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.
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