Charcoal on Patron Silver green tissue paper; 28.5″ X 19″

I’m not physical, meaning touchy feely. It’s not an issue of ocd, but one of trust. I don’t hug people I’ve just met, unless we’ve already established a relationship and just haven’t had face time. Contact should be consensual, not like an awkward personal space invasion.

If you pay attention to body posture, a person can frequently tell who is open to contact and who isn’t, but if you are a physical person, you might not look for signs as to whether or not the person you are reaching out to is receptive, in which case things get awkward….for people like me.

I haven’t always been this twitchy about personal space, but things happen and life changes.

Now that distance separates us from our former lives, I’m more sensitive to touch my body doesn’t recognize. Before I ignored the physical assaults from baby powdered laden in-laws. Now my mind begins mentally mapping the temperature, and the xy coordinates of every finger, as my spine moves from its relaxed neutral position into a posture I can only visualize as resembling that of a halloween cat.

I try relaxing and breathing deeply, but i can’t get past this interruption of tactile sensation. The contact is simply benign, like a hand on the shoulder or a light embrace, nothing creepy or bordering on the type of behavior that earns a person a two week seminar on sexual harassment or sensitivity training. Even I ask myself wtf?

It took six months for me to grow accustomed to the hands-on correction in my yoga class. Seriously, six months. Why? I trust my instructor and her professionalism.

I’m seeing a chiropractor to alleviate a nerve problem. I’m going of my own volition, because self-medicating the problem was completely useless. So I caved.

The chiropractor is very hands-on. I trust her, she listens, and I’m getting results. But, I can’t visit the office without feeling anxious, or extremely anxious. The moment turn off my car my psyche comes unhinged, and all logic retreats. The pragmatist in me knows when I lay on the table, that my body won’t be forced into a position it cannot accommodate, but the pragmatist isn’t in control.

Which I guess is part of the problem. Why is is so damn hard to let go and allow?

A fly.

A single incident perpetuates a series of unintended consequences that must each be dealt with in turn. Regardless of good intentions, each solution creates bigger issues to be resolved.

So maybe a fly is just a euphemism for… a bird feeder. An innocuous yet functional holiday gift gathering dust in the garage. Fine. There’s no logical reason not to use it. The entire town has been designated as a bird sanctuary, so what’s the harm in feeding the birds?

After a few months of bribing mother nature, I discovered the residual benefit of tripod photography. By photographing the birds, I have pictures to send my mother for special occasions, because seriously, she is older and she’s already managed to accumulate more than enough crap to be disposed of (god bless her soul [the Better Half says it mandatory to phrase such dark subjects in properly respectful terms]) after her time comes to uh, shall I say, kick the proverbial bucket. Pictures are easier to dispose of than say a gravy boat or a rocking chair.

Photography leads to the desire for better photograph, which also leads to more bird feeders, better food, and a bird guide so you can properly identify the species when attempting to discuss subjects that don’t include the weather.

Better food, better feeders, better photos, and more birds. Seemed simple enough until the chipmunks showed up (And by chipmunks, I don not mean the trio of over-commercialized musical vermin that continue to make subpar “C” movies at the expense of teenagers) .

The bird feeders are accessible from our deck, though the deck has no stairs to access ground level. Basically it is supported on posts and suspended seven feet above the ground. All posts, but one are recessed approximately two feet from the deck rail, making it difficult but not impossible for rodents to access feeders by climbing the posts….but this isn’t about squirrels. This time.

Once a week I run a garden hose onto the deck for a partial water exchange for a small goldfish pond, and sometimes I get a little lazy about coiling up the hose. Garden hose = convenient chipmunk ladder. Chipmunk access to roasted peanuts = tasty awesomeness. Chipmunk cornered by housecoats too domesticated too hunt properly = not so awesome.

While I was distracted by the fat cheeked wonders pilfering my bird feeders, a much less tolerable problem occurred.

Raccoon.

It was an accidental discovery late one evening. In the throes of cat ranching, I discovered the masked offender cleaning out a tray feeder with the Hunter watching intently. This will never work.

The garden hose was removed and a lid was fastened to the tray feeder to prevent access (a sheet of plexiglass held on by four spring loaded clamps. The first night it worked, so the raccoon opted to eat from the suet feeder instead. The second night, the raccoon stole an entire suet cake. The third night, the raccoon broke the corner off the plexiglass and cleaned out the tray feeder, The fourth night, Better Half encouraged little raccoon to leave. The fifth morning, we covered the most easily accessible post in aluminum flashing and coated it in cooking spray. The fifth night, the little bastard stole another suet cake. The sixth night, I remove the suet feeder, and left the tray feeder empty. The seventh morning, I can’t actually say because laws vary from state to state… but I cans say it is doubtful it will involve a shovel provided my goldfish pond does not become a sushi bar.

