Category: authenticity

authenticity · community · courage · direction · faith · help · inspiration · perseverance

From all quarters (and nickels and dimes).

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Of time necessity, today’s will be short. Strangely(?), I had a
very particular intention yesterday to show up to my job and do my best–my
actual best, not my “sorta kinda all you need to do” best.
By 1pm, I had a migraine so awful, I thought I’d puke, and
went home.
In addition, yesterday morning I received an email that proposed an
answer to a few of the questions I’ve been posing about purpose, direction,
intention, and desire for next steps. I forwarded it to a friend, and asked her
professional opinion and input. We got to talk (or email) about what interests
me, and what doesn’t, what I do want to engage in, what I don’t. And through
the course of our conversation, I came to a pretty good conclusion that may
result in more action. Because of the nature of my readership, I am necessarily
vague, but know that I sit here today with more information than I had
yesterday in answer to some of my recent questions.
As the saying goes: Call it odd, or call it G-d. 

authenticity · community · confidence · courage · encouragement · intimacy · laughter · vulnerability · writing

But We’ve Got The Biggest Balls of Them All!

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When I was living and teaching ESL in South Korea, I earned
a nickname: Ballsy Mollsy.
It was not uncommon for me to approach a stranger in a bar
and ask inappropriate questions. Or, maybe I was with a group of friends, and
wanted to steer the conversation in a more exciting direction, and would pose a candid question to a group that would earn laughs, but few answers. Maybe I would just stumble out to the next bar in search of new conversation without
telling anyone, but that was more stupid than ballsy, fyi.
As chance would have it, one day last month, I attended a
play my friend was performing in, and I ended up sitting next to the 25 y.o.’s
mother. “How did it even come up?,” he answered via text. When I told him, he
replied, “That’s right, I forgot you talk to strangers.” (Indeed, how we met.)
I do. I talk to strangers. I mean, how are we ever to meet
anyone new if we don’t talk to them? Like the other day, waiting for my
burrito, I ended up waiting on the bench next to this guy I see
around my neighborhood a lot, who I’ve seen working at the café on the corner. We
struck up a conversation, turns out he’s a nice guy, we had a pleasant chat about movies,
and he went off with his burritos for himself and his girlfriend.
It’s not always about “meeting dudes;” in fact, it’s more
than often not about that. I just like to find out about people, not walk around like
the Ants that they talk about in A Waking Life who, unseeing, run into one another and then walk around and continue
on their way, antennae down. I mean, that’s what New York is for. 😉
I suppose I learned this from my mom. My mother is
notoriously gregarious. To the point, growing up where it was embarrassing, and
not a little evidence of her manic tendencies. But, still. We’d be in a store,
she’d exchange more than a cursory Thank You with the cashier or salesperson. We’d be on a
bus, and she’d ask the woman next to her about the museum she’d just
visited, based on that metal entry pin tacked to her lapel.
Sometimes, she’d flirt with the cashier or waiter or
whomever. There was a base note to her conversation that wasn’t just cordial or conversational. Pre-divorce, this was a little unnerving.
But. A few years ago, she recounted a story to me that she
held as an exemplar of growth and self-aware change.
She was in Zabar’s (Manhattanites will know), and was in an
aisle next to a couple. She could overhear them debating which of the cream
cheeses they should get. If the tofu spread really tasted like cream cheese, if
the chive was better than the dill?
My mom. Had an opinion. She always does.
The success came when she didn’t offer it. She reported to me that she realized they were not
asking for her help, they didn’t need her help, and she picked up the chive tofu cream cheese she loves, and
went on her way.
Trust me. This is a big success. To “mind your own business,
and have business to mind” is a very important boundary to learn. I was amused
at how proud she was of herself, too, like she knew that she was learning
something, that she was changing something.
I mean, it’s part of the reason our relationship has been
able to grow where the one with my dad has faltered: she really is trying to
change. And it shows.
Like all of us, change and growth takes time, isn’t simple,
and sometimes means taking contrary actions.
But sometimes, how we behave in the world influences others,
too. How she interacted in the world helped to inform how I do. Now, sure, I’m
not Holly Go Lightly everywhere I go. Sometimes I wish I had a burka. But
sometimes, the purchase of a burrito is transformed by the simple act of
connecting with another human being.
I leave you with this: I received a card in the mail this
week from a friend. In it, she thanks me for what I write here and on my
Facebook; that reading “me” helps to buttress her flagging spirits.
I told her how much that meant to me. How much it means to
me that my interactions with the world are making a difference; that I’m not
telegraphing into deep space for purely selfish and masturbatory reasons. I
never really know if how I’m choosing to express myself here is “too much” or “too honest,” and
I have to trust that those of you who choose to click on the link to read me
do so because you find something here, even if it be self-congratulations for
not being as bipolar 😉
To hear that how I behave in the world influences and
affects people for the better is one of the greatest gifts of having big balls. 

