I’ve talked about this before.
‘This’ being my tendency to wink wink nudge nudge my way through life; to live with one foot in and one foot out the door. I don’t buy furniture, I don’t commit, and I am quite possibly the only person in history to attend law school ironically.
It’s the driving force behind much of my writing, this outsidership. It’s the basis of my humor, it’s a fuel for change, and it’s a way of protecting my fragile little heart.
But I’m through with all of that.
Community-building is the risk I’ve never been brave enough to take, but I think I’m ready to take it. I want to make promises. I want to write something in stone, or at least in ink. I want to put some paint on the walls, to dig in my heels, to love with abandon.
That’s what I want to do.
And that all sounds very pretty, but this morning I’m reminded of the dark side of giving over and giving in. It is the simple and universal fact that when you are open, you are vulnerable. And there is something beautiful in that, but something very painful, too.
I wouldn’t say that I am a regular recipient of cat calls. My dress code these days consists entirely of frayed blue jeans and coffee-stained t-shirts and this look, while very comfortable, is not exactly seductive.
That said, I received not one, but two cat calls yesterday and they were both extra special, so I wanted to share. On the way home from work, I was accosted by some upstanding gentlemen in a cab, requesting that I join them. The selling point? They were “listening to some ABBA.”
And on the way to work? I smiled in a neighborly fashion at a middle-aged dude with a pot belly and was rewarded with an awed, “Gee, you’re pretty.”
And, folks, when they open with gee, you know you’ve still got it.
Date in t minus two hours. Wish me… something.