I know what I’m supposed to be doing now, but I’m still too afraid to really do it.
So I keep doing things I should let go of, because I think they look like REAL WORK to other people, and are more defensible (if I fail, which of course I will if I’m not doing The Right Things … then again, they’re all kinda right things, and all vulnerable to someone saying they’re wrong … so I should stop working so hard at identifying right and wrong and just identify WORK and HOURS WORKING and WHAT FEELS GOOD).
dark moon :: pink cheeks :: big boobs
Headed in the right direction: I’m super happy to recommit myself to a set (yet flexible as-needed) swing-shift schedule. Balancing the freedom of working for myself at home with some STRUCTURE (that I really need and provides its own freedoms) is a struggle, but today felt super NATURAL for me, blocking out 2pm to 10:30 for work. Of course I started early. And I’m finishing late. And I worked on stupid things I should be paying somebody else to do. But hey … I wanted to end my day on BOOBS, not bills, so here they are!
2-10:30 tomorrow I’m going to work. On the “right” things. And not be afraid. The morning and daylight when other people at work is ALL MINE. And midnight is ALL MINE. And I’m going to be in love with all of them.
Note: I was in a bad mood when I started this post, but writing it adjusted my attitude to CRAZY INVINCIBILITY by the end!
My mid-life crisis anxiety has been so revved up over money challenges, fear of failure, our biological clocks ticking, overwhelming necessary work transitions/reinventions, social/interpersonal sadness, and feelings of incompetence that I got fixated on how I’m about to turn 42 . . . to the point where I started thinking I already *am* 42, and was telling people I’m 42, and about to turn 43.
But I’m still 41! For a couple more days.
The whole trying-to-get-pregnant thing (with doctors who are younger than I am looking at me like, “lady you better HURRY UP if you’re serious about this, because you are fucking OLD! Do you know how old you are? Have you looked in the mirror lately? You’re REALLY PUSHING IT, Grandma”) amped up my fear to the point where all I could think is that I’m too old . . . and just getting older. That it’s too late for alllllll of the good things I want, and all the good things I want to be. That tons of doors are shutting all around me. My time is up – I squandered it. Wasted my youth, my privilege, my health, my IDENTITY. Now I just have to figure out how to make do really fast and SAVE us from all of our debt.
This was supposed to be a happy-go-lucky positive-thinking post where I talked about OH WOW SEE ALL THAT NEGATIVE THINKING JUST MADE ME AGE MYSELF PREMATURELY AND I’M AS YOUNG AS I FEEL AND I CAN FEEL *GREAT* AS LONG AS I TURN THIS FROWN UPSIDE DOWN AND RECOGNIZE THAT I’M JUST AS FULL OF POTENTIAL AS I WAS TEN OR FIFTEEN OR TWENTY YEARS AGO IF NOT *MORE* AND YAY SO HAPPY AND EXCITED ABOUT EVERYTHING!!!
Guessing I need to not work myself up into having more attachments to big dreams, but to surrendering to just being happy with what IS, right now; I have white hairs sprouting up in my pubes, and I don’t actually just LIKE having text on my kindle enlarged to hugeness . . . I need bifocals or reading glasses to wear with my contacts because I’m becoming farsighted in addition to my already-deeply blurred life with this astigmatism and near-sightedness.
And my neck. My motherfucking NECK! How did I not see these ghastly loose flabby neck wrinkles coming?!? They’re in my genes and I made it worse by gaining and losing so much weight. Yes, forty extra pounds is MUCH WEIGHT. I’ll tell you more about that in more explicit pictures one of these days.
I hate it when people bitch about shit like this. I hate how much I’m doing and saying stuff that I hate.
I don’t want to be pretty. I never really did. What I wanted was to be immortal.
Apparently I don’t know how to make realistic goals.
But wait, THAT’S NOT TRUE!! I mean, it’s true many of my goals and dreams are unrealistic, but FUCK IT – our lives are awesome because we do shit most realistic people don’t have the balls to do.
I used to be 5’2″ until I made it a goal to be 5’3″ in my thirties. GUESS WHAT?? I’m an inch taller! I made myself taller. IT’S THE TRUTH!!
And speaking of even more fantastical transformations: this is my wife, Delia, now:
Delia showing off her tits in Vegas.
This was my wife twelve years ago:
There was so much more to her transition than gender presentation.
Fuck “reality”. What a stupid cage. I’m going for immortal.
And thanking Delia (who NEVER complains about getting older, or any of the myriad challenges much bigger than mine that she meets with sweetness and serenity) for it. And remembering that there are a lot of people who can’t just *think* themselves into being healthier and happier. I want to get rid of our debts so we can do more to help other people.
