The problem is that I have two hands

On one hand...

Like the band The Darkness, I believe in a thing called love. I believe in connection and cathexis and the life-altering power of vulnerability. I do think, ultimately, that people want to belong and give of themselves to another person (or people) and to feel safe and secure and known while continuing to grow and realize their own potential and human-ness. Quoting Cheryl Strayed, I believe that "the best thing we can do with our life is to tackle the motherfucking shit out of love." I think love--in all its forms, not just romantic--is the ultimate goal of this brief, fleeting moment of time any of us have on our visit to the universe. Loving our parents and children, siblings, friends, community, pets, and, yes, any and all of our lovers, is what gives meaning to our existence. I am way past the point of believing in soulmates or the naive concept of "the one," but I do believe that when/if we are lucky enough to find someone(s) with whom there is that tricky, elusive combination of friendship, respect, and the desire to rip each other's clothes off, that we should take it. We'd be stupid not to, because, I think, the opportunity is rare despite the vast number of people on the planet.

On the other hand...

How can I start something new? It has only been two months since I had my heart broken. I care less about the physical time that has (or has not) passed--though I do harbor a fear that my friends, whom I know want nothing but happiness for me, will not-so-secretly judge me for not being single long enough--but am more skittish about the emotional time.

Put simply, I'm terrified. And rightfully so.

Terrified of getting hurt, again. Terrified that, once again, the rug will get pulled out from underneath me. Terrified, too, of possibly hurting him, remembering all too well the emotional and physical pain caused by heartache. Terrified that if/once we make it real instead of this casual, semi-guarded, loosey-goosey-but-respectful thing we were doing--what we both went into it thinking it would remain--it will get ruined and that maybe the smarter thing is to avoid that entirely.

I'm terrified that I have lost my own ability to judge intention or character on the part of a potential romantic partner and thus have become skeptical, suspicious, and cynical as means to survive.

I'm terrified that we'll choose to fall in love. I'm just as terrified that we won't.  

But on the one hand...

I know that he made my insides feel melty the first time he called me beautiful. I know that even though the odds are always sort of stacked against it, he easily clears my dealbreakers: he is an atheist, lefty liberal, pro-feminist ally who is brilliant, communicative, (really) good in bed, willing to dance, who doesn't want kids, in addition to being honest, kind, thoughtful, romantic, effusive, athletic, musical, charming, playful, flirtatious, affectionate, attentive, emotionally aware, social, introverted, sarcastic, and snarky, with dimples you can drown in. Though he's a wee shorter than my "type" usually is, and opts for contacts instead of glasses, when he cooks me breakfast wearing nothing but pajama bottoms, I think DAY-um: a faded, golden tan + a weekly weight lifting regimen + the just-right amount of chest hair = hello, I'll take some of that, pleaseandthankyou. (It's not quite like this scene from Crazy, Stupid, Love., but close enough.) He's a frat boy with a brain in his head, an accomplished poetry scholar who also won two of his fantasy baseball leagues. He references Judith Butler and William Butler Yeats alongside Lebowski and The League. Whether it's his general demeanor or the fact that he, like I, is a member of the Scarlet D-for-Divorce club, he embraces the balance needed between intimacy and independence, effort and ease. He's not perfect--who is, duh--and there are things I'd tweak if I were manufacturing him in a laboratory, but on the whole? A+

And he is, by his admission, helplessly enamored with me.

But on the other hand...

Sadly or smartly, I can no longer suspend disbelief about relationships. This thing we're starting to do will, statistically and logically speaking, end. Because most relationships do. Even the ones that feel so naturally, scarily right to start. (Think about it: if you date 9 people--casually or seriously, as an idiot teenager or mature adult--before you meet your lifepartner, 90% of them end. And 9 strikes me as low if you consider starting in high school and not getting married (statistically) until your late 20s or 30s.) Add to that the fact that he is very actively on the job market--I am too, but much less earnestly given the nature of our respective employment statuses--and the likelihood of it ending increases with every job application he sends out. (Current count, near 20.) Sure, people do long distance, but hey...how'd that work out for me last time? I do, fully, believe "tis better to have loved and lost," but good grief, isn't enough enough at some point? Factor in that his one hesitation to starting something--a  hesitation that has passed, but still--is identical to one of the reasons ExBF gave for ending things, and this strikes me as particularly ill-advised. It sort of boils down to what is the point, really?

Much worse, I also don't really know how to be in a romantic relationship in which the emotional dedication and desire (the burgeoning love?) is this freely given. You mean...I don't have to work for it? I didn't have to ask or "do" anything besides be myself? As one of my best friends puts it: I have a hard time working with the idea that I don't have to earn it. The rather complicated situation I found myself in allowed myself to be in prior to the most recent ExBF--an exercise in emotional masochism if there ever was one--involved a man who told me "someday. Someday. Someday." But someday never came. With this new person, "someday" came on his own volition--not only did I not ask for it, I most assuredly informed him that I was fine with the aforementioned casual, semi-guarded, loosey-goosey-but-respectful thing we were doing. And I was. Sure, there was one, small detail on his end that made it a bit more complicated than it possibly could have been, but he fixed that. All by himself. He fixed that all by himself, without my asking. He fixed that all by himself, without my asking, because of his overwhelming desire to be with me.

What the fuck?

As someone who studies literary interpretation for a living, I feel wholly unfamiliar with this narrative. I finally learned the hard way to believe people when they tell me things like "I cannot be with you." I have been socialized--unfairly, sure, and with a heavy dose of sexism--to believe that if a man doesn't have to buy the proverbial cow if he's getting the proverbial milk for free that he won't. (This is not a judgment on "buying" v. not "buying," btw. I was happily "giving up the milk." Also, this metaphor is offensive on several levels.) Far, far more distressingly and psychologically disturbingly, I came to the awful realization that I have almost always loved harder than I got loved. 

And yet, at this very minute, I have more walls up than he does. I was the one gently questioned for seeming less-than-mutually "into it" in terms of words and actions. I was the one told "let me in as much as you can, of course, and until you do, I'll be steadily there." He was the one who said "I'm all in," while cupping my face in his hands, our foreheads and noses touching. When I told him "I don't know how to do it this way," he assured me, "you'll get used to it."