adulthood · authenticity · fun · intimacy · joy · relationships · sex · sexuality

Not Vanilla

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So you might as well know now, since it’ll come up
eventually: In April, I’m going to Boston for a booty call.
It’s probably one of the most forethought and conscious ones
I’ve ever had, since it requires, you know, plane tickets.
But, my dear friend is a flight attendant based in
Seattle, and invited me to see her for a few days. I have a few days off around
Passover next month, have never yet seen the Pacific Northwest, and said, yes,
oh please, travel yes.
In the meantime, my long-time flirtation with a former SF
resident began to pick up speed—well, as speedy as text or messaging or
emailing can be. There were more “like”s, a few more texts, and not undesired
flirtation.
God. We can flirt!
Holy shit. It’s pretty much what we did together for the half-dozen years or so
we knew one another in SF before he moved to Boston. We went on one date once,
but it didn’t really take off, and we remained a flirtation.
So when the Seattle trip came up, and I saw that it was only
a few bucks more to fly through to Boston, I asked him if he wanted to pull
this flirtation from out of the clouds and onto the ground—or at least, into
bed.
We both had reasons and justifications why this was a bad
idea. For those of you playing along at home, this was my Cupcake Conundrum. It
could be a disaster. Awkward, too much pressure, a lot of time spent with
someone you don’t really know that well, all texting and emailing aside.
And then my friend told me, Life is meant to be lived. And I
believed her.
So, ticket bought, the flirtation has taken on a new edge of
anticipation and intrigue. And holy shit, is it F U N.
One of the wonderful things about this one in particular, is
that we do have a basis for being pretty open and honest and vulnerable with
one another about other stuff. I wouldn’t exactly say we were friends before,
we never called one another up to bitch about stuff or hang as platonic pals,
but we’ve developed a foundation of communication over the years that enables
me, at least, to feel a little more bold in our new iteration.
I get to be sexy. I get to be saucy, and not a
little eye-brow raising in my replies.
And something interesting is happening for me. In the same
way that yesterday’s blog was about music reminding me of a greater part of
myself, and opening me up to something greater, this whole level of sexuality
and sensuality I’m getting to explore in relation to him is doing the same. I
feel radiant, is what I wrote in my morning pages today.
Because the flirtation remains in the realm of words and not
bodies, I get to be and write things I might not otherwise say. I get to push
envelopes, and in doing so, I’m pushing a door open within myself. I love to feel this part of myself in a way that is safe,
connected, supported, and reciprocated.
It hasn’t always been that way. My ex was decidedly vanilla.
I mean, pretty much everything about him was vanilla!, but so to in the bedroom
department. Which is fine. But it’s not
going to change anything, open anything, explore anything. I mentioned some
things to my ex that I wanted to try, and he wasn’t into them. I mean, god bless
him, he tried a few times, but it was obvious he so wasn’t into it, or was so
out of his element that he was more just doing it instead of enjoying it.
Despite my public comportment (which shall remain), I am decidedly NOT vanilla. (Nor am I triple swirl chunky monkey supreme, but.) It’s something I know about
myself, and until this recent flirtation, have not really gotten the chance to
share in a way that feels esteemable before. Sure, I’ve had dalliances where
some of my wantonness was explored, and boy
were those fun. But those were nothing sustainable, and one-offs, unfortunately
(or fortunately).
So getting to express and open and reveal a side of myself
that is rarely unveiled is thrilling. It feels so good to say something out of the box, then follow it up
with, “I feel insecure that I said something out of the box,” and have him
respond in a receptive and reassuring way. It’s novel, man.
I mean, I am a Libra.
(I just felt all your eyes roll!) My sign is ruled by Venus. The planet and
force of sex, sensuality, desire, beauty, luxury, charm. In all my chasteness
and celibacy, there has been something missing. Like all of the parts I’m
struggling and striving to claim and reclaim, all the passions I’m diligently
unearthing and revealing to you, sexuality is a critical piece of that
excavation.
It’s sort of a sex-positive thing, I guess! Which, it is
important (to me) to note, does not mean that I’m going to throw it around or
be “easy” with it – that’s the only reason why I think this is happening in
this organic and esteemable way: because it’s safe. Because I feel heard and held
and reciprocated and appreciated. Because this person knows much of me that
rounds out the view. This isn’t Molly as Sex Kitten (but hey, Yum). This is
Molly as multi-faceted, self-possessed woman. And isn’t that sexy. 

