Luck of the eDar

June 15, 2017

I mentioned in a recent post how I have weird luck: Major things tend to go well, while the small things make me work for them.

Take today, for example.

I’ve been meaning to get a new passport  for years, as my old one expired decades ago and was lost to the sands of time. I’m terrible about Actually Going Places to Do Things: Post Office? The worst. Get copies made? Ha. Get my photo taken? FUCK OFF.

Yesterday, however, I Successfully Adulted. I went and got the odious passport photo taken, and I actually look human in it, despite my face being all nekkers without my glasses. I celebrated by getting frozen yogurt and accidentally telling a punk asshole kid to shut the fuck up whilst doing so.

Reading over the requirements carefully, I printed out everything I needed (or so I thought.) I read the requirements several times to be sure.

Today, I started looking for my birth certificate, knowing I’d seen it as I’d been sorting through all the things in my office. It took literally less than two minutes to find.

It’s like I know how things tend to go for myself. It is exceptionally hot and humid here today (87 degrees with 48% humidity as I was heading out,) but when I was preparing to leave, there was not a cloud in the sky. What the hell, I’ll ride the bike – it’ll be easier to zip around on. I have these super comfortable, totally waterproof, highly-protective Sidi motorcycling boots that are probably the best motorcycling boots I’ve ever owned. They’re amazing, but also loud as fuck. They squeak. And when I say “squeak,” this is not a cute little mouse-sized squeak: This is “everyone in the whole building can hear three squeaks per step” levels of noise. There is no sneaking up on anyone in these bitches, I can tell you. They attract significant attention.

They are also hot. Like, temperature-wise, not so much sexy-wise.

I needed to get copies made, so I did a quick “OK Google: Make copies near me.” Google directed to me a spot a couple of miles away. I geared up, saddled up, and headed over. As I arrived and told the woman at the counter what I needed (two copies each of my birth certificate and driver’s license,) she chuckled a little and told me they were a commercial print shop with much larger minimum order requirements.

Fortunately, there was a Staples two blocks away. Boom, headshot. Sauntered back out into the waves of heat and moisture, got my hands into my sweaty gloves, and hopped over to the Staples. No line, woo! Did my stuff for less than a buck, and left. Started saddling up, somehow remembered I’d left my driver’s license in the copy machine before getting to the passport agency office – whew! Lucky me.

Back on the bike to find a parking spot downtown.

Now I say I have crap lucky on the little things, but I also realize I often make poor choices. No, no – hear me out: While this assuredly comes as a complete shock to anyone who’s ever spent more than 10 minutes with me, it’s actually true. The only parking spot I could find wasn’t exactly… legal. It was an end cap spot that was huuuuge, but already occupied by a car. There was easily another car’s length of space behind it, however, so in I went, mumbling a silent prayer to the parking gods to be merciful.

Lansing’s parking enforcement officers are, shall we say, “vigilant.” They cruise around like contented sharks, waiting for an opportune moment to strike. In the past, if I blinked too slowly before inserting a coin, a ticket appeared on my windshield, and the only trace of the officer was a fading puff of a breeze. I had seen one drive past just as I was getting ready to park, so I had a few minutes. Surely, I could get in and out before anyone noticed.

Everyone in these buildings could hear me coming from a block away.

I walked the block and to the City Clerk’s office, announcing my squeaky presence to the entire State Capital grounds. The squeaks literally echoed off the buildings as I approached the door. Once inside, I was confronted with a security checkpoint, which I had not expected. I let everyone behind me go ahead, as I had 1000 things plus motorcycle gear to be inspected. The checkpoint ladies were very friendly and gave me little grief about the small whirlwind of chaos that whirled in with me.

Noticing me looking at the building directory, one asked where I was going, and directed me to the ninth floor. Yay, elevators! Squeak (echo squeak, echo squeak) and so on across the lobby.

I had worked up a bit of a sweat with the biking jacket, helmet, and gloves, and with the walking around in heavy boots. I could feel my face all shiny as I lumbered out of the elevator and let my boots announce my presence in the City Clerk’s office. A very kind woman came around and started to help me, offhandedly asking “you’ve got your cashier’s check or money order, right?” as she looked through my paperwork.

“A what? No, it says right here I can use credit cards…”

“Sorry, not here, you can’t. We have to staple the method of payment to the application, and I don’t suppose you want your card stapled?”

SON OF A BITCH.

I had been so thorough, and even over-prepared by bringing multiple copies of everything. Alright, ok. There was a bank a few blocks away. Off I went, nearly careening into a woman as she came off the elevator, who laughed good-naturedly. Super cute lesbian, too. Alas, no time for flirting (like I know how to do that with girls, anyhow, amirite.)

Squawked my way back to the bike (which was, mercifully, ticket-free,) rode a few blocks down to the bank, grabbed cash out of the ATM, and went inside to get my cashier’s check.

Aaaand that’s a big negative, there, Rubber Ducky: My account at this particular credit union was closed yearrrrrs ago, and they won’t do anything for non-members. Of course. She referred me to the liquor store at the corner. I checked Google again, and discovered my bank had opened a branch right downtown. Score!

Putting my gloves on was becoming increasingly difficult the sweatier I got: My fingers fought every millimeter of leather as I wrestled them into my gloves. My face was no longer “shiny;” it was dripping. 

Rode five blocks to the bank, found a parking meter right out front with 16 minutes left – which was a good thing, because I had zero change on my person. The bank got me all squared away, and I had a decision to make: Walk the two blocks back to the City Clerk’s office and hope that the remaining 10 minutes would cover me (ha, not bloody likely,) or try to find a better, paid-for spot.

I opted for the latter, but found none. There was, thankfully, an open space right in front of the building, but it had no time on it. I scrounged through my tankbag for change – nope! As I was disembarking, the parking dude slowly cruised by me, eyes alert, dorsal fin upright.

If I hurried, maybe, juuuuust maybe, I’d be able to get back before he could complete his circuit!

Dashing (imagine how much louder these boots are whilst “dashing”) back into the lobby, much better prepared for the metal detector and wanding this time, I walked into the City Clerk’s office for the second time.

The City Clerk was there this time, and we chit-chatted about motorcycles, heat, and passports. One of his staff finally meandered back to her desk, and we began the incredibly slow process. There were more hitches: I only had one cashier’s check for the full amount, when I should have had two. This resulted in overpaying the US Government by $25. I gave zero fucks – they can have it. “Oh no, they’ll send it back to you – they just get a little cranky about it.”

Great – that shouldn’t delay things at all, right? Sure.

When all was said and done, I successfully applied for the damn thing. I hastily went back outside to see what parking fine awaited me, and not three steps out the door… it began to rain. WHAT?! Sure. Fine. Great! Maybe it’ll break the humidity, and maybe I’ll get home before the skies open.

[NOTE: I ran out of gumption to write at that point, and let this sit for over a month.]

I was only slightly damp by the time I reached home, and, happily, my passport arrived last week. It was followed the very next day by a $25.00 check from the US Treasury (no hostile note included,) and the day after that with the returned copy of my official birth certificate. Amazing!

Amusingly, I just checked the mail before I hit “Publish” on this post, and received the following. Today.

I’m “That Person” Now

When I was ages 18 through 21, my second home was The Nectarine Ballroom in Ann Arbor. I worked there for about a year, but mostly, I was wildly devoted to Industrial Nights on Monday.

