White Ribbon Day -- Boston, MA

I'm once again writing from The Thinking Cup Cafe. My window seat has been nabbed, so I sit at a tiny table near the line of caffeine craving Bostonians.

I overhear conversations about Barcelona's soccer team and the problems with Trump and Bernie.

Although politics and soccer are not my favorite topics, I enjoy eavesdropping on them much more than dealing with the confrontational fellow who sat nearby two days ago. I occupied this very tall, writing in a red composition notebook. I heard a gruff "Excuse me," and wondered briefly what it could be about, but didn't bother to look up.

"Excuse me," I heard it again. I looked up. A middle-aged, shabbily dressed, wild-eyed fellow sat at the table across from mine, staring at me and flashing a sinister smile.

"Yes," I reluctantly replied, looking up from my writing.

"I couldn't' help but notice..." the man started and faltered. I waited expectantly for him to continue. But he said nothing and just flashed his sinister smile again. "My name's Joe."

"Hi Joe. Good to meet you, Joe," I said quickly, then tried to return to my writing.

"I was hoping for your name," Joe intercepted my attention from my composition book.

I looked up and said nothing.

"You have a job?" Joe continued to press.

"I teach yoga," I replied.

"I read minds," Joe's teeth glinted as he reverted to his cheshire grin. "You... have a very good mind."

"Oh. Thank-you," I gritted my teeth to keep myself from blurting out all the things on my mind that he clearly wasn't picking up on.

"We've got all this space between us," Joe stared at me with his wild eyes. "You mind if I -- " he motioned toward the empty seat at my table.

"No, I'm sorry," I said firmly. "I came here to write."

I returned to my notebook with purpose and didn't look back in Joe's direction. Although that terrifying smile kept flashing across my mind the way it forced its way across Joe's face.

So yeah. I'd rather listen to politics any day.

Looking around the cafe, I notice that Bostonians don't wear many bright colors. I see black, dark blue, grey and dark purple. I feel slightly awkward and even more out of place than usual in my red boots, bright pink pants, bright purple jacket and green hat.

I'm representing all the colors. 

I left the hotel yesterday at 11:52, eight minutes before check-out. I set off towards Boston Common, found a bench, and willed my freezing fingers to write. I watched a golden retriever romp about for a few minutes, running from person to person, trying to get one of the park goers to engage in a playful chase.

Should I go? I wrote in my journal. I really want to, but I don't want the awkward embarrassment of trying to lug my suitcase into Massachusetts's State House. 

Yesterday was White Ribbon day. Celebrated on the first Thursday of March, White Ribbon Day is a movement that attempts to redefine manliness in an effort to end gender based violence. The following is an excerpt from their website:

About Massachusetts White Ribbon Day Campaign

As part of an international human rights effort, the Massachusetts White Ribbon Day Campaign invites men and boys to be part of the solution in ending violence against women.

On the first Thursday in March, men throughout Massachusetts speak out to:

 change societal attitudes and beliefs that perpetuate and make excuses for violence against women!

 promote safety and respect in all relationships and situations!

 build a network of resounding voices that will support and advance the initiatives and efforts of Jane Doe Inc. and its member organizations to promote the safety, liberty and dignity of survivors!

Follow this link to learn more about the White Ribbon Campaigns around the world.

Our personal pledge for this campaign reflects what we envision and want to create: Finding a solution to end men's violence against women. This will take all of us working together, and being part of the solution means putting the pledge to help into action.

Do I want to get yelled at and kicked out for bringing all this luggage with me? No... I really don't... maybe I'll just go get a coffee instead. But... damn. That sucks. I'll regret not going later. I know I will. Okay. I'll just try and I'll appear as non-threatening as possible so nobody thinks I have bombs in my suitcase. Here we go. 

I timidly entered the security line and said to the stiff looking guard in the most apologetic tone I could manage, "I'm so sorry... I had to check out of my hotel at 12:00, but I really wanted to attend the White Ribbon celebration. Is it okay if I take my luggage? I understand if it -- " 

"As long as you're not plannin' on movin' in," the guard interrupted me. 

"What?" I couldn't quite understand what was happening. 

"Well," his eyes twinkled, "we haven't got any extra rooms," he said as my luggage was scanned. 

And that's how I ended up at the White Ribbon Celebration with my luggage stuffed under my feet in a packed auditorium with the governor of Massachusetts and many other persons of importance. 