I miss not filtering my words.

Clothes shopping in person demands incentive or at the very least motivation. Ordering online requires less effort, and therefor no tranquilizer darts or heavy sedatives are necessary. Unfortunately it has the unfortunate side effect of routine trips to the post office to return ill-fitting garments and wait for replacements.

Physically entering shops, shuffling through racks of fabric I can’t visualize on my body, and actually trying on clothes is no more desirable than being chained to a waiting room chair next to a woman with a plastic bucket at her feet in a doctor’s office during flu season. I can be enticed into clothes shopping, but it typically involves a carefully honed strategy consisting of a pitcher of margaritas, and a messenger continually leaving clothes, before I can redress and escape to a mexican restaurant.

My husband seems to have mastered this strategy well. Although if you prompted him, he would probably respond this is not an issue of skill or strategy, but one of self-preservation. My utilitarian approach to clothing does not advance his masculine desire to go out on the town with arm candy in tow. I never have understood why hiking boots and cargo shorts or less sexy than spiked heels and a sun dress, but we all tend develop ideas of such things based on romanticism and practicality. Since functionality falls in step with pragmatism it’s no mystery that I am in the lower tenth percentile of the fashion inept. The end result of this philosophy means I am always dressed appropriately to change a flat tire, should the need arise. Again.

My most recent foray into clothes shopping was fueled by pragmatism, but of a different sort. I am currently backed into corner, by my own undoing. I may or may not need to attend a wedding next month, in which I may or may not need to appear somewhat presentable. By presentable, I mean not showing up in a frock that was fashionable when Madonna was smacking her chewing gum and sporting a pair of fingerless lace gloves.

I’d rather have a dress I don’t need than be forced to settle for a dress I don’t even like because I waited until the last possible minute to find one. This isn’t like my father-in-law’s funeral, when the better half and I were late because we had to make a last minute tie purchase at the low price leader because we left home without one.

So the over-prepared lobe of my brain kicked and insisted upon looking for a dress, and my partner was completely on board, though he was unaware of the purpose for the scavenger hunt in the first place. I think it was the role play that appealed most, the idea of my standing behind a thin curtain taking clothing off and putting clothing on, but mainly taking clothing off.

Most men, don’t have the patience, interest, much less the stamina required to shop with women, now that I think about it, I don’t either, but my partner seems to enjoy it. Then again maybe enjoyment doesn’t factor, maybe his attention span is better suited this kind of tediousness than mine. Granted he’s more obsessed with personal appearance than I am. I don’t mean in that vain, smile at myself as a pass a mirror way, but in that I don’t like the way the flaps on my cargo short pockets won’t stay neatly pressed, or the passive aggressive way he hoards all the nice hangers so none of his polo shirts develop shoulder nipples. All in all he’s the perfect chaperone to make sure I exit the store with a dress that actually fits, although he isn’t the most objective about helping me find a dress that doesn’t make me look like a prostitute or a teenager. Being completely unbiased can only take person so far, sooner or later we can’t help but develop our own agendas.

After three hours, three stores, and thirty-three wardrobe changes, we settled on three. I only wanted the one, only needed the one, but he was so damn pleased that I tried on more than one, he wanted all of them. Just what I need, more choices, and more pressure to dress in a non-utilitarian fashion, but choices are better than ultimatums. Besides If he’s escorting me, he should at least change the damn tire.

First Boyfriend: Darin. From kindergarten to second grade we were quite an item. Apparently, he found my bowl cut to be quite sexy, but what does a five year old really know?

First Pet: Tigger. A very unattractive female calico. She was a stray who arrived with “baggage”. After the second litter of kittens, she was taken to the shelter. Ironic, my mother became a family planning nurse years later.

First Wheels: Fifteen year old go cart. Originally my brother’s, then sister’s, then mine. By the time it reached me it had a new bottom welded on, fifth or maybe sixth clutch. After me, it had a new axle. After I got my license, I had a VW Beetle.

First Kiss: See First boyfriend above.

First Alcohol: I don’t remember how old I was, but I’m pretty sure my sister was the supplier.