Those people, that place… it was my life, and in some ways, I let it absolutely ruin my life and what it could have been. It was the Nec that moved me to decide to break up with Jon, the love of my life, a decision I would soon and eternally regret after that fateful, stupid night. I often uselessly wonder how my life would be different had I just … not done that one stupid, impulsive thing. Such ponderings are pointless, of course, and only lead to frustrations and sadness. The Nec was wonderful, and horrible, and all-consuming, and I was its minion.

REGARDLESS!

The Nec exerted a powerful pull, and the focal point for Mondays was John, the DJ. That guy spun the best tunes, and exposed me to bands that still rank as all-time favorites to this day. I spent many, many hours flailing around on that dance floor, looking up at the DJ booth, wondering what was coming next. My crush on John knew no bounds, man – all the lust and admiration an angsty younster could muster was laser-focused on him as he picked our musical fare for the night. I was just another random girl in the crowd, of course.

It was the Nec which destroyed a significant portion of my hearing, and which is responsible for the constant tinnitus I’ve had since age 19. The main factor was an astonishingly loud concert by Ministry – it was so loud, I couldn’t actually discern any music; it was just fucking noise. Al, the lead singer, was super drunk, didn’t give a fuck, and it was horrible. Did I leave? NOPE. Of course not. This was Ministry, a legend, one of my favorites, and they were right there in touching distance. I saw Patty Smith and other notables while there, as well. Ah, Nectarine – you were my jam.

It’s been more than 20 years since I was last at the Nec, which is now significantly smaller and has been renamed “Necto.” This past Monday night, John (aka DJ Cyberpunk, no less) made a return to Factory Monday (what Industrial Night is now called,) and played two sets: I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.

A chance to relive some of my long-lost youth? Hells yes, of course.

As I walked in the door and up the stairs, I was assaulted with both the familiar feel of the place as well as the new aspects. It was cleaner, better-maintained, and actually decorated. The kids working there looked much like the kids of my time. John’s first set had already begun, and we said our hellos after an eternity since we last saw each other. It wasn’t long before he played a tune from those old days, and I headed down to the dance floor, the only person out there.

In those earlier years, I would have rather died than be the only person dancing in a public place. My friends and I would either wait for other people to start, or we’d wait for “the right song.” Silliness. Life is short, dance like crazy whenever you want.

As I started dancing (badly, as I always do,) my brain took me vividly back in time. I remembered how, whenever unknown people came into “our” bar, we scrutinized them closely. I remembered specifically one older couple, probably in their 40’s, who came one night and danced to absolutely everything, no matter who was on the floor or what the tune was. They just had a great time, and gave no fucks about what anyone else thought of them. They were wearing normal adult-type clothing, whilst the rest of us were skulking around in our goth/industrial garb. I admired them a bit then, and I understand them much better now.

As the crowd started trickling in last week, it was so much fun seeing what the costumes of the current day were. I was surprised to see a lot of furries there, and there were also fire spinners with their glowing batons, people in masks, people dressed up as rogues, people wearing classic/vintage stuff from our day. We geezers reminisced, drank to absent friends, and danced. I danced far, far too much – It’s now 5 days later, and my blisters still haven’t fully healed, though my sore, aching muscles have mostly recovered. I discovered I still sweat a lot when I dance.

But holy shit, it was so much fun, you guys.

There were only a very few familiar faces: John, Steve, and Chris. I don’t know Chris, didn’t even actually know his name until Steve told me, but I surely recognized the way he danced from Back Then. Some things in this universe are constants.

The trio below were probably superhigh on something, but they were having a great time. The small girl called the moves, which alternated between Tai Chi and Randomness. I wish I could have gotten more footage of them, but my phone’s battery died mid-video here:

 

I hope there’s a dance club in San Diego I’ll like – life is too short not to dance, and I’d forgotten that. John lives in LA, just a train ride North from San Diego. I would absolutely make that trek to get in on this regularly.

This past year has been absolutely amazing in terms of waking up as a human, coming out of a decades-long depression, and other good things. The people around me are largely responsible for this shift, for which I am eternally grateful. How am I repaying them? By moving just about as far away from them as I can, while still staying in the U.S.

Sigh.

But an eDar’s gotta do what an eDar’s gotta do, and to preserve my sanity and joie de vivre, this must happen. Last Monday was a wonderfully good time, as well as a reminder of things that could have been. I never could have predicted where I’d end up more than 20 years hence – I would have hoped for better, but decisions have consequences. Regrouping at this late date is better than never regrouping at all.

A Sad Realization

I am very sad to discover I have a new automatic thought process.

Until fairly recently, reports that a Black person had been shot were often related to gang or domestic violence. Of course not always, but often – That’s what made the white-dominated news the most, which is a huge, obvious problem unto itself.

I realized yesterday that my first, instant thought now when I hear about a Black person being shot is, “what did a cop do now?”

Non-police shooters do not even enter my mind as a first likely cause anymore. It is an actual surprise if a cop is not involved. When I read a report yesterday, I literally said a surprised, “Huh!” out loud when I saw the shooting was related to a non-police shooter.

That. Is. Terrifying. And sad. And awful on so very many levels.

My naive, “why isn’t life more fair” self wonders how we are even in this place as a civilization. My pragmatic self knows the sad, tragic answer.

I am not someone who has a generalized hatred or wariness of the police (I am afforded some of that by being white and female, I realize,) and I fully recognize there are wonderful cops out there – I know a good number of them personally.

Wanting to stand up for the good cops who get lumped into the shitty stereotype too long overshadowed my willingness to call out “the police in general” on their behavior. I still understand they have a rough, dangerous job in many areas. I still understand many do want to protect and serve.

However. Those good cops have to get more active, more vocal, and demand accountability from their peers and from their departments. That is seldom a safe thing to do in terms of one’s career, but doing otherwise is no longer conscionable for any officer whose heart and ethics are in the right place.

Joan Allen had one of the most memorable quotes around the year 2000 in the movie, The Contender: “Principles only mean something when you stick to them when it’s inconvenient.”

That is difficult for some people to hear, and even more difficult to live. “But I have these wonderful beliefs! I’m a good person!” Do you stick to those beliefs when it’s inconvenient? For example: Queer allies – do you eat at Chik-Fil-A because that food tastes so delicious it’s worth supporting abject hate, even though you would never personally oppress anyone? Is that chicken tasty enough to deny me and every other queer-identifying person our civil and legal rights?

You good cops out there – stand the frick UP and stop tolerating the insane violence your colleagues mete out.

Every. Day.
Every. Day.
Every. Day.

Every DAY, our Black friends, family, and neighbors are being gunned down, and our judicial system doesn’t give a shit. Because the American public is part of that system via juries and elections, our entire COUNTRY doesn’t seem to give a shit. Most have been fed lies or misleading “facts” about the Black community and have swallowed them whole, never questioning why only certain stories make the news, why the Black population in our prisons is disproportionately high. I am so ashamed of the things I hear white people say, even today, but that’s not important when acting for change. My hurt feelings as a white person don’t come into play. White people – despite millennia of people in charge saying so, we’re not the center of the universe.

We as individuals have to be the ones to make change happen and to hold our entire justice system accountable. We individuals have to find each other and band together to enact even greater change.