Jane Doe's executive director, Debra Robbin, introduced the event. She was followed by Governor Charlie Baker, who shared about his role in ending domestic violence. Thaddeus Miles, the director of MassHousing and community service followed him. Then Andre Tippet, Executive Director of Community Affairs for the New England Patriots took the mic and talked about how to end sexism in sports. Then we heard from Captain Brett Millican, the commanding officer of Boston's Coast Guard, who talked about ending gender-based violence in the US armed forces. 

That fellow is the governor of Massachusetts. 

But my favorite presenter was Charlie Lake, a young transgender high schooler of 17. He shared a profoundly vulnerable, powerful poem about his struggles as "Taylor".  And what he learned from living in a feminine body for so many years. And that acknowledging and cherishing the feminine is not something that makes men weak. It's something that makes men whole.  

There was a hip hop artist, a sheriff and another representative of Jane Doe.

Then we all stood and took the Massachusetts White Ribbon Day Pledge

I WILL PROMOTE respect, dignity and equality.
I WILL SPEAK OUT against attitudes and behaviors that contribute to sexual assault and domestic violence.
I WILL REMIND myself and others that gender and violence is a men's issue that affects all of us, regardless of our backgrounds and identities.
I WILL CONFRONT sexism, homophobia, transphobia, racism and other forms of oppression.
I WILL FIND OUT how to help when I suspect that someone I know is a victim or offender of sexual assault or domestic violence.

Gosh... I'm so happy I went. What an experience. What a surprising, profound, uplifting experience. 

I made my way to Park Street Metro to commence my journey to Harvard Sq to meet my couchsurfing host. Boston's metro is ridiculously slow, but I'm still pretty much in love with it because A) it's public transportation in the US and B) it's all in English. So I have no problem understanding the announcers. And sometimes the announcers are feeling really bored/creative, so use silly voices. Which makes me roll my eyes on the outside, but fall in love on the inside.

I met my host in Harvard Sq just after five pm. We exchanged a few pleasantries and then hopped on a bus heading towards her gym. She had invited me to join her for a yoga class, and I'd been all too happy to oblige. On the way to the gym, we chatted about travel experiences and the difficulties of obtaining visas. We walked through the gym doors at just after six pm, and while we were stuffing our things into a locker, my host let me know that the yoga class didn't start for another hour.

"I'm going to run. You can run, or..."

"I actually mostly haven't eaten all day..." I said as my stomach grumbled in agreement. " Is there a place nearby you would recommend?"

"Well... there's a Trader Joe's about a fifteen minute walk from here..."

"THAT," I responded with more certainty than I've felt in days, "tell me how to get to THAT."

So I bought cheese and chocolate and bananas and sausage and your and peanut butter cups. Hallelujah. Holy Cow.

The yoga class was great, but I've noticed that I have a hard time enjoying other teacher's classes these days. I've become too critical.

NO! INJURY! Don't tell people to jump back to high plank! That can hurt the rotator cuffs. Which is HORRIBLE. Half plank, lady. Jump back to HALF PLANK. With elbows in and knuckles pressed down and -- 

But in spite of my mad mental mutterings, I still managed to enjoy the class. Then I followed my host through neighborhoods, across intersections and metro stations as we journey back to her triple decker home in Savin Hill. Where I ate at least six Trader Joe's peanut butter cups and then promptly passed out.

Being a Grown-up -- Boston, MA

I'm starting this post from the corner chair of room 540 at the Omni Parker Hotel. For how luxurious the hotel as a whole is, the room is pretty basic. Two beds, too many pillows, a mirror, a TV, a chair and a desk. And the walls. Are paper thin. So thin that my coworker and I got security called on us last night for our unruly behavior of... ummm... talking.

"There has been a complaint," the security guard said stiffly. "This is your first official warning."

"Uh. Okay. Thanks," I flashed an irritated smile and shut the door. "What the heck?"

Danielle complained about the silly incident this morning before I walked her to State Street Station to take the metro to the airport. The woman at the desk listened to our story, smiled sympathetically and gave us vouchers for coffee (this hotel has also done away with continental breakfast).

"If we can't even talk and laugh in our own room," I vented to Danielle, "then I think there's something wrong with the hotel. I mean, I have no problem with them asking us to talk more quietly -- but they could have said something like, "Hey, sorry to bother you, but we've received a complaint about the noise. Maybe you could tone it down a little? Just because the walls are so thin." I would have responded to that so much better than, "This is your first official warning." Jesus."

