this is just to say. (on dressing up and first dates).

Not terribly long ago it struck me that it’s been about a year since I’ve gone on a proper date.

I should clarify, a proper first date.

There are so many reasons for this.

Most deeply personal—not understood by even my closest confidantes.

But a year goes by. And a boy kisses you. And it feels so good.

I mean, the thing is, I forgot how a kiss can be so simple and easy and fun. And satisfying.

Mostly because the kisses this year have been anything but.

Which should have been a clue.

But we learn how we learn.

So, should a first date come along, I think I might say yes.

I think I might want to say yes.

But I want to wear a dress.

And I want it to be fancy—almost inappropriately so. Inappropriate because no one ever dresses up for anything anymore, and how terribly disappointing that is.

Let the man wear a suit. A nice one. (Tie optional).

Let us, middle of July, dress like it’s New Years Eve. And drink like it’s a new beginning. (Or a very good end).

I want the restaurant to be just cold enough that he has to offer me his jacket. Has to drape it over my shoulders. And do that thing, that men do, where they stand behind you and ever-so-inexpertly rub your arms.

It won't matter where we choose to eat. It could be McDonald’s. Or the Corner Bistro. (In fact, I’m partial to burgers).

I just want, for a single night, to feel young and foolish and exquisitely beautiful.

Just for a night I’d like to be the sort of couple that other people look at—wistfully, longingly, knowingly. That other people regard with a sort of fondness, remembering their own youth—remembering that time the future rolled out before them like an invitation.

image via. 

having a witness | laura jane williams

What follows is the fourth in a series about wanting men/not needing them.

And because I know some pretty spectacular women, I asked them to weigh in on the subject.

Laura is one of my very favorite people in this world (and we've never even met).

I came across her blog not terribly long ago and was immediately smitten. It is, without question, one of my very favorite places on the internet. She is ruthlessly honest and brazenly self-aware--and the older I get, the more I think those things might actually be the answer to all questions. Which is to say she's got some stuff figured out--even if it's just the willingness to say, you know, I'm still not there yet--I don't know. 

So, lucky you all (and lucky me), her response:

afterlight-2

The thing is, it’s about having a witness to my life.

I didn’t understand for such a very long time. I’d had my heart crumpled young - too young, really. I was too naïve to understand that he was the making of me, not the breaking—and that misunderstanding coloured my choices for days that became weeks that became, in the end, about five years of healing. It took many forms: promiscuity, celibacy, travel: searching so that I got my answers but was still puzzled as to the question.

But, you see, because of all that, I’m really fucking proud of who I am. And the woman I’ve become? She wants to share her life with a man. A husband.

It’s not a desperate kind of want. It isn’t sleeplessness nights and pints of ice-cream salted with the tears of singledom. It’s not the ticking of a biological clock, nor the irritatingly true knowledge that rent would be cheaper split by two. It’s not about sex. I’m not searching for my other half, the soulmate who will make me whole. I’m not incomplete.

I’m not incomplete.

The obvious, practical stuff aside – making my own money, being able to change the fuse on a lamp, backpacking solo and how to figure out interest rates and train timetables and reverse parking and the best way to mow the lawn – emotionally, I’m ripe.

Beyoncé said it best (because she always does): you have to have a life, before you can be somebody’s wife. Oh baby, have I had a life. I’ve cried tears enough to earn the right to be empathetic and strong with the man who will feel courage from standing by my side. I’ve laughed so much that I’ll be able to make the future father of my children see the funny side of our lost luggage, or the leak in the ceiling, or even, with enough time, the tragedy that’ll blindsid us both one sunny Friday afternoon.

Make no mistake, I’ve experienced so much anger and frustration, that when he thinks he can’t take anymore – of work, of family, of the tiredness of life – well, I understand the difference between psychological space from words, and the closeness of my chin on his shoulder, just for a minute. I’ve known the aching for roots, so we can build a home together, somewhere in the world. And I’ve developed a taste for freedom, too.

I don’t need a yes man, and won’t be a yes woman, either.

This man, my husband, the one I’m ready for, he’ll have lived as well. He’ll be whole from experience. I don’t need a project, somebody to mother. He doesn’t have to be broken to be interesting (why do we always look for them to be broken?) but there’ll be cracks in us both that being together will help mend. He’ll know himself, and his self-kindness will teach me to go easier on myself. His manners will make me more accountable to those around me, and possibly his ambition will guide my own. I might be whole, but I’m not perfect; I still have more to learn, than has been learnt. But I’ll navigate those lessons eventually, with or without him. I don’t need him.

It’d be hella fun to do this next part of growing, of understanding, of learning and becoming together, though.

This want, it’s a want for watching how he talks to his parents over dinner, so that I get insight into how I engage with my own mum and dad. I want long and lazy Sunday afternoons wrapped around each other in bed, surprising myself with truths that feel safe to share in dappled, early evening light. I want blazing, heated rows in the aisle of Ikea over everything and nothing at all, friends over to our apartment for dinner, children who look like me and sound like him – everything it takes to unfold another human being so that I might unfold myself.

I want to love whole-heartedly and without restraint with a man who is there when I wake up, and knows when to leave me alone and when to take the small of my back with just the right amount of pressure. Doing so will make me better, will teach me – as will letting myself lose control enough to be loved. Because, of course, that’s harder than loving when we’re all waiting to get found out that somehow, we don’t deserve it.

We do. I do. My husband does, too. We all deserve a cheerleader, a champion, an equal.

