Hockey, music, social progress, feminism, movies, and celebrity.
“It won’t go in.”
I’m sitting on the toilet in the bathroom, my boyfriend is standing just outside the door. He doesn’t really offer any suggestions, he has none to give. All he can muster is, “That sucks.”
“It does suck.”
I realized that I actually liked my pubic hair. Not that it’s a favourite feature of mine or anything, but I much prefer to maintain it to my standards than anyone else’s. My current partner, bless him, loves every inch of me, loves me just the way I am – as any partner should. And even if he didn’t, I wouldn’t care. My body is my own, no one else’s. I’m the one that has to live in this flesh and hair suit, I’m the one that’s going to decide how I want it to look.
I said to a friend (as she handed me a glass filled with some of her wine), that I really should just switch to beer. It was easier to bring to parties and there was no mixing involved. Plus, I was less likely to feel as terrible the following morning from all the sugar in the mixes that I was drinking.
It started as a joke, but I ended up being serious about it. The only problem was that I hated beer.
Operation the Summer Megan Forces Herself to Like Beer began.
Whenever I’m catcalled or harassed in public when I am alone, I try to keep my wits about me instead of just yelling the first thing that comes to mind at people. I’ve learned to take no shit in recent years, but I do often just hurl insults at these men. But when I do remember that creating a dialogue could actually get them to realize what they’re doing, I try to ask them, “Are you doing this because I’m alone? If my partner was with me would you even consider talking to me that way?”
I don’t remember much of the details, other than it felt good, and more importantly, I felt good afterward. I wasn’t filled with any sort of regret, and though he’d told me that he would be in touch, I didn’t care if he meant it or just said it because it was a thing that people say to one another after casual sex.
It seems almost contradictory that while I don’t necessarily love the way that I look, I embrace my body and the way it is in the moment. I love it because it is mine. So what if I have a bit of a belly? So what if my arms are a little flabby?
To say that I grew up with the sport might actually be an understatement – hockey was almost like a member of the family: an older, toothless brother that could skate infinitely better than I could.
My feet were slamming against the pavement. I wasn’t light on my feet at all (I’m still not). I had to stop running – my hips and knees hurt too much and I couldn’t breathe. I hadn’t bothered to look back since I had started running – was he still following me? Had he ever been? Had I imagined the whole thing?
Though most will say this about their mothers, my mum is one of the best people on the planet. I can’t recall a time when she was anything but supportive, kind, funny, and wonderful. Everything she’s done in her life has been for her family, and she’s happiest when her family is happy.
I’m thirty now, and I do not see kids in my future. And yet, there’s still a small part of my brain that, whenever I think that, goes “Don’t be so foolish! That’s what you’re supposed to do! Now go make some Mini Megans!”
Mini Megans, in theory, would be rad.
But I don’t want them.
I remind myself, whenever I get in these homesickness funks, that for the first time in my life, I’m truly choosing the path that I want to. I’m creating a life with the man of my dreams, and we’re exploring all of the bits of the world that we want to together. I’m more independent, I’m more comfortable, and so much happier.
Just because we reciprocate something, doesn’t mean we owe that individual something in return.
It’s a hard pill to swallow because I am, by nature, pretty easygoing and caring toward other humans. To have feelings of intense dislike toward someone makes me feel pretty down. It begins this whole sadness spiral in which I don’t really know what to do with myself. So what I’m trying to do is forget.
You’re going to look back on twenty-nine and wonder what you were so worried about. I know you will, because I’ve certainly wondered why I’ve been worried about turning thirty. If nothing else, please try to stop worrying so much. Life is too short for worrying about things that may or may not happen. Just go with it! Your life is the best adventure that you’re ever going to have.
There was a moment of panic that had my heart hammering in my chest. Oh, god. It’s happening. I have to start using night cream, eye cream, day cream … are there other kinds of cream that I should be using? Are they any different than lotion? I’m getting old.