Dating is absolutely not fun, it’s entirely lonely and miserable, and yet it’s like waxing, it hurts but then you’re glad you did it. Because at some point you eventually do meet someone. You finally find The One. Or maybe it’s just that you find whoever will have you after you’ve taken in the landscape of what’s available out there.
In my case, I’ll let you be the judge.
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Hello from London, hello from my 15271615th lockdown!!!
This pandemic might very well be the strangest journey of my life. From the United States to New Zealand to Great Britain to France, I have experienced so many different ways to live through it, I thought I’d share are a few.
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I had no idea who she was. We were at dinner, I had been seated next to her, and right away she jumped at me and we launched in a passionate, boisterous conversation with gossip and laughter and at some point we went to the bathroom and she decided to show me her cellulite and how bad it was and I told myself:
“Either she’s completely crazy, or she’s really cool”.
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I am terrified to post on social media. Anytime I post something on my feed, I lose followers. There is something inside me that hates losing followers. Oh, but I know why I’m losing them.
I mean, I think I know, because I’ve been doing exactly what they’re doing. I’ve been unfollowing and muting everyone. I’ve been feeling a sinful satisfaction doing it.
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Scotland had been everything I had imagined. Grand, vast. Inspiring, romantic, deep and beautiful. I had met wonderful people, deepened my relationship with my man and imagined new ways of living.
When I finally landed in Corsica, the motherland, I was thoroughly exhausted.
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There was me in my car. There was my dog on my side, the windy road down to Laguna Beach. The ocean, bright and silver. Music in my ears, sun in my eyes, and a feeling of no return.
I was going to a retreat and we had decided he wouldn’t come. It was a warm and breezy Friday afternoon. Before I’d hit the road, I’d suggested:
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“What the fuck is that?” People always ask me when I introduce them to one of my friends, S., who is 50 something. “I know, I know, you’ve got to get past that…”, I say.
What are they reacting to? Simple – S has jet black hair. Very obviously colored. Who cares, right? Except, S. is a man.
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Superhero movies are all the same. They start with a young person who feels different, gets teased for it and hates it. Then the person realizes those differences are potent and rather terrifying, and rejects them to try to conform to the people around her.
That’s when the test of life comes about. Something like, say, an Earth shattering explosion – we’re in a superhero movie after all – where our young person has no choice but to call in her powers and learn, first awkwardly, then masterfully – to control them.
