Love Story

About 216 miles into a 400.8 mile trip up the 101, from Ventura to Petaluma, I realized I was steeped in nostalgia.  I had just spent seven days with my personal history.  It seemed like every notable mention from my past made an appearance in the last week.  Once I cleared the Santa Barbara county traffic, and escaped the fierce winds and monotonous landscape of Steinbeck country, I released my death grip on the steering wheel.  I looked in the review and saw my exhausted little man dancing through dreamland.  Somewhere between Soledad and Salinas, I finally allowed myself a few minutes to absorb the overwhelming journey through a different part of my life that was the past week. 

I thought back and smiled on the recent memories we had made with people so precious there isn’t even a word in human language to describe their value.  Then I remembered that they were the same people I had made memories with before I even knew what a memory was.  It was about that time, we hit the San Jose city limit sign, that I heard a little voice, deep inside my hardened façade, scream at me about love stories.  I was thinking about friends and laughs and dolphins and wine.  But somehow, a voice I hadn’t heard in more years than are worth counting was poking at me.  With a sharpened stick.  And it was yelling at me about love stories.  More specifically, it was terrorizing me about my own love stories. 

My very first love affair came at a pretty young age.  I was 14.  I spent my summers on the water.  Not just any water, more specifically a body of water that connects mainland California to these remarkably obscure islands off the central coast.  For the sake of realism, we will call the water the Santa Barbara Channel and we will refer to the islands and the Channel Islands.  That was my first love.  The islands.  The water.  The sea creatures who allowed us to co-exist with them.  The cargo boats that frequent the channel.  Oil platforms Gina and Gail.  Everything about that place was magnificent.  It was magical.  Never before had my soul felt right with all of my surroundings.  NEVER.

It’s funny that my first love affair segued into my second.  Because of the channel and the islands, I met Jason.  He was everything I wasn’t.  He was born into a family with money. Not a lot of money.  But more money and opportunity than I had.  He was the product of a way of life that I could never understand.  He was the heir to a legacy I could never have understood at the time.  But there was something about that shy, school boy smile that melted me every time I saw him.  Behind that innocent smile, there was a lot of bad boy. 

The days that we worked the same boat, I made it my priority to avoid him.  I would watch him with conviction, though.  He operated with such experience; such expertise.  After all, he had been doing it his entire life.  The water wasn’t just his job.  It was his destiny.  For me, the water was a summer job that paid for gas and allowed me the time to get right with myself.  Whatever that means. 

But Jason was always there.  Always.  There was a long 14 hour day on the water.  We left Ventura harbor at 6:AM, en route to Santa Barbara Island.   It was a four hour transit.  Six hours on the island.  Then another four hour transit home.  We tied up the boat at a little after nine.  Much later than our usual 6 o’clock arrivals.  Those extra four hours gave us more uncomfortable silence than we had ever had before.  Even fishing and swimming and  diving couldn’t break the tension.  The four hours back from Santa Barbara Island put us both at ease.  There were passengers and chores to take care of.  But when we put the lines on the pier and watched everyone disembark, Jason and I were alone again. 

We had a beer with the captain and walked to our cars.  As we walked up the brow, the marine layer got thicker.  It was a cool night in the harbor.  The air was wet.  I was parked at the far end of the parking lot; he was parked closer to the boat.  I walked past him and, in a display of exhaustion and comradery, I touched his elbow.  As I walked away, he grabbed my hand.  It felt like an hour had passed as I tried to figure out what was happening.  Then, I walked back to him.  His hand was at my waist by then.  I leaned into him, head down and body shaking.  There were no words.  Only a kiss.  One.  Single. Kiss.  Then we got in our cars, and drove away. 

It doesn’t matter how hard we try to be realistic.  It doesn’t matter how many times we roll our eyes at sentimental nonsense.  We ALL need a love story.  We all need to LIVE a love story.  My first love story was Jason.  He was supposed to be gone.  He was supposed to have dissipated from my life. But the way my life works and the way my soul pulls me to the islands, I should have known he would never be gone. 