You know those local elections? Sometimes, those elections have judges on the ballot. Those are important votes – PAY ATTENTION. Engage. Research. Then VOTE for someone whose values are closest to yours.

Local elections matter – they impact our daily lives immensely.

To my fellow white people: Stand up, speak out, VOTE, be the safety pin. SPEAK to other white people and to our officials. LISTEN when Black people are speaking about these issues. Be selfless, be strong, be courageous. Most of us white people, especially those who are straight and/or cis, have very little idea what it’s actually like to live in fear for our lives in America, which can make it harder to get motivated. Read the reports, pay attention – standing idling by at this point is tacitly endorsing the violence in our society.

Every day, we’re losing Black (and trans, queer, and other non-white/straight/cis) friends under circumstances that are jaw-droppingly horrifying: HELP THEM. Put yourself in their shoes, and imagine what it’s like to be hated simply because of how you look, who you love.

This man below shot a young, unarmed, Black man because he was dating his daughter. Now you fathers of daughters out there might have had similar thoughts about any young man who dates your little girls, but would this asshole have shot a white boy? Probably not, because there would be Consequences for shooting a white person. We cannot say the same for shooting a Black person.

We have to find ways to help.

White Cop Shoots and Kills Daughter’s Unarmed Black Boyfriend

The snowflake status I posted on Facebook yesterday rings louder and louder in my mind as the hours pass:

So this gets picked up by the Googles, I’ll also type it out:

“A sweet friend of mine just posted this, and I love it desperately. #TeamSnowflake

snowflakes?
why yes, dainty, and unique alone……
but together……
you bitches ready to be shut down by a blizzard????”

He went on, after reading a draft of this article, to say:

we will have that blizzard I spoke of, you start very nice…..

drifting in……

asking, for accountability…….

they brush you off, no concern, you have already melted……..

two snowflakes come drifting in, also easy to brush off……they melt (after the purpose is done)……..

they ignore…….

we drift in……..

now they need a shovel……..

now they need to call an emergency, they are shut down, they can not move……frozen in place dare I say…….

frozen……

immobilized……

forced to deal with the snow on its own terms now…….

they no longer melt, they find strength by staying together……..

“Winter is coming” is a well-known phrase these days, and carries with it a stern warning. It is a phrase of which the wise take heed in the stories.

We special, precious, soft little snowflakes who want everyone to be treated with equality and respect are often mild-mannered, some of us even meek, and we are ready to understand both sides of an argument, and to see each point of view as inherently valid – even if we disagree.

More and more, our sensibilities are so fucking offended that we are beyond angry. We are beyond approaching some of these situations with “mutual respect” and diplomacy.

We are verging into rage as we see our brothers and sisters of color, of non-binary gender, of other minority status, shot, beaten, shunned, objectified, murdered, tortured, shamed, neglected, legislated against.

More and more of us are no longer sitting politely by, trying to rationally engage with our counterparts. I still feel that is important, but it’s not getting the fucking job done.

What happens when you piss off #TeamSnowflake? I’ll tell you, focusing on American history:

  • The American Revolutionary War
  • Women’s right to vote
  • The New Deal
  • The Civil Rights Movement
  • Labor Rights – Weekends, overtime, unions
  • The ACLU and the NAACP
  • The FDA and safe food
  • Planned Parenthood
  • The Universal Declaration of Human Rights for the United Nations

There is no need to agree with these outcomes to recognize the relentless perseverance behind them. If we are pushed enough, we will turn. We will somehow get our chaotic thoughts and lives together, and we will Get Shit Done.

Winter is fucking coming.

 

Anxiety Attacks

Pretty sure today has been one big, long anxiety attack – something I’ve never experienced before. Tachycardia, shortness of breath, inability to control thoughts – the symptoms are all there. Fun!

This song brought me back to earth, however:

Bassnectar remixes the Pixies “Where is My Mind?” About a minute in, it really starts showing off Bassnectar’s unique spin on the song:

What’s causing all the panic? SO MUCH STUFF, you guys.

Mostly, it’s uncertainty – I don’t have a solid date I’m leaving, let alone a solid date for the movers to come pick up stuff, let alone PICKING A MOVING COMPANY… there’s just so much. My house… my  house has been goddamn chaos for over a month now. This is the current state of affairs:

People have been seeing my house like this. People I don’t even know, because I’ve been giving away a fuckton of stuff for free lately. Now, housekeeping has never been my forte. At all. However, I DO NOT LIVE LIKE THIS. I am going insane.

The more people come and get, the better it becomes. Later tonight, the couch above will be gone, as well as a few other odds and ends. Tomorrow, the desk and the wooden cabinet in what is passing for my office goes, as well as the vintage dresser that’s served me for most of my life – and served my dad before that.

I bought four industrial-strength ratcheting tie-downs to see if I can compress my Luxi mattress into something that will fit into my car. This is unlikely, but it would be nice to have a bed when I get out there.

I did find a transporter to haul my motorcycle out there for $600.

No inquiries on the Harley yet, despite dropped the price by two grand. I’ll be dropping it again shortly.

Finances have me freaking out, as well. I got my credit card debt nicely under control as of last month, but this move is going to piss that all away again, since it’ll cost on the order of $5,000 probably. Trying to decide whether I should use my savings (all $4,000 of it, woo) or just put it all on the cards. If the damn Harley would sell, that would resolve the issue quite handily.

Most (at least I hope “most”) of what I’ll be taking is here:

Not pictured:

  • Large glass-top table
  • Bicycle
  • Bed
  • Sofa table
  • End table
  • A few boxes of kitchen stuff
  • Some clothes

More AudioShield Fun

It’s so much fun introducing people to this game. 🙂 We had a bunch of lock-ups for some reason last night, so this isn’t a full “Centipede,” but he was doing a good job.

Nicole rocked a bunch of Audioshield, too, and has a very nice artistic flair:

Luke was pretty  much born to play this game – I soooo sincerely wish I’d had recording set up properly for this. Instead, I just got a few minutes of off-center GoPro footage:

Audioshield works with pretty  much any music at all. Today, I tried some swing:

 

Audioshield Playthrough

This is an Audioshield VR playthrough of a few songs and styles of music.

The first video is of two of my favorite EDM-type songs, “Crackin” by Martin Garrix/Bassjackers, and “Centipede” by Knife Party. “Crackin” might just be the very best Audioshield song I’ve played yet – it was so much fun. Even with the fun, the first half is a little boring, but the second half gets more ridiculous with “Centipede,” starting around 5:30m.

What is Audioshield? I’m glad you asked! Audioshield is a VR game about getting sodomized by your favorite songs.

I may have taken a moderate amount of edibles before playing, but even without any substances, this game is SO MUCH FUN, you guys. I don’t even care how silly I look when I’m playing – I wanted to give you a sense of what it looks like inside the game and out.

These were on the second-hardest level, I think, and I’m older, so my reflexes just aren’t what they should be. Still… not entirely terrible on the whole, though “Centipede” kicked my ass in a few hot places. There were times when I just wanted to cower behind my shields.

I recorded myself via the GoPro Hero4, and recorded the game directly through the computer, then removed the audio track from the game footage due to a few hundredths of a second’s difference – Couldn’t get the sync between the two sources perfect, sadly, but it’s within tolerable specs.

YouTube ate the quality, but you’ll get the general idea.

