Brotherly Love

My boys are boys.  They fight and yell and curse each other out.  They are affectionate and loving and sensitive and tender.  They protect each other but they are also terrifyingly violent with each other. They're boys and they're brothers and all three are my sons. Kid1 was a surprise that came with joy and excitement.  Every time I puked while pregnant, I laughed.  It didn't happen often, but really warm gatorade would make anyone vomit, and I just learned to steer clear of whole milk, but 2% was just fine.  I celebrated the stretch marks that were his permanent gift to my body.  I was altered by him in so many ways from the girl that lived for attention in short dresses and only worried about making sure I had my three packs of cigarettes a day and enough boys in rotation throughout the week to buy me drinks.  A week before his first birthday, I found out we were having Kid2.

During my second pregnancy, I would place Kid1's hand on my belly to feel Kid2 move and kick.  I'd also pick out pictures in magazines or point at the television anytime I saw a pregnant woman.  I would point at the belly we saw, then mine and say,"baby." When he was 18 months old we went to the hospital and in my hospital bag was a toy packed for Kid1 from Kid2 because he needed a toy to keep him busy while he was too little to be played with.  When we came home, Kid1 was taught that Kid2 was his baby and we all had to be gentle with him and care for him.

With Kid3, we had a 3 year gap, but the older two were taught the same way.  Earlier this year I heard Kid2 (at 13 years old) tell Kid3 (9), "you were created so I could love you." In that moment I knew they would be okay.

With my first surrogate pregnancy, I didn't mention much at all.  I kept the kicks and wiggles to myself and just enjoyed what it felt like to have life so fully inside of me.  The hospital stay was odd for them, but I came home to them filled with hormones that directed my happy bonding compulsions at them.  It was the same with the second surrogate pregnancy, but with the third, they were older and Kid1 was upset that the girls I carried wouldn't be ours.  He likes babies and would like a sister.  I'm not looking to start that kind of adventure but that might be one of the perks of divorce.  He has a Dad that might.

Tonight, there was fighting and playing.  And more fighting and name calling.  I finally got them to stop.  I explained that I love them all and it hurts me when they say things like that about each other.  I explained that they never hear me say bad things about their Dad because I know it would hurt them.  I explained that the same hurt they would feel is the same hurt I feel whenever they say things like, "are you on team pussy now?" (I admire their creativity.) It took about 3 reminders but they were better about treating each other with love.

There was singing today.  My boys sang with me, as we belted it out to Lady Gaga.  They laughed and explored with oobleck (cornstarch and water and super fun). They played Minecraft together and helped each other scoop boba into their glasses for homemade Thai iced tea.  These brothers are everything to me and through their experience, I am unlearning a lifetime of what I thought it was to be a man.  They are sweet and sensitive.  They are caring and compassionate.  They love children and are willing to step beyond what they see and tap into their beliefs and how those beliefs inform their choices.  They remind me that motherhood is amazing.

These Hands

These hands have dug in fresh soil and planted tiny seeds.  They have watered thirsty seedlings, weakened by the sun and pulled weeds determined to steal their care.  They have scrubbed bare feet that wiggled in freshly turned soil and crusted in dry earth and chipped nail polish. These hands have snipped fresh herbs from the garden because there is magic in them.  They picked out ingredients in the grocery store.  They've washed and chopped and seasoned to taste . . . They've crafted a meal laced with love and a little booze.  My sons ate their food in silent tribute without a moment to savor the flavors these hands carefully balanced.

These hands have prepared needles and plunged them deep in flesh during seven IVF cycles to bring life to families I don't see anymore.  They have carefully measured and filled hormones in oil and given self administered scar tissue and knots under flesh that wasn't prepared to house the medications that forced a life where there wasn't one.

These hands have cradled a growing womb, caressing and loving children that were loved profoundly from the moment their existence was known.  They have tapped back at kicking limbs and pushed back on rolling turns as a growing child sought comfort in confined spaces.

These hands have changed diapers that painted on canvases of infant backs and ruined onesies with mustard consistency.  They have caught vomit before the projectile ruined furniture. They have burped babies that couldn't do it on their own with a spit up payment of spoiled milk.  They have spoon fed baby food and fought exploring tongues that pushed their food out instead of helping them swallow it down.  These hands have cooled burning flesh in cooled bath water while being covered in the smell of sickness breathed out by weak children like dragon's fire.

These hands have held children close to my heart, in unconditional love and loving abandon.  They have rocked them to sleep and brushed their hair with gentle back scratches.  They have held open books as voices were changed between characters.  They have held little hands and taught them how to knead dough that's baked into the sweet aromas of yeast and sugar.  They have taken pictures of children singing and laughing and learning through exploration.  They have felt the soft and tender flesh of a newborn.

These hands have written love letters and careful explications.  They have used pen and pencil, keyboards, and crayons to tell the secrets of my heart.  They have erased and backspaced and scrapped the old to make room for something new.  They have filled out applications and completed documentation because autism moms have to paper tiger through life.

These hands have held other hands.  They have found solace in connection and traced the lines of faces meant to be memorized visually, and tactilely.  They have rested on firm chests with racing hearts.  They have tickled and teased through hair and on dampened skin, sticky with the wonders of a life in motion.  They have felt the sensations of pleasure I've known in the touch of another and they have granted sensory joy in careful exploration.

These hands can use a hammer and drill.  They have dug holes and laid new plumbing. They have repaired electrical outlets. They have replaced vanities and changed tires.  They have picked up dead animals and nurtured small ones to health.  They have scrubbed floors on hands and knees and washed dishes that no one ever notices.  They scrub toilets and bathtubs and take the trash out.  They carry large bags of dog food and cat food and bottled water because I don't trust my pipes.

These hands have been manicured and cared for.  They have been dried out by frequent washing in scalding water.  They have been massaged and neglected.  They have known callouses from the uneven bars in gymnastics, and weights, and garden tools with yard work and bare hands.  My knuckles have known the sting of flesh punched off of bony fingers.  They have healed into hardened scabs that eventually lost all memory of their trauma.  They have soothed me when stressed by picking at scabs or with bitten nails, and picked at cuticles.  These hands are sensitive.  These hands are mine.

Living in the Moment

Being in the moment is something I intentionally work for.  It shouldn't be work, but it often is.  I can tell when I'm not in the moment because time is never doing what I want it to.  If time seems to slow to a crawl, I'm living in the past.  I'm looking at what was and trying to remember it presently and boredom and apathy settle in and around me.  When time is flying and I don't have enough of it, I'm living in the future.  I have too many things to do and too little time to accomplish my goals.  It's not enough time to read or write or tackle my latest project.  I have some deadline that hovers and obscures this moment right now.  I worry about some imagined deficit and have a hard time remembering that I usually have exactly what I need and it falls into my lap at precisely the moment I need it to. I had a brief conversation this afternoon and the statement I heard was a simple reflection about the difficulty of living in the present.  My response was about my daily goal to live in the moment and "BE."  I try to be and do epic shit daily.  It's a happy place to find yourself in.

Once I started heading home, I really had to think about what that means, because as I was driving home, I wasn't in the moment. I wasn't present in traffic.  I wasn't aware of the car I was in or the music on the radio.  My thoughts were on the back patio at work with my favorite sweater holding me and the muted heat of the sun barely caressing bare flesh.  I was observing soccer players in the nearby park and appreciating the beauty of the mountains and superficial conversation with company I always enjoy.

I started to wonder what being in the moment is really about.  Is it actually a subjective concept?  I mean, I was at home, with a dog begging for belly rubs and a cat hoping for a canned meal treat and my mind was reliving and exploring what happened an hour prior.  Was that my moment though? I was physically with my dog and cat, and my kids were gaming loudly inside, but the moment I held onto was being lived again in my head.  I was able to savor and hold the memory and I didn't rush through it.  I didn't feel it slipping by too slowly.  I was present in the moment of a memory and that memory was a moment of peace and joy.

In the last few days I've been flirting here and there.  It's been silly banter or lingering looks and I can appreciate it for a moment, but any longer and I look away.  I'm really not interested.  I'm playing with online dating but I'm not taking it too seriously.  It's really become an audition to see if there might be someone beautiful enough to give up my alone time but I know the answer before I even swipe.  I even let my cat swipe for a while in an effort to be that lonely cat lady.  True story.  I recognize it as a moment with a stranger that highlights other moments I've had in recent months, and those moments are too tempting to fall into with tender affection and slow observation.  In those moments, I'm in the past, but that past still brings a bright joy to the present and those moments are my present moments because of the joy assigned to them.

It's not a moment in the past where I am lost to a dream that I'm trying to change.  I didn't carry expectations that became resentments.  It's not a future I want to create.  It's a moment in the past that still shades my present in rosy tones and floral scents.  It's stepping back into a moment that makes the present moment beautiful and hopeful.  The moment can be subjective.  Right now could be right this day, or right this month, and I imagine it can be the beauty of a good year.  It's a moment.  It's now.  Now can last as long as we allow it to.

And I'm still wondering how long right now is supposed to last.

Love Bombs

It feels amazing when a love bomb is dropped all over you.  It shatters the inner dialogue that claims you are not enough, or worthy, or that you need to be more than you see in the mirror. You are seen intimately.  The call of your heart is heard and held and it resonates with meanings that are understood. You are given such a pure vision of how you present yourself that there is no denying that you are a beautiful being, full of light and possibility.  You are validated and shown that there is value in who you are as you are, without further expectation of who you should be based on a value system you are never expected to understand.  Love bombs are epic. I love your capacity to love.

I love your ability to see beauty through the ashes.

I acknowledge your pain and validate your anguish.

I love watching you dance and hearing you sing.

I love your excitement over good food.

I love your spontaneity.

I love your caregiving nature and servant's heart.

I appreciate your generosity.

I see you as beautiful and feel your power and authority over your life.

I acknowledge your accountability.

