War of the Selves

War of the Selves

I’m back in San Diego. For five weeks, the sun has been shining, the birds have been chirping, and the streets have been bustling with that calm, buzzing energy I love so well. I’ve been gorging myself on the joys of southern California, delighting in ocean views and desert hikes and incomparable—impossible—produce.

I’m applying for an apartment today. It’s a six-month lease, a mere block from where I lived one year ago, B.N. (before nomad). It has everything I could possibly want in an apartment, with the small exception of a gas stove. (Turns out you don’t need a stove for rice cakes and hummus anyway, so hey.) (Rice cakes are my latest crutch-cum-bad habit because apparently you really do turn into your mother.)

I feel simultaneously elated and concerned. It would be so luxurious to have my own place, surrounded by my own things, following my own rhythms. I could retrieve the boxes of books and mementos I left in a friend’s attic. I could hang art that represents my tastes. I could invite guests to stay—for a night, a weekend, a week! I could spend entire days observed by no one, watching Jane the Virgin with nasty, unshowered hair, covered in rice cake crumbs (seriously, it’s a problem), popping into the bathroom whenever I wanted without having to decide how much sheepish eye contact to make with the person sitting right outside who definitely knows why I’m turning on the fan and hopefully won’t listen to what’s about to happen in there.

Glorious.

But.

Am I giving up a dream? I was supposed to be traveling indefinitely, gradually acquiring fewer and fewer belongings, not settling back down within a year, throwing in the proverbial towel on this identity I hardly had a chance to try on.

I toured another possible living arrangement: three roommates seeking a fourth for their big, beautiful house with large, exuberant dogs and lemon, orange, and avocado trees on a hill overlooking the ocean. I saw the place as the sun set last night, and it was a kind of paradise. Still, as soon I as I stepped into the house with its stained carpet, stray tufts of fur, and disheveled sofa cushions—as I too-firmly shook hands with the young beach people who smelled of marijuana (not a judgment) and work in surf shops—I knew I didn’t belong. My gut told me, “You can’t live here.”

I drove away, fantasizing about the kind of couch I’d buy for my new apartment above the sandwich shop, and realized a dream version of me had already died.

If I were truly the nomad, the detached wanderer stopping in for a medical reprieve, this house would be perfect. Its eclectic inhabitants, warm, welcoming vibe, and social atmosphere would fit beautifully on the person I was trying to be in Maine, the person I thought I could become long-term.

Here is where I feel a deep conflict because I want to dismiss my time in Maine with, “I wasn’t happy there,” but that doesn’t capture the whole story. I was happy when I embraced the beauty of the setting, when I relaxed into the mess and allowed myself to be witnessed, when I took time to get to know and understand my housemates (except for that 70 year-old Pizzagate mansplainer, but he doesn’t count). I had wonderful experiences in that house, even when it was filled with the stench of rotting rats. I loved that I could text a friend about an eerie light in my room, and three minutes later, he was there scoping it out with me. That kind of casual intimacy can fill up spaces in your life you didn’t know were empty.

Now I’m sitting here thinking about not just where I want to live but who I want to be. I feel like I’m on the precipice of casting a significant vote about my character, and I’m not sure I like the direction I’m headed—a magnetic pull toward the bougie comforts I scorn and crave in equal measure, joining the flow of those around me, allowing the current to take me where it may.

Back in B.N. times, when I worked in a cubicle, I would console myself that the energy I saved with structure and predictability would be spent on doing good in the world. Is that something I can make true now, or am I retreating into the familiar, hiding from the painful effort of letting go, needing less, growing smaller?

I’m not sure.

But it’s only a six-month lease. Right?

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New Year

New Year

As we set up my New Year’s party last year—a most beloved holiday tradition—my then-girlfriend and I discussed resolutions. I’ve never made one I haven’t kept. For 2000, it was to read the Bible. 2010: Catch an in-play kickball. 2011: Quit my job. 2014: Leave Minnesota. 2015: Make enough friends in San Diego to throw a New Year’s party. 2016: Date women. I deal in specifics, and I never make a resolution I don’t intend to keep.