Here’s one of “The Bog,” by Bigod 20. On the easy setting, it kicked my ass in several places. Embarrassing, because I know this song so well.

Next, “Only Happy When It Rains,” by Garbage. This was the first time I’d played this one, and am actually pretty happy with it. When I get into a good zone, I feel like a damn superhero in this game. 😀

 

Wanderlust Sated

…and various other ramblings

If you follow me on Facebook, you know things are happening very quickly for me right now, and man – I need to write this stuff out to get it all clear in my head. We’re going to cover a lot of material here, and I’m going to digress many times, so I won’t blame a soul if you get three paragraphs in and say “FUKKIT, TLDR.”

One of the roadways in the complex. This, to me, screams CALIFORNIA!

I have somehow managed to stumble through life riding this immense wave of luck on so many levels. When I step back and really look at where I have been, and what I have done… holy shit I have been incredibly fortunate. I am not saying this to brag in any way – I am saying it because I recognize I have not done anything to deserve it; it is LUCK. None of this happened because I earned anything. I have careened, headlong, into the most amazing people, places, and experiences. I am awed to my bones. I am grateful. I feel unworthy.

My day-to-day luck on the little things is often terrible – from the airline lying to me about carry-on sizes to almost losing my luggage to my Lyft driver getting lost several times an nearly getting me a parking ticket to computers loathing and despising me to a laughable first class “upgrade” to catching every red light… these are little things. These, I can handle.

The big stuff, though, and I realize I am tempting fate by saying this aloud, tends work out well. For this, I am thankful and humbled.

This is not a “humble brag,” nor is it fishing for reassurances or compliments –  you guys already take care of me on that front very well. This is honesty – I don’t feel like I deserve you, or some of the good things in my life, but holy wow am I ever glad you have, for reasons I may never comprehend, taken a liking to me. I hope I am able to give some of that back to you – I pour my love into you, I carry you with me in my heart every moment of every day, but I don’t know if that shines through. I surely don’t tell you enough. I let my hermity ways interfere with socializing too often.

The Next Adventure

Because I work from home now, I can live pretty much anywhere on the planet I want (well, anywhere I can afford, anyhow.) While I love the idea of going ex-pat eventually, for now, I’ll stay state-side.

Right now, I’m in San Diego, in this lovely AirBnB house, hosted by a wonderful woman named Jessica. That I got this house at all was pretty much a small miracle unto itself – she is constantly booked, but just happened to be available for the duration of my time here. She is friendly and chatty. Originally from Jalisco, she’s now an American citizen, though that journey unto itself is quite a tale. We bonded quickly, and yesterday, we spent three hours talking while she colored my hair (she runs a hair studio next door.)

I’m here in San Diego (henceforth SDO because Lazy) because I wanted to scout it out as a potential place to move when my current lease is up. I must get out of Michigan. There is no other option. I am so miserable there in that environment – my people have made it fun and wonderful when I’m with them, but the every day of living there is just an ordeal, even with my beautiful friends backing me up. I resent it, because I know there are far better places out there. I have seen them. I’ve lived in some of them.

Riding around with my friend George today, I mentioned I’ve been on anti-depressants for years, but how only recently have I begun to feel Not Depressed.  “Oh, they took years to start working?” he asked. I talked about how the drugs were doing their job just fine, but I wasn’t doing mine – I was just… coasting. I wasn’t doing the things that would make me happy. Increasing my serotonin uptake can’t make me happy in a city where I am miserable, or erase decades of self-doubt and self-loathing: That took a team effort.

This Job, Though

I am so fortunate Justin found me on LinkedIn. I almost didn’t answer him, because who ever gets legit, interesting offers there? I bumbled my way through the technical evaluation and my first few months. I am still not great, but he’s happy with me, and that’s what matters.

This man has my undying loyalty. He is a wonderful person, a generous and kind person, a laid-back and flexible person. He is not perfect, but he is in the top three people for whom I have ever worked.  I will do whatever it takes to keep him happy with me…even if it means… learning Python. <shudder>

This job has, literally, changed my whole life.

Breathing

I’ve noticed over the last few months it’s not just that I don’t feel depressed anymore – I think I’m happy. The weight of financial stresses, the enormous pressure from my last job, the fears of not succeeding at the new job… all of these things have sort of melted away, leaving me able to breathe for the first time in a long time.

George and I have wrestled with many similar issues, but have taken very different paths as a result. I still feel a deep kinship with him, though, as our mental states have a great deal in common. It was really nice talking with someone who understands what it’s like to be chronically troubled in some of the same ways I am.

Over the course of my life, I have met the most amazing people through completely random happenstance.

Motorcycles

I met my Iron Butt friends on a total fluke – I was on a Honda 4-cylinder, single overhead cam motorcycle list, and heard of this “crazy guy” doing a record-breaking long-distance ride visiting all 48 contiguous states on his motorcycle in a ridiculously short period of time. He had a huge network of friends helping him with parts and logistics, but the ride itself was incredible.

My first reaction was, “wow, what a colossally stupid, dangerous thing to do!!” Then I read more. And more. And I joined an email list.

Less than two months later, I rode my first 1000 miles in 24 hours with my friend Troy, going from Ann Arbor, Michigan to Plano, Texas. There, I met icons of the motorcycling world – too many to name. They were warm, welcoming, and immediately adopted me as one of their own. I’ve known these folks for almost 20 years now, and they’re no less wonderful, though living in Michigan has kept me apart from them for a decade.

Two icons of the endurance riding world raising hell in Gerlach.

Thanks to them, the country opened up to me – I never would have considered pushing myself that hard, but once it’s possible to ride 1623 miles in 24 hours (my personal best,) travel becomes Different. I rode to some of the coolest places in the nation, and saw amazing things, thanks to extremely clever (and devious) rallymasters.

Planes

Similarly, in 2004, I walked into the Olympic Air Museum on a whim for a tour, and, on another whim, asked if they needed volunteers. They eagerly said yes, and I was accepted. I gave tours, washed the planes, marshaled air shows, and just generally helped out. Once again, the group took me under their literal and figurative wings, and I ended up not only spending time with, but being tossed around the sky by some of my childhood heroes in the most amazing planes. It boggles me to this day how incredible that summer was.

I was able to arrange a flight in a WWII plane for my dad, an even bigger plane nut than I am, and I will never forget the look on his face when he landed:

Dad Post-Yak Flight

Catalyst

I got to do that for him! One of the things that makes me happiest is being the catalyst for someone else to experience an amazing thing. Whether it’s my dad in a Yak-11, or George piloting a sailboat, or getting Jim a tour of Fifi, or taking Heather on an unscheduled boat ride in the Gulf of Mexico, or getting Wes to finally tear down his garage or giving Adam the bike that Wes gave me… I love making things happen for people. I think I may enjoy that even more than experiencing these things myself.

Historically, when I am not out there being the enzyme, being the catalyst, and I am alone – I shut down. My attention turns inward, and the brain weasels come out to play. Like many people, my childhood scarred me, and left me with baggage I carry to this day, though I am slowly shedding much of it.

Therapy Failures

Some of you have heard the story of my last encounter with therapy. My counselor was a very nice woman, who was very good at what she did. However, I wasn’t ready for our fifth or so session, when she made me look into a mirror while she said nice things about me.