I appreciate your vulnerability.

I admire your ability to internalize criticisms as a catalyst for intentional change.

You amaze me.

Yesterday I was committed to being gentle with myself.  Still fractured from behavior I'm not proud of, I was seen and given a couple of objective views of the situation.  I was given an explosion of unconditional love. I was given love in my weakness and in behavior I regretted.

I love bombed all over myself. It was a Thursday night and while I usually take Thursdays as a day to feel small near the ocean, I used it as a date night for myself.  Usually that's a weekend thing.  I'm very comfortable with sitting at a table alone in a crowded restaurant, on any night, but usually Wednesday or Thursdays are about feeling small because I need that perspective often.  I took my time walking through stores and picking up items that interested me. I was intentional with my epicurean endeavors. I treated myself to dinner and walked through a bookstore, enjoying the weight and smell of the books I picked up.  I later went home and stared longingly and lovingly at myself in a mirror. I left hand written notes to myself and left them in places where I would find them later because I will need the reminder of my awesome later.  I tend to forget.

I realized that I am so in tune with the desires of my heart and no one can love me as deeply as I do. I took a selfie to remember how great that felt. Tonight, with my sons home, I'm committed to being silly.  I'm committed to laughing at myself and really appreciating what this feels like.  The love explosion all over myself is what is driving my night and my focus this weekend is to teach my boys that same appreciation.

There will be silliness and shenanigans.

Excuse me

He said excuse me as I was walking by.  Shoulder to shoulder and our bodies shifted toward each other. 

There's something amazing about a smile that lingers and fades into intensity. 

His was a gaze filled with passionate promise. 

I forgot everything. 

Everything that should have mattered melted at his smile. 

I remembered the hint of a feeling that stirs from a lifetime ago because I was looking from past to future, held only by a smile in our moment. 

I remembered everything and that moment held the promise of a million tomorrows. 

Then I looked away briefly. 

And the moment was gone. 

Unreleased Offenses

Last night my really nasty side came out and it was messy and ugly and all over someone so sweet, that it really was a violation on my part.  I was in a place that was so uncomfortable that in noticing where I was, I noticed what I was doing, and the guilt and shame are still all over me.  This is about releasing offenses so I don't arm myself with them to injure another person. There are some things in life that feel huge and out of control and I find ways in which to feel like I have some control because that makes it easier for me to accept and navigate messy feelings.  When I was a surrogate, it was my control over my contracts and records that helped the out of control areas.  I agreed to everything in the contracts, so when IVF cycles and hormones made me feel crazy, I had something concrete to focus on.  There is so much that intended parents have to release in terms of pride and trust and I wanted to reciprocate that in having them choose obstetric doctors.  When my ex left, he took all of my contracts because of some imagined support battle in the divorce that hasn't happened.  In that moment when all of my records and photocopied checks were gone, I felt powerless and violated.  I felt like the signatures that held so much trust and hope were taken from me.  I have to release that.

In the last year I have gotten several text messages from my ex that looked like screenshots of our conversations that he was sending to someone else.  Very likely he was sharing my worst side with the woman that replaced me in his life.  What it felt like was a huge betrayal of trust, and it was done repeatedly.  It's still done, but I've gotten to a place where I ignore it because there is nothing I can do about it.  It's a violation, but I'm powerless and so I release the idea that I should have power over it.

Yesterday we were together to go over child support.  I was in a room full of people that were forced to share a room with their ex-lovers.  It was tense and comforting all at once. We started discussing our incomes and it became clear to me that I take a lot better care of myself than he did.  He noticed the ways in which I was doing well, and I thanked him for reading my blog.  He insisted people from the church family we shared will send him text messages to show him what I'm up to.  I stepped over that betrayal in that moment. I appreciated the fact that I have no idea of what he's up to unless our sons complain about something, and I was grateful that I no longer feel the need to spy on him.  I'm usually busy being happy with the epic things that fall in my path.

When the calculations were made, the child support payments he would have had to make were so small I decided to let it go.  In that moment I felt peace and saw it as extending grace.  I looked out the window and could see the building I worked at in January.  I remembered a few happy encounters in the kitchen with a slow smile and amazing pectorals and the view that so much peace was found in.  I asked if the attorney could see the ocean from there and he said he could on some days and it was a moment of respite from the tension of the morning.  I was smiling.  I glanced over and saw my ex had angled his phone and was recording me.  I smiled and said hello to his camera, and I was amused for a while.  It's not the first time I've been an unaware subject for someone's private viewing and I'm sure it won't be a last time.  I have caught enough camera phones directed at me that it doesn't bother me for the most part. This age of smartphones brings out the particularly creepy.  I didn't feel violated by this at first.

I was on my way to work and singing happily and even caught the food truck at lunch for my usual breakfast (2 eggs over medium, bacon, avocado and tomatoes, with cheese sometimes).  It was a good moment.  As the day wore on, Facebook reminded me it was 16 years to the day that he proposed to me.  My internal harpie started reminding me of the ways I was promised growing old together.  I started thinking about our trust and how utterly it was destroyed.  It was so much emotion, I couldn't keep it off of my face, and people I work with noticed.  I felt so violated in the picture or video that was taken of me.  I became a sideshow of someone else's design and the peace I felt was taken and mocked.

After work I saw a smile. It was beautiful and carefree.  It followed me home and I later used the beauty of that smile to reflect on my pain and sorrow and it became a source of frustration and highlighted a rare lonely moment.  I wanted to hurt the beautiful thing I saw and when I realized what I was doing and why, the guilt and shame tortured me through sleep and disquieted dreams.  This morning I've been searching for self compassion because there's not much more to offer outside of an apology to make up for what I did.

Old patterns emerge when I'm feeling especially low and I've had it suggested enough recently that the idea of getting lost in someone else's happy trail made me consider online dating again.  I'm not sure how fully I'm jumping into this. I went over my dating tips and the dating tips from my friends, and it doesn't sound as amazing a distraction anymore. I'm releasing these offenses and broken agreements that keep suckerpunching me at random times.  I will find grace when I'm not expecting it and look for beauty because I always find it.  But there should definitely be some shenanigans tonight.  There will be stretching out of my comfort zone.  There may even be another dress involved.

My Self Loving Journey

I had a conversation with a desk mate today that keeps echoing and resounding softly every few hours.  It won't give me space, and that usually means I have thoughts to explore.  We talked about my walk again. She laughs every time she sees me walk, and she calls it a model walk while I counter with, "it's a mom walk."  She sees it's different and worth a conversation.  Another co-worker started following me to videotape it, but stopped because I walk too quickly. It's transportation but it wasn't always. Over a year and 3o pounds ago, I was the abandoned wife that had given birth to seven babies.  I was afraid to smile at men because I was afraid of my ex's jealousy that I explored first in this post. I didn't spend time out with friends, because the rare moments of solitude I had were selfishly spent alone because I needed the rare spaces I had. When he left without warning, I was shocked and my self worth plummeted with the life we created together.  I didn't have a job, not really.  I was working part time, without benefits and I hated what I was doing. At one point I quit my job for one that fell through completely. I didn't have close relationships because it was hard to build them in the isolation I lived in.  Within days my ex had a new special friend he was sharing his secrets with.  She would take his phone to text me the many ways I failed as a wife and mom and woman and person, and since she didn't know me, it was clear that she was only repeating what my husband had told her.  It's a miracle that I didn't fall into one of my deep depressions and the reigning emotion I fought was rage. I'm sure you could imagine why I was angry.

I relied heavily on faith. I woke up in the middle of the night and fell asleep with a prayer on my lips.  I woke and prayed. I was determined to be a wife, even if my husband refused to be my husband.  In January I had an encounter that shifted things just enough.  There was a man.  It's always about a boy and those posts were all tagged "crush watch." It's almost a hobby to fall into careful observations and entertain myself but it's only happened here with an apology here, and my latest crush here (sans apology) since 2000.

He introduced himself to me a couple of times in our first encounter, and I had the distinct impression I was attractive to him. Naturally, I freaked out.  I went into the script that kept me faithfully waiting all of those months.  I told him that I was still married and not dating because of all of the things I believe marriage to be.  I did all I could to scare him away in that first meeting.  Over weeks he would become my first crush in 16 years through opening doors and appreciative smiles.  I started this blog right when I accepted that I liked looking at him and men in general. I still think of him fondly, but it was more about the shift he gave my perspective and the first few blog posts on this blog inspired by the way he made me feel (February and March in the archives).  Since then, I've remembered what it was like to have several people let you know you are attractive in the span of a week.  I've regained my confidence in walking up to a complete stranger and letting him know how beautiful he is.  Beautiful doesn't mean I want to keep him.

I still believe marriage to be a choice to commit to one person for as long as you both live.  I still feel that you make a choice every day to be a spouse, and the feelings always follow.  I feel you give it 110% daily because unconditional love means you aren't expecting anything as a barter, and you're not holding back with expectations of something to lose. As for my marriage, I have accepted that without my permission it ended when my husband decided he was done, and almost a year later I accepted his decision with a choice of my own.  I decided I had taken enough abuse and it was time to offer myself the love I kept trying to extend to him in forgiveness.  I stopped offering forgiveness as love for him and offered it as love for myself.

The point is I felt so low.  I felt ugly and believed I was based on what I was told.  On my birthday I stepped out of my car in the heart of Hollywood after a night of crying. I had just decided my marriage was over because both of us had walked away.  I decided he had taken the last free shot at me because I was done being his doormat begging him to walk on me and wipe his feet on me.  A woman stopped me on my way to work and told me I looked put together.  I cried on the spot and she held me.  A complete stranger allowed me to fall apart and then held me up.  I was shattered.  There was something in her offering that was prompted by the grace she saw in my walk.