But 2017 looked hazy. After the wreckage of the election, I felt unable to see the road ahead. A deep current of change ran through my veins, and I could sense the need for something big, something I couldn’t even imagine in that moment. For the first time in years, I couldn’t articulate what I needed or formulate a plan.

When asked, all I could say was, “Figure out the thing,” which didn’t feel like enough. “And do the thing.” That was as close as I could come.

One year later, my life is more dramatically different than that smiley, glittery-shirt-wearing, undercut-sporting version of me could have foreseen. I lived then in predictable rhythms. Weekdays in the cubicle. Weeknights at open mics. Weekends on hikes, at the farmer’s market, recording the podcast, thrifting, and going on dates. A charmed life full of sunshine and kale. I wanted for nothing.

Now, I’m 23 states (plus D.C.), two foreign countries, five national parks, 6,855 miles (since San Diego), seven roommates, two car break-ins, one nudist colony (I didn’t even tell you about that), 125 days without a period (and counting), four blood tests, one MRI, one or two meniscus tear(s), two conferences, one heartbreak I shouldn’t have felt, two minor breakups I should have felt more, one punch in the face, “millions” of rodent droppings (exterminator’s words), and one dog (future TBD) worse for the wear.

I’ve reduced my life to a few belongings that fit in an astonishingly reliable Ford Escape. It’s still more than many have, and more than I need, but a reduction that felt impossible to a year-ago me. My closet then was bursting, and I loved to adorn myself in bright colors and playful styles—costume jewelry from antique shops, worn or collected by old ladies with unknown histories. Now, I wear the same four or five simple outfits, the same understated jewelry, every day. It’s all I have left, all I need.

I’ve spent time in parts of the country I never understood. I experienced rural life and witnessed poverty that had only existed on paper in my mind. I was invited inside.

I’ve been asked for explanations and accepted as I am. I’ve been a passing stranger and a regular rhythm in others’ lives. I’ve learned more about caring for people—and being cared for—in a single year of motion than in three decades of standing still. I’ve learned who stays and how important they are, the ones who give you strength, who let you travel into darkness and hold the line, ready to pull you back.

I smile less and entertain fewer fantasies. Something flighty in me grew heavy this year, weighted by dustings of disappointment, layered thick on papery wings, which beat now with a dull thud when once they swirled and swooped. I feel solid with this heft, more bound to the earth, less likely to float away. (Others feel sadder about this than I do. They miss a person who made them feel alive, like they might grab my tail and fly with me, like children clapping for a kite, and I don’t miss pumping those people—those men—with hope. I do miss a world that made flight feel possible, one that didn’t trample vulnerable people at every turn, but it existed only in my mind.)

I appear more chaotic, maybe, and hover closer to frightening depths than I did in California. I dip more frequently, thanks, in part, to an underactive thyroid, but I recover more swiftly as well. What once took days now takes hours. I’ve learned to let myself be soothed.

I’ve also learned people want happiness for me, and I want purpose for myself.

Purpose will drive 2018. I feel clarity and certainty when looking to the year ahead, and it’s almost foreign, this sturdiness, these sure feet. After toppling towers in 2017, I’ve cleared ground for something magnificent and powerful, and I’m vibrating with drive to build, create, regenerate. I know what I want from this year, and I see the path forward in vivid detail. I feel ready, almost giddy, to take on 2018.

I can’t say I loved this year or hated it, but I lived it, to borrow a friend’s phrase, really fucking hard. Despite every setback, every tear, every hour spent questioning why, when all is said and done, I don’t regret a thing.

Looking Back

Looking Back

In summer 2016, I took a road trip. Las Vegas (ugh), Zion, Moab, Salt Lake City, and the Redwood Forest—places I’d never seen.