I never went back. I made excuses and cowardly exited the whole process. Like many people, I crave compliments and positive feedback, but when I receive them, I become deeply uncomfortable – self-esteem issues, of course. I have so many narcissistic traits, yet I am completely at war with myself. Thanks, Mom! Thanks, Society! Thanks, people who dragged me down a a young person!

Lately, though? I don’t eat myself alive and tear myself to shreds.

My Saviors

“eDar, you are my favorite planet.”

My amazing group of friends gently, but persistently, pulled me out of that dark place over the course of two years. My friends at Liquid Web and elsewhere really did save me from myself. They filled me so full of love and faith that I had no choice but to accept that maybe… just maybe… I am a person worthy of those sentiments. This has made a huge difference in not only my mindset, but also in how I comport myself. I owe all of you an enormous debt of gratitude.

Unexpected Opportunities

I am a sucker for Stories. I so truly love hearing about peoples’ lives and experiences, things I’ll never see or hear or experience myself. I’ve gotten slightly better at telling stories myself, but I really lack the knack. Toward the end of Jessica doing my hair, she mentioned she belongs to an anti-human-trafficking organization, and asked if I wanted to come with her to a meeting Right Then. Surely!

She told me most of the ladies were older, and so I took about 45 seconds to cast off my Dr. Whisky t-shirt and ratty jeans in favor of a vintage pin-up dress, stockings with ribbons at the heels, and incredibly awesome vintage dancing shoes, hoping to offset the crazy teal-colored hair and tattoos with nice clothes and a kind smile. Jessica has taken some kind of crazy shine to me, calling me “so cute!” and giggling when she introduces me to her friends as her sweet friend “Erin, who wears these clothes and I did her hair and she rides motorcycles!”

When she spoke of this organization, she was surprised I wanted to come to the meeting, because it was “kind of dangerous to be involved.” Her brother-in-law was killed, apparently, for helping some of these women. That just made it all the more appealing to me, in truth – you know me, eDar the Adventurous.

As I drove us to the meeting down the street, I envisioned this kind of cloak-and-dagger scenario, meeting in a dim room off a dark alley, speaking in hushed voices, pulling up case files of the woman who had most recently called the rescue hotline, organizing plans for extracting them from their entrapment… you know, that kind of thing.

Expectations Dashed

I pulled up to the Lemon Grove library, which they had publicly reserved.

We walked in the door, and there were about 20 women present, as well as a snack table in the brightly-lit community room. The average age, myself included, was about 60. I was initially regarded with some strange looks, and some people looked outright hostile about my presence.

Rather than planning emergency escapes, they were planning… a chili cook-off. To raise funds.

They held a drama-fraught election for their Treasurer – “fraught” because there were tense words between the two candidates. The responsibility of their tiny budget was too much to treat any less seriously. I wasn’t supposed to be there for that, which was quite embarrassing for both Jessica and me, but everyone eventually decided this top-secret process was ok for a guest to witness.

They organized organizing their storage unit.

They wrote things down by hand. On paper.

Well, this was certainly not what I expected. This was most definitely not The Front Lines of the Fight in any way, shape, or form. This was a tiny, local, volunteer fund-raising thing. Le sigh. But ok, I’ll roll with it.

One of the things I strive for in life is to be a good ambassador of the things I “represent:” Motorcyclists, tattoo-bearing people, people with crazy hair colors, white people, you name it, I’m going to try to make a good impression and let people know I’m nice to shatter some of the stereotypes. It gives me such pleasure to win someone over who previously regarded me with judgment, and to perhaps help open someone’s eyes that even the “odd” people like me are just folks. This has long been a life mission.

One woman solicited toiletry donations, and I told her I would send her some homemade soaps if she could use them. A few eyebrows raised at my offer – maybe I wasn’t some random punk-rock interloper. Incidentally, I never thought of myself as “punk” at all – but that’s how Jessica has labeled me because of my hair color. She’s so tickled at the color she gave me – “it’s my first punk hair!!”

A short time later, they began discussing their online presence – or rather, their lack thereof – and I offered to host their website for free, to help with tech things, and so forth. People started actually meeting my eyes and smiling.

After the meeting was adjourned, most came up to me to compliment me – not on my offers to help, but rather on my dress, stockings, and hair. They were quite friendly after the meeting was over. The sternest women kept their distance, but by everything holy, I will win them over.

At any rate, this is one example of how things are coming together nicely for this big shift in my life. I want to give back, and an opportunity came at me when I least expected it. Whether it’s the right fit remains to be seen, but it’s a beginning. One of many.

“I will fight and I will love and I will give”

I wrote all of the above last night, and tonight, I saw the film Wonder Woman. I had tears streaming down my face for most of it – it was powerful on so many levels. I have’t stopped being weepy since I left the theater, as I replayed scenes in my head. The line that keeps resonating in my head is the one above: I WILL FIGHT AND I WILL LOVE AND I WILL GIVE.

That is what I try to do, what I want to do: Fight for justice and equality, love unconditionally, give unceasingly, pour myself out into the world. I will keep trying.

Surrendering

For the last six or so months, I have been riding a surging tide of strong emotions. I cry when I least expect it, I love more deeply than I ever have, I am humbled almost to the point of collapsing to my knees at times. Music moves me more than it ever has in every way. I sing.

As I sat in the darkened, comfortable theater tonight, surrounded by three friends and several dozen strangers, I was in tears within the first few moments. In the past, I would have fought them – bitten my cheek, looked away from the screen, thought about hockey, whatever it took to keep my lip from trembling and the tears from spilling over. I never wanted to cry in front of anyone – it was “weak,” and I am not a “pretty crier,” and it would make me “too vulnerable.

I stuffed and squashed and hid all of that as much as humanly possible – until recently. Tonight, I let the tears flow openly to the point of dampening my sweater. My lower lip did what it does when I am profoundly moved. The film stirred and challenged and validated and gratified and comforted. It was immense.

As I drove home to Lemon Grove, my heart was full of something I cannot describe – it was powerful, an enormity, and I had an epiphany: I cannot fight and love and give if I do not also forgive. And so, I sent three lines to my last boyfriend, with whom things did not end well at all. I have carried around bitterness and hurt and anger and resentment and a bizarre sense of gratitude that we had what we did, however short-lived it was:

i forgive you.
despite the lies you told to me and about me, i forgive you.
i release it all, and wish you peace.

It was this person whom I felt rescued me from my dark, imaginary, soul prison. But it wasn’t – it was me. He was, perhaps, the catalyst, but he didn’t rescue me, and no one else could have, either. I rescued myself. He may have provided what I felt was a safe space into which I could emerge, and for that… I am grateful. I am happy to know I can love that deeply, to trust so completely, to make room in my heart, my home, and my life on that level. It is sad that things did not work out – but they so often do not.

I bought this shirt awhile back, and will treasure it always.

I spent decades in that cage, and can only imagine this is what it feels like to be free, what many people must feel like all the time, and it is wonderful.

