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.
“I can’t do this anymore, it’s over”.
“What?” I heard him properly the first time but was still shock from hearing it. My ears burned because of my growing anger and the emotionless phase sent through them. I mean, I was everything he asked for. Every day, I tried to be the perfect girlfriend, the perfect potential wife but that proved to not be enough. Or maybe it was too much. He rambled on about life and the current state of our relationship but it all went over my head. He was leaving me? For who? What is better? Who is better? What is he thinking? Those and a million other questions were bouncing around in my head while I watched my now ex get his things and leave.
Your girl has been thirty for almost a month now.
I was seriously waiting for thirty at the door with the patience of a toddler. I’ve been ready to hit thirty ever since I turned twenty-seven. There is something defining about turning thirty. It means that you no longer entertain or deal with the childish drama from your twenties but you also have to GROW THE HELL UP (if you haven’t already). You get way fewer excuses/passes thrown your way. Nobody wants to justify your ridiculous behavior, they expect you to know better. You will hear people talk about a lightbulb that clicks on when you turn thirty and I’m here to tell that lightbulb clicks on loudly and it is dramatically bright.
When I first started running through the streets of NYC as a beginning “distance runner”, I was intimidated. I mean INTIMIDATED. Here I was, attempting to run alongside people who made running look effortless. Soooo unlike myself, whose face consistently showed my desperation to stop and never run again. They were decked out in either Nike’s latest running gear or their infamous run club’s attire while discussing crushing PRs (personal records). When I ran by myself through my neighborhood, I was in my zone. My music was turned up, I breezed past the blocks like I was chasing the ice cream man and I felt like a “real runner”. But when I joined the group runs, I was back to feeling like I didn’t belong.