The walk was one I had in my early 20's.  It was confidence.  It was feeling each step in the sway of my hips.  It was trusting my body and knowing I didn't have to watch for my step.  It was a head held high, and walking with my arms swaying because when you are happy, opposition is your friend.  My strut was gone during my marriage because I didn't want to encourage others to look at me.  It slowly came back and it was one of the first ways I began to remind myself that I love myself.  That, and dancing in front of a bedroom mirror.  You don't do that?

There's a current-ish crush.  It's more fun distraction than anything.  I haven't offered my unmasked self to him, even in friendship. My love and devotion is reserved for me and my sons.  I'm learning from Stephanie Kwong about self love this week and what she has said is inspiring my latest doodles and some of the thoughts running through my mind.

She explained that loving yourself includes: self acceptance, self forgiveness, self respect, self trust, self receiving, self compassion, self permission, self appreciation, and self celebration.  I mainly walk in confidence, spoil myself with pedicures, take myself out and go hard on selfies.  There's lots to be learned.

I started writing down what I love about myself, but again her questions really gave me perspective.  I love my sons unconditionally, but do I love myself unconditionally? Do I give myself conditions, or do I love myself in spite of my ugly side?  Can I name my ugly side, or do I pretend it doesn't exist? Can I give others my whole self? Do I only allow others to see and love the mask I offer, or can I give others complete authenticity? Can I love myself the way I want to, in all the messy ways?

Can I love myself when I'm being stubborn and not releasing what isn't meant for me?

Can I love myself in sweats and without make up on the second day of my period with zits that I've picked into scabs?

Can I love myself when I feel like I'm being selfish and withholding from my kids? I will always feel like I need to give my kids more than I have for myself, but can I see the value in giving in to my desires as well?

Can I love myself through guilt and shame? I had a friend point out that the difference between me and everyone else is that we all think the same thoughts, but I feel bad when I'm thinking unkind things, even if I won't give voice to these thoughts. This makes me a nice person. Can I love the fact that I have a hard time being mean?

I'm committed to move like I love myself. I'm committed to act like I love myself. I'm committed to speak like I love myself. I'm committed to eat like I love myself.

I shared this with my Facebook family the other day. . .

I'm in a committed relationship with gelato.

I'm into Italians lately, but this one is special because I'm willing to splurge on it. I make sure it's comfortable in the freezer. I take it out and it shows me a good time. . . A really good time with sounds that would make you blush. Our moments are special and I'm quite smitten. There's no room for ice cream or frozen yogurt in my life. We're exclusive.

Can I one day offer my love to another person in transparency and trust? (Today is too much to ask.) Can I be as open in person as I aim to be in my writing?

Keeping Company

I've gotten really comfortable with being a loner.  I like the freedom of going where I want and staying as long as I care to.  I eat what sounds good and it's a very spontaneous existence.  I really don't enjoy dating lately because of the predation I feel.  It's amazing when you hang out with people that don't want to have sex with you.  Or maybe they secretly do, but you feel they care about what you think about something too.  This weekend I've been intentional with trying to involve others in my free time. Friday after work,  I had a call I regret taking from the ex.  Rather than just sit and calm myself, I explained what had taken place to a friend.  I didn't need him to fix it, but I also didn't sugar coat it.  His discomfort made me laugh.  It was a full belly laugh that reminded me that I'm fine, and being yelled at and listening to my son cry in the background is our version of normal and on Monday my kids will be in my arms and we will be okay.  It was a 20 minute set back that before would have lasted the weekend.

I left and headed toward the Grove where I spent time with a woman I admire and adore.  She's intuitive and empathic and so deeply understanding of human behavior.  She's an actress and fans that might recognize her is an occupational hazard, but she's so much that person you can just hang out with because there is such a strong sense of peace around her.  She's all Hollywood, but in the sense that she doesn't feel like a transplant that gets jaded from a dream she hoped she could mimic.  She's built her own ideals of what making it should be and what it looks like to her tells her she's living the dream and happily awake through it.  The first time I met her was shared here, and since then, she has shown up in my life in meaningful ways, right when I need her to. We talked about boys, and sex.  She encouraged me about my career and we talked babies.  I left her feeling like I could do the next big thing and I could ask for help in doing it.  I didn't realize how big of a problem asking for help is.  It's pride.  It's insecurity.  It's something I'm taking notice of.  It's part of my skirting around a relationship, but that whole thing is also about knowing how picky I want to be and the fact that I kinda enjoy saying no.  I love telling strangers that they're beautiful without any intentions of furthering that conversation. It's a position based in fear and insecurity, and she made me take notice in the most loving way possible.

Saturday morning I was interviewed.  When my ex left and took the boy's bunk beds to his new place, I was sharing a full size bed with Kid3, and Kid1 and Kid2 were sharing the queen size bed I shared with my ex.  It was one of the first times I was threatened with a call to Child Protective Services because teenaged boys shouldn't have to share a bed. None of us liked the situation, but we got through it because abundance sometimes lands in our laps. Through the help of my pastor and the Dream Center church, we were given new beds (but Kid3 still likes to sleep next to me) and dressers, and a dining table and chairs.  It was all free from Ikea with a team of volunteers that came in with smiles and hugs and prayer and encouragement.  They brought it in.  They put it all together.  They took out the trash.  They prayed for my family and left.  I was called a few weeks ago and asked if I would be willing to be interviewed.  I agreed because what else could I do to show my gratitude?  And I'm a ham.  So much of the conversation reinforced the encouragement I got from my friend the night before.

Saturday afternoon I was with a transgendered woman I adore.  I have friendships with gay people, and transgendered women that dress the part far better than I do, but this is the first woman I've met that committed to surgery and hormones.  I'm so inspired by this woman. We walked through Echo Park Rising and sampled Whiskey, while talking about boys and girls and relationships. We talked about what it was like to be both a man and a woman.  I learned so much from her. We walked through a bookstore in a first time experience that really felt great.  We sampled Wild Turkey and both preferred the Honey to the stronger one with the number attached.  We shared coffee and now share a deeper friendship.  She had other things to do and I took a short stroll through Echo Park before heading home.

I didn't know my cousin is in my state until she checked in on Facebook, so I headed out to pick her up for bowling and connection.  She's a college student, but I was the one wearing my college sweatshirt. We talked boys and relationships.  (You'll notice the theme because I'm boy crazy.) I told her that I'm too old to date men my age because they're having their midlife crisis and looking for a younger woman to help them feel young.  And I told her I don't date younger men because that's creepy.  I just enjoy the beautiful ones and have no problem calling it like I see it. We talked about the greatest parts of being single and school.  She insisted I'm not old enough to complain about my geezer body, but then I pointed out I could be her mother. That's when I realized I really enjoy saying that.  I enjoy pointing out that I'm old enough to be someone's mother when they are hitting on me and I'm giving them a hard pass.  I like it when people think I'm younger than I am.  It feels good.  Black Lights on blue polish makes me happy too.

When I left her, she asked me to text her when I get home. It's the thing you do when you love someone.  You want to know they made it home safely.  I drop a person off, and I wait in my car until they are safely inside.  I had a friend do the same thing after dinner last week.  She wanted to know when I got home safely.  My Dad does the same thing.  Are you home? Let me know when you get home.  Frankly, I'm not comfortable with this.  This request brings out my rebellion, and I always give it time, then lie that I got home, and often find myself at the beach or in a store to shop.  I did it again last night. I'm rebellious about it, and it makes me lie, and last night I realized I do it and it's not okay.  I spent so long in a marriage where I felt I was supposed to be home, and I was.  I would go to the grocery store and around an hour into my trip, I would get a call or text to see how I was doing because the time said I was supposed to be home by then.  I'm intentionally staying out late in rebellion because I'm a grown up and shouldn't be told what to do.  (I'm taking notice of this and yes, I do sound like a 12 year old.) My rebellion looked like driving to the Vons on PCH and Sunset for sushi, soda and a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup dessert, because the divorcee diet looks like crap and soda that made me think of Butterbeer and Harry Potter.

This morning I have museum plans.  I sent out a few last minute invites but I'm content with going alone. They are flexible museum plans because I have puttering around the house plans too and lounging around the house naked plans before the kids get home tomorrow.  I'm enjoying the sounds of trickling water in my pond, a plane flying, the ticking of a clock, birdsong, the rumble of a truck on my street, my dog whining (she's a little bitch), and the sound of keys flying on my keyboard.   I'm enjoying the silence that feels like solid pressure because I won't have it tomorrow night.

Stretching Past My Grungies

I'm a firm believer that things happen in the time and order that they are meant to. There is a process to life and at times when chaos makes me want to control every outcome I am learning that I need to fully trust the process. Each lesson in life has a meaning meant to unfold and stretch who we are into who we will become.  We are prepared for what will come. I've written briefly about a personal development seminar I attended called "Basic" and taught by Mastery in Transformational Training. It was perspective shifting in the best possible way.

Hugs

I've always been a hugger.  I believe hugs are meant to hold us up and hold us together. I've also believed that if you don't feel comfortable hugging someone, then don't because there is such a thing as a bad hug.  What the class taught me was to see each person as a unique and beautiful person, independent of what I might be able to receive from them.

Relationships

The class had some exercises that focused on parent child relationships.  During one exercise, I was so moved by how open the men in the group were.  There was transparency and vulnerability.  It was beautiful and powerful and I found myself weeping with the emotion I was witnessing and swept away in.  I left the class and finally saw my mother with clarity, and love and appreciation.  I gave her a hug that explained the intricacies weighing and moving in my heart when I saw her.  It was powerful.

Choice and Interpretation

The class taught me how to shift my focus in terms of the past.  We're given disappointments and broken agreements in life.  This class helped me see that a shift in my interpretation could help me adjust my focus and find that I don't need to fugue through sorrows when I can learn and grow through them.