adulthood · authenticity · change · intimacy · sex · sexuality · writing

Eat, Pray, Sex

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“If I understand you correctly,
this whole year is about your search for balance between devotion and pleasure.
I can see where you’ve been doing a lot of devotional practices, but I’m not
sure where the pleasure has come in so far.”
“I ate a lot of pasta in Italy,
Felipe.”
“Pasta, Liz? Pasta?”
“Good point.”
Eat
Pray Love, Elizabeth Gilbert
Unless you choose to live a life of asceticism, you are
bound to come to a point when you have to attend to your body’s needs. There
are so many ways to go about this, and we all probably have our own patterns
for doing so.
There’s serial monogamy, adultery, the hands-on approach.
There’s serial hooking up, prostitution, polyamory, and even the somewhat “normal”
approach of having an intentional monogamous relationship.
In this age when sex outside of marriage is often par for
the course, we really do have a buffet of options. And chances are that we’ll eat
from one tray or another at various times and emotional states in our lives.
There is no handbook for this. There really are no rules. As
the saying goes, “You can do anything you want—as long as you’re willing to
accept the consequences.” Sometimes, consequences of actions are marvelous; not
all consequences are negative.
I remember the first time I had sex in adulthood sober. I
honestly hadn’t had sober sex since I was in my teens, if then. God, it was awkward. I
was so aware of everything: the way the
room looked, the sound of our breathing, the exact touches. And also, very
aware of the intimacy of the act.
That is something that drunken sex does not allow for. You
might get off, but you are so far from present; this is not an intimate act.
SURE, it can be and was fun; as Dr. Seuss puts it,
It is fun to have fun
But you have to know how.
And I’m not sure I ever really knew how. I mean, I lost my
virginity while I was drunk. Which isn’t uncommon in many of the women I
know.
So, to exist, sit, breathe, be in the intimacy of sex with
another person – well, it really is no wonder I was celibate for so long! Though,
I can admit, too, that distanced/detached sex is also very possible sober.
Which is usually how it’s been for me. Like I told you earlier this week about
the two-way mirror: I may offer you entrance, but I’m not giving you anything
in return. Here’s part of another poem I wrote during that celibacy time:
every inch closer you come toward
me is
every inch farther from myself
that I am.
so by the time your cock is pressing
against
the putty of my cervix,
i have found a home inside your
wall.
(And that was with a boyfriend!)

I suppose part of my reason for sharing these poems with you
recently is to normalize the experience for me, as I think I’m bringing these poems
to my Writer’s Group today – my all male
Writer’s Group. Though there’s absolutely a titillation factor to my work, the
reality is, this is my writing, this is what I’m working on, was working on
when I wrote them, and I guess, if there is feedback on how to improve my
craft, I want it. But, I also know it may be hard (forgive me) for people to look
past the word “cock” and get toward the structure and craft.

We’ll see. I haven’t decided yet if I’m bringing these poems
there. It feels exposing, but then again, sharing any of my writing feels exposing.
And I guess that’s what I’m getting at – showing up without
retreating. To know that I am safe and thereby be able to show up with vulnerable work, to show up physically and
emotionally during sex. To let myself be present with the cacophonous
heartbeat of it all.
I have little experience being present in flagrante delicto; but, by
escaping it, I do think I’m missing out on some of the fun.