But will I? Should I? Can I get out of my own way, relax, enjoy this for what it is, and let it evolve from relationship lite to something more long term/profound should that naturally happen? Or will my tragic flaw of overthinking everything ruin it? Should I take this opportunity for self-exploration and growth with regard to romantic pairings? Or will I, like the plot of every Greek tragedy, fulfill my own prophecies--despite desperately attempting to avoid them--by pushing away too much, too often, because, unconsciously, I would rather be right?

With regard to all of this, my therapist said "it's better to be scared than frozen."

I guess I'm lucky he makes me melt.

Add It to the List

The last time I was in Columbus, I had the misfortune of having to spend a few hours at the mechanic getting (what turned out to be) a leak in my transmission fluid line fixed. This particular location had a plethora of vapid women's magazines at the ready, so while the technicians popped in and out, asking me questions about my car, I flipped through the glossy pages. Recipes, work out tips, clothing tips for various body types, etiquette and dating advice, some terrible short fiction, you know, the typical crap. (Ok, admittedly, I used to be a magazineophile, but I have generally learned the error of my ways, though I'm clearly not fully recovered.) However, this one article struck me as at least mildly interesting--a woman nearing her 40th birthday was trudging her way through doing a bunch of things she had "always wanted to do" and had decided (for reasons biological, cultural, and/or editorial) to try to do most of them before this milestone birthday. 

I don't have that fear of forty that many women seem to have, and it's possibly because I don't want children. (And am ambivalent at best--leaning towards oh hell no--about getting married again.) I don't have that biological clock tick-tick-ticking away as a hormonal metronome keeping the rest of my life on careful beat. That said, while on a walk with a close girlfriend that same Columbus trip, we realized we were both going to be thirty-fucking-five on our next birthday, and it sounded horrifying in a way that thirty-four does not.

So I decided to write my own "40 before 40" list, mostly to force myself to think about the things on the list, rather than freaking out about the socially dictated "OMG KINDASORTA SOON I WILL TURN 40" fear or focus. Some of these things are one-off experiences, some are skills to acquire, some are included less for the experience itself and more for the mental/emotional growth that maybe, just maybe, I need to worth though.

1. Be more sexually/relationship-pily expansive.* I don’t mean sleep with people I’m not attracted to just to do it, or investigate1% of me that isn’t straight--I know sexuality is fluid, but really, I’m just so boringly into dudes except for my sapiosexual crush on Rachel Maddow--but things like have a fun one night stand or successfully negotiate a friends with benefits situation or even—gasp!—be involved with more than one person at a time. These are sexual/relationships “things” I’ve never really done—not truly—and, well, perhaps I should just try them. Why? Because they’re completely out of my comfort zone, and maybe I could learn more about myself along the way.

2. Trapeze/aerial class. I’m pretty terrified of heights and falling. Perfect!

3. 5k/fun run. Whoops—a friend and I bailed on one a couple of weekends ago. There are always more.  And yeah, I have no desire to run a marathon or even half of one. Three-point-one miles is enough, thanks.

4. Foster a senior dog or cat. Elderly pets are often the ones least likely to be adopted or fostered, because they tend to come with a host of health issues and because you know, the sadz. Once Morris goes, rather than having “my own” pet, I think bringing dignity and peace to an animal in its sunset years would be nice for me and my furry friend.

5. Sky dive. See above: terrified of heights. And falling. And jumping. And death.

6. Learn to sew and then make my own pillowcases and/or curtains. I don't need to make clothes, but housing/decor stuff would be neat.

7. Learn to can. I realize I could probably teach myself this with a book or website. I should just do it already. But I would also like the bonus freezer to go along with this, right?

8. Skate in a rollerderby bout.* I am currently practicing with the local team, but am—and will remain—"fresh meat" for quite some time, since the likelihood of me passing the skills test anytime soon is slim. But I’m enjoying it just enough to keep going, so. (And also, skating is great exercise for toning one's legs. That alone is practically worth it.)

9.Travel abroad alone. I wanted to go to Europe alone when I graduated college, and my mom told me absolutely not. At 22 I listened to her. Now I wouldn’t. I have a possible trip planned out for May 2013, but the financial and job situations may prove to be problematic.

10.  Vacation roulette. This is risky and spontaneous and SO un-planful. Perfect! Also, due to the recent breakup, I am drowning in plane tickets.

11.  Visit the cool US cities I haven’t been to or haven’t spent much time in. These include: Portland, Seattle, Chicago, Austin, Boulder, Nashville, Atlanta, Pittsburgh, and Madison, and...?  Potentially relocate to one of them, with Seattle and Portland leading the pack of “yes, please.”

12.  Refurbish a piece of cool furniture—a chair, a desk, a dresser, a table, hell, even a mirror.

13.  Have something non academic published. I have a children’s book partially written, a young adult novel noodling around in my brain, the title for a book of creative nonfiction essays, and these days, a rom-com screenplay idea based on a diabolical fantasy plan I’ve concocted and will never act out. (Maniacally twists mustache.) Hell, even an article in a mainstream publication would be cool.

14.  Learn to drive stick shift. I should have done this pre-recent breakup, because dude drove a sweetass BMW. Alas. I can always rent one. Or something cooler, like a Tesla model S--do they rent Teslas? probably not—or a Porsche or something. Or, you know, a Corolla.

15.  See The Daily Show live. This should speak for itself.

16.  Do some kind of long road bike ride, either as a fundraiser (like Pelatonia) or just to do it. There’s one that goes up the Oregon coast that sounds delightful or even the bike ride across Iowa. Up first—actually owning a road bike.

17.  Get a tattoo. Maybe. This one I’m more dubious about. The rest of these are skills or experiences. This is…permanent ink on my skin. And needles. Yikes.

18.  Get over my fear of needles to donate blood. I’m an organ donor, and, in the event of my untimely demise, would want my body donated to science or chopped up into postmortem bits in order to help as many in need as possible. But damn those blood-donation needles scare the bejeezus out of me. I should get over myself already, I know I know.

19.  Anonymously pay for someone else’s meal or bar tab. Like a cute older couple or a nerdy high school couple out on a date. Or a single woman eating alone at a fancy restaurant, because kudos to you, lady. Or, you know, people who actually need it.