We walked out the revolving door and headed down School Street towards the metro stop. After asking three different people how to get to the metro station, two different people how to buy the ticket and Danielle's card declining three times, a very kind fellow just let my her use his pass for the trip.

Other than the incredibly brusque security guards, Bostonians appear to be super friendly and helpful. 

I hurried back to the hotel, feeling absolutely chilled to the bone. It's 21 degrees right now. With humidity. And a 12 mph breeze. Next week, the weather warms up to 67 degrees, but today, tomorrow and Saturday?

Blistering highs of 35, 35 and 39.

Note to self. Don't visit Boston in early March. Ever. 

My host can't meet me until 5:00 this afternoon, and check-out is at 12:00, so I'll need to find a way to keep myself warm for the five hour interim. Any other time of year, a five hour gap between housing wouldn't be an issue at all. It would be an opportunity to have some alone time wandering about a beautiful new city.

But 21 degrees, humidity and breezes do not make this vagabond feel like wandering. They make this vagabond feel like curling up into a tiny ball in a giant mess of blankets and pillows. With perpetually warm hot chocolate close at hand.

Our first day of training was spent learning about how to implement voluntary services and understanding the effects of historical trauma. Although the information was interesting and useful, I was able to realize one of the reasons I could never work at a desk job.

Sitting.

For eight hours.

Is a horrible, terrible thing.

We were given an hour and a half lunch break, so Danielle and I stretched our legs and hurried down to Quincy Market in search of something to eat.

However, as I'm gluten-free and Danielle is deathly allergic to dairy, even the vast Quincy Market couldn't provide something that satisfied both of us. Danielle apologized for being "picky" as we searched for other options.

"Um. No. You're not being picky. You want something filling that won't send you to the hospital. That's normal." 

We finally settled into the dungeon-like Hub Pub, where Danielle ate steak and I ate some manner of seafood goodness. Boston is full of seafood goodness. Seafood goodness in the form of Nantucket stew, clam chowder, crab cakes, lobster, and fish of many sizes, colors and flavors. 

Also, donuts. Based solely upon my observations over the past three days, I am thoroughly convinced that Bostonians survive off of seafood, Dunkin Donuts, Starbucks, sandwiches and falafel. They need nothing else to survive and live a happy, fulfilled, Bostonian life.  

We reluctantly returned to those loathsome chairs for another three hours of training. I believe my favorite part of the conference was just sharing a space with hundreds of other men and women who have similar struggles. Sharing stories of things that worked and things that didn't. Feeling very much less alone. 

After the very beneficial three hours of learning about historical trauma whilst trying to remain still, to suppress yawns (tired yawns, not bored yawns), and remain focused (and mostly failing miserably at all three), Danielle and I were freed for the day. We spent a few minutes figuring out where to eat, settled on a place called 75 Chestnut, and then stuffed hands into pockets and ventured out into the icy afternoon. 

The Boston Commons park has an ice skating rink.  I can't imagine how magical this would be with snow on the ground. 

the State House

Old, brick sidewalks. One of the interesting aspects of Boston is seeing how the old is juxtaposed with the new. Skyscrapers getting cosy with old clock towers. Cobbled sidewalks next to asphalt streets. Old brick buildings with a fluorescent "Chipotle" sign in the window. 

 Danielle and I found our restaurant with no trouble. 75 Chestnut was located on... 75 Chestnut. The menu was so incredible that I did the irksome thing Boy sometimes does and asked the waiter to surprise me with one of the two impossibly delicious looking dishes. But he wouldn't let me. He made me choose.

"He didn't  play along," I moaned to Danielle after he'd retreated into the kitchen with our orders. "They always play with Troy."

But even though I was bitter at having been forced to choose, I was not unhappy with the choice. 

Danielle's steak. Girl likes her protein. 

Nantucket stew. Is not gross. It has shrimp, scallops, salmon, swordfish, halibut and sea bass. Half the ocean was in this bowl. Which I, incidentally, was unable to finish. 

I'd hoped to stroll about the city for a bit longer, but Danielle was cold and tired, so we walked back to the hotel. Where I worked on a blog and she read until we turned out the lights and went to bed, exhausted from a long day of suppressing yawns and trying not to fidget. 