acting · authenticity · letting go · life · receiving · safety

I Came In Here For An Argument

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I’ve been recalling the above-referenced Monty Python
sketch. In the first moments, a customer walks into a room and the man behind
the desk there begins to berate him. The customer stops him, and exclaims, I came
in here for an argument! – At which point, the man behind the desk apologizes
and says, Oh, this is Abuse. Argument is down the hall. (It’s a very funny
sketch, and I do it no justice here – please make liberal use of Youtube.)
I’ve been thinking about what kind of lesson I think I’ve
been signed up for. What ideas I have about what I’m supposed to be learning in
this life, at this time, in this moment. And how maybe the room I’ve thought
I’ve walked into isn’t that room at all. That although I have some ideas and
hopes/generalities about the parts of myself I’m supposed to be working on
right now – the fact is, that I’m not actually the one choosing my courses.
I’ve had enough experience to learn that I have to let go of
what I think this lifetime’s lessons are for other people (that they should learn self-esteem,
compassion, ease, or forgiveness), and I’ve had mild success at that –
understanding that what I would have this person learn this time around may not
be what the Fates or Universe or Gods would have them learn. That although I
very much and fully think that this person ought to learn how to be softer or
to be more resolved, they’re apparently not here on my course schedule, and so
I have to let go, or else be in the pain of trying to manipulate my will into theirs.
However, it hasn’t yet ever occurred to me that I need to
let go of what my ideas are for my
lifetime. But it is now.
Because some of these lessons I’m learning aren’t ones I
would’ve consciously signed up for.
Last night, at my callback for this play, I was asked to
read a scene as the mother to a teenage girl who stood on stage with me. We
read the scene, and the director said it was good, but to slow it down, and
really find the emotional connection in it. We ran it again, and I was pretty sure
I didn’t do that.
I see this morning that I didn’t really trust that I could
convey that kind of emotion, and so I barreled through it again. I didn’t trust
that I could be good enough, or believable enough, or hold the emotion of love,
care, and concern enough to portray it.
So the lesson becomes “trust,” instead of “follow my dreams.” Trusting that if I
slow down, I’ll be okay. That if I allow myself to be seen (a lesson that’s
been on my syllabus for a while), I’ll be okay. Trusting oneself is not an easy
lesson to learn. Trusting in the safety of being oneself is not an easy lesson
to learn.
There’s a phrase I’ve been mulling on this morning: There
comes a point in your recovery when you stop backing away from alcohol, and you
turn around and start walking toward G-d.
Whatever your thoughts are about “god,” the idea, to me, is
that eventually, we move beyond being motivated by fear, and must begin to be
motivated by love.
The idea that I know what room I walked into, what lesson
I’m supposed to learn, is a manipulation based on the fear that I can’t be
myself, that I’m not okay with whatever “is.” To accept the fact that I don’t have the syllabus for my life and that
the Fates will steer me toward whatever lesson they deem necessary for the goodness of all, means I have
to be willing to let go of my expectations for my life and myself. For all my
aspirations and intentions, in many ways.
To let go, doesn’t mean to abandon. It means to release
control, or perceived control. To let go doesn’t mean to not audition, pursue,
or practice what is in front of me. It doesn’t mean to reject or eject
anything, in fact.
For me, this morning, “to let go” means “to allow what is.”
To allow what is in me, in you, in the cards, in our hearts to BE.
I’ve never had the greatest relationship with the phrase,
“Let go.” It feels like falling. But “To allow what is” feels like releasing
and accepting in a warm way.
So, I will walk today into the classroom of life, and I will
allow what is here to mold and shape me, and I will allow that I am cared for
and need not brace for it, and I will allow that I am safe in the care of these
lessons, and I will allow myself to shed one millimeter of armor between us.
I will allow the idea, just the idea!, that I am actually
totally and completely held, and therefore be able to turn my attention from
clenching and bracing to opening, giving, and receiving. 
Bonus quote: “G-d steers the boat; all you have to do is row.”