20.  Learn basic French. Because it’s pretty, not because I want to go to France again per se. Though, I mean, who would turn down traveling? And also, Canada! Not to mention a whole host of African countries that, you know, used to be colonized. Welp.

21.  Learn to play the fiddle. I prefer singing to playing an "actual" instrument, but the fiddle intrigues me. If my mom can take up the cello at 65, I can try for this before 40, right?

22.  Be interviewed on NPR or give a Ted Talk or a Pecha Kucha. About what? 40 before 40 lists? My young adult novel? Being militantly childfree? The aforementioned diabolical plan?

23.  Make out with a celebrity. Jason Segel and I are single at the same time again, so…

24.  Teach creative writing to juvenile prison inmates. And no, not in a middle class white woman saves the black kids with Shakespeare kind of way. More in the prison-industrial-complex is fucked up and I should do my part to ameliorate a broken system kind of way.

25.  Do 10 pullups. Yep. Can’t do this. Can’t do more than one. There are a couple of yoga positions I haven’t quite mastered yet, either.

26.  Be a guest on a podcast of some kind.* I’ve had comments and a question read on Savage Love, and was on my favorite Philly radio show four times for various call-in stories, but I want to be the guest-pert.

27.  Hike a “famous” mountain. No interest in doing the AT or PCT (though, after reading Wild it was a fleeting thought), but a not super crazy peak? Are those the famous ones…? Totally.

28.  Hold/pet a baby tiger/lion. Because…obviously.

29.  Swim with sharks. Or at least dolphins. (Are these ventures ethical? If not, then no.) If nothing else, at least do a dive off a pretty high diving board or platform. Nope—never done that.

30.  Apply to the FBI just to see.

31.  Get another degree (MFA? MSW? JD?) or some kind of graduate certificate. Or at least be working on it. (Five years is a bit lofty to finish any of those going part-time.)

32.  Start a Sunday Assembly in my quasi-forever home.

33.  See Book of Mormon on Broadway. I might have to wait until I’m 40 for these tickets, amirite?

34.  Go on a big, cool vacation with my mom. We keep tossing around the idea of going to Alaska or the Galapagos.

35.  Give enough money to an organization that I get my name listed somewhere.

36.  Dance or sing again publicly somehow. (I miss this soooo much.) Even once. Burlesque a bonus, karaoke doesn’t count. But getting tipsy and singing on stage with a cover band does.

37.  Visit my dad’s grave.

38.  Drive cross-country. RV a plus. Hit up weird sites but also cool shit like Mount Rushmore. I drove (well, passenge-d) from Columbus to Oregon this summer, but it was With Purpose, not to See Things.

39.  Do a short stand-up set, even if it’s just at a local open mic night. I’m not naturally funny I don’t think, but I have a couple lines in my head that might be good to start with. And for some reason, stand up seems more my angle than improv, which I am sure I’d be terrible at. And if nothing else, my therapist thinks I’m hilarious. That’s gotta be a ringing endorsement, right?

40.  Fall in love again. Right now, I’m at that post-breakup all-love-is-bullshit-and-relationships-are-stupid-and-men-suck phase, but I would hope that within a 5 year span, I’ll get over that and be willing to risk it again. I probably will, because I’m an idiot.

*Currently works in varying stages of progress.

21st Century Relationships: Or, How Mark Zuckerberg Really Screws with Break Ups

Based on nothing more than movies and TV shows, this is how relationships seemed to go in the past. (Beware--exaggeration ahead!)

Boy passes note to girl in class, offers carries books. Boy calls girl, is polite to dad on phone, asks girl out on date for Friday night, probably a drive-in and a malted milk. Boy does pathetically obvious casual yawn-arm reach, drives girl home by curfew, hopes for kiss. Repeat. Throw in a letter jacket, a class ring, a corsage for prom, and various rapey-attempts to get laid in the backseat of car and you're boyfriend/girlfriend. Perhaps this couple gets engaged before he heads off for the war, or maybe he gets a Dear John letter while overseas. Maybe they break up because Sally wouldn't bone him, but Jane would. Upon said breakup, jackets and rings and mementos would have to be dealt with, and you might have to pass each other on your way to Algebra.  

Now, you meets someone, statistically online. Before your first date, maybe you Google them. You email back and forth a bit, then start texting. You go out a few times, email back and forth when you should be working, excited for a mechanism through which you can "spend your day together." You decide to be exclusive and have a "moment" in which you delete your Match profiles together. You may or may not utter the phrase "I'm not sleeping with anyone I'm not friends with on Facebook!" and then watch, giddily, wearing nothing but cute undies and a silly grin, as he enthusiastically reaches for his iPad to send you a request. Maybe you change your relationship status (or at least discuss why you find this step silly). You follow each other on Twitter, Instagram, Vine, and maybe even connect on LinkedIn. You maybe share a Netflix or Hulu Plus login. You sext. As time goes on and you meet each other's friends and family, your friend lists grow. You Skype when he travels abroad for work and are glad to hear each other's voice, even if his slow bandwidth prevents you from actually seeing each other. When he sheepishly admits to looking at your profile picture a couple of times a day to see your smile, you fall a little bit more in love with him.

And then when you break up, you have to undo all of it.

You delete his number from your cell phone to avoid drunk (or spite) dialing--even though duh you have it memorized--and unlock and delete the sweet texts you'd saved. You unfriend and untag and unfollow. Hide from buddy lists and remove from Skype contacts. Sure, there are tangible mementos, too, but you also have the digital copies of pictures, some of which are shared on a Google drive folder you have to delete, and somehow this step is weirder than throwing the lovenotes and cards and stuffed hippo from your date to Dave and Buster's in a box in the garage. You login one last time to delete your little smiley faced avatar on his Netflix, possibly (ok, totally) hoping the next time he sits down to watch Top Gear or Archer reruns he notices it's gone and gets a case of the sadz.

This shit will slowly kill you if you let it.