Things happening quickly

A series of things happened over the last several days:

  • I mentioned to George I was struggling with the logistics of moving my belongings, a car, and two motorcycles to SDO. He offered to drive my car for me, for the price of an airline ticket. Problem solved: I can tow the motorcycles behind the truck.
  • My current lease expires at the end of September, so I planned to move sometime that month. I found a perfect apartment, available August 7th, which they would either a.) hold for me until September, or b.) use my deposit if another, top-floor unit became available before my move. Perfect.
  • When I put my deposit down, I really didn’t know what part of town I was in, relative to anything else; I thought I was quite far out to the northeast – nope. It’s 10 minutes from everything. Five in light traffic. There is a trolley stop at the complex which runs downtown, if I don’t feel like driving. The location is perfect.
  • My adorable, planet-loving friend Luke asked me if he could maybe take over my lease, as his is up in August. Hm. Interesting.
  • This morning, I got a text from my landlady saying they were thinking of selling the house I’m living in, and did I have any plans for staying or leaving? I told her I would be happy to leave in August if she would let me, and also that I had someone interested in taking over my lease and/or renting it next term. She is considering these things.
  • Barring crazy, unforeseen circumstances, SDO will be my home in either two or three months – tops.

My new home

The apartment I will be renting, to me, borders on the absurd. It is so nice, so beautiful, so big… so expensive. It is at the upper limit of my budget…but within my budget. When I first walked into the leasing office, and was looking at the floor plans, I first looked at the smaller two bedrooms as the likely targets. When I saw this one, I said, “wow, I wonder what it must be like to be able to afford that.

Nancy, the agent, and I bonded instantly – that is her job, of course, but you know when someone is being genuine. I was wearing my dia de los muertos skull sweater, she liked it and commented on it, and she was so warm and friendly, she immediately put me at ease. This is a girl I’d like to get to know.

Nancy’s the kind of girl who can get along with anyone, but I like to think maybe we bonded a bit more than the usual agent/client relationship. When I went back for a second viewing, she gave me a big hug, and we chatted about all kinds of things. I just adore her.

The first time we spoke, I didn’t even mention to her that their largest unit was something I would consider – surely there was no way I could afford it. Then she asked what my budget was, and I told her “less than $2800, hopefully.”

Girl,” she began, “why are you not looking at this one?! It is perfect for you.” And she was right – it is.

It is bigger than my house by at least 50%. It is also almost four times more expensive. But this is where I will live and work. It needs to be someplace I love. And I do. The windows and the community and the perks are just… well, better than I should probably have. Photo album here: No Facebook account required.

The unit I’m holding is a third-floor apartment, which doesn’t have the topmost windows in the master bedroom, as it has a slightly lower ceiling. However, Nancy is on the lookout for me if a fourth-floor unit becomes available. My hold can be applied to anything in the complex, thankfully, even something smaller if need be.

There are three fourth-floor units available right now, but those are likely to move before I do.

I put down a deposit to hold the unit. And then I had a minor freak-out about money.

Finances

I know talking about money can make some people uncomfortable, so skip this next section until the bold if you don’t want to see specifics about my finances – trust me, they are not impressive.

I am bad at money – this is no secret. Just when I got myself into a stable financial state, with a credit score over 700 for the first time in over a decade and money in my savings account for the first time ever, I went batshit crazy, turned into a girl, and came damn close to maxing out my credit cards buying clothes, shoes, jewelry, make-up, and toys. I went from a few hundred bucks on my credit cards to over $11,000 in the course of a year.

Since getting this new job in March, however, I have been aggressively paying that down, knowing I needed to move, and soon. Currently, I have less than $5,000 on my cards. I took out a loan at a lower interest than my high-rate retail cards and paid them all off. My remaining bank cards are at 10%, I have about $1,000 six months interest-free on PayPal credit, and less than a grand on Home Depot interest-free until next April. I owe about $850 on one motorcycle.

I’ll have most of that taken care of by the time I move, whether it’s August or September, so I feel like I’ll be ok on that front, and that my credit score will get back to where it should be over the next year or two (it fell to 680 when I opened several new accounts.)

I’m going to meet with a financial consultant to talk about my state of affairs, including my abysmal retirement outlook – at present there is about $50k in my various funds, and I am 46. Not good.

You might say, as George has about a dozen times, “but edar – get a smaller apartment and save more money! Jesus!” And you’d be right… but life is for the living, and I am all about The Moment. Future edar may well fucking hate me for this, but it will be ok. I’ll work until I die, and that will be fine.

SDO in General

When I first saw Seattle, it reached into my soul, gathered me up into its arms, and welcomed me home before I knew I would move there. It was an immediate, intense, passionate connection, and I was a part of it instantly.

SDO did not do that: I initially found it “nice.” I love lush, green things, and jagged mountains, and flowing waters and lakes. SDO doesn’t really have those things (though they’re not terribly far away north.)

However, it does have its own beauty, especially as one moves out into the desert. The mountains aren’t the young, rough, sharp peaks I’m accustomed to: They are old, worn down, eroded, exposed. They are a visual reminder of the immensity of history. They are living evidence of the passage of time.

More important than the landscape, though, are the other things here. Sam and kphelps are 10 minutes away in Lemon Grove. George is two hours north in LA. Chuck is 30 minutes east in Poway. Various other friends I haven’t seen in a small eternity are near or nearish.

Gerlach, and pretty much everything west of the Rockies is a day’s ride away.

The roads are spectacular and perfect for motorcycles, and I can ride year-round. The weather is paradise. The ocean is less than 10 minutes from my apartment, and Kevin has a sailboat harbored there.

And yet…

Remember how my people saved me? Being in SDO means I am not with them, that I will seldom see them. Sure, sure, there is Facebook and Slack and email and whatnot, but I can’t grab Smuj, Cait, and Lilith and go to Jumbeaux for lunch on a whim. I won’t see Han and Forty whenever we like. They will be physically out of reach most of the time.

I won’t hear Nat’s giggle, or see Kev’s eyes, or listen to Jack rail against the evils of customer support, or hear Gary’s genuinely tickled laugh, or hang out with Sarah, or listen to my little spaceman’s fork-bomb stories, or hear tkillian call me “kiddo,” or have Sewell come to me in person for advice or to fix whatever most recent computer plague ails me.

No after-work drinks with Brueggy, or seeing Nicole’s newly-found confident smiles, or having Byerly regale me with tales of his hilarious love life, or getting hugs and dinner with Lexy, or going drinking with Russ and Jordan, or watching ckelly’s man bun mature as he does, or helping out when Jenn gets her lungs, or seeing Stephanie at Jumbeaux, or hearing mattador’s crazy sneezes, or watching Josh L get stupid drunk and silly, or witnessing the many moods of Siena, or calling Jerry a giant Asian man, or standing by and admiring Ani be the powerful being she intensely is.

No seeing dpock’s dancing eyes, or talking politics with Calvin, or having Wineland fix something in 18 seconds flat, or catching up with gamborg, or getting to know John B better, or going riding with Jim and Mary and Brandon and mtodd and Sam and Steven, or watching McBride shuffle around in his sandals in the middle of winter, or tasting Lucia’s cooking, or hearing Tommie’s soothing amazing voice, or hearing Jaspers laugh, or watching Misty tear out her hair at the latest work shenanigans,

No more getting hugs from Alex K, or going riding with Alex O, or going dancing with Deakin, or seeing Cal’s “dammit, edar” face, or watching in amusement as Luke bounds up to me like a giant puppy with his latest ideas in tow, or seeing Shooltz’s smirk, or hearing Bianca agonize over some thing she rrreeeeallly wants, or watching Zack blossom into an amazing adult, or watching mrjung’s face light up when he talks about his passions, or, or, or.

I am leaving so much. But I am also moving toward many things.

Ok. Enough now.

ALL OF THIS CAN BE SUMMED UP THUSLY: BE BOLD, MY FRIENDS – BE BOLD.

Fight, Love, Give.

Do the things. Live it. I can’t say this strongly and loudly enough – BE WHO YOU WANT TO BE. Fuck everything that stands in your way: Find a way around or through it, find a way to be yourself within it, make peace and move on – just do it.

Trans Day of Visibility

March 31st is Transgender Day of Visibility.

Each March 31st, we celebrate and support our transgender brothers and sisters, those who are in the closet and out, those who have transitioned and those who have not. We remember and hold in our hearts those who have been beaten and murdered and humiliated. We embrace everyone on the gender spectrum.

I have written and deleted giant swaths of text several times tonight because I just can’t find the right words to put down. A lot of it was rambling, a lot of it was self-serving in one way or another, much was too whingy or preachy. I tried to make terrible analogies to help cis people understand what it might be like to be at risk for simply being who they are: “Imagine your height is a crime,” “imagine the color of your eyes could get you killed.”

None of it was worth a damn (I’m far from a perfect ally.)

Let me start again by saying this: Had I known transgender was a thing when I was much, much younger, I might have chosen that path myself. I have often identified as more male than female, though to varying degrees. Could I commit to transitioning? I don’t know. Honestly, I would probably be too afraid.

Talking with a trans friend about this piece tonight, she said, “It’s really not that hard. You talk to a therapist, and a medical professional, and swallow pills on a daily basis” and, because she’s got an amazing sense of humor, “and stand on the toilet and creep at cisgender people in the bathroom.”

I initially felt like this discounts the struggle it must be… but she’s trans, and I’m not, so I believe her.

Still, I don’t know that I would have had the courage to take that path – it would have been in the 90’s, probably, and I wasn’t even a fully-formed person yet, let alone someone with enough strength and character to make such a tremendous change in my life. The only Big Decisions I was remotely equipped to make back then were, “do I stay up and play Euchre all night, or do I go to class in the morning?” (I seldom made the responsible choice.)

Now, in my forties, I see people my age transitioning, and I am so happy for them, so humbled by their courage. I am just not that strong a person, nor am I fully convinced I would want to live as a man – but it is something I feel wistful for more at times. Thus, I settled into my life as a bisexual cis woman who would perhaps feel at home with a penis. I’m ok with it.

I suppose if I were truly trans, the need to be in a body that matched my mind would be powerful enough to push  me through nearly anything. I can’t know – I just try to understand as best I can.

And I stand up for our trans friends. Do that. Be a good person.

I have witnessed people saying cruel things about trans people behind their backs – either out of anger because of a disagreement, or out of general intolerance.

I do not. Tolerate it.

Neither should you. If you see or hear someone harassing a transgender person – hell, ANY person – do the right thing, and speak the hell up. Be the good guy – be the role model. Be the person you would want on your side were you in that person’s shoes.

We all have to fight intolerance together, and some of the battles are just… asinine. Oh, you have to remember not to use their deadname. Whew. Pace yourself, buddy, because that is superhard, right? Oh gosh, you need to remember to use the correct pronoun. Is that really something to get upset about?

Yes – we need to change our mindsets a little bit, we have to rewire names and pronouns, we have a new vocabulary to learn – Big. Fucking. Deal. If you consider that to be inconvenient, imagine having a penis around all the time when you don’t feel like it belongs on your body.

I set out to write about what my trans friends mean to me – and I’m having a hard time with it. My trans friends are … my friends. They enrich my life because of who they are. I am grateful to them for expanding my awareness, for sharing their stories with me, for being amazing and wonderful people – not because they are trans. Their stories are different from many others’, but so are my physically disabled friends’ stories, so are my straight friends’ stories, my female friends’, my male friends’, my asexual friends’, my pansexual friends’ – all of their stories are important to me.

Each person is precious to me, an irreplaceable gem in my heart.

As I’ve struggled through this piece, the main point I want to bring home is that we need to be decent human beings to each other – to everyone, irrespective of gender.

But my trans friends need special attention right now, we need to bring the world to a place of compassion and understanding. For many, this is new and scary – anything dealing with our bodies or, god forbid, sexuality, is automatically terrifying and enraging. We have to help them understand as best we can.

Thus, March 31st. Every year.

Today is Transgender Day of Visibility – we need to have it, we must have it, and it makes me very sad that we are still in a place where we can’t just not be assholes because someone is different.

Be kind to each other – man, woman, or somewhere in between. Listen, pay attention, support each other – because we all need love and support, even when we might not want to admit it, especially to ourselves.

Everyone we meet is fighting a battle of one sort or another – be kind.

Mid-Life Cliche

A couple of years before I officially left my (now ex-) husband, I noticed I was exhibiting all the symptoms of A Mid-Life Crisis.

I was 42, and I bought a Harley on a whim.

Thanks to work, I was hanging out with people far, far younger than I was.

We were going out to the bar several nights a week, and I was drinking more than I ever had in my whole life (which is not to say I was drinking a lot – just more often; I’m not much of a drinker.) I bought a BAC meter to keep in my car, because I wasn’t sure I knew where my limits were, being such a booze amateur.

I reallllly stepped things up a notch when I left my husband in 2014, immediately started dating someone 19 years my junior, and began living the single life again. I can’t say I was “out of control,” but I was not acting like myself.

He was young, he was half-insane, but he was sweet and he was hot, and I loved him.

“Not acting like myself.” Which is to say… I was having a hell of a lot of fun. I’m not someone who usually “has fun;” I might enjoy some things more than others, but when out in the world with other people, mostly, I “tolerate” it.

Since October of 2014, however, damn – life has been good. Sure, it’s been kind of a cliche, too – I bleached my hair blonde, I dye it crazy colors, I spend a fuckton of money on clothes and shoes and other shit I never thought twice about. I dated three other people almost 20 years my junior, one of whom was married with kids (good choices, edar!)

I bought a car far more expensive than I had any right to own.

“4-Door Sports Car” is an apt description for the Maxima. <3

I took the primary boyfriend to a Suicide Girls show, where another quasi-boyfriend showed randomly up, and that made for an interesting, fun time (no, seriously – two ridiculously hot boys in front and back of me, with mostly naked women running around on-stage? Yes frickin’ please.)

Basically, I’m doing all the stuff I should have been doing all along with my life, and was just too… reserved. Too worried about everything. Too busy over-analyzing everything to live life rather than to observe it. FOR PETE’S SAKE, I have wasted so much time.

Everyone should have a mid-life crisis, only we should have them in our twenties, when we can really take advantage of our young, healthy, strong bodies.

Then, we should keep having them, either every year, or every now and then, because they are RIDICULOUSLY FUN, YOU GUYS.

Do it. Do it all. DO ALL THE THINGS YOU WANT TO DO – of course, provided you’re not going to hurt yourself or someone else in the process, et cetera.

Life is short. The middle could be anywhere.

And so could the end.

Do the things.

 

Just a Number

“Age is just a number,” if we are to believe the cliche.

It’s such a lie an alternative fact – technically true as a fact, but “age” is not “just a number;” it encompasses so much more.