My birthday is on St. Patrick’s Day / Tuesday the 17th … there’s a 42% chance I’ll be on cam if you want to say happy birthday (and look at my big boobs)! I may even do a very affordable gold show, so keep an eye on my twitter feed to see if/when I might log in.
This morning I dreamt that we had to get ready to evacuate the large dormitory-like place we were all squatting when it started flooding and we left the abandoned train cars in the field. We didn’t know where we were going or if we’d ever come back, all I knew is I needed to try to bring as much stuff as I could. While I shoved things into my clear plastic miniature tote suitcase thing, trying like hell to find my exacto knife, my little sister came down in a panic and started trying to stuff clothes in my already-crammed luggage.
“What the hell are you doing?!? Go get your own suitcase!” I couldn’t believe how dumb she was being, like she couldn’t see that my tote was already full and that what she was doing made no sense.
Her eyes filled up with tears. “Where?”
She turned away crying and I woke up miserable. Because there are times when efficiency is not as important as reassurance. Even though in real present life my sister wouldn’t need it in a crisis. But she was younger in my dream. I was just the same as I am now.
I don’t know why I’m so hyperfocused on dumb stuff that I can’t see what’s really important: telling people I love that everything’s going to be okay, and making sure I grab them and hug them and hold their hands tight instead of scaring them more and sending them away and losing them.
There were all those people in the building, about to be forced to leave . . . maybe about to be bombed. I can still see her heading for the stairs and people crossing over the path she took away from me, crowding into the lengthening space between us. Waking up with morbid regret and fear that I could be so dumb as to risk us getting separated, and sad to my core thinking of her scared and alone, rebuked and pushed away.
When somebody comes to me for help or high fives or hands me something impractical that I don’t think will fit, that doesn’t fit what I want or think I need or is “smart” (I was really obsessed with how indispensable that exacto knife would be), I should forget myself and the material stuff and look at their face and SEE what really matters. What they’re really looking for and need, and why they came to me in the first place. I want to practice this in real life and when I’m asleep. Not being so obsessed with attachments to fears and things that I can’t see people right now, and put them and their feelings first.
Why would my brain ever think an exacto knife is more important to secure and keep with me in a crisis than my little sister?
On a better note: over the past week I’ve had some dreams cycling through people I don’t think about that much that surprised me by being sort of positive-feeling wrap-ups on old relationships, or reminding me of people I’d actually like to see again. It’s been surprising, healing, and unsettling all at the same time. I’d really prefer to just not dream so much, though. I hate having all of these people in my head when I’m trying to rest.
I didn’t even think of looking for the full moon last night.
I failed to exercise / run myself out. I failed to do things in the morning that remind me what’s important, and that it’s all going to be okay, and the list of things that help me be less of an asshole.
I forgot promises I made, and how important they are to me, and how easy it could have been to keep them.
I forgot how blessed I am with plenty of love, and that I don’t have anything to be that scared of.
I forgot how impossible it is to be enthusiastic or celebratory when you’re really depressed. I forgot that it’s okay that I don’t know everything, and not my job to figure it all out. I forgot that I’m fine with “fine”.
I licked and sucked and kissed and eroded the hints away that I intended to see as reminders of what is really fundamentally important and needed the most. Mind-altered by the mouth-feel and flavors on the surface.
I hate how easily I can forget all of the profoundly good things I’ve been taught. All because I want to be fucking babied & romanced, and the embarrassment & raw need of it make me hide my head in a bag with a scribbly monster face that I forgot to cut eye-holes in to see straight out of.
Love is an exercise. Love is a practice. Love can be freedom from selfish fear if I can make myself a channel of peace. If I can not make myself anything and just let everything BE.
Love is my teacher, and I want to repeat her class forever.
Polyamory is the realization when you drop off your wife somewhere, that if it were your new uncertain romance instead of someone you’ve loved & lived with for 12+ years, you’d get out of the car and hug them goodbye. So I got out of the car and hugged & kissed her goodbye, and doing that gave me a just-like-new smile all the way home .
In the backyard waiting for Taurus:
You should have been watching all of the fun and fingerbanging on the spycams!
We went to sleep early, but not before I had a chance to 1) brazenly FART one of the most noxious rotten eggs ever, 2) make him squeal in protestation, “DO YOU ENJOY MAKING ME SQUIRM?!?” in response to what *I* thought was a brilliant decontamination attempt, and 3) just try to do the things I like to do to get comfortable for bed aka “DRIVING HIM NUTS”.
Anyhoo . . . yeah, I might repost more of that later for members only, but for now let’s just leave it this way. This is much jollier, and I feel so much better!