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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