My Perspective Shift

I left the class with a determination to eventually take the next class.  This next class is the Advanced class.  My ideal was to take the class in September because my kids would be in school and it would fill my 5 day kid free weekend.  It was what was in my head.  I've been watching the community online and I've been so encouraged by the continual growth I've been honored to witness.

Life is full of surprises and I'm still guilty of poor planning.  I anticipated the class but forgot about a family vacation and back to school shopping.  When I was meeting with one of my really great friends last night, we talked about the ways the Advanced class would stretch me and make me uncomfortable.  I told her how I needed to wait until I was ready and she told me what I often say to people thinking about having kids

There is never a perfect time and things will always come up, but life is amazing in the way things will always fall into place.

This friend knows details about my separation I don't often share.  She knows how hard it was when my ex first left and I was struggling for groceries.  I didn't ask for help but it always showed up right when I needed it.  I understand the value of receiving a gift, but have always had a hard time with asking for help.

We looked at dates farther out and they would fall on weekends when I have my kids.  This September class is the one I was committed to and she helped me see it is the only real option, but to get there, I needed to ask for help.  I promised I would start a Go Fund Me by Tomorrow night but I chose to do it before bed.  It wasn't easy for me, but if you would like to support, or just read more of my words, you can find it here.

If you would like to check out the class (and I highly recommend it), check them out here.

You Deserve Your Interpretation of Your Own Life

Thank you Diego Perez

What is this concept about?

This nugget is golden and I want to carefully unpack it. We're conditioned to feel we deserve something.  It starts as soon as we're old enough to choose our behavior.  We're told we need to earn play time, or a desired toy or activity.  We're told in love we deserve better treatment.  We deserve the love we've been offering for ourselves.  We deserve to be treated the way we've treated someone else, even if that means we're acting like deplorable human beings and it's what we deserve because of it. I'm arguing that we're not victims to the life we get to live.

What does it mean to deserve something?

Dictionary.com will tell you that the word deserve originates in Middle English.  Actually, I just told you, but feel free to fact check me.  I'm not talking Tolkien's middle, but more Chaucer.  It's English that doesn't sound like English because that's how old it is.  It's English that still blends other languages into it. It's a really old concept that says what you get in life is determined by what you have done to earn it.  You have to find a way to qualify or have a claim because of something you have done.  This means that you are given what you earned, and it takes the accountability of your choice away from you.  Deserving something is still part of who I am but I'm working on that.  Right now I love Meghan Trainor's new album and one of my favorite songs is all about announcing, "I deserve better."

People will always try to tell you who they think you are.  You don't have to believe what they say.  I recommend rejecting what doesn't come from your own intuition, including this suggestion.

Deserving love

When I tell you that I want to love unconditionally, and I spell it out here and detail it in my posts about mothering, it's because love is a gift and shouldn't cost the person we give it to.  I don't barter my love for affection or attention.  When I give my love it's free.  I give it no matter what I'm getting in return because I see value and have a desire to build and call out what I see until it is greater than it was.

Deserving mistreatment

Internal dialogues can be insidious.  Sometimes guilt can weigh on us and make a bad day look like something we've earned.  That perception takes away our choice and when choice is stripped, we lose control of our reactions.  It becomes cyclical and repeats.  We teach our reactions and adaptability to our children and they thrive or falter because of what we show them.

Deserving our lot in life.

When my kids were first diagnosed with autism I started to really question what we deserved.  Did I deserve what they have to deal with (I'm not always proud of my thoughts, and this was one of those moments)? Did they deserve what they had to go through? People with platitudes would suggest that God only gives special kids to special parents.  I call bull on that one.  All special needs parents are just like other parents.  Sometimes we do really well with adapting.  Other times we don't.  It's a choice and my choice is one I can stand by on most days.  The choice is to be better to my kids than I want to be.  It's not about deserving something.  It's about deciding it doesn't matter why this is in our family. It's about deciding how I can help my kids navigate our world.  I didn't get lost in what I expected and my perspective shifted.  It was a good shift.

Reactions and Interpretation

We're all in charge of our reactions and interpretation, but so often people are ruled by stress over what they wanted to happen and disappointment controls our ability to move forward.  Stress isn't even quantifiable.  It's real, but it's manufactured by us to torture us into stagnation.  People are always feeling major and minor effects of the stress they feel, but stress is entirely a choice you don't have to choose if you shift your interpretation and redirect your reaction.

When we live in the past, time drags on and we can't see what is right now or ahead of us. When we live in the future, there isn't enough time. There is too much to get done and again, we lose the gift that is the present.

When my husband of 15 years quit on me, I didn't react well.  It was bad.  It was ugly.  I was a living and breathing open wound, bleeding everywhere.  It was hard to live through and hard for others to watch.  A year and some months later I haven't jumped into a relationship but I have enjoyed a couple of crushes that reminded me how awesome infatuation could be.  They showed me what a really great guy might look like. They reminded me of the fun of seeing only the good in a person, ignoring the bad and glossing over the rest. My latest crush deciding to take himself out of our equation could have been devastating.  It wasn't.  It was fun.  It was exciting.  I needed to see what he showed me and hopefully he needed to experience what I offered.  There's still friendship.  I'm getting in touch with my geeky side that is entirely awkward and clumsy when it comes to him lately, but I'm enjoying that for what I've chosen to make it.

I didn't deserve to get dumped.  And I was, by everyone's standards.  Twice.

I get to be an autism mom. I got to be a stay at home mom.  Now I get to work at a job I love doing.

I got to be married for 15 contented years where I loved and was loved for the majority of it.  Now I get to fall in love again, and as many times as I'm comfortable with.  I got to sleep next to someone and care about his needs, and now I get to put my needs first, and look at all of the pretty men I see, without worrying about my actions hurting someone else.  (I have a special appreciation for watching men run.  It's beauty.  It's inspiration.  It's a public service and I'm so happy when I see a man in full stride.  It's my bliss at times and I have no shame about it. It's right up there with Crossfit and entirely yummy.) I got to love deeply.

I get to restructure my priorities.  I get to really connect to what brings my life meaning and it's a beautiful life I get to lead.  I get to do epic shit on a daily basis.

I get to be reminded that I really am beautiful by the many men that have tried to entertain me, and I get to pass on them because I get to choose who I want to spend my free time with.  And lately it's me, and people that don't want sex from me.

Nice, right?

There's a cost to the life we get to lead and it's not the price set by someone else's standards.

Taking Me Out

I'm still having fun dating myself.  Last night I went to the Broad Museum because I had tickets I reserved and sat on for close to a month.  It was Thursday so a free night at the Museum of Contemporary Art was next.  I drove to Philippe's for dinner, but wasn't actually hungry yet and walked to Olvera Street which closes a lot earlier than I remember and Union Station which really is beautiful when you aren't in a hurry.  I walked back to Philippe's in the dark and really appreciated Santa Monica for their police presence and the safety I feel there.

In line behind a group of three, their third wheel was beautiful.  He was tall and had one of those smiles that I would draw if that was my skill set, but as you can see, it really isn't.  He dropped a pencil and didn't notice it, but I handed it to him and nearly melted at his smile when he said thank you and told me it was his lucky pencil.  In that moment, I could see myself getting to know him better, but then thought about the amazing night I had just lived through, and decided that no, it's a hard pass.  In fact, I knew then that I was going to pass on everyone.

In the last couple of months, a really great friend pointed out how shamelessly my flirting looked a lot like teasing to a high school boy.  He remembered his interest and I never really thought about it.  I thought it was just him and he was being silly because our conversations are still a little flirtatious.  Sometimes.  Rarely.  And then there was a second memory from another man, and it was confirmation that I couldn't ignore.  I flirted and teased in high school, but this was out in front of everyone and never on a one to one basis.

The latest one remembered me as never shy, happy and full of laughter.  He remembered my smile.  I felt bad, having had to really look at his face and our mutual friends to place him.  I didn't remember him.  But there was something flattering about his memory, even if he really didn't know about my depressed moods, and loner tendencies.  The idea of reconnecting seemed fun . . . Once I got passed the fleeting idea that I may or may not have been someone's 20 year old jizz rag mistress.  I liked the idea of him wanting to show me a good time and cook for me.  But I also like knowing that whatever I choose to do alone or with friends, my juice is always worth the squeeze.

Last night was a great night.  Wednesday was also pretty epic.  I went to the beach after work.  I watched a seal family frolic in the ocean from the pier.  I enjoyed a meal alone, next to a table with two gorgeous men who were complete pigs, but fun to watch.  I walked to the promenade and ran into the same two men, shared a little about each other and I moved on.  Then I walked the Promenade, had a chocolate scented cigar (do they make dessert cigars?) because I needed the reminder of why I quit smoking all of those years ago, and I sang out loud on my way to my car.  Still got the same stares.  I even got smiles, and no one approached the crazy person singing to herself, so it was a win all around. It was a really great night.  In fact, I spoil myself with the good times I have alone.

I'm still not dating online.  That was a massively disappointing lesson I needed to learn.  This doesn't mean I don't get asked out.  He has to be beautiful and smart.  I need to feel like he would make my alone time a gift I would offer rather than a sacrifice on my part.  I'm not dating people.  I'm dating myself.  I love dating myself.

I eat like I love myself.  I don't diet.  I eat what looks good and I savor each moment with my food.  I buy myself jewelry.  I enjoy eating alone with a book, or journal, or my phone.  I love walking through museums and stopping at what calls out to me, because a lot of it makes no sense and I won't linger.  When I want to brighten my day, I'll buy myself flowers and I know I don't like baby's breath, so it's never included in my bouquets. I love being alone.  I don't want someone to take me out because I'm so great at showing myself a good time and there's a chance going out would make me feel like my time was squandered.

Kid Behavior

I'm a firm believer that no child wants to be a bad kid. If they are acting out, there's a good chance that the grown ups in charge have missed something and the kid is trying to tell you something.

The best way to gauge the needs of a child is to try your best to see things the way they do and see how you would feel if your needs were neglected.