Basically, these days, even if you are no longer in physical proximity to an ex, it's really, really hard to escape them in the immediate aftermath of the end. Each of these technological undoings is like hammering a mini-nail in the relationship coffin. Gchat, bang. Facetime, bang. His mom's cell phone number, bang. You think to yourself  "this is so dumb that I'm even talking to my friends about how awful it was to be blocked on Facebook," and yet it also legitimately hurts. You hide the adorably named email folder, but can't quite bring yourself to delete the contents because, goddammit, that is a written record of how good it really was, even if the last entry is the one in which he said "I need to be alone."

A recent article cites research that discovered that it takes 224 tweets to fall in love. Obviously, this "science" is crap, but it highlights the new found ways in which relationships are at the mercy of technology. As stupid as it sounds, one of the worst nights in the narrative arc of my divorce was the night I discovered my ExH had unfriended me. This is a 21st century way of saying "You no longer get access to my life." Being blocked is worse because that is a 21st century way of saying "you no longer exist, period." It doesn't matter why it happened--for all you know, it's because you have two dozen mutual friends and his seeing your comments or tagged check-ins or "so and so likes her status" is painful for him and you think for a second "that's right, motherfucker, you should be hurt."

But honestly, all that matters in that moment is the technological twist of the proverbial knife in your already broken heart.

You know, of course, that deep down it's all better this way. You are grateful to whichever geek Zuckerberg hired who wrote the line of code whose zeros and ones translate to "if two people un-marry each other do not ever recommend them as 'people you may know' despite their having tons of mutual friends." Just like it was easier when your high school boyfriend broke up with you that you lived in different districts, you know that interwebz  absence will help you heal faster. Yet unlike merely allowing the memories to fade--aided, of course, by bourbon and distance and time and occasionally making good/bad decisions with your pantsparts--these technological factors require active undoing and stuffing away the knowledge that you could, easily and for the rest of your life, reach out. Be reached out to. Somehow that makes it worse.

And there is no App for that.

Known Unknowns

Ok, I admit upfront that I am almost disgusted with myself for titling this post with a reference to a quotation by Donald Rumsfeld--I generally find him, his cronies, and his worldview deplorable. (Generally? That's being, um, generous.) However, it is *sigh* fitting for this very moment, so what the hell.

Before I launch into the actual "content," I'm  just going to lay my proverbial cards on the table. About a month ago, I got my heart smashed into smithereens, and I'm going (back) to counseling to deal with it and the issues surrounding it/relationships/etc. (Upswing--based on my health plan, counseling is free. Hell-to-the-friggin'-yeah I say about that.) I am a firm believer in self-help, professional help, and working through our shit in order to be a better work in progress. My counselor--an older gentleman originally from Brooklyn who still has a touch of his accent despite living in Appalachia for nearly three decades, which, dare I say, is refreshing to hear--suggested I "write a letter you'll never send," which I shot down. (He did tell me at our initial session that I could talk back, reject his ideas, interrupt him, etc. We're going to get along great!) I told him that writing "for me" is just not something that works. "It's like the difference between keeping a journal and writing a blog."

"Well," he asked, "do you blog?"

So here I am. It's been nearly 4 months since my last post; I had a wacky, topsy-turvy, emotional roller coaster of a summer. And, like my friend Sarah, I am going to venture into soul-puking. Somewhat guardedly, and there are some topics that will be off limits--like ex-bashing; as Beyonce proclaimed, I'm better than that (and he mostly doesn't deserve it)--but I am hoping to use this space to process out some stuff--even if I get to edit it as I go in a way that ye olde "letter you'll never send" doesn't require.

Here goes.

In addition to the usual emotions that accompany a break up--rejection, loss, anger, etc.--and how they manifest themselves--insomnia, exhaustion, loss of appetite, wocka--this particular break up came with it a whole host of other, domino-effect kinds of consequences. I mean, part of ending anything remotely long-termish is that not only is it a death of a pairbond, but it is also the death of the plans for that pairbond. And, lest you forget, I am a planner. I love plans. I like knowing things in advance, or at least what I can expect to some degree. I, for example, tend to look up the menu for a new restaurant before going, so I can get a sense of what I might order. I do this partially to manage expectations, but it also helps me get really excited about what's to come. Once I have some basics of a situation down, I tend to adapt pretty easily to the rest of it, but I like having at least a skeleton of an idea heading in, if I can. I realize there are no guarantees in life, but the things I can control, even a little? Well, I like to give that a go, thankyouverymuch.

And this break up, in addition to being emotionally devastating, really fucked up The Plan. The Plan for my job. The Plan for my geography and community. Based on our pre-breakup conversations that most couples have when they believe in the permanence of the unit, this breakup fucked up The Plan for that nebulous place in time we lovingly call "the future." The Plan that I was really, really looking forward to for a variety of reasons.

So now I'm left with a whole host of Known Unknowns--damn you,  Rummy!--that are all sort of linked together in one big clusterfuck of uncertainty.

I don't know when I will be able to get out of my current location, which is a town I do not want to live in longer than is absolutely necessary. I'm making the best of it--tis my nature, though at the moment I am also allowing myself to be grumbly--but this is not where I see myself for the next five years, let alone for "the rest of my life." The (Previous) Plan involved relocating to a super neat, totally "me" kind of place--a place that, despite having only been there for three weeks, gave me that "I feel at home here" kind of peace.

I don't know where my career will go.  This is directly tied to the above, of course, but also separate, because of the nature of my current field/profession. The (Previous) Plan allowed for relocating without the requirement of full-time work, at least temporarily, due to the financial situation inherent in cohabitation/two-income households, especially when one member makes a significant amount of money. Now, in order to not be a job-hopper--frowned upon in most professions, but especially academia due to the nature of tenure--I have to seriously weigh moving for New Job against Holding Out. A bird in the hand versus bush situation to be sure, but also not one to be taken lightly. Basically, I have to be prepared to keep that job for the next five years in order to not potentially screw up my career permanently. (Assuming I want to stay in academia, which is a wholly different topic.)

I don't know how deeply my new set of friends and I will be invested in one another, because we're all sort of temporarily in this current location. How do I feel about that? How do they? One member of this circle--affectionately referred to as The Dolphin Pod by another member--said I've been "snatched up into it like a venus flytrap," but it's also exhausting to start over. My friendships are important to me, and I've never really had trouble making friends as an adult, but we're all also itching to get out of here--yet we all might also be here forever.