I’ve taken it this far, and I’ve done it goddamn well. If this is life alone, then life in a partnership – a coupling where we make each other better, compensate for weaknesses and amplify strengths – well, shit. That’d be some life.

part one, part two, part three, part four. part five. 

the fundamental truth | guest post: chelsea latimer

Over the years I’ve never quite been able to resolve for myself the “you should’t need a man” comments that come my way. Of course I don’t, I think!

The feminist in me bristles as the double standard of women-don’t-need-a-man-but-poor-Jen-Anison-that-she’s-never-found-one.

And because I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and because I think I know some pretty remarkable women, I asked them to sort through their own feelings and spit out some words.

What follows is the third in the series.

Chelsea is a marvel. I came across her blog years ago and often find myself emailing her with the wish (no, the plea) that she write more, more, MORE. Basically I believe her writing makes me better--a better writer yes, but more than that, a better, more fully-lived-in human being.

So without further ado, her response...

I can distinctly remember the moment when I realized I loved myself enough to share it with someone. I’d thought, in past relationships, years of dating, recovered heartbreaks and so on that I “knew myself,” and “loved myself,” but this time it was something different. It was different because I was willing to walk away if it didn’t match up to root desires. The ones that honored my spirit. The thing was, I was only allowed to do this AFTER I’d shown vulnerability. After I’d given someone a chance, let them in, relinquished the pretense. There weren’t walls, or barriers. There was openness FIRST, barriers Second.

Here’s what happened, there came a crossroads where I had to answer the question in a relationship, “Is it worth the compromise?” There were a few things, (as most relationships encounter when you’re creating space for someone in your life) where I had to shift my direct WANT for that of my Partner. This time, however as opposed to shifting, or shrinking my want for my partner, I asked an additional question on top of that one, “Will I STILL love myself after I make the compromise?” While I may have loved myself before meeting him and during our time together, even happily in a relationship- the answer on the otherside of our inevitable compromises may have been “no.” If that’s the reality that meets you on the other side of that question, but you continue anyway (which I had many times in the past) that’s when I knew that my self-love was waning. I finally got to the place where unequivocally, the answer to that had to be a loud, confident, unshakeable, YES.

Women inherently, or excuse me, HUMANS, inherently want to give and receive love. So, why would we ever look at our fellow brothers or sisters, friends, coworkers and pity their plight to find it?

To be earnestly desirous or even aware of love's power there is an initiation that happens, maybe by way of a break up, a BIG QUESTION (like the one I discovered,) an “a ha!” of sorts that leads you to a set of non-negotiables and that resides at the center of your heart, or your gut- if you’re really clear, it’s both. These include boundaries, self-love and awareness of where your joy is conceived. To be intimately, keenly comfortable with showing all the sticky, ripe, bruised aspects of your soul to someone requires an understanding of that trifecta. Time examining, trial and error, research. Know your boundaries, know your self-love; how to give it, how to get it, where it comes from and know your joy. All the reasons we forget who we are and why we want to give/receive love is lost when the answers to those questions are gray, or undefined.

Build a life for yourself, one you’re proud of. One that has filling relationships, deep connections, twinkling lights in the midst of the city or dust covered leather boots in the countryside, awe and adventure....deep self-examination and healing, intimate recognition of your insecurities, your wounds, your big hairy-scary fears. Then, when you’ve cozied up alone, naked in negative space and oversized pillows, loving all of that “Stuff,” and willing to scoot over and let someone peek in, that’s when you know that you’ve done the work. When you still want to get undressed, literally and metaphorically with someone in spite of how truly terrifying that is and say, “I’ll share everything and if you don’t stick around, or don’t like it, I know exactly how ‘without you’ feels and I’m okay.”

Being willing to become soft is neither needy, or lacking intimacy with your SELF, in actuality you may just finally (after years of self-work, nights alone, dates, cycles of life and relationships......) be ACCEPTING yourself. You are not robbed of your independence or autonomy by desiring deeper connection.

One thing I know for CERTAIN is that everything most people do, whether attached or otherwise is to come back to the one fundamental truth that gets us up out of bed every morning, that makes you stay, or leave, or work an extra hour longer to provide; the thing that makes us work hard in general to create something foundational is LOVE. Everything we do, whether we can admit it to ourselves or not has some form of love as the desired outcome attached to it. That can be romantic, familial, or self-love. Allowing someone to love you and to be in the space of desiring to give that love back in return, is not only the greatest act of self-love, but the bravest one. Articulating and surrendering yourself to the flexibility that LOVE requires, while being able to answer the question “Will I love myself on the other side of this compromise?” with a firm “YES,” is inherently feminism. As women, tenderly support the journey of the beauties around you to find love, just remember, always, ALWAYS to keep that, “yes.”

read more of Chelsea's genius stuff here.

part one, part two, part three, part four. part five. 

instagram. tumblr. twitter. pinterest

ways in which to woo me:

 

1. strong coffee

2. sports coats (always the sports coat. never {never ever} underestimate the sports coat

photo by James Minchin III

Sometimes I imagine my fingers reaching for your knee. How we will be sitting, side by side, our faces illuminated by the soft glow of lamps, hands and knees hidden in darkness beneath the lip of the bar. It will be a tentative gesture--part exploration and held breath and exposed wish. The first of many leaps.

Later, I think on how your hands will hook my waist. Strong and confident, driven by need and desire and a sweet sort of wanting. But how that'll come only after. Only after I've opened small gates to you. One after another after the next.

Because you will never take what's not already been given.

You are made of a thing I hardly know how to touch or place or name, but would like, very much—more than anything really—to taste.

image source unknown