I winced as Michael dug his fingers into the right side of my neck, willing myself not to squirm.
I'm a very petite woman. Michael is a powerful guy. He's well over six feet tall and bench presses (lifts? I don't know the terminology, sorry) hundreds of pounds. He makes no apologies about the fact that his massages will probably hurt, but they'll be worth it. As with so many things in life, they do, and they are.
"I joke that I turn my clients into masochists," he offered with a little laugh. "They end up needing the release of this type of pain once it's over." He was quiet for a moment as I caught my breath against that exact feeling. "It's not a sexual thing. It's just that release."
I thought about making a joke about how it's been almost two months since Tate and I broke up so at this point any kind of release is fine by me, but I decided against it. Class before sass, at least right then.
I was actually seeing Michael for the second time in two weeks, after life (and things like the car accident) prevented me from keeping my regular appointment. Trust me, my body really needs my regular appointment. With Michael as my massage therapist, my mind does, too.
His fingers kept digging into my neck; the pain worsened. Almost subconsciously, my right hand gripped the sheet covering me. Suddenly, Michael gently slapped my hand. "Stop that!"
"Did you just smack me?!" I said, both incredulous and amused.
"No, it was...redirection!" he exclaimed.
"Uh-huh." I think at first he couldn't tell if I was angry or not. "Redirection, you say?"
"...yes!"
"OK, that's fine, sure," I said. Truth be told, I was a little embarrassed, but mostly I thought it was funny. He seemed to as well.
It's been more than a week since I last saw him, but I've been turning that word over and over in my head. If I could describe my 30's, that word is perfect. Redirection.
If I'm being honest, in my 20's, I hook-line-and-sinker bought into all the evangelical Christian hype I could shovel down my spiritual throat and carried it with me everywhere. Mostly, I'm ashamed to say, my main goal was finding a husband. Everything hinged on that. I was told I needed to find not just a husband, mind you, but a "Godly man," a "solid Christian" guy who would be a "spiritual leader." I'm frustrated to say that I spent so much time in pursuit of that goal that there are several years, countless prayers, wasted experiences, and many missed moments I wish I could get back and would just suck the marrow out of rather than trying to analyze them as potential to be an on-ramp to reach Perfect Christian Marriage and Lifeville.
As the years ticked by, I became increasingly frustrated with the lack of this "blessing from God" in my life. I felt gypped. Led down the garden path. Overlooked. Let out to dry. Lied to. Inconsequential. Invalidated. Forgotten.
The main problem, of course, is that I am a walking oxymoron.
I'm too liberal for a conservative, too conservative for a liberal.
I support gay marriage, equal rights, and feminism, but then get extremely frustrated with especially militant Christian feminists and anyone else who spends all their time crowing over their oppression.
I don't get offended by profanity - most of the time, I think it's hilarious.
I drink whiskey, make scandalous jokes on the regular, and crave intimacy with men, though I could never conceive of having any kind of intimacy without a deep emotional connection and mutual respect.
I'm a prude to many and a Jezebel to just as many. My best friend says I'm "too friendly" with guys, and yet I have a personal rule that I won't kiss someone until I know his middle name.
Once I turned 30, something strange happened. I'm now on the expired shelf to a lot of the guys I used to think I wanted, but I'm finding myself redirecting. The last year or so - especially the last few months - have been some of the best of my life. I've relaxed. I'm easier with a one-liner, quicker with a laugh, and much more in-the-moment than I've ever been. I've somehow (not always, not completely, but still) become much more comfortable in my own skin. I know who I am and I like her, and instead of begging God for a "suitable" husband or trying to pretend things about myself that aren't true, I'm just relaxing into being me. The results, I must say, aren't half bad.
I'm also realizing that instead of searching in vain for a "Godly" husband, I'd much prefer a man who's intelligent, thoughtful, open, reflective, and real. One who will laugh at my jokes instead of being scandalized by them. One who will consider nuance rather than knee-jerk labeling sin. One who isn't afraid of my intelligence, my ambition, my accomplishments, and - gasp - my sexuality, and gives me the benefit of the doubt with regards to all of it.
Faith is important, but just as much so are intelligence and maturity. I'm no longer a horse-in-blinders, gulping churchy words and spewing them with virulence, but instead realizing that grace, hope, and love are far more nuanced and complicated.