I don't know how invested to become in my community at large. I'm volunteering at the co-op for something to do that I believe in, plan to volunteer at the rape crisis center, and/or domestic violence shelter, and/or local branch of Dress for Success, for the same reasons. I might join the local roller derby team, too, because it scares the ever-loving shit out of me, which is, at the moment, enough motivation to pursue it in the name of Being Expansive. I'm too antsy and social justice oriented to just go to work, the gym, and home every day, but there's also mental energy required in these investments, not to mention things like commitment and dedication to the organizations.

Because I'm trying to get out of here (and because I'm just, you know, not mentally there yet), romantic pursuits are currently off the table, and, if I'm being honest, I doubt the next guy is in these here parts anyway. So not only do I not know when my next potential relationship will start--which is fine in theory, but also something I desire for my life--I don't know the next time I will have human contact outside of a platonic hug. (Seriously--that rent-a-cuddle-buddy idea is brilliant.) I don't know the next time I will have meaningful-to-me sex. (Casual sex is not, by definition, devoid of meaning, but I tend to prefer some sexual acts--namely intercourse--to be within the confines of commitment for maximum meaningfulness. I am going to try to work on being expansive about this, though. Maybe.) And, despite all the well-intentioned affirmations from my friends, I also don't know if I'll ever find someone else. Sure, sure, other men exist who likely pass my dealbreakers and then possess the next few things on the desireables list, and it is possible these men would also be interested in me, but some people end up alone. And that's ok. And maybe one will be me. And that might have to be ok, and if that's how it goes, I'll embrace it. But it's not my preference, because I enjoy partnership and romantic love. Of course, I could meet a(nother) man of my dreams and he could get hit by a bus. Obviously. But anytime a longish-term romantic pairing ends, the likelihood of being alone goes back to being higher than it was before it ended. Eat up, cats.

Basically, because the previous Plan is no longer, all four areas of my life that matter--career, community, friendship, partnership--are simultaneously up in the air. (Ok, of course health matters. But that strikes me as different.) If even one or two of the four were more stable, it might feel less overwhelming, but interconnectedness is the name of the game at the moment, and it's a lot. I realize, naturally, that these things are perhaps minor compared to the alterations faced in other people's Plans. Death or serious injury/illness of a spouse, your child being diagnosed with a terminal illness, job loss, or Mother Nature related catastrophes are certainly more complex and weighted more heavily than my own desires to live in a funky place with a job I like and friends and a partner. I get that. Yet as someone who Likes to Plan, all of these Known Unknowns are testing the limits of my emotional faculties, especially when coupled (ahem) with the crushing disappointment of The Death of the Other Plan. It requires a different kind of resolve to say "ok, here is the situation I am in for the next nine months and how I should handle it" than it does to say "ok, here is the situation for the next nine months that I am trying to change but can only partially control for the outcome given the nature of the situation itself." As The Dude said, "lotta ins, lotta outs, lotts what-have-yous...lotta strands to keep in my head, man."

I can only do so much, here, but I'm doing it. I can approach this new found untetheredness with a sense of expansion and pro-action; I can work through not only my aforementioned issues of loss and relationship bullshit but also my approach to things like uncertainty; and, as I've written about before, I can honor my limitations until my flexibility arrives.

And, if nothing else, at least I've got death and taxes.

My New Mantra

A week or so ago, my mom was visiting and we went to yoga per her usual Saturday routine back home. Our teacher, Amy, was fantastic and during the course of practice said a phrase that really resonated with me: honor your limitations until your flexibility arrives. Now, obviously, in the space of a yoga studio, this has a more literal meaning--if you can't put your palms flat on your mat, be ok with it until you can--but I've held onto the more figurative undertone since and am trying to adopt it into my life. Like many people--women especially, though not solely--who are driven, ambitious, and lean toward perfectionism, I am highly self-critical. When I can't do something well--or, worse, at all--on the first try, or if I make a mistake, it bothers me immensely. I see the things I cannot do or cannot do well as flaws--I should be able to X; I should be able to do Y better--even if it makes no sense. These limiting thoughts follow me professionally, personally, romantically, and they are just that: limiting. Terribly so. And yet.

*******
For my birthday, I bought myself a bike. It's something I had wanted to do for a while, and no, not just because my boyfriend is a successful, competitive cyclist. It's greener, another form of exercise, faster than walking, something to do when the weather is nice, etc. I haven't owned a bike since high school, because I've lived in mostly suburban places, where it's harder--though, certainly, not impossible--to get around via bike, since my commute to work would have been, oh, you know, like an hour. So when I moved in with said boyfriend to a more urban part of Columbus, I treated myself.

And yet. I'm still a wee nervous about biking on the road, especially the main thoroughfare of the city or the cross street that is closest to my apartment because it has a steep hill with a curve at the bottom and a single lane for traffic. I don't love intersections where I have to make a left. I've done it twice now, but biking at night freaks me out a little, less because of seeing/being seen and more because in my vivid imagination I'm going to be abducted at a stoplight and never heard from again. I'm neither fast nor strong, and despite my designed-especially-for-ladies saddle, I still feel sore in my, erm, "undercarriage." Hell, half the time, my spatially challenged brain can't wrap its mind around locking the damn thing to the nearest rack.

These are my limitations. And I'm going to honor them. So I take alternate routes to avoid High Street unless I'm in a group. So I have to plan extra time to make sure I can find a spot to secure my bike, knowing I'll look like an idiot for a bit, fumbling with the lock and key. So I ask for help. I'll get more lights to make coming home in the dark easier. So I wear liner shorts with a padded channel if I know I'll be riding longer distances. So I sometimes--gasp!--act like a pedestrian and use the sidewalk and "safe to cross" signal to turn left at intersections, something that seasoned cyclists likely view as anathema. I've gone up that scary cross-street hill: I'm not quick, and my heart races a little bit  (hooray, cardio!), but I do it and relish the thigh-burn once it's flattened out.

Honor your limitations until your flexibility arrives.