We slept until 11:45. When the fire alarm sounded and everyone in the massive hotel was asked to meet in the lobby as the fire department investigated the reason the alarm had been activated. It was, of course, a false alarm. But it was a false alarm that totally ruined the rest of the night for both of us. It's hard to drift back to sleep when your senses have been abused for the last twenty minutes with violent ringing and a woman's voice saying on repeat, "May I have your attention... May I have your attention, please. The fire department has investigated the -- " 

The next day's training was over trauma and secondary trauma. I learned a lot, but again, my favorite part was just feeling connected to the other people in the room. The most powerful moment was when we all had to write down three ways secondary trauma manifested itself in our lives.

My three.

#1 -- There are days I can't stop crying.
#2 -- An overwhelming sense of hopelessness
#3 -- Anxiety -- inability to sleep.

Then we were asked to mill about the crowded room. We'd give someone our card and read theirs. Then move on. Exchange cards. Then move on. Exchange cards. Then move on.

I saw all three of mine on other cards. Everyone nodded. Everyone understood. It was like handing total strangers a list of my weaknesses and having them tell me, "It's okay. These are my weaknesses too."

The Museum of Fine Art is free on Wednesdays after four o'clock, so I boarded the metro after we were released from our training at four thirty. I asked Danielle if she'd like to tag along, but she was feeling a bit ill (probably from her mighty suppression of yawns and fidgets), so decided to stay in the hotel room.

I'm not big into pots, and the Museum of Fine Art boasts a lot of pots. Pots and Egyptian statues and African masks. None of which pique my interest. However, their selection of Picasso did, my interest, pique.

The selection of American art was superb. And I really just can't get over how much Jack Black looks like Paul Revere.

As I'd been able to spend so little time walking through Boston, I decided to forgo the metro and stroll back to the Omni Parker House.

It was bitter cold.

But there's absolutely no way I could live with myself if I'd spent two full days in Boston without a single stroll. 

My body was goose pimpled for hours afterwards. My fingers were stiff. I tried to buy some Lebanese food, but couldn't hold onto the pen to sign my name.

Boston's cold goes deep...

Unless you're a fan of the cold, don't visit Boston in early March. Or go ahead and visit Boston, but bring wool socks, long underwear, multiple jackets, hats, gloves, scarves, face masks -- all the things. 

You're leaving me -- Boston, MA

I'm writing from the Thinking Cup Cafe in Downtown Boston. My hazelnut latte with daily house made syrup rests on a small table covered in newspaper about astronauts landing on the moon decades ago, foam heart dissolving into my sips. I've been in Boston less than 24 hours, and I'm already noticing a newspaper thing. Perhaps it's because the first newspaper in America, Publick Occurrences, was published here in 1690. The publisher was arrested and all copies were destroyed, but still.

They did it first. The newspaper thing.

More and more customers burst in, escaping the frigid Boston morning. I'm sitting next to the door, and my legs prickle under my leggings as the cold brushes against them every time the door is flung open. But I remain where I am because across the street is a park. And I sit at a window where I can see the park. Trees are skeletal, grass is a sickly greenish brown and there's a Greek looking pillared gazebo looking slightly out of place. A runner in bright yellow. A biker in fluorescent green.

Hands stuffed into coat pockets.

Arms glued to sides.

Chins tucked into necks.

Young people walking along with backpacks. Middle-aged people hurrying along with briefcases. Old people shuffling along with bent shoulders and canes.

Maybe too many backpacks and briefcases... 

This is my first morning in Boston, and while the skyscrapers and busy streets make this small-town girl cringe, the diversity brings to life my curiosity and wonder in a way that makes my heart cry to be on the road again. I was served lamb kebab at a Lebanese restaurant last night wherein my server was actually probably from Lebanon. I overhear French in the elevator of my hotel. I see skin colors of every variety (usually just the face. The rest is stuffed into hats and pockets and collars) and coffee shop chains I haven't seen since London.

I woke at four am yesterday to finish preparations for this short East Coast jaunt before my yoga class at six thirty. And before you go and feel sorry for me in regards to this ungodly hour, understand that I always wake up at four am. It's my most creative time. It's the magical hour that's neither night (o'dark thirty) or day. It's limbo land. It's dreamlike. According to Tom Stafford, "An interesting aspect of the dream world: the creation of connections between things that didn't seem connected before. When you think about it, this isn't too unlike a description of what creative people do in their work -- connecting ideas and concepts that nobody thought to connect before in a way that appears to make sense."

Four am is my hour for connections. 

But I didn't write yesterday morning. Instead, I took a luxuriously long shower. In anticipation of the many hours I'd have to sit with myself on multiple planes.