At the time, I sought refuge from an emotional spring. I’d broken up with someone who’d been my best friend for the better part of nine months and terminated a pregnancy we’d created DURING said breakup. While I had no reservations about choosing to treat my fetal infestation, the process was still intense. Not only are you flooded with a mind-addling (SOUL-addling) bonanza of hormones, but you can’t talk about it in polite society. You risk making people uncomfortable, even offending them to their core. I mean, what would happen if your happily pregnant and adamantly pro-life boss found out? How would that affect your relationship?

I thought I was lucky to have a partner in crime, that even though we’d broken up I could still talk to Sperm Guy about what was going on, but that turned out to mostly be me comforting him as he dealt with his feelings about getting me pregnant. (You’d think the person who spends three hours on the shower floor violently expelling her uterine lining and EVERY OTHER THING INSIDE HER BODY would be the one who gets to cry, but no.)

I was angry, lonely, and spent. The road trip was an escape.

As I drove across the desert and its miles of nothingness, passing signs that warned NEXT SERVICE 179 MILES, I fell in love. Expansive landscapes felt promising, like I could disappear into them and the sheer volume of space would overwhelm the thundercloud in my head. Heat enveloped me and made the world immediate. I had no emotions to tend—mine nor anyone else’s—and needed only to deal in the present. Ration your water. Finish the hike before dark. Find a place to sleep. I felt capable and free.

One morning I watched sunrise from the porch of a tiny crossroads motel in the Nevada outback, surrounded on all sides by unmarred horizon, and realized I could live this way full-time. Present. Detached. Peaceful. I didn’t need to go back to my cubicle and spend days jabbering on social media. I didn’t need cities and money and stuff. I didn’t even need vegan Thai takeout. Rather, I needed nature and solitude and reprieve—a quieter place and a slower pace.

Back in San Diego, I became obsessed with moving to the desert. I scoured classifieds in Moab and fantasized about opening a queer-friendly bed & breakfast. I told everyone who would listen about my plans, and smart friends talked me out of them.

In many ways, they were right to caution me, to probe into motives and ask important logistical questions, like how was I going to make money and with whom would I socialize? (I’m not exactly Mormon-friendly, lest the beginning of this post left you with any doubts.) They were understandably nervous and urged me to think through my decision. My therapist suggested I try to compromise, to capture some of that desert feeling in the sturdy, stable life I’d established for myself in San Diego. Maybe all I really needed was more camping weekends.

I heeded their advice (to an extent). I hiked more. I prioritized exercise and wellness. I stopped dating men. I visited new places. I leaned into my routine and tried to take comfort in its stability. I even bought a book called Designing Your Life and performed its life-optimization exercises.

My itch persisted.

In November, the world turned upside down. On the ninth, many of us awoke to a country that hated us more loudly and vehemently than we even knew possible. We felt betrayed, bereft, bereaved. We grieved.

Relationships fractured in the coming months as once-reliable communities struggled to support each other. No one had the emotional reserves to lift up anyone else. We mourned as a collective, and as the horrors of our new reality crescendoed, many of us retreated inward. The tone and tenor of our entire lives shifted in those months, and those of us who were most excited about the history we were about to make, who not only emphatically supported but wholly adored her, were hit hardest.

With my favorite people laid low, I turned elsewhere. I turned to a toxic fling for catharsis. I turned to impulse travel (Colombia is a great place to remind you how lucky we still have it here, to be honest). I turned to booze, binge-eating, and Netflix. I turned to late nights scrolling social media for no reason. I turned to weed. Nothing worked, and the world got darker.

Life in a cubicle became untenable. In true Office Space irony, I achieved more success the less I cared. I’d spend entire days on Twitter, watching rights and protections vanish for the most vulnerable people in this country, seeing our indignation equated with their hatred, and reeling from my own blindness to the gurgling wells of sewage our new leader had so easily tapped. Occasionally, I’d manage an hour of focus to whip together a few recruiting emails, and I’d receive undue praise. They slated me for promotion.