*******
I cannot remember a time in my life when I did not have body image issues. I hate this about myself, but I am not alone. I can't name a single female friend who doesn't hate or complain about part of her body sometimes, and I know lots of men who do, too. (I bet more men would share these feelings if it were more culturally acceptable to do so.) It is sad that even the most feminist, female-celebrating among us, those of us who can also name things about our bodies we do love--to say nothing of our minds and personalities--cannot let go of the concept of "bodily perfection," even if we simultaneously recognize that this is self-defeating, culturally bound, always changing (Marilyn Monroe to Twiggy, anyone?), and damn near "universal." In the cruel irony of the world, my favorite seasons, spring and summer, make me even more self conscious about the parts of myself I like the least: Shorts are horribly unflattering on me. Short skirts don't work, either. I have zero cleavage, so lots of tanks, sundresses, and bathing suits fall--pun intended--flat. I'm really fair skinned--not only do I not tan, I burn just by thinking about sitting in the sun under an umbrella with a hat. I also bruise easily, so my pale legs are also usually dotted with varying shades of blue and green because I seem to have no concept of my physical body in space. (Also, see above: new to biking. Crashed once already. Epic bruise.) My curly hair rebels against humidity. but my endocrine issues prevent me from growing it much longer so I can't do "cute things" with it. I think my toes look weird in some sandals. Maxi dresses, a very "in" style that are long--hence I could avoid the problems inherent in short skirts--swallow me whole with their overabundance of fabric because I am so petite. You see, the logical part of my brain understands that I shop in the 0-2 size rack*; the emotional part of my brain isn't on board.

These are my limitations. And I'm going to honor them. So I wear capris, not shorts. So I don't partake in toe-isolating gladiators with a stylish maxi dress. So I buy skirts that graze the knee. My small cup size means I can go bra-less, and I've decided to do that as much as possible this summer--culturally dictated norms about nipples be damned.

But I'm also in a mode to be more flexible about this; unlike biking, which is much newer to me, this is a 20 some odd year limitation. And my flexibility won't arrive unless I take active steps to make it appear. I actually bought two--that's right, two--dresses that come a very scandalous full inch above my knee. I gave up cardio and weights for May, and instead am doing only yoga (and biking), which I'm hoping will help me honor the body I have instead of wishing it were different, even though as I type this, I'm emailing with a friend about how it's stressing me out. I have been trying to have more conversations between the logical and emotional sides of my brain about clothes and fit and function and fearlessness, to mixed results. I might not ever get flexible on this, but I have to try.

I'm honoring my limitations, but I'm working towards flexibility.

*******
I could say the same about so many other facets of my life: who doesn't have baggage that impacts personal and romantic relationships? I would like to meet that person, because I think you're a mythical beast. I believe, fully and enormously, in the power of vulnerability and see so clearly the importance of wholeheartedness. But you know what? They're both fucking terrifying.  However, in order to be a better partner, and reap more out of love, I am working to be more flexible about my limitations, especially with regard to being expansive and eliminating fear based emotions, like my friend recently blogged about. (Seriously. Read her.) So I get professional help. So I read about it. So I talk through these feelings with ever-patient friends. I talk myself through the contradictions in the logical and emotional parts of my brain. (Luckily, as an only child, I have lots of practice talking to myself.)

The same is true for gardening. Food. Reading. Writing. Sex. Being the kind of citizen I want to be in the world we live in and wanting to change it. Even driving. But I can't "fix" my limitations all at once, if at all, and so the only rational response, the only way I can achieve a modicum of inner peace, is to honor them while waiting--and working--for my flexibility to arrive.

At least I can get my palms flat on my yoga mat. Phew.

*This is not me validating our cultural obsession with thin-ness by bragging that I wear a 2. This is me pointing out the ludicrousness of rationally understanding that I am petite but focusing on my flaws, like, you know, the fact that I'm a woman in my mid-30s who has a little bit of flesh on her lower half. This just in: I have an ass. And it jiggles.

The "Hungry" Games: The Politics and Power of Words and Food

I have always tried to be conscious of language. I haven't been, nor will be, perfect--who is?--but I've always tried. My college roommate used to joke "don't say 'retarded' around Reeni; she gets mad." My students would warn each other "don't say 'gay' in Ms. B's room--she'll write you up!" (True--though only after many, many conversations about the whole idea.) I recently had a conversation with my mother who, despite her progressive leanings and liberal politics, is also unaware of some common changes (among certain groups, I s'pose) in language use, like, you know, not calling people Oriental. We talked it out; she got it.

There are loads of blogs and articles and posts and videos about not using "gay" or "retarded" as pejorative terms to mean stupid, unfair, lame, etc. The n-word conversation seems to come in shifts--at least in my exposure to the conversation as a white woman--usually around events like Rue's death in The Hunger Games movie, Jay-Z talking to Oprah, a school district banning Huck Finn, or, you know, a black man getting voted President (twice). A while ago a friend posted a link on Facebook about how we've too casually appropriated mental health diagnoses to mean something they're not, like calling yourself "OCD" if you prefer to organize your sock drawer a particular way, or throwing out the phrase "schizo" or "schizophrenic" to describe a particularly harried day in which you had a host of things to accomplish and felt pulled in multiple directions. I also think the suffix -Nazi gets overused, as in Idiot Limbaugh's term "feminazi" or even Seinfeld's famous "no soup for you" Nazi. Dane Cook, who I typically despise, even has a pretty funny and smart bit about how we overuse the term "rape," something that is, naturally, getting a well deserved bit of attention these days as a result of the batshittery of the Steubenville case.

Sure, all of these are on different registers and involve myriad factors and contexts, not the least of which includes the idea that some words derive from positions of power in which the privileged "get to" name the less so. Some of these are more about sensitivity, or, heavenforbid, political correctness. Some people--though, I admit, not too many people with whom I'm close--wax nostalgic for the days when we as a culture weren't so "politically correct." Which really seems to mean "I wish I still lived in the days when I, a person of privilege, didn't have to be so careful when I talk about those who are different from me." Yes, sometimes it feels like I spend an awful amount of time being aware of my word choice and language use, especially since the person I live with is also hyper vigilant about the politics and power of speech. (And for this, I adore him so.) But you know what? I am clearly in a privileged position if the hardest thing I have to worry about most days are the words coming out of my mouth.

