So “they” say.
That whenever I am disturbed by any person, place, or thing, I am at fault.
Well fuck me.
There it is.
Who here has heard of the “no response response?”
Raise your hands.
I got it.
I left you a message.
You don’t call back.
That means no.
But I mean.
I want something out of this, I want a result, I want a response, I want, I want.
I want to shut the fuck up about it.
I want to move on.
And with that.
I pulled a hair geographic today.
If I can’t beat them, join them.
Or whatever the hell that means.
I am ok with not getting a response.
In fact, last night as I was masturbating.
It’s going to be one of those blogs, if you’re related to me, you can just stop reading it right now.
No holds bar.
This is a “I should probably,” but won’t at all “regret,” blog post.
While I was taking care of self, proper self-care like and having a great time with it, I realized.
Well, there you go.
I’m not fantasizing at all about the ex.
Despite having given over to him, or perhaps to the fantasy of him, the majority of my brain space yesterday after I called and left a message about getting together to have coffee, I was not in fact, fantasizing about him at all.
Wouldn’t you like to know.
Suffice to say, it was not my ex.
And it was good.
Then I slept like a baby.
Slept so well, I slept until 10:37 a.m.
I can not remember the last time I slept past 10:30 a.m., let alone 9:30 a.m., even on my weekends I tend to be up by 8:30 a.m. at the latest.
Look at me.
I had a late and leisurely breakfast and even skipped doing the normal load of Sunday morning laundry I typically do (although, I will admit, I couldn’t put it off all day and did in fact, do a load, it’s in the dryer now) and the house cleaning.
Sometimes a girl just has to really take the whole damn day off.
No grocery shopping.
Well, light cooking, oatmeal with apple and blueberries and a hard-boiled egg for breakfast, lots of lovely Ritual pour over coffee, and lunch as well as dinner was homemade “fried” brown rice from the leftover vegetable stir fry I made yesterday with scrambled egg and avocado and tomatillos (note to self, tomatillos are hella good! I never have cooked with them before, they added a nice flavor to the rice).
I did meet with two ladies and do some reading and writing and sharing of the stuff.
I had my lunch, put on some jazz, Miles Davis, Relaxin’ With The Miles Davis Quartet, drank some tea and read my book on the chaise lounge for two hours.
I had plans.
I was going to go out and do stuff and things.
But the fog was heavy and the air chilly and I just wanted to curl up and stay where I was.
Sometimes, though, I have to go somewhere.
So I went to pink, I mean, really pink.
I picked up some Manic Panic at the salon yesterday when I went to get my nails done, just because I wanted to try one last color in the trio of pinks that I have been recently experimenting with.
Each of which, note to self, must get myself to an event with black light soon, glow in the dark.
My hair will glow in the dark, under black light.
Get thee to a night club lady.
Not that I have any plans to go hit the club circuit this weekend.
Once upon a time, in a land far, far away (the SOMA) I would have been rejoicing at a three-day weekend, I would have been at least three bags deep into it and looking to score more and be at the door at the End Up ready to make the most of the holiday weekend.
Not so much now.
And I find this much better.
In case you were wondering.
I went radically pink.
It is startling, fun, eye-catching, I won’t be missed.
“You are not easy to miss,” he told me, “even if I didn’t say anything, I knew when you showed up, where you were, I would sit and stare from a far.”
I don’t want to be stared at though.
I want to engage and I did have a moment of thinking, am I self-sabotaging, going this crazy hair color?
I am fucking having fun and to top it off I threw on a little pink glitter to make me feel better.
I don’t dress for a man, or to get a man, or to have a man, or get asked out on a date.
I dress for myself.
I love that.
Being authentically myself is one of the best things I have discovered about living my life with a clear head.
I’m sure I’ll change my mind at some point.
But right now.
I’m in the pink.
And I’m not mad at him.
I got, suddenly, how hard this has to be for him too.
I was reminded of the few times during the 90 days, twice, when he reached out via text and I did not respond.
Now I know how it feels.
But it won’t kill me and as I was more than happy to supplant the fantasy in my head with a fantasy of another, I knew in my underneath all that pink hair, my brain was slowly coming to terms with my heart.
And I could walk away and not text and not call back and move on.
Frothy, pink, emotional appeals seldom suffice.
I choose today to act like a woman.
To not just talk the talk, but to walk the walk.
Which meant today, hopping on my bicycle in the gloom and getting out of dodge, my brain, for a little while and riding out to Saint Gabriel’s up on Ulloa and 41st for an hour.
Where I was reminded of the spiritual axiom and laughed out loud when it was mentioned.
Then I blushed as pink as my hair.
But I got the message.
Sometimes it just takes a day to sink in.
From my head to my heart.
By way of a small hair color geographic.
Tickled pink to be back home.
Happy and free.
In my own self once more.