First Experience with Harassment: Age sixteen. First real part-time job. Sadly not the only occurrence on my resumé .

First Concert: Chicago, 1984.

First Date: Seventeen. I don’t actually remember his name. It was a fix-up and he was a nice guy, just not my type.

FIrst Cassette: Cyndi Lauper, She’s So Unusual. At least the first purchase with my allowance.

First Job: I tended horses, and did odd chores for neighbor when I was fourteen.

First Trip to the Emergency Room: I was three or four and broke out in a rash after a Mr Bubble Bath. My grandmother freaked and took me to the hospital. I haven’t been back since, due to my own stupidity. Super glue and painter’s tape solve numerous problems.

First Time I Felt Like an Adult Took Me Seriously: I was maybe 23, and my former high school art teacher confided in about her husbands affair. It felt heavy.

First Time I Felt Apart of Something Larger than Myself: Six week study abroad program in my final year of college. Sixty people I didn’t know, a culture barrier, and copious amounts of alcohol can do wonders for a person’s self esteem.

First Time I knew I wasn’t Like Others: Twenty years ago when my brother pulled me aside the week before his wedding and “coached” me in the art of dressing more conservatively, wearing make-up, and blending in with the mainstream, so I could hang out with the cool kids. To each their own.

First Wreck: Sixteen. I put my mother’s station wagon in a ditch on a dirt road. Minor damage to the car. No damage to me. My rescuers were to inebriated roofers. Nice.

First Airplane Ride Atlanta to Davenport, Iowa to see my nephew.

First Pair of Come Fuck Me Shoes: Yeah, like I could walk in those…

First Time I Swore in front of my Mother: Age four or five. I didn’t really understand what I said, I was mostly repeating what I had heard from my older siblings. I said something about not wanting to clean my damn room.

First Trip West: SanDiego. My husband and I had been dating for six months. It might seem ordinary, but at the time it opened up a new world of traveling the world. I still enjoy CA.

First Time I Felt like a Grown Up: Still waiting.

It is always there, lurking beneath the surface. Microscopic. Whether the sun is out, or the breezes are gently tempered with relief from placid stillness. It’s there. Surrounding conditions are unpredictable in their ability to influence changes in it. It blooms, of its on accord, like an undesirable high maintenance house guest. It’s indiscriminate of survival conditions, and unpredictable in duration. Ever present and under the best conditions, self-contained in innocuous packaging like generic seasoning that remains on a dusty shelf long after the flavor loses its intensity.

What it is, exactly, is difficult to define, whether due to the limitations of my vocabulary, or the plethora of words available. Some too general, lending an unfair blanketed assessment, other’s too specific, not allowing latitude for varying symptoms. Maybe in definitive terms, it doesn’t matter. The point being simply it is there. In good times and bad.

It’s not debilitating, nor deserving of an over-priced pharmaceutical solution; there are plenty of worthy neuroses that are, but this isn’t one of them. It’s knowing logically, and humbly that there is nothing worthy of complaint, yet indifference blankets most of the expressive of emotions. It’s possible to present it in embossed packaging with a silver foil logo as the ultimate in pragmatism, but it is nothing but overpriced packaging. Just an artificial allure to present a product in a better light to make it more marketable to the masses. But a pig in a tuxedo is still a pig.

I warned my partner before we married, I was this way. Distant, brooding, and blatantly inconsolable. I didn’t want to drag him into the emotional inertia, but selfishly I wanted to be with him. He assured me he could handle it, but I don’t think he knew exactly what it was or how long it could last. It’s easy to be optimistic about your influence in someone’s life when you are madly in love, or passionately in heat, whichever applies, as it is difficult to determine the difference in the moment.

It’s different being me with a partner. I have to put more effort into casting my selfishness aside, and not having negative influence over his mood simply because I am lost in my head. He isn’t to blame, as I have need this way since adolescence, I don’t want to subject him to my inconsolability. Though in truth, I don’t think he’s noticed. He wouldn’t be aware of my lack of posting; the most obvious sign. In fact, I prefer he not notice, as it means I haven’t upset the balance of his life too much.

Ultimately, what does it mean? Not much. I have trouble finding the right words. The good things, are usually ordinary things of little significance when translated into words, and read like utter tedium. Fuck me to tears, pass out from boredom normal. The things that get under my skin, stinging like nettles, and spreading like poison ivy? Those translate into self-indulgent whining. After eliminating those self-serving narratives, there is frequently little to say.