I wanted to leave more than ever.

My mind was stuck on desert moments, the feelings of peace and freedom I couldn’t replicate in day-to-day life. I wasn’t sure how others were handling it, how they could stomach the astonishing indecencies—cruelties—that pummeled us daily. Maybe their families or partners kept them grounded. Maybe they lived in blissful ignorance. Maybe their skin was thicker than mine. I didn’t know. I only knew I’d reached a breaking point, and the only thing that gave me any hope was the prospect of leaving.

So, I left. I put in notice, packed my bags, and drove away.

Fast forward to today. I’m on a porch in rural Maine watching leaves ride a cool breeze to our lakefront lawn, and the question I can’t answer drums a persistent beat: Why?

Why Maine? Why did I even leave? Why would I sever ties with everything and everyone so good in San Diego? Why was a salary and promotion and comfortable workspace not enough? Why do I feel like a whole different person, someone alien and removed from the one who led such a great life in California? Why am I alone?

Somewhere in the chaos of leaving and the trials of traveling thousands of miles across the country, I lost sight of the reality that had pushed me out the door. Instead of recalling the ache at the center of my days and the existential weight of my routine, I romanticized that life into a montage of sunshine and smiles. I started to tell people—and really believed—that I’d been HAPPY in San Diego. In fact, I was so happy, I had to try something else. Somehow that story made sense, and I told it often.

I didn’t realize that by erasing the uglier truths of my life in California, I was heaving responsibility for my pain—which hadn’t magically dissolved the moment I left town—right onto life on the road. Every bad feeling I already had was amplified by regret and a profound sense of loss. I made the wrong choice, as I failed to connect with yet another old friend. If I’d stayed, I’d still be happy, as I cried down wooded trails. Why did I leave such a good life? as I checked dwindling bank accounts.

I’m no stranger to this particular breed of nostalgia. Nearly every relationship I’ve had has been more romantic in retrospect than it ever was at the time (with the notable exception of The Affair, which felt earth-shattering as it happened but looks pathetic and meek in the rearview mirror). I tend to hold moments and minutiae dearer than daily realities. It’s not the hours of Bernsplaining that dance through my mind (yes, I get it, HE WOULD’VE WON, of course, but could you please just take off your pants?) but those three minutes when he played the new Paramore single and danced for me. That was love, as I listen on repeat.

Nostalgia is tricky. While it’s pleasant and seductive to stroll through happy memories, to keep the best of your experiences and discard the worst, you can find yourself disconnected from past realities that got you where you are today. You’re mired in effect without clear insight into the cause. You’re adrift and so convinced your stable, structured life was everything you ever wanted, you think you must be broken to have left it.

Until writing this post, I thought I was broken.

Keeping the good is important, and I think I’ll always be inclined pluck shiny, beautiful moments from piles of gray days, to hover over pictures of a smile in Joshua Tree and wonder why I ever let her go. Held hands, not halitosis. Beaches, not traffic jams. Belly rubs, not litter boxes. I prefer my memories with a rosy tint.

Equally important, though, is keeping your reasons. You stay grounded by facing unpleasant truths that flesh out your narrative, by being honest with yourself about Before Times. Running around with delusions about the past’s perfection is how we end up with unhinged notions like making America great again, as if we should regress to some point in our history instead of striving for a better future.

Histories are lessons, not goal posts.

I may not have it all figured out, but neither did past versions of me. I hope I can remember that.

 

Are You My Self?

Are You My Self?

In 2012, fresh off a marriage that ended in an affair with a married man, out of work and out of money, deep in a torrential storm of men who ranged from unsuitable to actually despicable, consumed by vodka, powered by ramen, and spiraling before a public audience, 140 characters at a time, I started a blog called According to Others. Each entry was a comment someone had made to and about me—an unnerving mix of praise and censure.

A colossal fuckup.

More powerful than you realize.

Beautiful, astonishingly beautiful.

Perpetually aggrieved.