I watched him board the boat.  I watched him lite up the engines.  He was largely unrecognizable to me.  He had a shaggy beard and a bigger belly than I remembered.  But when I heard him talk about dolphins and the islands over the loud system, I knew it was him.  So, on the trip back I knocked on the door of the wheel house and asked if he had a minute for an old friend.  Jason looked at me, ambivalently, until I raised my sunglasses.  He looked into my eyes and said “NO.  FUCKING. WAY.” 

I sat on the bench behind the wheel.  I kicked my feet up on the back of the captain’s chair.  It was so familiar, yet so foreign.  We talked about where we have been and where we might be going.  I asked about his mom.  He asked about my dad.  He showed me a picture of his son.  We talked about our dreams of doing something different. At one point, I confided to him “If it would pay the bills, I’d come back to Island Packers tomorrow”  He said “You should do that.”  I hollered at him “It’s been 20 years, Jason.”  He looked at me like 20 years hadn’t passed. Then his phone rang…

I dismissed myself.  Then I went to the fantail and watched Channel Islands Harbor get closer.  I watched my kid run laps around the boat deck.  When we were finally tied up at the pier, I took Radley back to the wheel house.  I made him shake Jason’s hand and thank him for the safe trip.  Then I hugged Jason.  He hugged me back.

And that’s my love story. 

-Inner Peas

Do. Less.

Right after the New Year, I was at lunch with one of my besties.  As all women do at the start of a new year, we talked about what we were going to do differently this year.  We talked about all the shit we had been through over the last year.  Then she put down her pizza and looked at me over her Diet Coke and, with conviction, she said:  “Do less.”  I stared at one of my dearest friends like she just beamed down from a flying-fucking-saucer.  Real matter of fact, she said again “DO.  LESS.  That’s our New Year’s Resolution.” 

Do.  Less.  (???)

Well, for women like us, doing “less” isn’t really an option.  There’s always something more to be done.  There’s always something.  Something more to do.  We always see a wrong to right.  We always see a friend to help.  We always see a couch to move.  We always see crazy and feel a need to counter it with more crazy.  Doing less isn’t for us.   Doing less isn’t an option for people who see a bigger, better way to do things.  Exceeding the standard was the only option. 

Do Less.  (!!!)

But then I did so much, that I had met the standard.  After time, I didn’t just meet the standard.  I owned the standard. I hadn’t only exceeded the standard, I dictated what the standard should be.  I did what I was supposed to do.  I did what other people were supposed to do.  I did things that other people never expected of me.  I became the go-to.  I was the girl you called when you had a bad day.  I became the girl you told other people to call when they had a bad day.  I was the fixer, but I could never fix myself. How could I?  I was too busy fixing everything else.   No fix was ever good enough, though.  There was always more to be done.  More saving to be done.  More shit that needed fixing. 

NO!!!  Do MORE!!!

Turns out, we are conditioned to do more.  MORE. MORE.  MORE!!!!  We have to do more, or we won’t survive.  We have to perform better, or we will lose our jobs.  We have to entertain our children, or we will lose their love.  We have to be extravagant lovers, or we will lose our partners.  DO MORE!!!!  And do it NOW!!!  Right now!  You know what MORE gets you?  It gets you more reservations.  It gets you less time with your children.  It gets you fewer orgasms. 

Fuck it.  Do less. 

We always think that we should be doing MORE.  We are so intimidated by what might happen if we don’t do MORE.  We want to be in control.  We want to be right.  We want to do RIGHT.   By everyone.  Well, guess what?  We won’t ever be the most.  We won’t ever be in control.  We won’t ever be right.  Even when we think we are doing right, we still find out that we are wrong.  So, as it turns out, it is in our best interest to do less. 

Today, seven months after we had first discussed the idea of “doing less,” I told Jillian “I’ve finally decided to do less.”  She laughed and asked me if I was happy.  The question was kind of tongue in cheek.  After all, she knew I was happier than I was two days ago.  Because in two days I have lived more life than I had in the last two years.  In the last two years, I have seen people laugh.  I have seen people cry.  I have seen people be sick.  I have seen people want to be sick.  I did all of that while I was doing more.  What I haven’t seen in the last two years is what goes on outside of doing “more.”  I haven’t seen my child laugh after 6:PM.  To be quite honest, I have seen other people after 6:PM.  I haven’t had the energy to deal with other people after 6:PM.  Because I was TOO BUSY DOING MORE!!!! 