I understand the sentiment behind the well-meaning saying, of course; “don’t worry about your age; people don’t judge you by how old you are.” The blissful ignorance of that statement is precious and lovely, but also naive and ignorant in so many circumstances. Hanging out every day, sure – it’s not necessarily on everyone’s minds. On an employment application? Age can mean the difference between getting a job or not.More to my point here, though: Folks, it’s not just the age – it’s the miles. It’s the shit we’ve witnessed and lived through and cried over and laughed at until we couldn’t anymore (often at ourselves.) We have seen absurdity and serenity, abject cruelty and profound compassion, acts of altruism that make us burst into tears from their sheer beauty and acts of hatred that leave us enraged and hopeless.

We have borne witness to events much bigger than any of us are, as well as millions of simple, repeated, everyday moments, and that leaves us with little choice but to expand our awareness, to become mindful of how little we know, and, for many of us, it leaves us with a deep and abiding sense of smallness. Humbleness.

I should note – that humbleness does hibernate at times. I am reasonably certain my ego, if unchecked, would run absolutely amok. You have only the smallest idea.

I know plenty of people younger than I am who look like they were ridden hard and put away wet for decades; the sun, their lives, their kids, illness, jobs – something shriveled them, some from the inside out, some from the outside in. I also know people older than I am who look a decade or more younger.

I’ve been fortunate to apparently have good anti-visible-aging genes, and it probably helps that I’ve never spent a bunch of time sunbathing, or wearing a shitton of chemicals on my face. But the wrinkles are creeping in – first, around my eyes, now a bit around my mouth. It’s making me panic just ever so slightly, just occasionally. Now and then. Infrequently.

For now. I am certain it will increase and intensify if I do not get ahead of this looming trainwreck.

That ego is glancing around the edges of the mirror, finding each and every pore, every imperfection, every scar, every smidgen of evidence I am Not As Young As I Once Was, and she wails in despair. Oh, the unfairness of it all. Youth is wasted on the young! Get off my fucking lawn! Et cetera.

Both helping and hindering reconciling ego with reality is this: Since 2008, the vast majority of people in my life have been significantly younger than I am; I work with primarily twenty-somethings, with a few thirty-somethings peppered in there. Almost no one at my company is 40 years old or older. Most of the kids I work with are remarkably more mature than I ever was at their age – hell, some of them are more mature than I am now – and I have remarked before upon how much they have helped me to grow and develop as a human, for which I am eternally thankful.

I’ve been very fortunate that my team/tribe has been very accepting of an older person in their midst. For a long time, most of them did not realize how large the age gap is between us, but they recognized it was there. Many politely suggested they thought I was in my early-to-mid thirties (thanks, good genes!) and seldom have any of them seemed to really judge me for my age. There have been times when I’ve felt like Jane Goodall – even to the point of having mental conversations/note-taking sessions in that vein:

The young tribe members are wary and uneasy today; I let it slip I had never once in my life played a Sonic the Hedgehog or Mario Brothers game. This was a rookie move; my inclusion has ebbed slightly as a result. I must find a way to regain their trust and once again move with them as a troop member. “Hey, how about those Pokemons?!” did not have the desired effect. I will consult with my source text – The Urban Dictionary – for better vocabulary consistency.

Sure, it’s a source of some good-natured teasing, and a lot of groaning on my part when I realize these people have zero context for formative parts of my life, and indeed, most were not alive before I went to college. It’s sobering. Humbling.

But it’s also helped me come to terms with things much better. I hid my age pretty obsessively until the last few months, when I decided “oh, fuckit. If Dana Delaney can be out and proud about turning 60 and looking fucking amazing, then who am I to keep hiding it?” Out of the mid-life closet I tumbled.

She is 60 years old. Yes, seriously. Right?! She looks a hell of a lot younger than I do.

 

 

 


I am 46.

I spent most of 2015 and 2016 saying I was 46, when I was actually 45, but whatever.

The guy I was dating until about a month ago was 28. The guy before that – 26. My husband was 9 years my junior. Thus, I have a bit of a history with younger men, sure, because I’m fucking surrounded by them and have no life outside of work.

The person who just asked me out is about 24. He’s an insanely mature 24, but I think that is too young even for me, no matter how well-traveled, well-read, ridiculously attractive, and generally amazing he might be. My entire brain balks at that number – nope, nope, nope, nope, nope, nope, nope, NOPE.

Of course, were he to know my age, he’d probably be NOPE-ing right along with me.

Men dating (often significantly) older women is quite a trend now, according to some sources, so I’m apparently not alone, but I’m not entirely comfortable with that large an age gap.

Per usual, I have digressed.

Just as I cannot fathom the perspective of someone 15 years my senior, these kids cannot fathom the things I have seen and done, and why I have answers to many of their questions. Why I can offer seemingly sage advice – it’s not because I am “wise,” my friends; it is because I have made a fuckton of mistakesmany of them more than once. I learned the hard way most of the time. I’ve seen many other people make similar mistakes, and have learned from them, as well.

When older people say, “someday, you’ll understand,” we’re not trying to be patronizing or dismissive of your life experience – we just know it to be true in more cases than not. Just as once cannot innately understand how the Krebs cycle works until we’ve seen it in action and have actually put the time in learning about it, we cannot expect to have the life perspective we’ll have 5 years hence.

Aging, like life in general, is not for the faint of heart. Today, a Physician’s Assistant at my doctor’s office told me (of my extreme sciatic pain,) “ah, you’re almost as old as I am; yeah, this is probably going to keep happening, and it’s probably going to get worse as you age.”

Great! Thanks!!

Naturally, that reminded me (as many things do) of a Louis CK bit:

As a parting note for those of you youngsters reading this: These are all things that have happened while I have been alive (source: http://www.livinghistoryfarm.org/farminginthe70s/worldevents_01.html:)

  • Nixon was President
  • Anwar Sadat became President of Egypt
  • Apollo 15 lands on the moon and uses the Lunar Rover vehicle for the first time.
  • The microprocessor was introduced.
  • The environmentalist group Greenpeace was founded.
  • Watergate
  • Roe v. Wade legalized abortion
  • Beverly Johnson became the first black model on the cover of Vogue or any other major fashion magazine. (Important aside: THAT IS HOW RECENTLY SHIT LIKE THIS HAPPENED. IN MY LIFETIME.)
  • The United States Bicentennial
  • Microsoft and Apple come into being as companies
  • Elvis died
  • The original Star Wars is released… and I watched it in the theater.
  • Jim Jones/Jonestown
  • Three Mile Island
  • Iranian hostage crisis
  • John Lennon killed
  • The wreck of the Titanic is discovered
  • First woman appointed to Supreme Court (not so long ago, eh?)
  • AIDS identified
  • US invades Grenada
  • First woman goes into space
  • Hole in the ozone layer discovered
  • Chernobyl explosion
  • Challenger explosion
  • DNA used for the first time in a criminal case
  • Berlin Wall came down
  • First computer virus reported
  • Exxon Valdez disaster

This brings us to 1990, a time by which most (but certainly not all) of my people were at least born, if not fully aware of the world around them.

I am as susceptible as anyone else to think of “anything that happened before I was around happened forever ago,” (for example, I spent the first 10-15 years of my life thinking Black Americans had been treated like equals for easily 50-75 years – that racism was truly a thing of The Past. Tragic.)

I was about to launch into another whole thing about Trump and the things he’s destroying that we’ve worked so hard for during my lifetime, but I’m spent. Thank your lucky stars. 😉