Let’s be honest, group trips don’t always work out. It starts with seven, then drops to five, dwindles to three then eventually you are left to cancel flights, hotel reservations and planned Instagram captions.
I get it. Traveling alone can seem so…lonely. Who is going to take photos of you? Who will you explore your surroundings with? Who will you fly or take the train with? Yourself, that’s who.
You can’t always wait until your friends’ work schedules, bank accounts or relationship statues align with your planned trips or you may end up waiting forever and never going anywhere.
I’m not the forgiving type. I’m the “Let’s forget and fake move on” type. The type to not so secretly harbor what you did when I’m up thinking throughout the night. I was told forgiving means letting something go for the betterment of your spirit but misery loves company and I haven’t been ready to to be alone without my burdens from the transgressions from others. How else was I going to blame someone else for my shortcomings if I forgave them? How could I continue to to live life without playing the blame game for previous heartbreaks if I forgave them? Who could I chastise them for unresolved hurt and pain if I had forgiven everyone?
I sat out of the women’s march and here is why.
A self proclaimed feminist who decided to sit out on the women’s march and its social media engagement. A walking hypocrite is the first thing I thought of myself when I decided to “clock out” of the movement for the day. Not only was I not marching in defense of women’s rights, I wasn’t engaging in any dialogue via social media about the movement.
White women don’t actually include us in feminism except when it’s to gain numbers. And I am sick of that crap.
I have to be honest. It is SO EASY to be an angry and sad woman. Being happy? That takes work.
Someone who will remain forever nameless told me in defense of his wrongdoing, “You can let go of everything that is causing you to be sad and get back to your happy”. While he was trying to explain that me being unhappy about his actions was somehow my fault, he dropped a gem. Even after heartache, loss, etc, I can decide whether I’m going to be happy. Normally I picked sad/unhappy. Why? Happiness is a choice and that choice required work that I wasn’t willing do. Especially when I had “excuses” not to.
“Those face masks help your spirit?”
My Aunt had knocked me off my feet and didn’t even know it. We were discussing self care and of course the conversation of face masks and baths came up. While my cousin and I shared our favorite sheet and peel off masks, our aunt came through with the swift kick to the chest. She knew the answer to that question and so did we: no, no they don’t.
My first six months of my thirties seriously flew past me. Don’t get me wrong, I felt it go past me. Ever since the day I entered the “No Longer Twenty Something Club”, I have been hit with signs that I am older left and right.
Men are finally getting called out for being sexual abusers…woooooooow.
When the allegations started coming out about Harvey Weinstein and the Me Too dialogue began, I tried to back away from all conversations about sexual assault. It was both draining and infuriating at the same time. I was angry and sad. Uma Thurman’s reaction during her interview was all me. It was like a wound being reopened and having lemon juice squeezed into it.
Yeah, I have a #MeToo story too.
Thirty years. That’s how long it took to me to admit that sometimes I’m wrong. I feel like I gave that up pretty early.
I’m not always right. Most of the time I am but there are rare moments when a playa slips up. Predictably, I would fight someone tooth and nail before I admit that I was wrong and probably being dramatic. But lately I’ve been self evaluating and with that comes admittance, ownership and change/growth.
Sometimes I’m loud and wrong.
He dug his hands into my hair. Past my kinky curls, straight to my roots and rubbed my scalp. And I let him. I regret nothing.
During one of our usual ‘binge watch a new show on Hulu’ nights, I got a dose of a simple but overwhelmingly loving moment of intimacy. I was laying on his stomach when he, while laughing at some ridiculous joke, slipped his hand into my hair and started rubbing my scalp. Before I could protest about the audacity of him putting his hands in a fresh twist out, I was comforted with a moment of bliss. Yes, bliss is the proper way to describe how I both my spirit and overwhelmed mind gradually calmed down.