It’s too early to know what the song of this year will be,
but “Thrift Shop” was my song of last year, the one I woke myself up with on
the way to work, sweated to at the gym, and heard in my head when something,
yes, fucking awesome was happening.
I wrote last fall about how it’s a good philosophy of life;
just being delighted at what you find, letting chance and serendipity show me
where I need to go. With that theory in place, I left the year with an armload
of experiences, many of which were unequivocally awesome, some that didn’t fit,
some that were stained and downright nasty. As unegalitarian as it feels for me
to say this, chance threw some things my way that simply weren’t good enough
for me, and I took them home anyway.
I like that seeing play as a magical thrift shop helped me
to take down a lot of the structures of control that I had in place. Though I
still do love planning and anticipating, I think that my calendar fixation was
a lot about trying to make things stay the same, trying to keep things safe and
cozy for Sweetie so that she wouldn’t yell at me and call me names. I learned
how to be more flexible, to adjust my expectations, and even how to not want to
claim people immediately upon kissing them. Well, a little shaky on that last
one, but still.
I really, really miss it, just powering through and
experiencing every single sensation that I could, even when the emotional cost
was high, even when I had to fight my own instincts to do it. Last night was my
first night skipping the Regular Dungeon in a long time, and though I had a
fantastic time, I still felt nostalgic for the nights where I was able to
experience thing after thing after thing, to slip seamlessly from bottom to
top, from fire to floggers, and feel like a princess superhero while doing so.
It occurs to me that very, very little of that experience had to do with the
Steampunks, so I probably don’t have to give all of it up just because they
don’t like me. I hope to eventually return to some of it after the wounds have
healed.
Back to my metaphor: In real life, I don’t shop like “Thrift
Shop.” Not even when I’m IN a thrift shop. I tend to mostly browse, enjoying
the bright randomness of everything and only picking anything up if it’s really
special, like a tulip-glass pitcher or a perfect grandma cardigan. I would
certainly never take home anything that needs fixing, especially if I already
had a broken keyboard at home.
In regular stores I’m even pickier. In fact, I’m currently
refusing to buy work pants until tapered legs go out of style. I don’t have a
shape or a budget for careless shopping. I’m a grown-ass woman who knows what
she likes and should never have to settle for anything that doesn’t fit or that
I don’t completely love. If I’m that picky with spending my money, can I be a
little pickier with spending my heart?
When my therapist got unavailable because her supervisor
wanted to Girl Interrupted me, I
refused to even look for another one. I couldn’t stand the strangers’ input
that came from the 10-minute screening process. So I waited seven months for my
real therapist to get her own practice, and now she even makes house calls.
There’s a lesson there about waiting for something that works, rather than
trying to fit with things that don’t.
My point, and I do have one, is that I hope to find a
balance between the natural excitement and momentum in my heart and the
discernment that will allow me to get what I want and deserve. That way I can
have chance and magic but also, you know, sanity.
That said, I reallyreally hate being on a break from the
pursuit of sexytimes. My emotions are grateful to have the time to rest, but my
body is like what. the. fuck?
But remembering what pants-on activities I enjoy is
rewarding and comforting. On Thursday night, I sat in the meeting room of a
neighborhood historic building (we have a lot of them) and drew while I listened
to my friends sing and play the most lovely and gently moving music. I was
flooded with a sense of (mostly) platonic wellbeing that nonetheless made me
have to go home and ravish myself.
Last night, Gold Star Winggirl (So named because she sends
me gold stars whenever I’m awesome at being on my break) came with me to a
Bhakti dance, and by the end when we were Om Shanti Shanti-ing, I felt so good
and loved that I could have Om Shanti-Shanti-ed for about 10 more hours. The
best part was getting lots of time to catch up with GSW and root for her
adventures too.
Transcendent and fulfilled as I was though, I still would
have liked to have driven over to the Regular Dungeon and handed out some
what-for. Funny how that’s the thing I miss most.
But guys! Guess what. Granted, it’s only happening on
Twitter (hence the loophole) but for a few weeks, I’ve been spending attention
on a guy who actually gives it back. Who is actually nice to me! Who checks on
me if I’m sad and whose girlfriends and wives and metamours all seem to be
delighted by our exchanges. I’ve never even seen any of their faces and at the
moment I’m not ready too, but I do feel a genuine connection and I think this
is excellent practice for letting myself be treated kindly when it comes time
for IRL flirtations. A gold star for me, and one for the Mystery Man and his
family. (I’m quite sure they’ll be good at sharing a star.)
Likewise, the Recurring Character is being
internet-adorable, telling me semi-daily which of my (G-rated) body parts he is
rooting for. So a gold star to him, too.
Okay, so I’m somewhat terrible at taking a break, but I am
still making a lot of progress: Friday I told Sweetie we can no longer do
groceries together, and yesterday I told her that this is my last week of
sharing the car with her. Next weekend I am going to try and find a car of my
own. I’m getting better at letting Sweetie-things go, and that’s progress.
PS. As I leave on pop song behind, I just want to take a
moment to celebrate and thank the part of my soul that will always sound like
this: