Uncategorized – I Still Read Your Horoscope

Yesterday, I spent the afternoon alone at a nude beach, and I may never be the same. I’ve gotten pretty damn free in the last couple of years, but this was next-level. I’ll can get naked in front of most women fairly easily (thanks, Westridge School for Girls?), but this little bit of beach was populated almost entirely by men, which is a whole different psychological ballgame for me—pun semi-intended.

Anyone who has ever loved me knows that I adore sea-swimming. There are few activities that offer me the kind of simultaneous freedom and connection that being a tiny, splashing speck in ocean does. It’s the best. Just the best. And I almost didn’t swim today. Because…naked. Because…trotting to the shoreline naked!

Then, as barftastically cheesy it sounds, I remembered the woman who I want to be. I want to be a woman whose life reminds other women of their worth. I want to be a woman who doesn’t script vicious monologues about her own body in her head when she catches a stranger looking at her. I want to be a woman who knows that any man who gets this house of cellulite and stretch marks and softness (um, hi, you don’t lose 100 lbs. in a year and come out of it firm or perky…like, in any way whatsoever) is really lucky.

Not lucky because I have a “great personality” in spite of my body. And also not lucky because I think I’m better than any of my potential partners or better than any of the women whom they could have chosen to love instead. Just lucky because life is fragile, and connecting is beautiful. It’s everything.

Hate is obviously alive + breeding in our world (see: Orlando Nightclub Massacre, Donald Trump, the Stanford rape case, the countless police killings of unarmed black men nationwide, et al), so you might as well join me in throwing some love out into the universe.

Even if it’s love for your own, imperfect ass.

Hello, Gentlemen.

Issuing a quick bulletin here to see who and what is out there—hope this finds all of you in great health and high spirits. The holidays are almost here, eh? My, how the year flew by!

Let’s start at the beginning: my name is Rachel, I am 31 years old, and I am looking for a boyfriend. I think. That’s the thing—I am dreadful at allowing myself to be vulnerable and don’t necessarily know the difference between codependency and emotional availability, so I just as likely might not be looking for a boyfriend. Truth be told, it’s hard to say if I will fall in love with you then watch you freeze over and start responding to my texts/pleas for connection with “k” or if you will fall in love with me then feel me slowly lose all respect for you. It’s a toss-up. 50/50 shot either way—we might as well give it a go.

Friends have suggested that I write out what I’m looking for. An “ideals” list, if you will. Hashtag relationship goals. First, let’s start with the “musts”—the non-negotiables. You must be an age-inappropriate, cisgendered male whose childhood was heavily taxed by his mother’s emotional neediness. You were always there to clean up mommy’s emotional spatter, and you now associate a woman’s needs with complete & utter suffocation. All signs point to “run” with you, and I love that about you—that shit keeps me alert.

You are funny. You are dangerously funny. Cutting, observational humor lights me on fire like nothing else. If you can think of better responses to my own anecdotal quips than I can, I am in trouble. This basically guarantees that I will follow you around like dopey puppy and metaphorically piss all over the floor every time you look at me. You will own me. You will think I’m funny, too, but not funnier than you—and you will never, ever let me know that you admire my humor. (You won’t let me know most nice things you think about me, so why start there?)

It’s probably of note that you are not a “relationship guy.” No way. I don’t like relationship guys. I like “Let’s just see where this goes” and “I really just try and live in the moment” guys. Your tribe really gets what life is all about! Why commit to anything when you can meet your own immediate, surface-level needs right fucking now? I get it. I get you. Let’s do this.

I’m a quacky little duck in Echo Park Lake, and you’re the guy in the douchey, vintage fedora casually tossing breadcrumbs at me on a Sunday afternoon. I’ll never know when the crumbs are coming, but when I have to fight with all of the other filthy ‘hood ducks for a stale end-piece, I will feel that much more like a swan when I emerge victorious—soggy, sorry-ass return in beak.**

(**Actually, I recently learned that ingesting bread crumbs creates irreversible intestinal blockage in water birds, which ultimately leads to a very painful and shit-filled death. But I mean, whatever—I’m grateful for what you’ve got to give.)

Enough out of me. The point is this: I love you. I already love you for everything that you are and, more importantly, for everything that you are not.

I have been writing your name in the sand for years, and I can’t wait to meet you.

Yours,

Rachel