Control

We all have a desire for control.  It's horrible when life spins out of control.  That's when people check out and escape. Putting on my big girl pants means I'm releasing control over situations I can't control and accepting the only thing I can control is my reaction and my mindset.  This comes from having full control of my life and knowing it's still not complete control.  There's freedom in this, but it's not freedom if you have absolutely no control.  Our children don't always get to choose what to eat, or wear or when to go to bed.  They don't always get to choose where they are going or who they will be with.  I get a little road ragey when I want the car ahead of me to drive like they had to get a license to do so.  I try to give my kids control where I can. My mom feels I give them too many choices, but I feel it's important to teach them that their opinions are valued and that I want to know what they think and feel.

Exhaustion

Children need much more sleep than adults do.  When we are asleep is when we grow and heal. It's when we recharge and reset from what was learned.  If you eat a large meal, your brain slows down and you get sleepy because your body needs the rest to process the work it's doing.  This is why multitasking means you get lots of less than stellar results.  Kids need rest. Dragging them from store to store and not making sure they are rested is begging for a melt down.

Hunger

We all have experienced hangry moments.  It's when hunger and anger merge and food makes us feel bad for our behavior later.  As adults, it's easy to be so driven by duty that we neglect our bellies, but we still know when we need to eat.  We have learned to listen to our bodies. Infants had a steady stream from their umbilical cord and don't experience hunger until birth.  It looks like rooting and mouthing their little fists, but it sounds like crying and anger.  They have little bellies.  Small frequent meals will help keep them calm.

Loneliness

No one likes to be lonely.  As adults, we crave company and connection.  I'm not dating right now because the people that want to connect usually want to connect in ways that I'm not interested in.  I want a mental and emotional connection, and often that means I can skip the rest unless I find someone whose juice is worth my squeeze.  For now that's just me.  My juice is worth my squeeze but I drew what loneliness is to me.  There's a vulnerability in standing alone and enjoying it.  My stick figures include a naked curly haired kid and a couple with clothes on.  She's wearing a bikini top (no nipples).  We all crave connection.  Our kids want us to see what they are doing and they want our involvement.  Humans need physical touch.

Boredom

My drawing is supposed to be a computer and a football, but you can see where my football took a turn.  Maybe my computer was offering porn.  I haven't decided, but you can.  I've never called myself an artist.  I craft words. My kids love being entertained.  It looks like Homestuck, or Minecraft or YouTube.  They are growing up in a world of globalization and computers in the classroom so learning is entertainment.  I was lucky enough to have a friend in high school point out that it's lucky when we can be our favorite company.  It's a blessing to be content when alone.  I can stand and watch a setting sun shimmering on ocean waves.  I can be present and feel the warmth of the sun and the breeze on the air and I can feel how wonderful living in the moment is.  It's a learned skill and not every child has learned it.  It doesn't help that I and other parents have used the television to keep them entertained so we can do laundry and dishes and be parents.

Love

We need to feel love and affection.  We need to feel valued.  We need to know that we are not cared for out of obligation but because we are deeply loved.  Kids need to know it from their family because the value we instill will help them see that they are enough on their own and they won't need to buy friendships or barter sex for affection.  Teach your children they are loved early and they will learn to love themselves, rather than seek someone else's love to fill the voids from a detached parent.

I love openly and freely.  I have no problem complimenting someone else.  If I see greatness in someone, I will call it out because I love what I see and want to honor that beauty.  Love is a gift that I enjoy giving.

What happens when we fail

When we can't give our children what they need, they will often react by acting out.  This can look like tears, or tantrums.  This can look like bad behavior and lying.  Why would someone lie?  They know that the truth isn't good enough for the person they're lying to.  They know that what they think or believe or feel should be shaded in someone else's approval before it's accepted.  How sad is that? I started this post by stating that no child wants to be bad, and I stand by it.  Getting your attention, whether through praise or a reprimand means that you are looking at what had been ignored.  When my boys act out, the first thing I look at is where I failed them, and I can usually spot it, but sometimes I have to ask and coax it out of them.

Meltdown vs. Tantrum

Being an autism mom means I have first hand experience of a meltdown and have had to learn the difference.  Most people see acting out as a tantrum, but a meltdown is a different beast.

A tantrum is usually about getting what is wanted.  The kid in question has probably had a tantrum that was rewarded in the past.  They will often act out as long as they are getting a reaction from you.  I don't react to my kid's tantrums.  Not anymore.  I will step over a crying child and keep walking.  They are aware of their personal safety and their audience.

A meltdown means there is so much going on that the kid has lost control.  Meltdowns mean they might end up hurting themselves.  Meltdowns mean they can't adjust to the situation and for my boys, I need to be their anchor, and hold them quietly until the moment passes.

Vision Boarding

I don't actually have a vision board yet, but I'm working on one.  I'm in the exploring phases and trying to figure out what a meaningful life looks like to me. I've been walking through that in the last year.  It looks like setting and reaching goals, beach trips, strolling through museums, and dating myself. It looks like patience with my kids, that reaches far past my own exhaustion.  It looks like being inspired and inspiring others.  It looks like examining what I feel I should do, compared to what I am actually doing, and deciding how to shift my shoulds into actuals so that I'm happy with what I'm getting done and feeling productive about it. It looks like deep love and great hugs.  I could use more hugs, quite honestly.

I'm thinking of what a good life is to me.  I'm imagining what makes life worth living. I want to know what will matter on my deathbed and what I will be remembered for, and is it what I want to be remembered for?  It's reframing my relationship with money.  I want to control my wealth, and I don't want the pursuit of it to control me.  I want to do and give and be. I want to embody leadership, and be the person that helps others grow.  I want a life so creative that my expectancy doesn't know what it means to have a dream too big. If it's a dream, size doesn't matter, does it?

I believe in acting like I love myself.  That means I speak like I love myself.  Mainly I write like I love myself.  It takes more courage to say it, and even more to do it.  At the end of the day, I'm proud of the fact that I really do move, eat, speak, and act like I love myself.  I'm proud of the person I am because it's become important to me to see that I can do epic stuff daily.

I'm Nicer Than I Want To Be

I like to say I'm not a nice person, but I really am, and I will try my best to own that.  I like to think I'm mean to others in an effort to put myself first, but telling someone they have a really cute kid that I really can't see because my contact lenses are misbehaving doesn't make the cruelty cut, does it?  It presents itself as a kindness because in reality, it could have been an ugly kid and I would have lied if it really was an ugly kid.  It's not a stretch to imagine I would have been lying. I'm not a fan of the way newborns look.  They look like they have been beaten up by a uterus for a day and swimming in their own pee for several months. They're swollen and wrinkled and boring, except when they cry.  Give them a few weeks and they start to look kinda cute, but there's a good chance that the features you had to grow into will be a curse on your children too. They are to mine. They are cute only because they are little and new and there's something magical about the innocence and purity of never having committed any offense (except the cries of a miniature dictator that can't wait for you to wake up on your own).

I haven't been on a date with anyone other than my sons in months.  I can't tell you when my last date was because it wasn't worth remembering.  I stopped dating when I deleted my dating profiles. I've had other offers but I wasn't interested. I shared lunch with someone at work, but spent the time talking about my ex, and later realized I was trying to sabotage the date because I haven't talked about him as much before or since that lunch date.

Dating means I often get frustrated and feel angry because I'm more than a body with a smile.  There is usually a man that isn't ugly, though he's rarely beautiful, and he wants to get to know me.  It's about the third response from him that suggests he wants to get me to his place, half naked, and drinks involved.  It's a pool or jacuzzi I just have to see.  It's a movie where we sit in silence and he wants to see how far his hands can roam. It's a home cooked meal I should taste.  It's a bar around the corner from his house and a safe place to crash if I can't drive.  It's a back rub that would melt away my stress.  There's a knowing excitement when I say I don't really drink.  They tease out that I do drink on occasion but can't handle my liquor and it means I'm a cheap date and it won't be too expensive to loosen me up.  So I go out alone or with my sons and find peace in solitude because I'd rather be alone than on defense all night. I'd rather listen to the thoughts in my mind than be irritated with the crap that most men see as insightful banter.

I realized today that I really am a nice person, even if I don't want to be at times.  Well, it was when a woman told me that blocking stupid men is what any woman would do that I realized I'm nicer than I think I am. When someone treats me like I'm desperate and lonely, I want to tell them they aren't beautiful enough to be a jerk, but I don't. I just block them.  When the guitarist / skater kept reminding me of Beavis and Butthead, I didn't tell him I couldn't date an idiot, I just told him we weren't a good fit, and later I told him I wanted more than he was willing to offer, even though I knew I didn't want any of what he had.  I almost gave him a pity date but realized I owed more to myself than I did to him.

What it comes down to is that I will take a lot before I ever dish it out because I know what it means to hurt and I don't enjoy hurting others.  Even when I attacked the ex, I wasn't happy that I hurt him.  I was excited that I finally defended myself.  I later felt pity because he had never had my abuse and I wasn't sure he could handle it.  (Emasculating him was always unintentional, even just now.) I may have wanted to throat punch him for the times I was expected to cook for him, clean up after him, then be his groupie, but I never expressed anything but love for him and irritation at the housework.  I never directed my rage at him when he made me angry.  It often looked like taking it out on the kids or animals.  It looked like hiding in books. Now it looks like I need a timeout and I sit alone and focus on breathing and slow movements until I calm down enough because I can usually remember that I want to be the mom my kids deserve which is not the mom I usually feel like being.

I say I want to be fierce and angry and I want to direct my rage outside of myself, but I rarely do.  When I do attack, I aim to hurt and dig intentionally.  It's a surgical strike and I won't waste words.  I won't call names without aiming at weaknesses, and I will have spent long enough taking insults to observe weaknesses and I will use what was left at my disposal.  When I'm done, I will replay the situation in my mind, and hope that the guilt will be drowned out by the exhilaration of defending myself. For the most part, it's far easier to let it go.

