A lot has happened since
I posted last. I’ve all but wrapped up my post-election trauma therapy, paring
down the sessions from weekly to monthly, experimenting with how it feels to
not spend QUITE so much time thinking about trauma.
Part of me hoped that I
would be different once I finished this phase of exposure therapy for PTSD. I’d
heard other survivors talk about feeling more open, more accepting, more
affectionate, less quick to anger. I guess I’ve changed a little, but there are
some boundaries I just can’t bring myself to cross—my yesses are sometimes stronger
and easier but my nos are too. It’s disappointing not to just be open like a
lovey-dovey post-traumatic flower, it feels a little lonely, but given the
world we are currently trying to inhabit, I’m as open as I can be.
I went back to OK
Cupid-ing a little while ago when I realized I was getting a crush on my
massage therapist, whom I would never, ever hit on. I started swiping and
chatting again, and I’ve honed my screening question to perfect bluntness: “Bernie
or Hillary?”
To my heartbreak, I have
NEVER gotten the chance to flirt with a guy who voted for Hillary in the
primary (Seriously, if you know any, kindly send them my way. I will reward
their loyalty with SO much generous sluttiness! And cake!) but I liked The
Socialist’s answer. It gave me the immediate sense that he was solid and
trustworthy, confident, and somehow, I even gleaned from his answer that he
probably had a pretty excellent penis. (Spoiler alert: He does!) I don’t know
how I could tell all of that from a tiny paragraph about politics, but I could,
go me.
Plus, I liked his sense
of humor, and he was a close-to-my-age goth guy who was EXCELLENT at the ultimate
aphrodisiac: talking about Nineties music. I asked him out for wine and cake at
my go-to first date spot, and I delighted in the chance to put a face on for somebody
cute for the first time since the spring.
When I saw him, I was
even more convinced that he might be a match—big enough to make Amazonian me
feel little, so I knew he could probably throw me around. (Further spoiler alert—he
could!) He was smiley and self-effacing in a charming way and so, so funny.
What really sealed in the liking was finding out that we had both been at the
same Dead Milkmen show in 1994-I’m an absolute sucker for that kind of
meant-to-be-ness.
And then (there’s always
an “and then”) The Socialist mentioned that he listens to Howard Stern all day
every day at work. When I expressed shock and dismay, he defended himself a
little:
“But Howard Stern
supported Hillary Clinton!”
“He also helped create
the atmosphere of misogyny that defeated her!”
Knowing that The
Socialist was a fan of one of the grossest decades-long perpetrators of
lady-objectifying, one of the deepest architects of rape culture, should have
been enough to make me leave, but after he conceded that I was probably right,
I stayed, and knowing we probably weren’t right for each other gave me a chance
to let my guard down even more. I confessed that I’ve had a pants-wall since
primaries, that I was worried I would always be at war with men. AND HE WAS
THERE FOR ALL OF IT. What I liked so much about him was his ability to remain
unfazed, to argue without getting defensive or fragile. He’s A MAN.
In spite of my doubt, I
left there giddy. It could have been the wine (I don’t drink enough lately to
take it for granted) but I think it was the laughter. He asked me out again
right away, and I said yes.
Next: What kind of wine
goes with toaster waffles?
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