That’s it. I’m not dating anymore.
My heart is too soft and squishy still, and I just can’t deal. I don’t know what I need to do to get myself back in the head space I need to be in to play the game, but offering myself up like this is sure as hell not it.
Maybe focusing on my home improvement projects, my friends, and my family is a good start.
Quality time with my dog, who just wants to run around and be happy, could go a long way towards keeping me content, and keeping the world in perspective.
I’m supposed to be at a party right now, and eventually I will have to tear myself away due to obligation, but I am so not in that space. Despite all sense of reason, I just want to be spooning, and pouring out waves of love where they are needed most, and feeling like I can make a positive impact.
This is the exact impulse that keeps getting me into trouble. I want to fix it, and love it, and take care of it all, and then there isn’t much left for me.
Theoretically, it’s early enough that this should be easy, but it feels pretty shitty all the same.
Sundays have a particularly solitary quality. It might be because I’m an early riser, and when I’m padding around the neighbourhood with whichever dog happens to be in my life this week, thinking about coffee, and trying to guess how the weather will unfold, there is never anyone else around.
Not in my High Park haven. Not here in glorious Yorkville. Especially not in Paris, and certainly not at King and River street. Even the homeless were sleeping in.
I imagine people in their beds. Lovers enjoying the first few rays of sun, wound up and naked between crisp, white sheets. People who have partied too much, marinating in beer-scented sweat, with their heads shoved under a pillow to keep out the light, families with little ones who have piled in for an early morning snuggle before cartoons and French toast.
Me, I woke up in a borrowed bed to the urgent nudging of a cold, wet nose. I blinked, and the liquid brown eyes of a pretty blonde blinked back. A kiss. Sloppy. Then a paw, strong and insistent on my arm. Any dreams I would try to remember have now slipped away. I stretch and feel the empty space beside me, and wonder for a moment why I keep myself tucked away on one side of the bed when I have so much room to sprawl. Old habits…
I throw on a loose-fitting dress, and my glasses. Out we go for our morning constitutional. I’m very naked beneath the dress, but there’s nobody else to worry about. It’s just me and my always-smiling, sweet-smelling girl dog.
I’m confused today, and more than a little sad. Brain is fighting hard to come back, but we are vigilant. Heart is a bit sore, and has created an interesting reaction in throat. A tightness. Gut feels empty and a bit raw. It’s going to be another hot day, but I crave an over-sized, holy sweater, a cottage surrounded by trees, and a stack of good books.
Brain is our protector. We’re a little worried that we’ve sent her away now, because sometimes she’s right. There’s no going back, so we’ll have to rely on Gut, but sometimes Gut gets confused by Heart. Brain is always able to pick things apart to the point of annihilation, which every now and then is a good thing.
I bought it hook, line, and sinker. When something arrives in a whirlwind, it often spins off the same way, with the same velocity. If people seem like they are saying things out loud to hear what those words sound like when they dance in the world, it’s because that is exactly what they are doing.
If Brain were here, she would remind us that we had given up putting stock into words, and point out (gently) that we rely now on action and follow through. We’ve been that way for years.
A little bit of heartbreak is a set-back, but we have to dust off and get back into the game.
Today is Tiki day. Despite the encroaching rain, I’m taking out my Hawaiian dress, my fake hibiscus hair flower, and my red lipstick to once again promote and raise funds for the Burlesque Festival I’ve helped to organize. I will smile and flirt and hand out flyers, sell beer, invite people to come and celebrate with us, make conversation, weave in and out of crowds of happy gay people celebrating their gay-ness. I will flaunt my freckles, laugh like I mean it, and probably come home drunk.
First I will brunch with a lovely gal who makes me feel warm and happy all over.
Brunch is the greatest weekend pleasure. I will know that it’s time to invite Brain back home when I find the perfect brunch companion, who isn’t a sister friend, and who loves that ritual just as much as I do.
I always think of it as a sleepy, public celebration of the love that was made the night before. Look at us. Look at our rumpled hair and our sleepy eyes, and the way we can’t stop reaching across the table to touch each other a little bit. Look at how even though the sports (world, life) section of the paper is dividing us, you can still see the rays of love shooting from one to the other. After we eat your bacon, and drink your coffee, and listen to your kids squealing and screaming, we’re going home to get tangled in the sheets one more time before venturing forth into the world of weekend goodness.
I like my eggs over easy, and I don’t care who knows it.
I don’t need to have a functioning brain to understand what’s going on. Sometimes, things are clear enough that a person who is only functioning with the heart can sort it all out.
People, it’s important to take your cues off those around you, and respond accordingly, remembering always that we teach people how to treat us.
If I re-assess my summer goals, they look something like this:
1. Have fun
2. Refuel the love tank
3. Rediscover “me” time
4. Build a beautiful home
I need to remember rule number one. If it feels bad, slap some aloe vera on it. If that doesn’t work, cover up and head indoors. Easy as pie.
When I was a little girl, I used to spend hours listening to music, sprawled out on a pile of cushions, with my dad’s giant headphones on. I ordered a futon today for a quirky little corner in the Fortress which will now become my nap/reading/music/guest nook. I’m going to pile it with pillows and make it a very appealing place to curl up for an afternoon nap, because the space is otherwise un-usable.
Fortress of Solitude Rule #2: Music is key
To survive the next week I’m going to need some twine, garbage bags, cold beer, flowers to plant, friends to drop in, Thai take-out, and a lot of spare time. By this time next week, we’re drinking on my terrace.
This evening was hard because I was craving the domestic. It would have been perfect to curl up on the couch with someone I love, a cold beer, some home-made popcorn, and a stack of movies.
I’ll get there again. All in good time.