You carry such beauty and sharp language in your ravenous jaw. A tiger without a leash.

You have devoured me and everything I sought to protect. 

Entry upon entry of others’ feedback, impressions, and reactions to me. I hoped the collection would create some kind of whole, that the pieces would gel into a cohesive picture of who I was.

Because I was in such turmoil—and uncomfortably self-aware about that fact—I couldn’t trust my own perception. I was an unreliable narrator, and nothing the mirror or any inner monologue could tell me was sturdier, more certain, or less refutable than the observations of others. I believed they knew something I didn’t.

Somewhere along the line, I stopped relying on others’ opinions of me as gospel. (I started to notice this peculiar thing where different people had their own experiences and biases and agendas that colored their ideas of how I should be, often cramming me into empty spaces they’d carved in their own lives without much regard to whether I fit or even wanted to be there, almost as if they were deeply flawed humans who had even less idea about who I was than I did??? Weird.)

I retired the blog. I sought therapy. I tried to give many fewer fucks.

I also moved and picked up a job, hobbies, and lifestyles that offered labels and easy identity. I wasn’t no one and nothing. I was a financial writer. Comedian. Hiker. Feminist. Vegan. Podcaster. Queer. (Not that my sexuality is a “lifestyle” I “picked up,” but I did come out and start flagging pretty hard.)

Now I’ve added “nomad” to the mix, and frequent travel has made me realize how much more nebulous the concept of self is than these simple labels would suggest. While I’m still a queer-vegan-feminist-podcaster-hiker-comedian-writer wherever I go, I’m different in different places. In Minnesota, I’m neurotic. I’m hyper. I’m pure, gaping need. In San Diego, I’m relaxed. Confident. Adaptable. In Maine, I’m… well, it may be too soon to tell. Mostly, I’m obsessively checking locks and trying not to be bothered by the lamp that keeps turning itself on and off in my room. (THIS BIG COUNTRY HOUSE THAT I’M IN ALL BY MYSELF IS NOT HAUNTED AND EVERYTHING IS FINE SHHHHHHH.)

Each place conjures a different set of qualities, but each quality must be derived from the same pool. Somewhere in me these traits lurk, swirling together in a massive stew, until something reaches in and draws them out.

Mostly, I think it’s people who have this effect, and my reactions to places are reactions to the people in them. People in the Midwest fixate on social hierarchies and strive to fit you in one. People in Los Angeles fixate on ambition and wonder what they might be able to get from you. People in San Diego fixate on pleasure and want to know how much fun you are to be around. People in Maine fixate on… again, I don’t know yet because I’ve been extremely alone in this house for days with nothing but Tinder for socializing and boy, let me tell ya, Tinder in rural Maine is not the thrill ride of groovy, whipsmart sexpots you’d expect. (First housemate arrives tomorrow, praise Cheezus.)

While I know others’ opinions are not the correct place to seek your identity, when I’m alone, there’s no external reaction to throw myself against, nothing and no one to be anything for. I’m not neurotic when I’m sitting on the porch listening to rain, and I’m not charming when I’m kayaking across the lake. I’m neither kind nor cruel, generous nor selfish. I’m effectively nothing but a set of biological functions wandering around and waiting to be fed.

Yet some thread connects the vodka-ramen-fueled Minneapolis serial-dater to the kombucha-sipping San Diego hiker. Both of those people were me, and I carry their memories everywhere I go. Some kissed a tall carpenter on a bridge over the Mississippi, and that same I crunched trail mix atop El Cajon Mountain.

I feel variable, blank, and trapped all at once.

A friend recently said they wished they could travel around, too. “I think I really just want to run away from myself,” they said, and I wonder if that’s possible. In some ways, you’re you wherever you go, haunted by the same ghost-thoughts, burdened by the same past. In other ways, removing yourself from people and places that stir pain—that conjure versions of yourself you’d rather not trot before an audience—can liberate you. You can be a better, or at least alternate, version of you.