authenticity · sex · sexuality

grubby fantasy paws

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I was watching Louis C.K. on Netflix the other day when he had Parker Posey on as the love
interest. She was the cutesie shop girl, helping him find a book for a made-up
reason so he could talk to her.
When he finally works up the guts to ask her out, he goes on
a long cute/awkward monologue about how it must be hard to be a cute girl in
the city, because you just want to do your job and help someone out, and then
they end up asking you out, and you just wanted to be helpful.
It cuts (like the show is wont to do) to a clip of him doing
stand-up, and he talks about how being a pretty girl in the world means that
you have to be every guy’s walking cum fantasy. That as soon as a guy looks at
you, you feel shot in the eye with cum. You walk down the street, and have
buckets of cum thrown at you.
Now, granted, this is hyperbole and intended for comedic
effect, but. C’est vrai, non?
You know I’ve been working on how to walk authentically –
how to carry myself authentically in the
world, without feeling usurped by other people’s impressions and thoughts about
me, particularly about my appearance, and therefore without hiding myself,
internally or externally.
I’ve written about how when I notice you noticing me, I stand
a little straighter, walk a little more precisely, and also stop breathing. I
withdraw a part, an authentic part, of myself when I know you’re watching.
How, then, be an actor, eh?
And they’re related, but we’re talking more about beauty
here, because one hopes that people see more than visage while I’m in
performance. And that I offer more than visage, too.
But I was chiding myself, or simply noticing with intention
to “change it,” that I withdraw, or protect a part of myself when I notice you
noticing. I thought that if put up a shield around myself when I notice leers
or glances or lolling tongues, that I was doing something inauthentic, that I
was hiding myself, which is what I’m attempting not to do in this lifetime.
But, then I heard Louis C.K.’s joke, and I thought, Not
everyone’s thoughts are benevolent. Not everyone who looks is looking with
kindness. And I don’t want to be a target for cum-buckets.
So, in effect, I do
have to put up some kind of armor or protection (or, erm, prophylactic) in the world of men. Sorry,
guys. But, I can’t expose the all of me, because that lays it out to be
perverted, literally. There is
some kind of a way that I need to be able to walk with a bit of a buffer
between me and you so that I don’t get thrown by all the lustful thoughts. 
And, perhaps, you think I’m conceited and self-centered and
believe I’m hot shit. But, a) if you read this for any period of time, you know
that’s not true, and b) so what. I know that I am not the most hideous thing to
walk the planet, and I know I garner unwanted attention that is purely
physical.
This weekend at the call-back (for the role I didn’t
get; c’est la vie), the practice was over, and I was walking to the play
house’s kitchen to throw away my tea. One of the men who’d been auditioning was
milling around the entrance to the kitchen. He said he needed to use the
bathroom which was why he was in that section of the house, but he never
actually went. He made small talk, and then asked if he could give me his
number.
Automatically, since I assume people are being benevolent
and kind human beings, I said yeah, sure. And then he tried to get me to
remember his phone number, to recite it, and when that was obviously not working, and I’d
realized enough that this was an “advancement,” I made no significant effort to
get a piece of paper or take out my phone, and the whole thing just faded and I
said, maybe I’d see you at rehearsal sometime.
I want to be a person engaged in the world. I want to be
authentic, and show up, and be present. And I don’t want your grubby fantasy paws on
me, either.
Trust me: if I want your cum on me, I’ll ask for it. 

aspiration · authenticity · theater · vulnerability · writing

"With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility." ~ Stan Lee or Voltaire?

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I recently had this text exchange with a friend of mine:
You know, whenever you in particular “like” something I’ve
written, it makes me think that I have something worthy to say and a good way
of saying it. – This scares the crap out of me. – Knock it off.
“Both those things are true! And isn’t that kind of fear
thrilling?”
*thrilling*
I hoped the sarcasm carried through text.
Last night, I spoke to a group of gathered women, sharing
with them my experience, strength, and hope for a little while.
Afterward, the feedback included sentiments like, “That was
beautiful, eloquent, articulate. It was like a short story. You speak like a
writer. That was like a TED Talk.”
Little do they, or you, know, that a tiny little shoot of a
dream tucked inside my ambitious heart is to be a TED talk person – on what, ver vaist, but I suppose that’s not my business yet.
This Sunday, I’m scheduled to attend a small writer’s group
that’s just beginning, friends and friends of friends. It’s supposed to be supportive,
just evoking some words onto a page, doesn’t have to be Faulkner. But one
suggestion is to bring some writing we’re working on.
And, my brain says, I don’t write.
Here’s what I say when people ask me if I’m writing: Well, I
do this blog, but other than that, I’m focusing on theater right now.
I don’t really write.
I know this blog is something. And I know that it’s worthy
of being written for me and for those of you that enjoy it. I (sometimes) know it’s not a
“brush-away” thing, but it’s private, still, sort of. It’s not a public venue,
really; it’s not something to read at a writer’s circle, or submit to a
magazine or journal. And I feel really unclear about what kind of venue this, my, kind of writing belongs in.
I do also know that I am focusing on theater right now. To
use the metaphor again of my internal round table (well, it’s rectangular, but
you catch my drift), all of them/us want to act right now, and only
half-heartedly do they/we want to write, in a professional capacity.
I know one of the detractors is fear. And that’s alright, I
don’t have to tackle all my demons or desires at once.
A friend once told me this: The only difference between fear
and excitement is breathing.
That kind of fear, the fear that I might have something
worthwhile to say and share and give. Something people want to read and be
touched and changed by. Something that gets underneath the armor of separation,
and helps us all to feel a little more vulnerable, aware, to smile & laugh & relate. Yeah, the
fear of that kind of power, and responsibility, is pretty big.
So, I guess I’ll just keep breathing. 