Point is this:  MORE during your 9-to-5 means nothing if you have MORE between 5-to-9.

 Do less.  It means more. 

-Inner Peas

CONFIDENCE

People who know me, know that I love my girlfriends.  I have no reservations about talking about their strength, intelligence and beauty.  The women I love are both powerful and kind.  They are honest and compassionate.  They are, by no stretch, individuals.  They come from different backgrounds and different upbringings.  Sometimes, they come from different countries.  But what ties us all to each other is our belief that we are better together than we are on our own. 

As a young woman, I didn’t realize how important my girlfriends were.  When you are coming in to your own, especially being the product of the “ME” generation, it’s really hard to understand that life isn’t a competition.  Because when it’s all about you, it can’t possibly be about anyone else.  It took me until I was virtually alone and close to destitute that I finally had the good sense to see that that my girlfriends were my lifeline to healing; to survival.  I didn’t ask them for help.  I didn’t even tell them I was drowning.  One day, they were just there.  All of them.  In their diversity and their wisdom and their unconditional acceptance.  I didn’t send out an SOS or a MAYDAY or even pick up the phone.  It just happened.  One day I woke up and my ship was being salvaged by the most remarkable women on the planet.  I had never felt so empowered before.  I had never felt so loved.  I had never felt so confident.  All because a random collection of women took a chance on loving me when I couldn’t even find value in myself. 

Which brings me to my point:  Confidence.  Confidence is a very arbitrary term.  Not to be confused with narcissism, confidence is the belief in self, purpose, and action.  Confidence gives us the strength to stand up for good and defend against evil.  Without confidence, we can’t value anything.  And as women, we can’t value ourselves.  Without self-worth, we leave ourselves vulnerable to people who will manipulate, violate and prey on us. I would like to say that I find that heart wrenching, but to be quite honest, I am beyond sorrow.   The truth is I find this unacceptable. 

When bad things happen in our communities, we so often shake our heads or wonder what happened to humanity or lock our doors and try to look the other way.  But I have seen so many ugly things happen in my community over the last several years, that I would be remiss to only sit in disbelief or question or values.  And I refuse to lock my doors.  I will not live in fear.  I can’t stop bad people from doing bad things, but I can give voice and purpose to people who have been abused and mistreated.  That voice only comes with confidence. 

I keep hearing about assholes and bullies and predators taking advantage of people they perceive to be weaker than they are.  There are so many stories about women being violated and we would rather address the question the validity of the victim than that of the accused.  And you wonder why women don’t have to confidence to speak up when they have been harmed?  It’s because women believe that when they have been victimized, they are still villains.  Women believe that “they deserve it.”  Or they are “asking for it.”  Women STILL believe that speaking out against a perpetrator will be more harmful than living with the abuse.  They believe it because they don’t have enough confidence to know otherwise. 

I am so angry with assholes and bullies and predators.  But with that that anger, I am also hopeful that we can counter ugly with something better.  I challenge the young and naïve and insecure with finding beauty and strength within yourselves.  I challenge my strong, willful sisters to find the beauty and foster courage in a young woman who may not realize her worth.  To the men in my life who appreciate women with confidence, build in your own daughters the idea of independence.  Even if you believe you will always be there to defend them…YOU WILL NOT.  Teaching your daughters to love and respect themselves as much as they love and respect others is an impossibility.  But teaching your daughters to believe they are worthy of love and respect is not.   

With strength there is beauty.  With courage there is justice.  With confidence there is power.  Believe in yourselves.  Please. 

-Inner Peas

Balance

When I first made the decision to share my words and my thoughts with the entire internet, I didn’t have an agenda.  Originally, I had intended this blog to be a place where I could share my crazy with the people whose support I needed when I felt my weakest.  Then I took a chance and shared my words with people outside of my comfort zone.  There’s been a lot of feedback.  Both good and ugly.  I’m good with both.  I talk because I want a response.  I share what I think because I know that my opinions aren’t the only ideas around.  When I started looking for my inner peas, I was just trying to survive.  I didn’t give a shit about what people thought of me.  Other people’s opinions didn’t matter.  All that mattered was finding an outlet for the emotions that would either save me or condemn me.  This is where I found balance. 

