confession: “i’m not trying to gitwitcha, babe. i just love talking to you.” this is the thought i think to him but don’t say each week he and i have a conversation and i feel him reaching to see what my intentions are. he is accustomed to women wanting to fuck his god-like body, therefore it is difficult for him to believe that i prefer relating to his beautiful mind.
confession: to the pretty girl at the bar who asked me to dance again…you are a wonderful lead, your arms feel good around me, and yes, your gaydar was spot-on, but as much as i want to be ready to give my heart to another woman, i’m not ready.
confession: if i had fourteen hours with you, i’d love you in ways that would surprise us both.
confession: after twenty-four years with her, it’s okay if it takes me five or six years to get over her. it’s okay that i’m not over her yet. it’s okay if part of me is never quite over her.
confession: less and less i’m wondering “what now?” because more and more my now unfolds within my mindful attention.
confession: my half-birthday was yesterday. i celebrated by buying and mailing birthday presents to others.
confession: reaching out is easier when i don’t take rejection personally. also, a “no” response doesn’t automatically equal rejection.
confession: i still haven’t asked for what i want, but i also haven’t settled for less than i want.
confession: i usually cry an average of once or twice a day. usually they are grateful tears, happy tears, freedom-opening tears. this week, i’m crying an average of six or seven times a day. all grateful tears, happy tears, freedom-opening tears. maybe i’m hormonal. or maybe my heart is blasting more open.
confession: trying to decipher what distinguishes a male adult as a man (rather than a grown-up boy), i asked two men i respect. i need more data points. i diminish fear with understanding.
confession: while attempting to understand men, i bring to consciousness subtle observances about women that i hadn’t put to words before.
confession: this study of men and women began with a single comment outside of a bar last month. a dude asked me and a couple of female friends if we were the kind of chicks who didn’t like being called chicks. that question ignited my curiosity about words, men, women, dudes, chicks, how we define ourselves, and more. (by the way, i’m a feminist chick who feels comfortable being called a chick and defines myself as a humanist.)
confession: tomorrow i return to my happy place of twelve years ago. i’ve only returned twice in the intervening twelve years, both times more than eight years ago. i’m different now. i don’t know how i’ll feel there. i’m approaching this place as if for the first time with who i am now and gently embracing whatever i feel.