Showers are also a limbo land for me where connections are made... showers... cafes... long journeys... four am... 

I finished packing my two carry-on bags and then drove to CMU to lead my forty-five minute Yoga Vinyasa routine. Something I do three times a week, for the pleasure of sharing a practice and for keeping my cueing skills honed. I certainly don't do it for money, as the school pays me a grand total of twelve dollars a class for my effort. Sometimes it's hard for me to detach my worth or skill as a yoga instructor from the money I make whilst instructing.

I'm worth so little? 

I've been guiding yoga since 2011. And I still can't make more than twelve dollars a class and even have to hold classes on a donation basis just so a few people will/can show.

My classes must be pretty awful. 

And while I know this isn't true, it's still a fight to believe it isn't true. Especially whilst living in a culture wherein much of one's worth is defined by one's paycheck. This is one of the reasons I chose to not give away massages during my massage schooling.

a) my school is costing me three thousand dollars. That. Is no small chunk of change to someone like me.
b) I want to feel like my work is valuable.

With yoga, I try to find my worth as a teacher not in my paycheck, but in the students who keep coming back. Who, instead of giving money, consistently give a part of their day to share a practice. There are five or six people at the university whose faces I see at nearly every class, and this encourages me to believe that what I share has value.

After closing my class and driving home, I burst into The Loft (the name Boy and I have for the apartment we share with two other flatmates) at 7:30, scarfed a syrupy breakfast and grabbed my bags. I clamored into the Geo and Boy sped off to Grand Junction's airport. Playfully, melancholily, we spent the short journey arguing about who was leaving whom.

"You're leaving me..." I mourned as Boy turned into the airport parking lot.

"No, you're leaving ME," Boy seemed bewildered. "There's no WAY you can turn it like that."

"You're leaving me. You're dropping me off at the airport, not coming to Boston. Leaving me."

"Aimee," Boy said rather firmly. "We live here."

"I don't care."

My flight from Grand Junction to Denver was on time. No happening of consequence. However, when I arrived in DIA, I decided to do something radically different.

I enjoyed it.

If you've read even a small portion of my writing, you'll probably know that

I
      Hate
               Airports.

They stress me out. So much that I usually end up with a stress headache. Well, part of the headache is due to stress, part is due to severe dehydration. I hardly drink a drop on days I fly because I'm terrified that I'll have to pee when the "fasten seatbelt" light is on.

When I'm afraid of something, I usually just put myself into a position wherein I have no choice but to do that thing I'm afraid of all the time (minus the whole drinking and flying thing. There is nothing in this world quite so frightening as having to pee and not being able to, and this fear is currently well beyond my edge). So you'd think that after five years of being in and out of airports, I'd be okay with them.

But I'm not. Because whenever I enter an airport, I walk/run to my gate in a panic of OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD, WHAT IF I CAN'T FIND MY GATE AND THE PLANE LEAVES WITHOUT ME?

I find my gate (probably ten minutes after commencing my search) and then camp in a position with excellent line of sight of my gate's screen. So that every time I get nervous about whether or not I'm at the right gate, I can look at my ticket, read "United, flight 714," look at the screen, read "United, flight 714," and then feel the stress headache relax some. Until the scenario plays out again fifteen minutes later.

So although I've practiced being in airports, I've never practiced enjoying them.

Well, that's stupid. I've spent the last five years getting better at hating airports. Awesome. And I'm only realizing this NOW? Jesus... 

So instead of walking directly to my gate and camping out for two hours, looking at the screen approximately eight times, I went for a walk. I window shopped. I went to a place with a view, bought a chai latte and people watched.

I strolled to my gate fifteen minutes before boarding.

I looked at the screen once.

That... was actually almost pleasant. 

And for the first time in my experience as a frequent flyer, the flight itself was worse than the airport. Not because of babies or bad movies or chairs stuck in cruel and unusual upright positions -- because of the turbulence.

It's a terribly unnerving thing, glancing out the window of your plane and seeing the wings shaking as if they were made of pliable plastic. The shuddering became so violent at one point that I nearly vomited. I felt nauseous and on-edge for the entire flight.

I landed in Boston just before six pm. I immediately texted my coworker to ask how she was doing and how she managed to get from the airport to the hotel.

Aimee
Did you use the metro? 

Coworker
No, I took a taxi. Because I could follow those directions. 

Aimee
Haha. Okay. Which would you rather I do?  

