A thing to revel in: indecision! Every once in awhile, you don’t have to make the decision immediately. You can throw your hands up in the air and say, “I don’t know what I want! I don’t know!” and let that be that for a few days. No theorizing, no analyzing, just I don’t know. No idea. Shh. Shhhhhh.
A thing to sign up for: the listserve.com.
A thing to eat: look, just trust me when I tell you to mix Yoplait Greek Strawberry yogurt, Chex Cinnamon cereal, and two globs of non-organic peanut butter. It is my favorite breakfast in the world with zero food coma and endless energy.
A lipstick to try: CoverGirl Lip Perfection Lipstick in Divine. I feel like themakeupcoven suggested this at some point? Either way, it’s one of those shades that guys are like, “that looks fucking weird…I’m gonna go talk to her.”
A person to emulate: my friend Renukah who walked up to the hottest guy I’ve ever seen and was like, “has anyone ever told you that you’re very attractive?” as if no one had ever told him that with Channing Tatum’s body, GQ style, and a better version of Dermot Mulroney’s face that he might be attractive. God bless her, because that line slaughtered. (Or it would have if I hadn’t immediately started laughing.) May everyone be as sincere and kind and genuine as that woman.
A book to read: What I Was Doing While You Were Breeding by Kristin Newman. It is likely that if you like this blog, you will like that book.
A thing to do: on your way from place to place this weekend, don’t look at your phone. Just try for the whole weekend. In the cab, in the subway, on the walk, in the car, from that bar to the other, don’t look at your phone. Just look around and space out. Not for any particular reason other than the fact that you probably immediately thought, “no,” and that’s kind of reason enough.
Have an excellent weekend, friends!
3:48 pm • 12 September 2014 • 54 notes
Anonymous said: Do you miss being in love?
Funny you should ask. I was just thinking that sometime around now it would be his birthday. When we first started dating in late September last year he had mentioned a birthday party that had happened recently. So, it must be soon. But not knowing is like not having his sweatshirt hanging in my closet. There’s nothing with weight, nothing I can look at and remember. No sentimentality attached to numbers on a calendar that come up in various forms on bus schedules and lottery tickets. I mean, thank God we don’t know anyone’s phone numbers, right? The day will come and it will go like all the others we don’t spend together anymore. These pillowcases never smelled like him anyway. This chair was never his. He never wanted to stay here or with me, for the night or forever.
There was a day some weeks ago I had to leave work early. I’d suffered a concussion after a bike accident and the swimming in my head amplified anxiety triggers long dormant, so I went home. I laid down on the wood floor in my warm studio apartment and closed my eyes to breathe. In the dimness, in full contact of the floor, my mind wandered to what I wasn’t writing, why I wasn’t writing. I liked dissecting myself. I liked touching my toes and rolling up every vertebrae. I liked being on my knees, I liked my hands raw, I liked feeling the earth and the pavement. I liked a hard mattress and straight alcohol. I liked this new body, these lines and bulges and hard places. I liked my skin dirty and my hair a mess. I liked being a little bad, a little off, and a little hard to place. I liked not having any secrets or any qualms about it. I liked dropping off the earth. I liked showing everything. I liked a little sky, a lot of ocean, and a horizon you needed to rotate your head to take in. I liked the kind of heat you take your clothes off for. But over the previous however many months I had become so quiet and hesitant, disdainful and petulant. And it was because with him, I had become formal and regimented, polite and restrained. Is it OK if I sit here? Is it alright if I take your hand? Is this time OK? Are you OK? Are we OK?
Am I OK?
He once said to me, “you could fall in love with anyone.” What a strange thing that would be if it were true. But it’s not, and I can’t. I had fallen in love with him, though, much to his own disbelief. A month or so after falling into one another, he read every story I’d ever written about my past. Of course, others had done the same before him and shook their heads at me, but they hadn’t cared. He did. And he never looked at me the same. We should have broken up that day. We should have broken up the moment he looked at like me like I wasn’t worthwhile. Not because he would never learn to love me, but because I would never learn to let him.
Whatever injuries put me on the floor that day, it was the shame that kept me there. I had loved someone who didn’t want to love me. I wasn’t writing because I had loved someone who had read me from top to bottom and instead of thinking I was complex and spirited, thought I was tainted.
But he was right - I was tainted. I was lacquered and rebuilt, sanded and worn down. I was tainted with bike crashes and sunburns, cat scratches and broken nails. I was tainted with mud mucked on my shoes and dresses ruined with wine, tainted by the paint in my hair and dust in my eyes. I was tainted from knowing the curves of my body so well, from showing someone how else to navigate them. I was tainted from wearing lingerie to work and makeup to bed. I was dripping in red paint when I showed up in his life, and I wanted to get it all over him. But instead of passionate kisses against the wall, I got cursory hugs. Instead of sexts and naughty pictures, I got ignored on Saturdays. Instead of photos of us together, I would see him post the one photo I wasn’t in. Instead of hands slinking around my waist while I made him dinner, they stayed firmly planted on his phone. And instead of demanding he love the woman I was, I tried to become the girl he would. I was begging him to love the sugar-free version of myself and it’s no wonder he couldn’t. I didn’t love her either.