adulthood · authenticity · choice · courage · sex

The Wrestler

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Do you ever notice how Jews tend to answer a question with a
question?
Why shouldn’t we answer with a question?
Call it the Jew in me, call it the Libra, call it the
overactive thinking machine tucked behind my eyeballs, but I question things a
lot. And repeatedly.
Little though I know about Judaism and even littler about
other religions, Jews are purported to “wrestle and grapple” with G-d. This is our purpose—not necessarily to obey a god, as perhaps some religions require,
but to wrestle, argue, question, mull, and ponder.
I have a date with the 25 y.o. on Saturday. We haven’t seen
one another since our “State of the Union” conversation last week when it was
decided that we don’t see a relationship happening, but we genuinely enjoy one
another’s company and also are very attracted to one another.
This led us to the conclusion that we won’t see one another
less, and be in the ambiguity of friends but not friends. Until one of us
doesn’t gel with the ambiguity anymore.
I think that one is me.
See, I sort of know this scenario: Now that we’ve agreed to
be more “casual,” that probably means sex, which we haven’t had yet. In my
experience, here’s how casual sex goes: You have good to great (and
occasionally lackluster and regretful) sex with someone a few times. Maybe
twice, maybe three times. And soon, since the investment isn’t really there,
the communication begins to wane, you text one another less and less, until
soon you don’t communicate at all, and sort of fall out of the orbit of one
another’s lives.
So, for me, in my own experience (and I know this isn’t
everyone’s), casual sex = the end of a potential friendship. It just does.
What I wrestle with right now, then, is how important is
that potential friendship to me? How important is this person in the mosaic of
my life? For now, not very, but as I said, we do have a lot to talk about and a
lot I’d like to continue to talk about – beyond all the theater intel I
want to glean.
So that’s not a very good measuring stick, then. Because
it’s ambiguous.
Let’s try another model I use to tease out information from
myself.
In meditation, I sometimes go to this long dining table in a
small house. It’s a large, wooden, old-time crafted, dark stained table with divets and
dents in it. A long-loved and -used table. Seated around this table are all the
disparate parts of myself I’ve been able to gather so far: the brain, the nymph, the baker, the child, the
sorrow, the jokester, the anger, love, vanity, warrior, healer, to name several.
So, I asked this gathered group: All in favor of sleeping
with the 25 y.o.?
Up go the hands of the nymph and the brain.
All in favor of not
sleeping with the 25 y.o.?
Up go the hands of every other entity at the table.
Hmmm. … Well, nymph, yes, of course, you lovely and talented
minx you. I expect as much, and that’s okay. You’re at the table because you’re
valued, and your vote has been heard.
Brain—I get it. He’s a wildly smart guy. The interest in
long and winding pillow talk; the desire to be in close contact and proximity
to someone who fires synapses you rarely use. I get it. I know you miss that
fuel.
But… everybody else
says we don’t want to do this.
So, still, this hasn’t been the clearest exercise in coming
to a conclusion.
Finally, I ask the big question: Which action supports my
highest good? 
And thus, it is clear to me, in this situation, to not sleep with
him. If we can forge a friendship, great, and if not, I tried.
Because as I reported, I had some pretty great casual sex
recently (well, a few months ago now)—with casual sex as my intention and feeling very good and happy with my
behavior and outcome. And, don’t get me wrong, when I can get it on the regular, please, I’m down. But otherwise, I’m okay without it. Sometimes I
miss it, the connection of two bodies. But I also had some disappointing casual
sex recently, and, well, not all sex is great.
I have previews that this sex could be great. I really think
it would be. And I know the vixen inside me is just mewling to get some
sexy-time on. To wield the tools and tricks we’ve learned, to sharpen them
against someone who is well-matched, to exude Level 10 sexuality that I keep to
a 4 (max) in regular life outside the bedroom.
I know it would be fun. But I know it doesn’t support my
highest good, and my highest goals for myself. It doesn’t undermine them, per
se, but it simply continues a pattern of behavior that isn’t the most
fulfilling—and I think what I’m saying is that I’d like to be fulfilled. And
therefore “filled” by someone where there is a mutual understanding of
continued partnership and exploration.
I also know that I have often and many times been involved
with folks and situations that my “dining table” wasn’t fully behind—and I’ve
felt that … loss? emptiness? disconnect. I know this road.
I am a wrestler. I grapple and wrestle and tease and shimmy
my way into and out of every eventuality. And though I have run the gamut of
“pros/cons,” my ultimate guide can only be my highest good. Even when it means
I miss a savory, delectable, oh-so-mouth-watering meal.