When I crossed from Michigan to Ontario on my way to Maine, my trunk once again filled with everything I own, the border guard (border crossings are my new least-favorite place, for the record) said, “You sure move a lot. Running from something?” He seemed to be joking and waved me through without a response, but my mind produced an answer anyway.

Myself.

I may never be able to escape the sting of my past and the selves who hurt, maimed, and devoured, but I can run far from the people and conditions that enabled them. Maybe someday I’ll stumble on a self that feels right, that washes out the dark corners and offers some sense of certitude. Or maybe I’ll keep running, slipping into ever-changing spaces, and carrying old ideas to new places. Maybe that’s all I can hope to do—to be.

 

 

Tribes

Tribes

Over the past few weeks, I’ve spent time with dozens of people from wide-ranging walks of life—from my brokest, most liberal friends to my blue-collar, conservative family members, from suburban high school buddies to that one Porsche-driving, senior executive pal (you want him to be an asshole because UGH RICH PEOPLE AMIRITE but then he’s one of the greatest people in the world, which is both infuriating and why he’s one of only two men to be featured on Adrift on Purpose so far), from West Coast to Midwest, from lifelong connections to new acquaintances—and while some interactions leave me full, others leave me depleted.

Especially at home in the Midwest, conversations haven’t felt as fulfilling as I’m used to. I think it’s because I’m talking to so many people outside my tribe—people who, through no fault of their own, aren’t able to relate or even understand me or my experiences.

In California, I surrounded myself with like-minded people who were also queer or liberal or vegan/vegetarian or sardonic or dealing with mental health struggles or just trying to find ways to relax and be happy. I found a lot of laid back, compassionate, and ambitious people. People who sought adventure and were health-conscious and maybe a little woo-woo. People who had a lot of relationships. People who lived to entertain. The people I chose often responded to anecdotes with some version of, “Yes! Me too!”

I’m just now realizing the power of that kind of validation, the way we relate to each other through shared experiences and grow by finding people who bring out certain qualities we want to expand in ourselves and stretch us to become who we want to be. When you share some common ground, the Yes! Me too! helps you feel connected and normal, like you’re on the right path.

Conversations outside the tribe often feature responses like:

  • “Wow.”
  • “Interesting.”
  • “Neat!”
  • “Weird.”
  • “You’re so brave.”
  • “That’s cool.”
  • “Huh.”
  • “What’s that like?”

You end up volleying unrelated stories, interviewing one another, or talking about the most mundane common ground, like other people or the weather. (To be fair, the weather in the Midwest is BANANAS. We’ve gone through three climate changes in the time it’s taken me to write this far.)

Nothing is wrong with this kind of conversation, and it’s an invaluable life skill to be able to talk to anyone at any time (one I’ve certainly not mastered but which I try to improve by forcing myself to creep around the edges of conversation circles at networking events until someone politely lets me in so I can pretend to be equally enthused about the future of automated email marketing). You just can’t expect to get the same kind of connection from an interaction like this as you do from talking with a person who really understands the nooks and crannies of you.

Part of the goal of nomadism is developing a better understanding of the world and the space I want to inhabit within it. While I don’t want to be closed off in one of those much-maligned Liberal Bubbles (terrible places where we RESPECT EACH OTHER and EMBRACE DIFFERENCES), I do want to prioritize time with the tribe. Those are the people who keep me grounded, who help me push forward, who make me feel like everything is okay. Even when I’m adrift in every other area of life, I feel anchored by a simple, “Yes! Me too!”

When you’re understood—really, deeply understood—by another human being, you begin to feel like the world is friendly and you have a place in it. I’ve been lucky enough to experience that feeling, and now I can’t do without it. I won’t.

 

Too Soon to Tell

Too Soon to Tell

My sister gets married this weekend. As festivities ramp up, I’m coming to terms with how much EXPLAINING I have to do about my situation. I keep seeing people I haven’t seen in ages, and they want to know things like how my life is, why I’m a nomad, and what I plan to do next.

If I were being honest, I’d answer:

  • My life is—NOT GREAT. I’m filled with regret over leaving a stable environment and fear that I’ll walk backward into a version of myself I worked so hard to leave behind. Most of the time, I’m thinking about money. Obsessing. Terrified. I miss privacy and being in control of my environment. I still have nightmares in which all of my car windows get smashed in. I miss everyone I left behind. I miss mountains. I miss serenity.
  • I’m a nomad because—I’m an UNSATISFIABLE MONSTER. I had a perfect life in San Diego—perfect—and I was still unhappy. If I understood why, I probably wouldn’t have thrown away every good thing I had just to see what would happen if I did. BUT I DID OKAY.
  • Next I plan to—Is “lie in the fetal position and cry” an option? Because that’s all I want to do, pretty much all the time.

While I know this period of turmoil is part of an adjustment process and things will get better in time, I’m still very much in it right now. This makes small talk deeply uncomfortable. When I hint at the truth of my situation, people are quick to look for the silver lining. “But doesn’t it feel liberating?” If you mean I’m liberated from HALF MY WARDROBE and my SENSE OF WELLBEING, then yes. Very liberating indeed.

When I try to play up the good parts of my life, I can hear the effort and how unconvincing it is. I utter bullshit phrases like, “It’s been really fun and interesting,” while my head screams OH GOD I SPENT ALL MY MONEY and, “Life’s too short not to try it, right?” to the tune of IT BETTER BE BECAUSE I’M ABOUT TO TAP THOSE RETIREMENT SAVINGS.

Surely, they can see the farce. No one believes the plastered-on smiles, the attempts to paint pretty pictures over the crumpled canvases of our lives. It’s like your recently divorced friend telling you about their newfound freedom and purpose when you know underneath their words is I stalk his new girlfriend on Instagram every night while binge-eating Cheetos—DON’T JUDGE ME. (Lord knows I’ve been that friend.)

Going through chaos is embarrassing enough without feeling like everyone can see right through you, without having to dance to some optimistic melody to make your conversational partner feel better despite your both knowing it’s a big stinking charade. Sometimes the only thing you want is to say, “I’m not okay right now. I hope someday I will be, but I’m not yet,” and then not immediately walk it back, not toss glitter on it, not pretend you were JUST KIDDING LOLOLOOOOOOOOL.

I do believe I’ll be okay—at least, I hope I will—but I have no idea whether it will be on this path or not. It’s too soon to tell.

My fantasy for this wedding is that when people ask about my life, I meet inquiries with, “It’s too soon to tell,” thus completely satisfying my conversational partners’ curiosity and causing them immediately to switch to more interesting matters like how great the cake is (it’s vegan-friendly FANTASY CAKE) or which White House staffers got a rose this week and will be advancing to the next round.

Of course, I’ll play my part. I’ll answer questions and accept silver linings and smile through it all like the super-amazing, reliable older sister I am, but deep down, I’ll be pining for a more honest exchange.

“I don’t know right now,” I could say.

And they could tell me, “It’s okay, you don’t have to.”

Wouldn’t that be nice?

 

Not in Love

Not in Love

I went on a date yesterday. Now that I’m stationary for a few weeks and have some breathing room, I’m back on dating apps (okay, just the ladies-only one because dudes are way too easy to stumble upon in the wild and who needs any EXTRA involvement in their weird power plays and convoluted attempts to impress you with asinine chivalry like insisting they walk on the traffic side of the sidewalk as if that very gesture didn’t make you pray for a rogue Town and Country to leap the curb and take you both out then and there). I love dating because OH LORDY THERE ARE SO MANY ATTRACTIVE PEOPLE I WANNA SMOOSH MY FACE AGAINST it’s fun to play by ever-changing rules and make yourself an appealing candidate for face-smooshing meaningful conversation, and it’s such a delight to learn a new person, to get a glimpse into their world, and to try on different possible futures you could have together.