If I've learned anything in the last year, it's that it's time I started looking around and really seeing people, not just potential - in my friends, in men, and in myself.
And that right there? That's redirection for me.
Saturday, June 14, 2014
Friday, June 13, 2014
The Seeking Daddy Project Day 51: Unglued, Part the Second
I know it's been awhile, but at long last I'm finishing this story. Go ahead and read Unglued, Part the First for a refresher first!
Anyway, so, back at the ballpark...
As I sat at the picnic table, drinking a $7 cup of white wine and fiddling with the little cork-heeled cause of my angst, I realized with some horror that I wasn't going to be able to make it the four blocks (uphill) back to the car. I was trying to keep myself from spiraling into panic mode when Aaron and a couple of our other young guy coworkers came up to the table.
My only explanation is that we communicated telepathically, because before I knew it, classic hero that he is, Aaron had offered to go get the car and bring it back to pick me up.
I handed him my keys, and ten minutes later, my coworker/friend Meghan* and I met him in front of the ballpark. Meghan asked us to take her back to her car, and I climbed in the backseat while she took shotgun.
We started driving around; Meghan didn't really remember where she'd parked. It was understandable, really, in all the traffic. We were only a few streets away from the ballpark about to go through a stoplight when she said, "Oh wait, I think it's down there!" Aaron braked slightly and turned the steering wheel to the right - and WHAM! We all flew forward. My car had been rear-ended.
The next half hour went by in a blur. Aaron pulled my car off to a side street, and the surprised, shaken young woman who had rear-ended us followed. Another car had nearly clipped her; she was trying to avoid it and didn't see us. No one was hurt. We didn't call the police. Her mom, who was close by, came to her rescue. I remember that I flew out of the backseat as soon as we'd stopped, quickly dialing my dad's number even though I'm in my thirties and live 300 miles away from him.
It took me awhile to realize that the bottom of my left sandal was now totally gone. I hobbled around, my right foot four inches higher than the left, the whole time we stood there. One of the senior managers at our company had parked his car on that very side street, and he ended up taking Meghan back to her car.
I hadn't been in an accident in nearly 10 years. I kept telling myself, don't freak out, don't overreact, this kind of thing happens all the time, but I can't say I was successful in any of that.
My car was driveable. The bumper was badly damaged and the exhaust pipe and muffler hung down towards the back wheel, but I could get it home. The other girl's car wasn't nearly so lucky.
We finally got back on the road; I drove shakily and Aaron was trying valiantly to be calming in the passenger seat. I think he'd given me a hug. I remember thinking I'm so glad he's here. I couldn't imagine driving back from Durham, a route that makes me nervous anyway, all alone after that.
Despite leaving the ballpark early, we got caught in the worst of the rush-hour traffic going back to the office because of the accident. I turned the stand-up comedy channel back on, but in our heightened state neither of us could enjoy it; it just sounded like yelling. Soon, I switched it off, and then we just talked. It was real talk, an honest dialogue between unlikely friends - friends who had both been admittedly surprised at the strength of our connection over the last few months. We talked about our hopes, our fears, our pasts, our dreams. We dug deep. We blushed, we laughed, we opened up.
Never in a million years when I first met Aaron would I have dreamed we'd end up so close.
Over the course of the next few weeks, I went back and forth with insurance companies, leaving voicemails and memorizing claim numbers. I finally got my car repaired and picked it up earlier this week. All is well again.
My secret is that, other than a home invasion or a fire, one of my greatest fears is a car accident. They're messy, they're expensive, and without my car I'm virtually helpless - I can't get anywhere. Aaron was (again) a hero during the interlude, picking me up on his way to work and dropping me off on his way home, checking the bumper to make sure it wouldn't fall off and looking under the car to examine the muffler. I'll be forever grateful. I'm so glad I have my car back, though, because nothing compares to driving down a long stretch of highway at dusk on a summer night, playing my music and reflecting.
I've thought a lot about that day since it happened, and to my own surprise, I'd honestly do it all over again. Parts of it were stressful and inconvenient, sure, but there were those moments: the moments when Aaron and I were laughing together at Patton Oswalt yelling "YOU STUPID DOUCHENOZZLE!" or on the drive back home, when I learned more about him than I ever thought I would, that I will forever cherish.