authenticity · children · confidence · fear · motherhood

Maybe Baby

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

Here’s the subtitle of the book of the same name: 28
Writers Tell the Truth About Skepticism, Infertility, Baby Lust, Childlessness,
Ambivalence, and How They Made the Biggest Decision of Their Lives.
You can imagine there are a lot of thoughts about and sides
to the story. I haven’t yet read the book, but I plan to. Because I fit in
there, somewhere along the Skepticism, Ambivalence, and the unlisted Fear of
Regret.
Yesterday, I attended a baby shower for a friend of mine.
It’s the 2nd I’ve attended recently, but skewed very differently from the last
one.
The first one was held in a yawning mansion in Russian Hill
or Pacific Heights, some “you will never afford this” neighborhood. It was
hosted in a home that would not be out of place in Dwell, or Architectural
Digest, and peopled by beautifully draped women who would be staged in such a photo
shoot.
The conversation was all about babies. When you were due,
how many you had, getting into preschools, Diaper Genies, the best nappies,
where you take your toddler.
The striking thing, to me, is that all of these women were intelligent, obviously savvy, had or have a career. And they were all talking about poop.
I was (very obviously) one of two women in attendance who was childless, and
I felt so fish-out-of-water, I was relieved to leave and call a single,
childless friend to … not commiserate, per se, but to, I don’t know, vent,
maybe.
Yesterday’s event was entirely different. A baby shower,
yes. Held in a gorgeous home with a catered lunch, yes. Obviously savvy, intelligent,
careered women, yes.
But somehow, the conversations were completely different.
Sure, there was some “helicopter parent” talk, a few “we’re trying to get
pregnant” comments, and a story of a friend who bought a racecar, and by
default, because of the cost of the car, decided she wouldn’t freeze her eggs. But mostly,
these women were talking about themselves, their interests, and random wordly
gossip; about new restaurants opening, the surprisingly inviting nature of the L.A. community, and, in one instance, syphilis.
Why was this event different? The two guests of honor would
be at home talking with one another, smart, hilarious, worldly. I don’t know.
But, I know I left feeling a hundred times different than the last time. I felt
like a person who’d attended a party, not a single, childless oaf who didn’t
fit in.
I have two friends back east in very different stages of the
spectrum. One I spoke to in New Jersey last weekend told me she’d
looked up freezing her eggs recently, as she’s back in her on-again-off-again
relationship with a man in his 40s who’s already been divorced and has two
school-aged kids. He does not want more.
She just turned 33 and doesn’t know what she wants, but is scared that if she enters this
relationship again, she is making a decision by default to not have children.
And she definitely does want them. Just not now.
My other friend is 6 months pregnant, living in suburban
Long Island in a new house with her new husband, having gotten pregnant on her
honeymoon cruise through the Aegean. Really.
She is 35 and this is her first child, and because she’s one
of the most straight-shooting women I know, I get to have all kinds of “what is
it like” conversations with her—like, are you still having sex?
I called this friend yesterday while driving home from the
baby shower, having been acutely aware after leaving the party that I probably
won’t get to go to her shower. That I won’t really be there to be Auntie Molly
to this child. It was a very different phone call; it wasn’t really about me,
because I didn’t feel that my value as a human was called into question over
the “Do you have children?” line.
My friend and I spoke about how the 30s are just this
minefield of all this information, questioning, and decisions. I am imminently
grateful that the parents I respect most are friends of mine who didn’t have
their children until their late 30s and early 40s, and they are by far the most
fully-formed mothers I know—with lives and interests and hobbies and careers.
These are my role-models. And they help take the pressure off the ticking eggs
in my womb.
My friend in New Jersey is surrounded by women our age who
are in the depths of baby-land, and she gets the “you better do something soon”
message mirrored back to her daily. The suburban life will do that more than city life, I think.
But I didn’t feel yesterday, after the party, after speaking
with my pregnant friend, that I had to make any kind of decision. It felt like,
Wow, this is a lot of information all we women have to wade through in our 30s.
More observational than judgmental.
I don’t know if I want kids. I know I don’t want them now. I
feel like in 5 years I might be ready, and may try then. I know for sure I
don’t want to intentionally become a single-mother through mishap or I.V.F.
I know that I feel very
selfish with my time and my life right now. I feel like the 5-years-from-now
mark is one that caps the “trying to be an actress” portion of my life. In 5
years, I will hopefully have done something around all this, and I won’t feel
that by having children I’m “giving up” myself and my dreams.
Because, despite my role-model moms being super and
self-possessed and interesting, their lives still revolve around the upbringing
of their children. And I am still just rearing myself.
I feel extremely grateful to not feel the pressure my NJ
friend feels to make a decision now. I feel proud of my friends who’ve made the
decision to have children.
BUT. I know many women, too, in their mid-40s who regret
terribly not having children. And I know that option stands for me too. But,
I’m also not willing to have children, to bring a life into this world under
the shadow of longing, desperation, fear, or simply, “I want a legacy, and someone to visit me in the nursing home.” It’s the same selfish motivation.
So, back to Maybe Baby.
For now, Maybe Breakfast. Those eggs, I’m not ambivalent
about. 