Except that’s not what dating is for me anymore.

As a nomad, I’m no longer a prospect for any kind of future. I am, by the very nature of my circumstances, a transient player in your life—a drop-in character who imparts some new knowledge or shares some mini-adventure or plants some seed of an idea that you cultivate for years to come, unbeknownst to me. Or, who just makes you laugh for an hour and is forgotten by next week.

Whether significant or inconsequential, whatever effect I have on you will happen in my wake. I’ll be gone, onto the next town, the next fling, the next set of sparkling green eyes.

In many ways, this is how I’ve always operated. I prefer short-term contracts to long-term employment, and I make that clear to anyone who enters my orbit. I will leave you. (Giving people warnings is strange because they often fail to heed them, which I say as someone who failed to heed warnings like, “I’m a garbage person,” and, “You will get broken into,” as recently as this month, so NO JUDGMENT HERE.)

Still, as I admired a forest of freckles sprawling over the delicate shoulders sitting across from me yesterday, as I listened to her hopes for a future with children, her impressive resume of service-oriented work, and her efforts to untangle the complex relationship between her upbringing and who she wants to become, I felt remiss. We both knew I couldn’t factor into her life in any kind of real way, and even as affection swelled for this beautiful new (to me) soul, it was tempered by the knowledge that my whispered warning—I will leave you—has become a shout—I’m already gone.

Despite my constant claims to the contrary, I’m a junkie for love. I love being in love, and I do it as often as possible.

Currently, a few distant crushes and romantic entanglements use the best parts of infatuation (mixtapes, mostly) to masquerade as something like love, but there’s no future tense involved. We don’t—can’t—entertain any notion of Together and instead content ourselves with fantastical catharsis, with Wouldn’t It Be Great If and Maybe Someday We Could. I’ve countless “plans” to run away and start new lives with various people, but we all know it’s just play. They’ll continue along their paths, and I’ll continue along mine. Maybe we’ll intersect someday, and maybe we won’t. In the meantime, we have effusive texts and songs on repeat, which is the most “in love” I can hope for at this point.

I feel envious, in some ways, of people who share their lives with a partner. They have a witness. When they’re 87 and refuse to wear their hearing aid and think they’ve heard something related to a vague memory they almost have, they can turn to their mate and say, “Ed, where was that place we stayed with the water leak where ceiling that dropped in on the kids’ room?” and he’ll say, “Albuquerque,” before continuing with his story about sailing Lake Superior.

I won’t have anything like that.

Each life path comes with tradeoffs, and what I’m gaining in adventures and perspective and novelty, in freedom to be and become whoever I want on whatever timeline works for me, I’m giving up in a witness, in a rolodeck of memories shared with someone who was also there. Maybe I’ll regret it someday.

In the immediate term, I’m not as afraid of regret as I am mourning the loss of the romantic possibility that comes with Maybe We Could Be. Without the potential for a future, dating loses a significant portion of its allure. The big question—what could we become—is pre-answered and replaced by a much smaller one—do you want what I have to offer—which is perhaps more honest than I’ve ever been in romance. It creates a new challenge: to be compelling enough to get a HELL YES, to create an interesting enough experience that people are willing to forgo possibility just to participate in whatever moments we can share with one another, despite knowing our limits. I intend to rise to that challenge.

As with so many aspects of nomadism, dating has become another arena in which the mantra is now, “Earn your keep.” I didn’t anticipate this, how much harder I’d have to work to accomplish basic facets of personhood than I did in my cushy little cubicle life, where routine and stability created a glossy veneer that hid countless cracks in my foundation. I’m grateful, though, for the ways in which this lifestyle is pushing me to become better than I’ve ever been before.

If I decide someday to be a settled person, a partnered person, I’ll have this exercise in honesty to improve the quality of that future relationship. For now, I have adventures and mixtapes and fantasy, and while it may not be everything, it’s actually a lot.