I wanted to sink through the floorboards and into something good so the next time I ached like this, it might feel better. So the next time I felt shame, I might feel joy. I thought about sex. I thought about sunshine and benzos, comedy and chocolate and pina coladas. I thought about a man I’d met pushing his hair out of his face to watch me while he drank. I thought about the way he put his hands on my hips to follow me out of the room. I thought about how easy it was for him to touch me and how obvious it was I wanted him to. I thought about sand and sweat and clean sheets, about cold drinks and warm hands. I thought about him leaning in his door frame, smiling at me, saying, “I like how you look in my bed.” Eyes with currents, voice like molasses. It felt like stepping out of the shade when he looked at me. Another sunburn worth the day in the sand.
And isn’t that how we should feel if we can? Isn’t that being in love? If just with the way the sheets feel against your skin, with the way a man looks at something he wants, with the smell of salt and sunscreen? Isn’t that the fortune cookie you keep? “I like how you look in my bed”? Because I liked how I looked too: relaxed, because I knew he wanted me there, because he’d said it so specifically, because he’d had no qualms about it. But really, because that day there was no part of me I was holding back, nothing edited and curated specifically to his tastes. I wasn’t in love with him, but I was in love. I was rolling in delight because after months and months of tightening the corset to fit into someone else’s vision of who I should be, I’d finally cut it off.
I’m getting back into my skin. I’m wearing lace and silk to bed. I’m purring at what I like and flat out refusing what I don’t. I’m waking up early and coming in late. I’m wearing eyeliner on the top and on the bottom. I’m asking for what I want and when I don’t get it, I’m not changing my expectations, I’m changing theirs. I’m a little leaner now, a little tanner, and a little more aware of just how malleable I become when I love someone, when I want them to love me. Maybe that’s what he meant when he said, “you could fall in love with anyone.” But if I could before, I can’t now.
Now, they have to love me, too.
It’s so easy to accommodate others, to spend every penny of your self worth on someone else’s opinion. But someone else’s valuation of you has no value at all if you learn to value yourself.
So no, I don’t miss being in love because the truth is, I missed loving myself more.
5:21 pm • 9 September 2014 • 235 notes
Anonymous said: I feel somewhat silly asking this, but I'm a 21 year old girl with limited sexual experiences. I had one boyfriend that I had sex with very often, but in the two years since we broke up, I've only had sex twice. I feel like I don't really have an opportunity to express my sexuality often and was wondering if you had any advice on getting the guts to put myself out there and explore a little more.
Take a pole dancing class for a few weeks. And try hot yoga. Watch any Ciara music video, in particular “Ride” and “Love Sex Magic”.
The opportunity to express sexuality, the opportunity itself, comes when you’re exuding the vibe. And I’ve found the best way to drum up that vibe is not to look for it with other people, but to look for it within yourself. Buy yourself some lingerie. Wear it under your regular clothes. Try red lipstick. Cook yourself an elaborate meal while listening to Ciara, wearing lingerie and red lipstick. I’m basically telling you what I do in my free time.
And don’t rush it. Enjoy the foreplay of figuring out how to express yourself. It’s a slow burn, and your prime is ten years away, so have a little fun figuring it out. And if I remember correctly, 22 and 23 were some really good years for that. And then better every year after that.
11:45 am • 28 August 2014 • 24 notes
Anonymous said: How do you deal with someone trying to encroach upon your personal space ?
Duck and lean. Action movie roll out of the scene.
But how I’ve dealt with situations like this at school and work is I create an actual obstacle - my purse, a stack of papers, a chair, I put that thing between me and the villain. Personal space is a big thing for me, and my listening comprehension goes out the window when people get into it. I can’t think of anything other than getting my three feet back.
Or you can do what I actually do, which is visibly recoil so obviously that everyone around you notices you will fall backward onto the table to avoid having someone be within a foot of your face.
Also, don’t forget you can say something. And if you’re worried about making someone uncomfortable, throw on the good ole “charming rom-com clutz” trope and giggle and say, “agh sorry, I’m so weird about personal space - need a three foot radius, haha!” And then shoot them with finger guns and blush. Then go dead pan and say, “but for real. Three feet.” For a couple weeks they’ll probably make a big deal out of embarrassing you for it, but they won’t get in your space.
I know. I have done this.
You can’t worry too much about making someone comfortable who is making you uncomfortable. Get weird to get what you need.
11:24 am • 28 August 2014 • 14 notes
Anonymous said: What are your plans with datebynumbers when the book comes out?
Change the Tumblr handle to Kelton Wright and just talk to you about cycling, adventure, and rudimentary acrylic painting?
Truth is, I don’t know. And I think that’s great.
What would you like to see happen?
11:05 am • 28 August 2014 • 16 notes
womendowork said: Can I ask about the book? I'm eager to read it! :)
Working on the cover this week!
God willing, it’ll be done by the end of September?
12:30 pm • 20 August 2014 • 14 notes