It is this privilege that leads me to want to add one or two more words/phrases to this list of "things that I could say but am choosing not to because I believe in the intersection of social justice, language, and power." Hungry and starving.

This is actually not super new for me, though my vigilance about it is going to be. I still remember a story from 1999, when I studied abroad and was living in Israel with a bunch of new friends. I don't remember the specifics of the situation, except that perhaps it was nearing the end of the Sabbath and, because most of my friends were quite observant, we hadn't cooked food that day, certainly hadn't gone out to eat, or something. Anyway. My friend Sarah, a wonderful person who was (is, I assume) committed to social justice, remarked that she was "starving." I responded that "well, you're not starving. Probably just hungry." Many years later, she told me she still thinks of that moment and how my comment to her gave her perspective. I recently said something very similar to my partner who is a cyclist. After he goes on one of his several-hour-long bike rides, he comes home and consumes what can only be described as a monstrous amount of calories in near record fashion. I pointed out that no, he's not really starving. Did he need to replenish his body with calories after a workout? Sure. But that's not the same as starving. Even as a child of a single parent who struggled at times to make ends meet, even as a graduate student living on loans, I have never once in my life been starving. Hell, I've never even been food insecure.

After seeing the documentary A Place at the Table today, I also call into question our use of the word hungry. What does hungry really mean? If my stomach is growling because I forgot my snack for work, am I hungry? You can be hungry for food (or sex or justice or revenge), but to use the word hungry to describe your state of being? Especially if it's a temporary one that will be fixed in the next hour or so if not sooner? Is that an ethical word choice when upwards of 50 million people in our great nation don't know when their next meal is coming, or from where? What if we assigned the same power to the words hungry and starving as we do to any of the aforementioned?

How can I call myself hungry, when:

• Today I spent about $25 on groceries, which included fruit, organic snacks, and ingredients for a celebratory dessert for a shindig this weekend. That's on top of the larger grocery run I made Sunday. Other than perhaps avoiding places like Whole Foods, which I love but is pretty heavily priced, I know that I have the money--yes yes, it's loans, but still--to buy almost everything I/we want and need. We're both into organic, local-when-we-can, all natural stuff, too, which often (though  not always) adds another layer of cost on top of it. I choose to spend my money that way.
• I know that if something terrible were to befall me financially, my family would be able to help me out so I could still eat.
• I can easily walk to a couple of "fully stocked" grocery stores, a plethora of other stores that carry "food" (I use the scare quotes to mean "things that are edible but are mostly chemicals, really"), and drive to still others within a not-so-huge radius. I don't have to spend hours getting to and from the store. From Spring through Fall there is also an amazing farmer's market nearby. I do not live in a food desert.
• Last night I treated my partner and me to a dinner at a relatively expensive place in town to celebrate his birthday and spent nearly 4 times the allotted weekly amount for SNAP on one meal. (Ok, two if you count me having leftovers for dinner tonight.) This will likely not be the only time we dine out this week.
• I count--yes, I literally counted--over 50 different foodstuffs in our refrigerator, including 3 different kinds of milks, 4 cheeses, 2 fruits, 5 veggies, whole grains, healthy snacks, juice, meats, and leftovers. That's not counting our fruit and veggie bowls on the counter, the cupboards full of cereal, nuts, healthbars, quinoa, rice, and snacks, or the freezer, which has more meat, veggies, fruit, and treats, or the cabinet with the Lazy Carl--we think calling it a Lazy Susan is sexist--that has spices, oils, flour, etc.
• I can afford the electric bill to pay for the fridge and stove. 
• I have thrown out food that has gone bad because it isn't laced with preservatives and been more upset at having wasted the money rather than worrying I wouldn't eat that day.
• I can pay for gas to drive to the store, so I don't have to only purchase what I can carry easily in my hands or wrangle on public transportation. (Obviously lots of people in urban settings choose to do this; I'm merely pointing out that not everyone has this choice who wants it.)
• I did not have to choose this month or next whether to pay a bill or feed myself, whether to eat or take medicine, whether to feed myself or feed my cat.
• I have time in my day to prepare healthy meals. I make my partner breakfast and lunch to take to work, make both for myself as needed, graze all day, and then usually collaborate on dinner. 
• Hell, I went to the gym today to work off calories.

The politics of food, food security, agribusiness, hunger, nutrition, and the food industry are enough to incite a full blown rage for me; I'll avoid ranting about them, which is actually shocking given my penchant for political and cultural ranting. You get the ideas above. There are policies and institutions in place in our country that make eating, especially healthy eating, a daily struggle for millions. I am privileged enough to not be among them. Not lucky enough, not deserving enough. Privileged.

While it won't make a grand scale change to anyone except me, I have decided to take the SNAP Challenge for my birthday in April. (I'll make rules and I'll blog about it.) And, though it, too, will likely have little to no impact on the world, I plan to be more conscious of the language I use when talking about food availability.

(I also have a grand scheme for a Twitter and/or Instagram campaign to raise awareness and/or money, but...I'm going to try to actually work that out before sharing. For once.)

2012 In Review. Sorta.

Last year, I followed in RA's footsteps and did this 35 questions thing. Like her, I'm doing it again. Though I doubt I have much new to report. Hmm. Grad school just isn't fodder for much excitement or change.