Balance, however, is not as appealing as it sounds.  Since I decided to share my thoughts, emotions, life with the people around me, I have adopted the habit of finding the good in everything.  Because nobody wants to be “that girl” all the time.  You know the type.  The girl who’s always hateful or indignant.  The girl who’s always scored and spiteful.  The girl who is always wretched because she has been wronged.  And, conversely, nobody wants to talk to the girl who is overly satisfied with her life.  The “my life is better than yours” girl.  The girl who is so obviously putting on a show for the rest of the world, that nobody takes her seriously.  So, what do you do when you when you are torn between being eternally hopeful and hopelessly ambivalent?  You find a balance. 

But balance has nothing to do with you actual emotions.  When you find a balance, you don’t get to express your disdain for your job or your gratitude for spectacular orgasms.  You can’t have a political or social opinion.  You don’t get to enjoy hysterical tantrums about poor service or bad treatment.  Balance is always admitting fault and having the opportunity to be right.   Essentially, balance is your appreciation for what you have and your marginal interest in what goes on around you.  Being balanced equates to being apathetic.  And I’m really tired of apathy. 

I’m getting really tired of balance.  I’m tired of staying the course.  Frankly, I have no interest in the apathy that comes with stability.  When you are balanced, there is no room for growth.  You can’t improve.  You can’t build on what you have.  You only stay in the same place.  And that’s where I have been for the past several years:  balancing in the same place.  Walking the tightrope between different people in order to fulfill all of their expectations. 

So, instead of finding the common ground for everyone else, tonight I am going to weigh the scale, instead of balance it.  Tonight, I am going to pull the wrong block in Jenga.  Tonight, I am going to add sand to the hourglass.  I’m going to talk about it. Because I’m tired of common ground that only benefits one side.  I’m tired of being the only side conceding to uneducated arguments so that we don’t have to fight anymore.  I’m tired of the laughs and the jokes and the consolation prizes.  I’m fucking tired. 

Do I like my job?  Sometimes. Do I love the people?  Yes.  Do I want to stop everything I am doing because you can’t take care of yourself?  NO!!  Get some burn cream or some Claritin or some fucking Sudafed.  Do that. Because your cut finger or your allergies or your virus shouldn’t be earth shattering.  In the real world we go to CVS and purchase a remedy to our ailments.  And please remember, the people who really need me, the people who really need compassion and understanding are the same people I have to send to the back of the line because your “emergency” is my number one priority.    In regards to orgasms.  Scream from the highest mountain when you cum.  Don’t ever be ashamed of an orgasm. They aren’t just there to produce babies.  They are there to remind you that it’s OK to be happy for no other reason than physical pleasure.  We eat cheesecake and don’t apologize for it.  We drink wine and don’t apologize for it.  We laugh until our bellies hurt and don’t apologize for it.  Why would he hide our orgasms so that we don’t have to apologize for it?  And then there is politics.  Politics will divide us quicker than any indiscretion ever will.  Most people will fight over political inclinations to the grave.  It’s not worth it.  We cannot rely on politics to get us through.   We cannot rely on our government to make our lives better.  Political opinions have no relevance on how we live our lives.  Because I am just going to be honest here, my politics are better than yours.  I don’t care about money or God or status.  I believe that we should all do right by the people around us.  But if you don’t believe me when I say it, we will never be able to understand each other.  So, I don’t say it.  I would rather try to see your side of the argument than have an argument at all.  You won’t ever know balance until you are left alone.  Until you have to balance the scales for survival. 

You will never know balance until you have held a complete stranger in your arms because she just found out she won’t ever have children, only to go home and hold your own child.  You can’t understand balance until you see a woman count out twenty $20 bills at the “clinic” while her “boyfriend” is getting a stereo installed in his truck. Then you go home and feel ashamed of your own orgasm, because you have the means to practice safe sex.  You will NEVER understand while you are balancing your checkbook and practicing your morality and reminding others of your station in life.   You will never realize that balance is actually a burden. 

-Inner Peas