I Am Not Your


Stay around girl.

I used to be.

And I grieved that part of me, that sad, self-centered, navel gazing, John Hughes movie watching, cue poignant music now, sending myself (never did, but thought about it) carnations on Valentines Day in high school, stuffing love letters in crushes lockers, oh young, naive, unrequited in love, high school girl.

Let her go.

Carmen

Class of 1991

I am not her.

Hell.

I probably never was really “her” either.

I did not want to pick this school senior photograph, it was my mom’s choice.

I don’t really have other photos from around that time.

But I remember it so very well.

And as I was recalling with two different, no, ha, three different people today all the things that got stirred up yesterday, it occurred to me that it was time to kiss her sweetly and let her go.

I know she still wants to dance with somebody that loves her, but I mean, I got to go girl.

I am done waiting around for him.

And for you to get over him.

Like moving the fuck on.

How far on?

To San Francisco, to Paris, to London, New York, Rome, to Burning Man, man.

On my Way

Burning Man, Class of 2014

And this is not me either.

But it is a part of me.

I can carry silly romantic notions out into deep playa as well, I’ll find the one here, I met my soul mate at Burning Man, yadda, yadda, yadda.

The only person I met there was me.

And more of me.

Flawed, imperfect, crazy, wild, adventurous, able to leap at the suggestions of faith given to me in a single bound, beautiful, impetuous, courageous, curious, lovable, brave.

Whoa man.

I am brave.

And I am not too scared to say that I worked my ass off to get here and the here is just a beginning, the best is still yet to come.

I was encouraged to look at the growth I have had since I was that younger woman, and also just over the last nine and a half years, to stand up for that woman and not sit in the defective nature of old hurts and ideas.

So, I salute you, self.

You’ve come a long way baby.

There’s that whole not drinking or using for 9 1/2 years.

Which is a much better movie than 9 1/2 Weeks, let me tell you.

Then there’s the leaping about, moving about, trying different things, going different places, traveling to Paris, London, Rome, New York, living in Paris, living in East Oakland, going to Burning Man, going to LA, fuck, performing on stage in LA, and in Marin, oh, the places you’ll go.

I wish I could take her hand, little lady, sad lady, 1991 senior photo girl, and just say, you don’t have to change anything.

You are so strong and amazing and you are going places.

And you’re going to live in San Francisco.

And make it work.

“You’re never going to make it there,” he said to me bitter with his own regret, “believe me, I tried.”

Of course you did.

But I did make it.

Not in any way that I could have imagined, but I kept trying and here I am, still trying.

Still letting go of the idea that I can’t make this work, hell, this has been a make it work moment since I threw all my stuff in the back of my two door Honda Accord and drove out here from Wisconsin twelve years ago.

Girl.

You’re going to get tattoos.

And re-pierce your nose.

And stop wearing a tongue ring, it’s gauche.

You are going to date weirdos and not weird enough o’s.

You get to find out what works for you and what doesn’t.

Cheating?

Nope.

No cheating, don’t want to date you or hang out with you.

No interest in being in a poly-amourous group either.

Yay for you.

Glad it works.

I don’t need to work on my defects that much, thanks.

Monogamous, please.

And.

Straight.

Well, you can be a little fabulous, I am, but not too fabulous.

And yes, sex drive is way important.

Age not so much.

Looks?

Not so much either.

I will go for intelligence over the fleeting handsome face that time will steal away.

Humor?

Must have.

Preferably dark, wry, witty, sarcastic, but not too sarcastic, smart, silly, maybe a little raunchy, but let’s laugh, shall we?  Life it is so short, that’s another thing I would let little Miss 1991 know.

My god.

The life it moves by so quick.

One day I am seventeen and aching.

The next day I am forty-one and aching.

The lapse in time is so fast.

Go for it.

Get it.

And yeah, the fear, it will come up, but you can walk through it and nothing is going to be the horror story that your child hood was.

Your childhood, was not that bad either.

Or, don’t get me wrong.

You didn’t want to be there.

But when I think of all the things that I was exposed to, no pun intended, and the creativity and art and movies and freedom I got to have, no helmet on my head, free run of the parks and streets and trees and ponds and lakes and farms and train tracks, all the buildings I climbed to the top of and sat on the roof’s of, the life I got to live was pretty awesome for a girl growing up in rural Wisconsin.

I have grown, though.

Through no desire of my own.

I could wallow in that morass of self-pity and wish again for something other than the life I have been given or the mistakes of waiting for the one who is so not the ONE, that I may as well go walk down to the beach and drown the sorrows in the tidal pools, but frankly, I am not interested in that kind of out.

I prefer to hop on my bike.

Whether it is my one speed sparkle pony whip or my lowrider chopper at Burning Man.

And ride off into the sunset without him.

I’m not riding toward anyone.

No one completes me.

I wouldn’t be surprised, though, if one day I turn, and he’s alongside.

Because that’s what I have grown towards and into.

Not a person who needs another to complete them.

Rather.

I am a woman who is ready for the man who will compliment her.

He doesn’t even need tattoos.

I have that covered.

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