The Choke Hold Of Possibility

Love, soulfood, your body

What is this thing that we do. We will let someone between our thighs, let them caress the parts of us that we would never expose in public. We will whisper the song of lust, desire and fantasy into their mouth gaped open in a resounding yes. But we won’t tell that same person how we feel about them. We wont say I like you and I don’t know what that means. We won’t say every night I lie in my bed reimagining the sensation of our bodies discovering and reciprocating. I won’t say that for a moment yesterday I slipped into a day dream about us having a cook out in our backyard, our kids playing tag weaving their lanky bodies between adults. One of us shouts hey be careful and then we lock eyes because truly this is what we’ve always wanted.

 

I can’t say any of that. I’m careful to not always be the one who instigates the text. I hold my breath every time that you say you’re on your way over. Still surprised when the door bell finally rings. Sometimes the butterflies will bubble up into my esophagus leaving me between dry heaves and fainting in anticipation, of your next word, the next time you kiss me on the top of my head, the next time.

I have no idea if there will actually be a next time.

Girl get your life together. This man knows nothing about you. Has no obligation to you. There’s a good chance that you terrify him. Hell there’s a good chance that you terrify you too.

So here we are. I inhale you like the air right after a rainstorm when you’re laying next to me. And I want to throw up every time that you text me. I hold my breath for thirty seconds and then I look. Exhale. I’m irrational and you never miss a beat.

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Scratch That

Love, soulfood

You know what, never mind. I just got so caught up in my little girl emotions, that I forgot who I was.

 

Girl you are a mastermind of the interpersonal relationship. You are an artist, a poet. You are a student of psychology and resilience. You are living an authentic life. You are thirty years old. You have made all of the strange turns in life. You have learned through blood sweat and tears how to negotiate, respect and care for a partner. You are selfless and you are fierce.

 

Yeah but still every time that I see you I wonder if it will be the last.

Profile Update

domestication, Love, social awareness, soulfood, therapy, your body

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.

 

Sincerely,

Splendid, complicated, lovely, exhilarating, real as fuck Reagon

everything will kill you, but you will kill you faster

Love, your body

Truth: You’ve been dying since the day you were born.
Truth: We are exposed to an alarming amount of carcinogens and toxins on a daily basis through regular daily life (breathing, drinking, eating, touching).
Truth: There are no guarantees in life and yes you may walk outside at any moment and be hit by a hypothetical bus or a real bus for that matter.
Truth: In you using “Everything will kill you” as an excuse to continue behaviors that are causing indisputable harm to your body and mind, you actually can’t separate the two you are loosing all of your credibility as a reasonable, intelligent, rational human being.
I said it, you’re an ignorant ass for saying that and even more so for convincing yourself that it is true.

Let me tell you a true story.

I was born into the arms of a woman that I loved more than any other human being on this earth, my own mother included. She was the person that I (and countless others) called to divulge all of my secrets to. There was literally nothing about me that she didn’t know and she loved me despite all of it. My grandmother was this enigmatic mix of sassy, fiercely loyal, loving beyond measure and contagious. I imagine that for all of her younger years that everyone’s head turned when she walked into the room. Beautiful didn’t do her justice. As she aged she retained her command of attention. You knew her.

grammy

She did what she wanted. (Maybe this is why I turned out as I did…) When doing what she wanted wasn’t helping people, being the voice of reassurance, spoiling all of the people that she loved rotten. It included chain smoking Marlbro 100’s, chugging pepsi’s like water and ingesting chocolates by the boxes. This was before and after open heart surgery, a regimen of blood thinners and constant blood work. It was after pleas from her grandchildren to take better care of her self. After stern talking tos from doctors. After the very real realization that she was on borrowed time.

And still. She lit up every cigarette with a snide, “We’re all going to die anyway”.

One morning eight years ago my phone rang and my grandpa was frantic on the other line. “Reggy, Grammy fell, hurry run up stairs”. Up stairs referred to the inpatient recovery unit of the hospital. My grandma was there after a gruesome recovery from a stroke caused by an vicious asthma attack. An asthma attack that caused her to flat line, gave her a life flight to another state, put her on life support and caused her family to contemplate pulling the plug.
I rushed up there. A doctor was sweetly stitching up a gash over her left eye. She was in the bathroom when she fell, she didn’t remember how or why. She just did.
After the squad of nurses and doctor left the room. I sat on her bed cradling all 85 pounds of her in my arms. She broke down, sobbing for the first time in the weeks that we had been in the hospital together every day. She begged me to drop her off at the nursing home. She felt so terrible that she was a burden to her family. That she was a burden to her husband. That she had treated him so badly and that he was unabashedly in her corner every damn day of their 25 years of marriage.

And then with those larger than life brown eyes she looked me square in the eye and asked me what happened. WHY ME?

When you’ve woken up from a coma in the ICU, when you can no longer read, when you can’t make your affected side pick up a fork properly. When your liquids are thickened and you calories calculated for you. When you are utterly dependent on your medical team and infrastructure no one really wants to say to your face what happened and why this is your reality.

I said, “You died. We thought you were gone. And over MY dead body will you go to the Andbe home.”

She died 6 months later. I didn’t rush across the state the second time that she was on life support. I simply couldn’t see her like that again and I knew she wouldn’t come out of the ICU alive for another time.

My grandmothers funeral was on her 60th birthday. You have parents older than that. She missed the birth of her first great granddaughter, watching me graduate from college and years later knowing her final grand baby. She missed retirement with the best man that any woman would be so lucky to have. She missed so much of what could have been the most beautiful chapters of her life.

But hey, “Everything is going to kill you and we’re all going to die”. Aren’t we.

So, that’s why I’m pissed off when the people that I love sabotage their well being. That’s also why I’m no longer bashful about it. Prepare to be the recipient of my pleads, the bombardment of my arguments and the unleashing of a whole rash of shit that I will give you. I’m not sorry.

I didn’t want to be the asshole who argued every point with my grandma. I wanted nothing more than her approval. Her love. I was too young to call it enabling but I didn’t try hard enough to persuade her to quit, not just smoking but the general daily assault to her own body.  I will always regret that.

When I lash out at you about your poor life style choices it might not always seem like it’s from a place of love. But trust, it is. It may be selfish, I don’t want to watch one more person leave this earth with their claws dug in asking themselves why? But, I also think that you deserve better.  Here are the things that I want for you to consider:

-Be happy that you have good health to destroy. Millions of people in this country and billions across this planet are were born with any one of thousands of conditions or are at the mercy of diseases that they had nothing to do with acquiring. It feels unfair for you to throw away a perfectly able body, more than that, our bodies are an amazing orchestration of function and tenacity. Stop fucking up a good brilliantly designed thing.
-Be considerate of your future self. You may not always be a twenty-something hell bent on being the life of the party at all times and at all costs. Some day you may decide that you want to run marathons. You may decide to have children in your forties and not live to see them graduate high school, or shit, preschool. You may have a loved one, maybe even your own child or your mother who needs an organ transplant and you’re not eligible to give them one because of the damage that you have done to your self. You may get cancer and have to experience the hell of chemo therapy. You may get COPD and not be able to walk a few steps without loosing your breath. Your life may depend on an arsenal of medications that you have to take every day to keep your heart from stopping. You may deeply regret all of the years of living like, “Everything is going to kill you, so fuck it”.