assertiveness · authenticity · fear · health · self-care · self-love

Heeding the Cautionary Tale

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

When I was sick, I contacted the Leukemia & Lymphoma
Society. They were great, and recommended this Peer-to-Peer program, where they
connected current patients by phone with survivors of similar age, background,
and treatment.
I asked to speak with someone who’d chosen only chemo, as I
was doing, instead of chemo + bone marrow transplant, which was standard (and
recommended) protocol.
I spoke on the phone once to a woman who was a few years
older than me, who’d also had the cancer come out of nowhere, and who’d also
chosen “only chemo.” She went into remission, and when she was done with
treatment, she began training for marathons.
I can’t remember if she’d been a runner before she got sick,
but she told me she went at it with abandon. Not “fun runs,” not 5ks, but the
long New York City Marathon-style kind of marathons.
Her doctors advised her to “take it easy,” to go slow, but
she, like me, felt that she had time to make up for, and also like me, wanted
to prove that her body was her own, and not a foreign infectious parasite. She
wanted to prove that she could be above, beyond, and more than her cancer. She wanted to tell it, Fuck you.
Within a year of remission, healthier than she’d ever been,
this woman’s cancer returned. Leukemia. Again.
So she finally went into the recommended bone marrow
transplant treatment, the year of absolute hell (with two small children at
home), and was now 5 years out from that relapse.
Tell me if you don’t get where I’m going with this story.
This is part of the
reason I need to slow down. To focus my energies.
I got a bill from Stanford Hospital yesterday, only for a $10
co-pay, the actual cost of my meeting with the bone marrow expert much higher.
I’d gone twice to see them when making my decision. Once with a friend, and
once, gratefully, with my mom. Because we really all just need our mom
sometimes, and I’m lucky mine is around.
The Stanford folks explained the harrowing treatment process, and took some blood to
type-test against my brother to see if he’d be a bone marrow match—and he is,
should I ever need the assist.
There’s a family at work, a congregant’s family, where the
sister of the couple I know just is going through the phase of integrating her
brother’s marrow with her own, and apparently the grafting is going well.
I’m typing up a “life story” for an older woman not inclined
to typing. In it, she recounts the tale of her friend, diagnosed with one
cancer, gone into remission, and then relapsed with Leukemia, and dies.
Cautionary Tales, I think is the word for these stories.
To be cognizant with my body, my efforts, my love of self
and others. To be compassionate to my own twitching reaction to the above
stories, too.
In the first few months of returning to work last Spring, a
congregant I’d known only in passing told me he was 15 years out from Lymphoma,
and if I ever wanted to talk, he was available. I took him up on that offer a
few times. He’s the one who told me the Damacles’ Sword story.
I asked him when the vicious paranoia stops? When every
cold, fatigue, sore throat doesn’t send your mind reeling to the far end of doomed?
He said, Five Years.
He said, he knows it’s just a magic marking in time that the
doctors put on us, but they do. Five years in remission is the marker they use
to say, “Okay, you’ve made it this far, so you’re pretty much as healthy as any
Tom, Dick, or Harry. Good on ya.”
He said that even though it’s a nearly arbitrary
mile-marker, that’s when he felt able to breathe for the first time in years.
He also said it sounded like I have done and am doing a lot
more concerted work around my disease, my process, and my healing that he was
not able to do until some years later.
My cousin told me the other week that I talk(ed) so much
about the nuance and subtlety of being sick. The multi-faceted nature of health
and wellness and life.
I get to have my experience of being scared, I get to
have my experience of processing the fear, and I get to have the experience of
saying, Hey you, Fear: Go bother someone else.
So I am slowing down, I am pulling the e-brake on my spinning
world. Because I listened when that marathoner told me about her relapse into
Leukemia. And I am more scared of going through that than I am of telling
people, I’m sorry, I can’t participate in that thing right now.