It's those moments that make life sweet. It's those moments I'll carry with me and always think of with fondness and affection. And if it took a fender-bender to get them, well, that seems like a bargain to me.
*Also not her real name. You know the drill by now.
Anyway, so, back at the ballpark...
As I sat at the picnic table, drinking a $7 cup of white wine and fiddling with the little cork-heeled cause of my angst, I realized with some horror that I wasn't going to be able to make it the four blocks (uphill) back to the car. I was trying to keep myself from spiraling into panic mode when Aaron and a couple of our other young guy coworkers came up to the table.
My only explanation is that we communicated telepathically, because before I knew it, classic hero that he is, Aaron had offered to go get the car and bring it back to pick me up.
I handed him my keys, and ten minutes later, my coworker/friend Meghan* and I met him in front of the ballpark. Meghan asked us to take her back to her car, and I climbed in the backseat while she took shotgun.
We started driving around; Meghan didn't really remember where she'd parked. It was understandable, really, in all the traffic. We were only a few streets away from the ballpark about to go through a stoplight when she said, "Oh wait, I think it's down there!" Aaron braked slightly and turned the steering wheel to the right - and WHAM! We all flew forward. My car had been rear-ended.
The next half hour went by in a blur. Aaron pulled my car off to a side street, and the surprised, shaken young woman who had rear-ended us followed. Another car had nearly clipped her; she was trying to avoid it and didn't see us. No one was hurt. We didn't call the police. Her mom, who was close by, came to her rescue. I remember that I flew out of the backseat as soon as we'd stopped, quickly dialing my dad's number even though I'm in my thirties and live 300 miles away from him.
It took me awhile to realize that the bottom of my left sandal was now totally gone. I hobbled around, my right foot four inches higher than the left, the whole time we stood there. One of the senior managers at our company had parked his car on that very side street, and he ended up taking Meghan back to her car.
I hadn't been in an accident in nearly 10 years. I kept telling myself, don't freak out, don't overreact, this kind of thing happens all the time, but I can't say I was successful in any of that.
My car was driveable. The bumper was badly damaged and the exhaust pipe and muffler hung down towards the back wheel, but I could get it home. The other girl's car wasn't nearly so lucky.
We finally got back on the road; I drove shakily and Aaron was trying valiantly to be calming in the passenger seat. I think he'd given me a hug. I remember thinking I'm so glad he's here. I couldn't imagine driving back from Durham, a route that makes me nervous anyway, all alone after that.
Despite leaving the ballpark early, we got caught in the worst of the rush-hour traffic going back to the office because of the accident. I turned the stand-up comedy channel back on, but in our heightened state neither of us could enjoy it; it just sounded like yelling. Soon, I switched it off, and then we just talked. It was real talk, an honest dialogue between unlikely friends - friends who had both been admittedly surprised at the strength of our connection over the last few months. We talked about our hopes, our fears, our pasts, our dreams. We dug deep. We blushed, we laughed, we opened up.
Never in a million years when I first met Aaron would I have dreamed we'd end up so close.
Over the course of the next few weeks, I went back and forth with insurance companies, leaving voicemails and memorizing claim numbers. I finally got my car repaired and picked it up earlier this week. All is well again.
My secret is that, other than a home invasion or a fire, one of my greatest fears is a car accident. They're messy, they're expensive, and without my car I'm virtually helpless - I can't get anywhere. Aaron was (again) a hero during the interlude, picking me up on his way to work and dropping me off on his way home, checking the bumper to make sure it wouldn't fall off and looking under the car to examine the muffler. I'll be forever grateful. I'm so glad I have my car back, though, because nothing compares to driving down a long stretch of highway at dusk on a summer night, playing my music and reflecting.
I've thought a lot about that day since it happened, and to my own surprise, I'd honestly do it all over again. Parts of it were stressful and inconvenient, sure, but there were those moments: the moments when Aaron and I were laughing together at Patton Oswalt yelling "YOU STUPID DOUCHENOZZLE!" or on the drive back home, when I learned more about him than I ever thought I would, that I will forever cherish.
It's those moments that make life sweet. It's those moments I'll carry with me and always think of with fondness and affection. And if it took a fender-bender to get them, well, that seems like a bargain to me.
*Also not her real name. You know the drill by now.
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