I call on that baby duck.  A momma duck is insane.  She will go after you if you approach her babies.  A baby duck is so busy learning to swim, they don't care about the water sliding off of their back.  I'm a baby duck.

I can listen and it might bother me for a few hours, or even a day, but I melt into the peace that comes when I realize I don't have to live in the hate that was thrown at me. I'm not drowning in anger and trying to bail it out on others. I can choose my reaction and to be able to love openly and freely and unconditionally, in spite of the microaggressions and assaults at my expense is a gift.  I might want to be mean but at my core I know being nice and having that be who I am and what I express daily is a gift.

I'm snarky, and I have moments I'm not proud of, but I can be proud of being nice in spite of the mean that looks like funny to me.  Inside my head is all kinds of fun.

Pride

I don't think of pride often. Not specifically.  Last night that envelope was pushed and so here I am, exploring meanings and pushing them into shape. First I should say I grew up in a Christian household.  My parents tried really hard to instill in us the fear of a wrathful God.  Getting tattoos and being gay will send us to hell. I'm tatted up.  I want more ink one day.  I decided loving gay people was better than being hateful.  I believe you get out of your faith what you put into it, and it's important to see what faith means to you, and not what others tell you it means.  The United States was based on a separation of church and state, and I'm still working out a separation of church and my parents.  I'll have to let you know how it goes once I get there.

Before hitting Junior High, I had a huge crush on one of my sister's friends, only to see him grow into a drool worthy specimen of masculinity that likes other boys.  It can be hard to be aware of what sex for him would look like and still be attracted to him, but I manage. He loves his body as much as I do and I appreciate his work outs and selfie moments.  Yes, I still see Crossfit as God's gift to me.

When I was in high school, I had a few really great guy friends that would sit and talk about cute boys with me because they liked the same boys that I did.  These men grew up to have stories about the first time they got their asses handed to them for loving someone of the same sex, or being far more feminine than I am.  It wasn't a big part of who we were together but I know their existence was full of more heartache, grace and empowerment than I have ever known and their ability to walk in love is a strength deserving of admiration. Around this time I used to joke and say, "that's gay, but not like jailhouse raping gay . . . you know, plan your wedding gay.  The good gay." (No, I'm not proud of that.)  I didn't understand then how offensive I was being.  There's no good or bad gay.  There is a mix of pain and sorrow and grace and beauty and my ignorance in a time when "gay" was being used as an insult only normalized those that were behaving badly in "innocent" hetero fun by othering my friends.  We were laughing at the expense of those who have to fight family and friends to love and be who they feel comfortable being.

I have a confession to make.  When my sister came out of her closet, I must have been in high school or just out of it.  (My old kicks in and the years blur at times.)  I had to really look at what that meant to me, because I was under the false impression that who she loved had something to do with me.  I went through the shock that looked like disgust.  I thought silly things: was she getting off in giving me a bath when I was a kid?  Never mind the fact that she is my sister, and we're talking lesbian love, and not incest.  At the end of the day, and after I saw her go through lesbian and gender normative relationships, I realised all I wanted for my sister was for her to be loved like a coffee mug.

I later went through my own curious phase.  It lasted long enough to know I don't like kissing girls because they are too soft.  As exciting as porn might have looked, because boobs are awesome, I like mine enough to not want to touch anyone else's.  Then breastfeeding happened and touching them can be annoying instead of arousing.

I have a cousin that came to the states from Thailand when he was in middle school or high school.  (Again with blurring years.) As normal as it is to see Thai Lady boys, he is the only transgendered, gay person on that side of my family.  He's fiercely beautiful and still othered for who he is.  It's not normal in our family and while he's loved beyond words by his brother, he's also teased by that same brother.  He's still beautiful and fierce, and brave to me.  He will help me with my makeup, dance in 8 inch heels, tell me I deserve better, and still cut a bitch for looking at him wrong.  He's diva and beautiful and I love him madly.

When my boys were little, they each went through a nail polish phase.  I didn't mind and indulged in it.  Their Dad was angry about that, but how he feels is no longer my problem. I tell my boys I will always love them, no matter who they love. All I want is for them to be happy and know love. Male or female, I want my sons to be loved deeply and treated well.

For the LGBT community, pride isn't frivolous or silly.  It's not just rainbows and unicorns.  It's what survivors have when they didn't have someone to pave the way for them. As a black woman, I have in my bloodline a heritage that knows oppression and struggle.  My bloodline knows segregation and living in fear, but I don't.  I know emotional and financial abuse.  Having full control of my own finances is so liberating. I've never lived in fear that I might not survive the night because of my looks or how I walk and talk, or who I love. Even my parents, a black man and Thai woman knew oppression for being a mixed couple that I didn't, having married a white man.  I've never lived through being called names and being attacked and accepting that this was normal.  I don't mean when I was teased in elementary school.  For a while when I was in the second grade, I was teased and called slave girl and told to go back to Africa. I changed schools and went to a school with fewer hispanic kids and more black kids but I didn't have the same hair and I didn't talk the way they did, so my best friends had fair skin and hair textured closer to mine, but several shades lighter.  Schools changed again and I was teased for having liver lips, and Chewbacca hair.  But I didn't have to live in fear.  Not really.

Last night I was back to school shopping with Kid2 and Kid3.  Kid2 wanted a pair of Pride sunglasses from Target.  I had no problem with it.  I probably wouldn't have bothered with an explanation but their aunt was with us and started to explain what it's about.  She told them that Pride means accepting the fact that people can love whomever they love and we are going to be okay with that.  It's a great explanation for my 13 year old autistic child and my 9 year old, but then I remembered they're my boys, and there's a deeper meaning they should understand.

My explanation started in the store but finished on the way home and sounded more like:

You know your Auntie that dates women? And my cousin that dresses like a woman sometimes and dates men?  Pride means they can do this and we support them.  Some people don't like that and wearing something that says you're proud means you are okay with standing up for something that might get you hurt because people that don't like things tend to make their opinions known in unfriendly ways.  You know I'll love you no matter who you love, but what you may not know is that not everyone is as accepting of that as I am.

I walked away from our car ride discussion realising it's not enough to be able to have fun at a gay club.  I should be expressing my Pride.  I don't walk through what it means to me enough to teach my boys what Pride means.  What I want them to know is that for some people, gender is a fluid idea that isn't fully realized.  There are people that were born as boys but grow up to become women.  There are girls born who later become men, and the truly free present themselves as "they."

I was born a woman.  I live as a woman. It is how I feel comfortable, and even then, I have moments when living in my skin itches and pulls and I want to peel away the layers of weight and disgust but I can't.  It pulls uncomfortably like skin that has been burned and dried out by the heat of an unforgiving sun. My Pride is about accepting those that are comfortable in their skin, even if it means I am going to ruffle feathers and disgust people. It's knowing what may not be accepted and knowing that what I know to be right is more important than being accepted. My Pride means I won't flinch over which bathroom is being used.  As a Mom, I will always fear a bathroom that has my kids in it without an adult I know and trust. I won't get angry at seeing two men kissing.  I won't tell you how to live your life because frankly I'm still trying to figure out how to live mine.

The Coffee Mug

I think lovesick puppies are cute, but I'd rather be your coffee mug. I can handle hot passion and sit and wait as you watch me cool off.

Trust me to carry your morning Joe, afternoon tea, late night cocoa or that Hot Toddy.

I would be happy to be your first thought each morning.

I can sit alongside you when you are lost in a book.

Coffee might come from magic beans but it's nothing without me to deliver it to you.

You can hold me with both hands and I'll warm you up while I bask in your worship.

Expect great things from me and I won't disappoint you.

Hold me carefully each day.

Bathe me gently.

Love me tenderly.

Let me be your coffee mug.

Taking a Step

My walk has been a topic of conversation today.  I don't do it on purpose.  Not anymore. That strut that I step out in has become part of me.  I don't even think about it.  I found a video of a pink elephant that was walking like I do and had to share it on Facebook to laugh, because that is how I walk.  And I'm great at laughing at myself.

This morning at the grocery store, when picking up sugar snap peas (my go to snack - raw and undipped) the checker asked if I'm a model. She saw something in the way I walk.  It's with purpose (food and time are great motivators).  I look up and ahead.  I don't worry about where my feet fall, and smile at others because I'm usually playing a great song in my ears.  I don't worry about whether or not I can walk in heels.  I do, and I don't think about it because I trust my body.  I learned months ago that my muscles make up for my insecurity and that's when my calves hurt.  If I step out in confidence, it happens and others stare.  Or look away.  It's a toss up and I don't care anymore.

At work today, one of the women I sit with asked if I know I walk like a model.  I took it as a compliment and had a question to ask elsewhere.  I came back to giggling looks and knew she was asking someone else for an opinion on the way I walk and I laughed it off.

I was a t.v. extra.  It's a rite of passage in my city.  I acted on stage in high school.  I'm a bit of a ham.  I've never once modeled.  I'm not a model, nor do I care to be.

I don't walk like a model.

I walk like a mom.

I walk like I know great heartache can help me appreciate greater love.

I walk like I love silliness and frivolity because laughter is healing.

I walk like I'm inspired by sunshine and warm breezes with birdsong and honeysuckle on the wind.

I walk like smiles are free and hugs are healing.

I walk like it's an honor to be an inspiration to friends and strangers.

I walk in confidence because I know I will be okay.

I walk fearlessly because it feels better to be fiercely brave.

I walk like there's no turning back and the past isn't where I live anymore.

I walk like I'm stepping in gratitude.

I walk like there is beauty in everything I look at.

I walk as if I'm made of magic and stardust and there is something beyond belief holding me up and keeping me going.

I walk in the knowledge that I'm not different from any other person and anyone can walk like I do.

