You're on Your Own Kid, but at least You're in Love.

So this blog used to be about grief. And it probably still will be sometimes. Because that’s what my life is. That’s what Living in the After is. Always trying to shift genres but knowing there will be days that the bathroom floor seems cozy enough for an emotional meltdown or the gin calls my name a little too loudly. The wallowing days where the only fix is snacks, Gilmore Girls and blankies and puppies. But if Taylor can have all her eras, so can I. Right?

Life lately… I wonder what the hell my mom would even say. She never believed in that whole “looking down from heaven” thing because what type of heaven allows you to see this planet and still call itself paradise? But if she was or is peeking through the blinds from the other side, she probably looks like that emoji with the spirals for eyes.

Like. Hey mom, I quit my job, got married in the most sultry ethereal glam wedding dress I could find to a man I thought I’d hate forever, bought a bag that looks like a rubik’s cube and several pairs of jeans you’d hate, started wearing crop tops occasionally, made friends, lost friends to time and distance, got another dog, built an herb garden, subsequently killed the herb garden, went to some fun weddings, cooked a million amazing things, walked those same cobblestone streets we always have in St. Augustine and sort of accepted that I still can’t manage to learn a spell to conjure your spirit or a potion to bring you back to life, my bad!

So now that we’ve caught her up…

I have a person now. Which is so interesting because I thought I would’ve made a good spinster, but then I realized that having someone who can reach the top shelf and tell you what’s wrong with your car or your HVAC unit is pretty useful.

No, if I’m honest, I just fell completely in love. But it never felt too much like falling. It felt more like being asked to do the run and jump lift in Dirty Dancing multiple times until you didn’t completely psych yourself out. Or like speeding on the interstate, seeing a cop car and checking your rearview until you’re far enough away from the blue lights to be sure you’re in the clear. It felt like sitting on a dock in the dark staring into that impenetrable black water. But then the sun came up. And I could see a life with him as clearly as I could see the sand through the waves.

I had this realization the other day. Both times I’ve been with him, in college and again now, my arms have stacked up with bracelets. Something about bracelets and Shirley. I don’t know what it is. But it’s also everything else. Suddenly, corks become sentimental. Pictures and koozies and sticky notes and ticket stubs and songs and meals and random trinkets. Like that time he bought me an action figure of The Rock in a CVS. (I still haven’t opened it, so catch me on ebay in 2050 selling my man for $5k.)

Also, I fell in love with another person. Myself. I stopped hating my body. I stopped punishing myself for existing in a world that supports mostly capitalism and shame when you’re just not up for supporting the whole concept and need to call out sick a day or two. I learned that I could do hard things even when it sucked really bad. I fell back in love with pink and Hello Kitty and cozy socks and braids in my hair and fun makeup and existing as a girlie girl. Don’t get my wrong, my shuffle will always include Nirvana and Taylor Swift. But I remembered how okay it is to like glitter and unicorns and flowers and silly instagram posts. And it feels so good. I think this past summer has been healing for a lot of women, and I hope they like their bodies and basic white girl hobbies and things and that they know they can thrift one day and buy a Kate Spade bag the next without being “too complicated.” I stopped believing in the concept of being “too much,” but I will say, the anxiety of feeling that way may never go away. Women have to unlearn so much more than anyone realizes, and that feels pretty f*cked up considering sometimes it gets in the way of actual learning and the ability to have unbridled fun.

I can’t stop thinking. It’s so entirely radically monumentally cool the way that women crave each other’s affection. Bar bathrooms. Taylor swift concerts. Barbie merch. Friendship bracelets. Instagram comments on your best friend’s posts. Selfies. Dancing. Giggling. We crave it from other women even if we don’t know them from Adam’s house cat or if they’re our best friend in the entire world or our mom or our sister. We need each other, women. But the craving is the beautiful part. Like a vampire seeking a vein or a moth seeking a flame. We don’t just need it, we seek it relentlessly.

This is that time of year where you see your family and in those tiny little cracks in conversation, they say that tiny thing that is meant to tell you who you are. Those little implications that make you question yourself, your weight, your mental state, your politics, your perspective, your job, your hobbies, your passions, your whole entire f*cking life. It’s the time that dysfunction butts its head and reminds you that you will never be able to convince everyone to see you, hear you or let you talk without interrupting because what you’re saying just isn’t important to them. Sometimes not even the people that you love or that love you. It’s really hard for humans to do anything unconditionally, but sometimes it feels like asking for that version of love from anyone is like hoping to win the mega millions. Anyways, wear the ripped jeans your grandma hates, bring up Obama or Hillary, eat too much pie and don’t apologize for yourself. Those aren’t the things you or your grandma will remember on your death bed. So you may as well stop giving a damn.

Anyways. This was a stream of consciousness sort of thing. Think of my brain as a ball of yarn that someone really didn’t take the time to wrap up neatly - just stuck the knitting needles into the wad and went to bed. But in the words of Taylor: “I feel everything, and that keeps me who I am.”