1. What did you do in 2012 that you’d never done before?
Went to Vegas, met my half-sister, wrote/defended PhD candidacy exams, and did my dissertation research. At least three of those I am not in the least be interested in repeating. Oh! And I volunteered for Obama's campaign for the post-primary election season. That was...interesting.
2. Did you keep your new year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
I didn't really make resolutions for 2012, nor do I  plan to for 2013, exactly. I have recently decided to try giving up caffeine--while writing my dissertation, what?--and so far it's helping with my endocrine symptoms. I also got really good about shopping at the farmer's market every Saturday.
3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
Aunt Hilary's brood grew by at least two, Holden G. and  Giovanni P.  Lots more acquaintances had babies, too. It continues to be an epidemic, I say.
4. Did anyone close to you die?
Thankfully, no.
5. What countries did you visit?
In many ways, Vegas seems--or at least likes to think itself--a foreign country. I stayed in the U.S. this year. This has got to stop! 
6. What would you like to have in 2013 that you didn’t have in 2012?
A full time, salaried job, perhaps? Though I'm starting to doubt this whole academia business. 
7. What dates from 2012 will be etched upon your memory, and why?
No dates, exactly, but exams (late spring), research (fall), and New Year's Eve will be memorable. (At least one of those will be remembered fondly.) 
8. What was your biggest achievement of this year?
I sound like a broken record, but getting my exams, proposal, IRB, and dissertation research done in 6 months is pretty key to the whole future Dr. Brewster situation. Having a dozen or so first round interviews was a wee bit of an Academia Ego Boost, too, though nothing has gotten to the next round quite yet. 
9. What was your biggest failure?
Hmm. I got a couple of publication rejections, which will surely be a continuing saga of my academic life. Oh, and my car got broken into while I was house sitting, which then in turn resulted in my adviser's garage being robbed. This wasn't my fault, clearly, but it was an epic fail.
10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
Well, not exactly. I was placed on a strict, medically induced diet for the summer in an attempt to resolve my endocrine/thyroid/hormonal issues, but that's not really the same thing. So no, thankfully.
11. What was the best thing you bought?
Oooh, probably a pair of nude, "snakeskin" T-strap peeptoe heels, or maybe the slinky silver dress I wore to a New Year's Eve wedding. My awful, roll-y teacher cart helped Team Dissertation, and to make it less terrible, I've decorated it with bumper stickers. (Politically themed, natch.)
12. Whose behavior merited celebration?
The rescue workers during Hurricane Sandy (I stole this answer from RA), and, quite frankly, good ol' POTUS supporting gay marriage is pretty freakin' great.
13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?
How about the Aurora, Colorado shooter, the Newtown shooter, the Sikh temple shooter, the Seattle mall shooter...oh, and probably some dictators and a lot of the GOP, especially all of those white men saying stupid crap about rape, abortion, birth control, and transvaginal ultrasounds. Ugh.
14. Where did most of your money go?
Rent, bills, and I had to drop $1100 on necessary car maintenance over break. Yowza.
15. What did you get really excited about?
Meeting Shawna, the aforementioned PhD stages being completed, the fact that my dissertation "worked," and New Heteronormative Resisting  Exclusive Male Partner. (Boy/girlfriend are terms we've decided to reject because we're both academic dorks.) 
16. What song will always remind you of 2012?
Oh, good grief, that stupid Carly Rae Jepsen "Call Me, Maybe" summer ear worm. At least some of the videos are pretty entertaining.  Wait--was that from this year? Hmmm.
17. Compared to this time last year, are you: a) happier or sadder? b) thinner or fatter? c) richer or poorer?
Assuming I accept these binaries: Happier, neither, and technically poorer, since I accumulated more debt, even though my third year GA monthly paycheck was larger. By, you know, like $5. Woot.
18. What do you wish you’d done more of?
Blogging, academic writing, reading, outdoorsy stuff in Ohio, cooking, traveling.
19. What do you wish you’d done less of?
Allowing myself to be stressed out by people whose behavior I can't/couldn't control, going on bad dates, facing big deadlines.
20. How will you spend Christmas?
I went home to see my mom; we did low key gifts, watched Downton Abbey Season 2, did a bunch of snowshoeing/skiing, and just hung out.
21. Did you fall in love in 2012?
You know what? Yes. Yes I did. It snuck up on me right there in November/December. And it is both magical and terrifying. Mostly magical.
22. What was your favorite TV program?
My favorite pundits, Rachel Maddow and Chris Hayes, still have top billing, but I also learned about The League, which is terribly funny, and got on the Downton Abbey bandwagon.
23. What was the best book you read?
I listened to Tina Fey's memoir Bossypants in the car on one of my many trips from PA to OH. Amazing.
24. What was your greatest musical discovery?
I realize I'm way late to the party (per usual), but my friend Jarad told me about Macklemore. "Thrift Shop" is one of my new jams, for sure.

25. What did you want and get?
Hopefully smarter. Oh, and remember that time I blogged about finding a guy who passes the 5-6 dealbreakers? Yeah. He exists.

26. What did you want and not get?
So far, a job.
27. What was your favorite film of 2012?
I see a lot of movies. But. Beasts of the Southern Wild was beyond amazing.
28. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
It's my Jesus year--33! My friend Matt and I took a ballroom dancing lesson (my idea--he begrudgingly humored me) and then went out to a yummy dinner.
29. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
 Finding HREMP on Match faster and having a chance to see more of my non-Ohio friends more often.
30. How would you describe your personal fashion concept of 2012?
Lots of jeans/flats/tshirt/cardigan combos in fall and spring, sweaterdresses and boots in winter. Though quite frankly, I spent a bunch of time in my OSU sweatshirt and schlubby pants. It's a bennie of academia, I guess. My fashion concept was also informed/limited by my two favorite second hand stores. 
31. What kept you sane?
My Columbus girlfriends, my mom, organic dark chocolate raisins, the staff at Caribou Coffee on Tremont Road, several podcasts, and BodyAttack. 
32. What political issue stirred you the most?
Ugh, all of the vitriol regarding gay marriage and the aforementioned batshittery about women's sexual health and choices. Oh, and gun control. GAH. The election in general gave me inRomneya.
33. Who did you miss?
All of my non-Columbus friends that I don't get to see frequently enough.
34. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2012.
One time this summer, I accidentally caught the wrong bus to campus on a morning I had to teach. (I wasn't paying attention--clearly--and didn't even consider the idea that something other than #18 came to my stop.) It was a pain to deal with, cost me $12 in cab fare, and made me feel like an idiot. (Though I did get to work on time.) But. I recognized then that almost every problem has a solution. You might not like the solution (attention, political leaders), but almost every problem can be solved somehow.
35. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year.
 I should be hip enough to include something from Mumford & Sons or some other funky, indie type band. But I'm not. And, quite honestly, music is generally not my thing the way it is for some people. I've got nothin'. If it weren't so late, maybe I could find a quote from politics/movies/books, but you know what? I'm tired and going to bed.

May your 2013 be lucky!