Righting a Wrong

Confessions

I have a confession to make.

Kinda.  Sorta.  Not really.  Not right now.

In the last year or so I've been really big on authenticity.  I've been embracing my truth and interpretation because to deny or normalize what is uniquely me into what I think might be accepted means I'm not okay with myself. When I'm wrong, I quickly admit it and do my best to address it immediately.

On Friday I made a mistake at work.  It was big enough to tie my stomach in knots and make my clumsiness much more pronounced.  I even broke my coffee mug.  I was holding it until I wasn't and it tumbled out of my right hand and somersaulted out of reach after jumping through my left hand before shattering spectacularly on the concrete floor. Try to imagine the echoes I can't forget.  It was loud and probably applause worthy but certainly epic. I knew I had to own up to it and walked around the inside perimeter of the building trying to figure out how to fix it and decide if explaining what I did was something to do in person or by email.  I decided to do it in person because I'm not big on hiding.  Not lately.  By the end of my run on sentence it wasn't a big deal.  It was even nothing that required more than a notation.  I worried about nothing.  The fact that I worried means that I cared, and my first concern was that I was creating more work for someone else to fix.

Confession is rarely for the benefit of the person we're confessing to.  When I confess something I've done it has gotten to the point where what I have done is making me uncomfortable.  I'm not happy or at ease with what I have done, and removing the guilt and shame looks like telling on myself.  I need you to know what I've done and the weight of what is on my shoulders needs to be explained so that you can see what I did.  At the end of the confession, the confessor has a heavy burden lifted, without concern for the new weight sitting on the shoulders of the person they've confessed to.

It's like admitting to a lover that you strayed while you were still unofficial.  You unburden your conscience but with little regard to the person you say you love.  They now have to carry your actions they might have been okay living blissfully ignorant of.

Forgiveness

When we offer forgiveness, it's a gift we give ourselves.  We don't have to tell a person we forgive them.  If they've done something wrong, they will have to find a way to make it better.  If they confess, giving your forgiveness means they still have to accept it and let it ease the disquiet of their actions.  In giving forgiveness, you release them from the responsibility of your feelings.  In forgiving, you give something to yourself so that you feel peace about a situation.  There is no reason you need to make someone feel better about how they treated you.  They will have to find a way to feel better about what they did or failed to do.  Forgiveness is something we sometimes need to repeatedly offer for a single offense.  Sometimes a single situation has a myriad set of reactions that become unreleased offenses.  For me, this looked like my ex leaving, and every single way my life changed for the worse become an unreleased offense until I realized this was the greatest gift beyond our kids he could've given me.

What I'm still learning is that when I do something wrong, and I've confessed and been forgiven, the hardest thing to do is to accept my own forgiveness for breaking a commitment to being the person I want to be.  I have to forgive myself for something I did when I didn't stand up straighter for my beliefs.

When I was just out of high school I had a friend that was one of my favorite people.  We hung out together.  We drank together.  One night at a party, I was very nearly gang raped in my own bedroom.  A guy I was seeing left me alone to grab this friend, who burst through the door, yanked me off my bed and ended the party for me while I sat and shivered on a couch between him and other friends.  A while later he was angry with his girlfriend and I stood between him and her with his fists raised in anger.  I knew he was hitting her and I repeatedly chose our friendship over what I knew was right.  Over 8 years ago I decided I couldn't condone that and I completely severed the friendship.  I still haven't forgiven myself for what I did in accepting him and not telling her to leave him sooner than I did, then walking away to not be involved.  It's enough to leave a sad look on my face that makes others ask if I'm okay.  I wasn't okay and that in itself is perfectly appropriate.

Apologies

I'm trying to teach my boys that an apology isn't enough.  There are some things I really am sorry for and when I do something wrong, I try to apologize. I apologize to my sons a few times a week at minimum. Sometimes I apologize to the air I'm breathing because there are times my rage is so much stronger than the debt I feel to the person I'm angry with.  Being angry has nothing to do with right or wrong.  What I feel doesn't legitimize what I do because of feelings. You know what feels right to you instinctively and human brains are usually good at deciding the rest. There is no reason to feel other than how you feel or to apologize or explain it.

When I say I'm sorry, and I really mean it, I will go into the ways I felt I've wronged someone and I will tell them what it made me feel about myself.  I will tell my kids I'm sorry I yelled. I lost it and my reaction is not your fault. I will do better next time because nothing means more to me than you do. (Even a fight that leaves another broken dish on the floor.) I will try to correct the committed offense and ensure it won't happen again because being the mother I want them to have means fewer therapy costs. Anything less and I'm breathing air and it's meaningless.

Body Image

I like to think my body image is healthy.  At the end of the day it comes down to knowing that not many people complain. I walk with confidence - usually.  I know my ethnicities intrigue and my curves entice.  I've been told these things since I was a little girl and it was really creepy.  It's not about conceit.  Knowing you are a face and a body and often nothing more doesn't feel good and I'm as self deprecating as the next person.  I attack other areas I have no control over. I will still think of my nose as large and flat and it will always make me think of peanut butter the way it spreads across my face.  It's adorable on my kids but it will always keep me just shy of beautiful when cute is the attainable title. My eyes will always be a dull brown that is nearly black when I've always wanted them lighter.  I have my Dad's cleft chin and my resting bitch face looks just like his everyday face when he's not fake smiling and a little creeptackular.  It's not pretty and it might be why I smile so much. It might also just be that I'm really happy most of the time lately.  I often hear from old friends that I didn't smile this much when I was happily married. When it's not my face but the rest of my body, I'm quite happy. When I was a little girl, many of my family pictures included me in the front, rounding out my belly, sticking it as far as I could.  I can't tell you why I did this because I have no clue.  I do know that I've never been one to suck in my stomach.  I might turn a certain way because there is artistry in angles, but I don't suck it in.

I was always fairly active as a child.  When I wasn't sitting in a sunny window, collecting bits of trash and calling them treasures, I was outside.  I rode bikes, tried skateboarding, played pickle and kickball with the neighborhood kids. . . Play was active.  I got older and my mom started sticking me in ballet, tap dance, jazz, Hawaiian dance, swimming, and gymnastics.  I got to junior high and joined Drill Team.  In high school there was more dance with theater and I also did karate.  Aside from my larger than average bra size, I was always fairly thin.

When I left high school, I worked in a lingerie store where I learned the average bra size was a 34B.  In high school I was wearing a 36DDD and couldn't even find my size in Victoria's Secret.  My relationships averaged a year and a half each and I never had complaints about my looks, but contentment often meant I got softer and larger because I ate the way my ex's ate and I was less active when we were hanging out the way we did. At my largest, my bra size was 40F.  (The complaint was I was too nice and too needy.) After the long term before the marriage I wasn't in relationships as much as hook ups.  There might have been one or two special boys at that time, but no one worth keeping.  Again, I didn't have complaints about my looks.  I also learned that what you looked like was less important than your willingness.  Most men are easy to read and easy in general.  Maybe that's why I'm not easily flattered and more interested in the boys that make me think.

Motherhood happened and I remembered my first endeavor after Kid1 was born.  I put on a pair of jeans, felt leaky everywhere because that is what childbirth does to a mother's body and went to the grocery store.  My hair was a mess, I was exhausted, and some poor boy was still hitting on me in line when I was still having a hard time walking. My ex didn't complain about my looks until I heard from his current one that I'm physically unattractive.  Since I wouldn't date her, I will assume we just have a difference of opinions.

My whole life, the only man to complain that I could and should lose weight is my Dad.  He means well.  I realized when he was taking me home from the hospital after visiting my infant who stayed a total of 10 days in the NICU that I had to just let it go and accept that I will never be thin enough for him, but no one else complains.

Really, I know what I look like.  I can see my stretch marks and extra skin and the parts that sag.  I know the random places where a gray hair will show up and even found one on top of my head.  (It was soft gray and I was so excited that I have a gray hair and no one will yank it out because I've earned it and I'm keeping it.)  I stand and judge the first tattoo I ever got because it was a jailhouse tat done badly and I want to one day repair it.  I'm waiting for the meaning to materialize and then I will have a concept to bring to the artist.

I also know what my body is capable of.  I have carried and birthed seven children.  I have hiked through dangerous terrain. I have danced and walked and kicked and punched. I can still roundhouse kick at chest level but I couldn't guarantee the power behind it. I was able to do my right and left splits until Kid3.  I'm flexible enough to bend over and reach my toes without stretching.  I have gone farther than I thought I could and I have done it with laughter and through sorrow.  I know what it is to run along wet and dry sand.  I know what it feels like to push past exhaustion into feeling like you have limitless energy.  My body knows pleasure beyond words and what it really means to be able to do nothing but feel because good and bad, it always comes in waves. I can survive pain that is emotional until it's also physical.  My body amazes me.

I have moments of insecurity at a beach when I'm first exposed in a bikini.  Then some random guy won't be able to look away and my confidence is back because I know no one else looks as closely as I do and in spite of my flaws, I'm still amazing to me.

It's not enough though, is it?  It's not enough to love my body for what it looks and feels like and what it can do.  I have young men and women in my life and I owe it to them to pass on what has been internalized through so many heartaches. I need them to know they are so much more than the pleasure that can be found in their bodies because that would make it easier to see the fallacies in being told that they can never find better than the one that makes them feel bad about themselves.  There's a push to end childhood obesity, but it's really not just about eating too much and being inactive.  It's about what we do to cope when life does the unexpected and we can't appreciate the change.  It's about not teaching our children that comfort tastes like sweet or savory textures.  It's about a healthy image of normal.  We don't all look like what we see on television.  If the only naked bodies I was ever exposed to were in porn, I would never know what a woman's body should look like.  You can't look at porn or magazines or actors and call that your normal.  Its beauty is in its rarity.  I was lucky that I often saw my mom in different states of undress.  I know what a normal woman is supposed to look like.  My mom is solid.  She has never been slender to me because she has always had Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle Legs.  She's always been strong and powerful and to want her to fit into the ideal of what society would push would take away the beauty I grew up internalizing and her beauty looks like strength and independence.  When she was slender in the idealized way, it was before motherhood forced her body through maturity and to love the body of a young girl and only that image would be to rob us of the pleasure found in a mature body.

