite.  Most of what I have done brought me joy, growth, and fulfillment.  There is a reason why people I haven't seen in a while are all telling me that I look happy and confident -- because I am.

Yet I still define those things by what I am not.  I could travel when and where I want because there is no other person to include in the plans.  I could accept any work that interested me and spend as much time as I want in dance classes because I don't have to think about being home for anyone.  I can take risks because I had already lost the one thing I used to think was unloseable, and I emerged just fine.

While there is strength in measuring my year against all that came before it, I now realize that this is keeping me tethered to a person I have outgrown.  No, not my Ex.  I mean my former self.  That woman who never knew how fun it could be to just dance like an idiot in the street to Sixteen Candles, and who never thought to go free range with her career.  That woman was lovely -- compassionate, kind and even joyful at times.  But that woman lived by anxiety.

So now, even though the anxiety is still a passenger (more about that in a future post), it does not drive.  All that I do this year will not be because of or in reference to what I have lost.  Resolved.  I believe I can keep this one.

Barefoot on a Bar Floor and More Joyous Things

In my practical brain, I know this division of old year and new year is fairly arbitrary, and I try not to base my life upon it.  If I want to end an old habit or pick up a new one, I start when the motivation starts.

But this time of year does invite introspection and reflection.  The short daylight hours and colder weather drives me indoors, into stiller and stiller pursuits.  The days off while great groups of people celebrate their winter holidays gives me time to daydream, plan, vision.

I am leaving soon for time away from all blinking, beeping, buzzing things.  I am taking this time to hunker down and really plan in a way I never have before.  Although it feels a little woo-woo, I am going to vision out what I want for the next year.  I hope to come back with a detailed, written description of everything I hope (believe?) will happen for me in the next year.

Before that, though, I thought it would be fun to look back at my list of Things I Did This Year That I Never Thought I Would Do In Life.  In no particular order, here they are:

--danced barefoot on a bar floor
--traveled alone to another country
--claimed my identity as a small business owner
--went zip-lining
--performed (twice!) at a street fair
--got a massive tattoo, with color in it
--*** *** *** *** (Whatever you are imagining -- if it involves nakedness, you're probably right.)
--broke someone's heart (See, it's not all celebratory.)

--fired a professional who had worked with me for years
--gave away or sold every last fancy table decor thing 

--took long walks alone in the woods, during deer hunting season

--called out my employer for illegal labor practices

--sent my writing out into the world without hours of agonizing over minutiae

Onward.  

Essentialism

This weekend I met up with a friend I hadn't seen in quite some time.  Our conversation turned to life plans, and how we are structuring our living arrangements to support what we want.  I talked about my plans to downsize, to greatly reduce my living expenses so I could afford to travel, and maybe take a day off every once in a while.  She was doing something similar, and she told me that there is even a name for it -- essentialism.

How perfect is that?  Essentialism.  Identifying and spending energy only on those things which are essential to your life.  I felt lighter just thinking of the concept.  

Then I promptly forgot about it.  I have spent the past few days not sleeping enough, running from client to home to other thing to who knows where, with no clear idea of anything beyond the next thing on my calendar.  This morning, in the clear light of exhaustion, I knew that I have been addressing all the things that are essential to those around me, but not to myself.  Without a partner to see me from outside myself, it is difficult to catch these bursts of frantic activity.  This is another continuing adjustment in living Mapless -- the external view from inside.

Today, after an evening doing something I love, and (finally) a good night of sleep, I am back to essentials.  Sleep, eat, move, breathe, and love.  All things with love.  

Stepping Forward, Looking Back

I wrote this a year and a half ago, when change was new and I was different.  Re-posting it now to encourage you all, dear ones, to glance back and really see how far you've come:

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It was less than twenty minutes into our meeting when my realtor had me married to one of the doctors I get referrals from, traveling the world, and probably living in a giant house in Winnetka.  Sold to us by her, of course. 

The first time I talk to anyone about the pending divorce, the reactions are priceless.  I still dread trying to answer "What happened?" and "How are you?" with the mythical, perfect combination of brief, thorough and positive.  But I am starting to look forward to the reactions,  in a purely anthropological way.  The range is instructive, and, more even than a catastrophic illness, it reveals who is a stand-in-the-fire next to you kind of friend.  I have those, to my delight. 

There is A., who shocked me a little with her reaction: "Now you can have a 3-way if you want!" but soon won me over with her unshakeable conviction that this is the blow that will crack my earthly shell and reveal the Goddess who was there all along.

There is my surrogate Jewish mother, who let me come to her home on the Sabbath, the day he moved out.  She took me and my brokenness and uncontrolled crying and did that thing loving moms and dear friends are so good at-- She brought me tissues until I was done crying and brought me food until I was strong enough to return to my newly empty home.

There is lovely C., in a far away city, so clearly wanting to be nearby.  She took moments away from her move and her family to Skype with me, gently advising me to take note of myself and how I really am in the midst of all my planned distractions.

S., on the far side of the country, who used her special brand of firm compassion to remind me to stand up for myself. 

J., my friend and mentor, also far away, who makes me feel smart even as I feel my mind is slipping. She lets me show weakness, but won't let me get away with less than I am capable of.

N., my co-worker, who helped me believe the guy who called me a "sexy goofball" was not mistaken about the first part.

And, most fortunately, my parents.  My mother who helps me to protect myself and lets me know that capital-H Home is always an option.  My father who texts me every day to tell me he loves me.  Both of them carefully following my lead about how they should think of my ex.  They loved him too, after all.

So, despite the random realtor who means well but misses the mark, or acquaintances who choose to think this, like a bad case of stomach flu, will pass by, I find that those closest to me are living up to that closeness.  They have built a wall for me to hide behind while I fall apart, and when I am ready, they will turn around and put me back together again.  We are a closed secret society, and our mission code name is: Operaton Sexy Goofball.

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.