I am not Beyoncé. Hard to believe I know. I am also not June Cleaver, Jessica Alba or Princess Di. I probably have more in common with Julia Louis-Dryfus and Elizabeth Warren. Today I updated my Bumble profile to the perfect mix of setting reasonable expectation while still sounding fun, sexy, uninhibited, and classy . Choosing pictures where I look subtly breath taking, but down to earth. Literal earth, at least two nature pics and one selfie in heals. Shots with the perfect amount of I like to party sex appeal but not party so hard that I’d suck your dick on the first date sex appeal.
And it occurred to me, WHAT IN THE FUCK ARE WE DOING TO OURSELVES.
So here’s my honest to God’s truth Bumble profile:
Hi I’m Reagon. Pronounced Ray-gun. Yes, like the president. In fact that’s my shtick (follow me on FB, Insta, Twitter, & Snap @reagonforpres). [Hey, if I can’t get a cup of coffee or a cocktail at least I can get a few more followers… add this to future branding campaign advice.]
Any way, I clean up real nice, in fact I was recently told that I look like a living doll. But I also, regularly look like a homeless person. Also, like clock work every year I do no shave November, and December, and sometimes January, February and half of March. By spring break every year I can Rapunzel style French braid my pubes down to my ankles and sculpt my leg hair into a punk rock Mohawk. Hot right?
Honestly, because we just met I’ll painstakingly shave, pluck and pull 80% of the hairs out of my body. They were all blonde to being with so this process annoys me highly but so does the prospect of dying alone. So here we are.
To appease all of your inquisitive minds, the drapes match the rug. And I do have rug. Fuck ladies, let’s stop paying Tammy at the local Wax Palace $100.00 every ten days to rip the hairs out of our vag okay? Like, can we add that to our next national ballot? It’s clear ya’ll aren’t actually down for the revolution, but can we at least let my lady hair sail free?
Sorry about that tangent. It’s nice to meet you.
Today I woke up on a twin sized air mattress next to the beaming eyes of the most exquisite creature that I have ever seen. Between me lovingly gazing into my daughter’s eyes in a sweet sleepy stupor I tried to identify what that old familiar sound was. Oh my God what is that??? It sounds like the dog is barfing in the tent. Oh my God THE DOG IS BARFING IN THE BED, IN THE TENT. I somehow contorted my body even further than should be humanly possible and clung to my blankets for another ten minutes. Partially because I was freezing fucking cold and partially because I wasn’t exactly bouncing out of bed over joyed to clean up dog vomit. But I did, eventually, and as promised it was fucking disgusting. This thought crossed my mind numerous times, I’m so glad that no one has to see me dressed in seven layers of clothes, thick wool socks shoved in flip flops cleaning up barf. And trust the flip flop socks didn’t give off a sexy geisha vibe.
The nice thing about waking up to a steamy pile of vomit is that your day really only goes up from there.
I made a fire. I ate a hotdog for breakfast. I took down the campsite. I wrestled the tent like an alligator into it’s impossibly tiny bag. At one point resorting to laying my entire body on the stabbing rocks, again seeking solace in thank God that no one can see me and laughing at the heavens, “Ohhhh mother fucker, this damn tent is a real metaphor for my life. Well look at this God I DID IT! Un-barfed, neatly folded and then artfully crammed and shoved into it’s pouch. Zipper amazingly closed and all done by me, myself and me. Alone. Fuck. I surrender.”
I’m not trying to do that shit ever again by myself. But I will because of the RBG in me.
After the seventy-second load to the car I stripped out of three layers of clothes. Taking amusement in the breadth of my own undressing capacity. Hot dudes that I bring home from the bar get the Dita Von Teese dimly lit peak-a-boo slow undress session. But, in the wild there I am teeter-tottering on top of my six year old tennis shoes with the grace of a hippo with flamingo legs. A real homage to Eric Carle, without the tear jerking sentiment.
And then I drove our three barely pulsing corpses back home. The two things that I miss most about having a man:
1) being the passenger
2) indulging in the helpless girl act long enough to not be the one who has to catch and release the parade of spiders that are fleeing into my home at the moment
Here’s the thing: I CAN DO ANYTHING. Literally, anything. I look back to my younger years with bewildered awe. I can’t believe that I did all of that. I look into my future with bewildered aweee, girl you still got it. The thing that changes once you know that you’re powerful beyond measure. That you are divinity incarnate. That your talents can’t be contained. Is that you don’t have to prove yourself to anyone anymore.
Yes, I want to be seen. I want to be heard. I want to be held. I don’t really care if you know that I’m a total sex kitten in my embodied sexual prime. I don’t care if you know that I spent thirty minutes today unclogging my bathroom drain. While interjecting like a school girl, ewwweee this is soooo sick. I don’t care if you know that I smoke a bowl in my hammock or that I wrote a highly intimidating business letter all today. Really I just don’t care anymore.
I’m just going to keep showing up as me. Vast, unapologetic, liberated, loving, loud, soft, determined, tired, me. Maybe I’ll charm you. Maybe I’ll scare you (I’m good for that). But if you’re the type that looks at fire and sees beauty then maybe we should get coffee. And maybe you could pick me up. I’m serious about never wanting to drive again.
Splendid, complicated, lovely, exhilarating, real as fuck Reagon