It's not about learning an ideal and shaming all else.  It's about finding beauty in what we have and loving the way it feels and knowing we are far more than an image.  It's knowing I'm not average but that is what is beautiful.  It's knowing that the reason a man is in porn isn't because he has a pretty face, but because he has an abnormal size or endurance.  It's teaching our boys what normal is so dysfunction can be addressed and not stigmatized or feared.  It's teaching them that actors are paid to do what they do and that doesn't make it pleasurable.  My son is fascinated with porn right now.  We have many talks and I openly discuss the violence and try my best to humanize the actors in a way that he can see there really isn't pleasure in violence.  I don't want him to grow up thinking that what he sees is normal in relationships because that is a rare snowflake that likes that flavor of kink and you should either run or hold on, but never take it for granted.

Welcome Distractions, or My Latest Crush

I prefer a good crush.  This has been decided.  I have yet to be convinced otherwise.  They're safe.  There are too many ready excuses why I'm not ready for a real relationship.  I think the biggest thing is my paranoia.  I'm low maintenance and easy going and that is so easily manipulated.  Most people that know me have noticed that I'm fairly resilient and adaptable to adverse situations and uncontrollable change.  That is an abuser's fantasy and I'm aware of that. I won't demand to see someone's phone, or insist they tell me every detail.  (Okay, so I would check my ex's phone, but it never occurred to me to look at any texts other than the ones from his sister that hated me. I might have seen the affair if I had.) I don't even need to be in constant communication or contact because I really love my time alone. I can be intense and passionate and dialing it back is always a challenge and not always a welcome one. A freefall into love means I'm giving it my all at 110% no matter what the return, or if there is one at all.  At the same time, I'm afraid of welcoming someone into my life that will eventually want to play house and I'll have to trust someone with my kids and that's the last thing I want right now.  I like silly crushes and superficial connections. I like playing it safe. My latest crush has very solidly placed me in his friend zone.  It was somewhere between a crush and almost a thing, but never really a thing.  I once joked that he keeps dumping me but we're not together. It feels like cooling off is leading to a final answer and while there is a little sadness because I always want what I want, I can accept it for what it is and appreciate it for what it was.  There was no leading on.  His honesty is new.  There isn't something to read into because his words have always matched his actions.  I think he was always flattered, somewhat curious, but he was always clear that I'm not the one.  I was never the right one for him. I won't explain his reasons but I will say I understand them and would never hold them against him. Maybe this moment is setting doves free.  I'm releasing what I have so carefully kept to myself.

There were a few moments when that friendship was a blurry dance but it's firmly back in place again and I'm okay with that.  Or I will be. It's where I keep all of the ones I refuse to let go of.  It's a good place to be.  I did consider a real and lasting relationship with him for a little while.  He's pretty amazing.  If being with him when I didn't have my kids could ever be enough, he would be the one. My kids have a way of creating radical change and I wouldn't want to change him.  I enjoy so much about him that shifting who he is would be a disservice to him and his eventual Miss Right.  He could only ever be Mr. Right Now but he's so great I would want more for him.  There isn't a time limit on Right Now, is there? Besides, it's not that serious. When I'm having a rough day, I'm not trying to hand it to him to fix for me.  We don't get into deep discussions about our dreams and our histories. We haven't actually gone out on a date. I'm very open and transparent and he's incredibly private.  I'm more into escaping into who he is and what he looks forward to each day than trying to fit him into me and my life. It's enough that on a rough day, a memory of a conversation or his shy smile can make me smile.

On a tangential side note, I'm listening to a playlist that includes Radiohead's Creep, Self-Esteem and She's Got Issues by the Offspring as well as Dramarama's Anything, Anything.  We won't analyze that, but I will leave it right here for me to notice and you to laugh at.  Go ahead.  It's a freebie.

What kind of man could catch my eye and hold my attention?

He's amazing and special.

There's something transcendent about his hugs.  To be wrapped in his solid arms and held against his body with that amazing scent that is so masculine and sexy . . . I will not admit or deny that there is occasionally drool involved. Bald men with healthy tans and hard muscles has always been a thing - my thing because I'm not above being shallow, but he has been a special treat.  His eyes are dark brown and so expressive.  There's a quiet calm in the way he slouches in a chair and it's almost like watching a wild animal that is bored between kills.  Lithe.  He has a beautiful lithe body. When he talks about astronomy, physics and geology, there's passionate excitement. I don't know if he's into Potter, but he'd be a Hufflepuff and that's not a bad thing.  I've always been a little more Ravenclaw but I can see that in him too.  He's well read and like a sponge, he not only absorbs what he's read, he can expand on it and watching him express what has blended together and mellowed into certainty for him is a special pleasure.  His eyes will tell you when he's unsure or insecure and there's a soft vulnerability in his gaze with lifted brows and full lips.  I could coddle him in those moments.

He's the strong and silent type but there's a vulnerability about him that brings out my protective side. In many ways he's so open, guileless and innocent. In other ways he's closed off and unmovable. Manchild isn't a dirty word if that's what would define him.  I rarely have this much patience or kindness for men since I realized my role as a wife was more important to me than being my ex's wife was. There's something about him that speaks to that part of me that needs to give and offer and not expect anything in return.  He brings out selflessness in me, and it's not about my vulnerability.  It's not that he needs to catch or protect me.  I want him to continue to be who he is, and whether or not he can offer me anything more than a smile is irrelevant.

He's beautiful.  I think most would say he's cute or a looker, (I may or may not have shared a glimpse of a profile picture with a select handful of women and maybe a gay man) but that's just based on his face.  There's a whole package and the thought of it is often my happy place.  Like, Peter Pan better find Tink because I'm ready to fly now.  There is solid muscle that looks amazing in a t-shirt and jeans. He has a runner's body and the lines from his broad shoulders to his hips are what Greek sculptors were commissioned to master. I love the body hair that covers his arms and peeks out of his soft and faded t-shirts.  He's so active that his skin is always warm and slightly dewy. (Perks of a fast metabolism.) His hands are warm and calloused and rough and manly. His chest is perfect. My hands are soft and sensitive and there is so much pleasure in what my fingertips and palms have felt.  I love the way his muscles strain to stretch across his chest and the thin flesh over his sternum throbs with his pulse and his stomach is flat and firm and fun to touch.  There is so much peace in wrapping my arms around him and just fitting. His kisses are deep and passionate and I imagine his hip girdle could make angels cry.  I wouldn't know.

For the first time in my life, I've been alone with a guy and kissed him and we've started something doesn't mean he needs to finish it.  We've kept our clothes on at all times and there's a purity in it that is worth holding on to. Some people call that respect or taking it slow, but it's so alien and I totally dig it.  I'm used to manipulation and aggression and guilt to go further than I want to, but there isn't a rush and I love that feeling. I really just enjoy sitting with him and talking to him.

I'm not into the idea of sweating.  I will sweat.  I just don't enjoy it unless I'm walking somewhere to see something beautiful or pulling weeds.  Exercise that doesn't look like fun isn't something I do.  He's so committed to being active and eating well.  He's mindful of what he's eating at all times and it's a choice I admire.  It's a lifestyle for him and has been since at least his teens and it's beyond admirable.  I thought being gluten free was a pain for me, but to stay off of sugar for nearly 20 years puts him on a meta human level, right? Dr. Xavier around, anyone?

I think the greatest pleasure I feel from him is in that sapiosexual itch he scratches.  He's so smart, and curious, and creative.  I've had conversations with him where I was dumbstruck by the ideas and thoughts he explains and I did mention he's gorgeous, right? He once told me about reading Einstein's autobiography and a lot of that conversation is a blur because I was struck by how intelligent he is and the rest of it was my slack jawed glory.  I'm sure it was comic relief because I could feel how stiff my smile was.  I must have been amusing to watch. More than once I've been lost in watching him talk.  He writes, and draws, and composes music and as public as my writing is, his craft is so much more private. I write to get it out of me, but he has ambition I've never felt before. I try to write daily and exhaustion often wins, but he is so dedicated to his craft that he's doing something creative every single day.  I was honored in hearing his music and he kept trying to explain away what he felt was wrong, but I was just lost in his ability and the way his music made me feel.  It really is something amazing when sounds aren't processed with meanings in lyrics. For a moment I thought about linking to the many posts he's made an appearance in, but it's easy.  He's been the one that makes me smile and has been inspiring posts since I first saw his smile at the end of May. He's been my muse.

He likes to stick to his routines because his goals are bigger than instant gratification.  He down plays friendships and relationships, but when people are leaving his everyday life, he takes a moment to honor their friendship by being present and communicating the value he places in them with an offering of his time.  He's deeply introspective and polite, often brushing off the possibility that anyone could offend him because of the thick skin that all artists layer on as protection. I think his transparency is far more genuine than the personas most people affect. He carefully sticks to his diet and exercise because he wants the results he's working toward.  Aside from physically pushing himself, he takes really good care of himself.  He could use more sleep and he could be more gentle on himself, but then that would shift who he is. He's passionate about politics because he knows what is right and wants his ideals to influence society because as much as he sees himself as solitary, he's also passionately interested in the good he sees in the world and wants to make it better because he can't ignore the bad that is all around.

I've always been up front that I want someone that can hold a conversation and he has to be eye candy, but we're just friends and it's not that serious even if he is beautiful because beautiful is never enough. At the same time, this post almost didn't happen for fear of a reaction that would make him hide from me and I can't have that influence the freedom in my writing, right? In theory.