Coworker
Whatever you think is best. The taxi was a rip off. 

Aimee
I'll try my luck at the metro. It'll be good for me. ;) 

And it was good for me. It was my first experience using a metro in a country wherein I speak the language. And you know what? Being able to communicate my degree of "lost" felt freaking awesome.

"Excuse me," I called to a lady at the metro station, "Can you help me? I'm new here and very confused."

"Excuse me," I called to a cute couple after I'd disembarked. "I know where I am and where I need to go, but directions are hard for me. Can you help?"

"Excuse me -- "

"Excuse me -- "

"Excuse me -- "

And after many excuse mes and many kind strangers, I found my way to the Omni Parker House.

"My name is Aimee, here's my ID. I should already be checked in," I told the dapper fellow at the front desk.

And here I am. Ready for my first grownup, per diem, paid trip. I still don't know quite how to feel about this... 

But I sure wish Boy was here to not know what to feel about it with me. Oof. I know it's healthy for couples to have solo adventures, and I am 207 percent in favor of epic solo adventuring, but... we still haven't had enough adventures together for me to want them alone. 

Doesn't matter who left whom, Boy.

I just want you to be here.

I'm Not Sexy When... Grand Junction, CO

A mellow lamp shines softly to my right. Unlit candles are mounted on bookshelves, on walls, on end tables  and probably would be hanging from the ceiling if Boy could figure out a way to rig it. An old fashioned wicker rocker sits motionless next to the keyboard Boy bought off of craigslist a few months ago. My sadly neglected guitar rests on its side underneath Boy’s keyboard, badly out of tune and feeling pretty resentful about it. A National Geographic map of the world hangs on the wall behind me. Sometimes I walk into this space (which I’m calling, “The Burrow”. Regardless of whether or not Boy approves) to find Boy kneeling on the fluffy brown couch and gazing at the map with an expression of wonder and delight. 

Coffee in one hand. 

Oscar Wilde in the other. 

Distracted from Dorian Grey by the coast of France or the unwieldy capital of Madagascar, Antananarivo. 

Gosh, I like this one. 

The sound of the burbling fish tank trickles through the door that leads to the adjoined room in which Boy soundly sleeps. 

Boy doesn’t do anything but soundly sleep at five in the morning. Boy grumpily calls five in the morning  either, “the middle of the night,” or “o’dark thirty.” Even though five in the morning is clearly well beyond midnight and there’s nary a “thirty” to be found in “five in the morning.” 

Gosh. This one... 

I leave for a week in Boston this morning. My work at Zoe House (a safe house for survivors of domestic violence, date rape and stalking) is sending me to the East Coast for a training on how best to offer care to the survivors residing at our new facility. Hence, this is my first legit work trip. I’m not just flying by the seat of my pants to Marrakech to bum around the city for a couple of months and see what I can see. I’m getting paid to travel to Boston and attend sixteen hours of training in trauma informed care. 

Feels weird. Totally bizarre. Grownup and responsible.  

Thankfully, I’ll be balancing the adventure with 3 days of couchsurfing in Savin Hill, so I’ll end the trip as a vagabond even if I have to start it as a grownup. 

I haven't been writing because I haven't been traveling. I used to feel horribly guilty about neglecting this blog, but I think I've come to a place of acceptance. Gallivanting Grasshopper explores my life as a traveler. When I'm not traveling, I'm not inspired to write. 

And you know what? 

That's okay. I do plenty of other things when I'm not traveling/writing. 

I've been studying massage therapy for the last month and a half. 

I've tested out of foot reflexology, Swedish massage and am currently learning Nepali Ayurvedic. I'm booking about 5 massages a week and am getting paid for my work. Which feels almost as novel as it does awesome. 

I'm taking a photojournalism class at the university and am learning how to use my camera to keep me present Grand Junction. 

Which still isn't easy for me. 

My days start at 6:00 am with a yoga class at either Yoga West or Colorado Mesa University, are filled with Zoe House and end at 8:30 pm when I blearily drive home from massage school. So not only do I have minimal inspiration to write, I also just don't have time or energy to process my feelings and experiences. 

But somehow Boy always helps ground me with candles and wine and many, many hairy kisses. 

Also, I've been very busy becoming a certified Canadian, 

Turning our refrigerator into a novel,

and being perpetually surprised by all the ways Boy insists on keeping the Christmas spirit alive. 

I've been exploring wearing bits of makeup again. Mascara one day. Eyeliner the next. A dress here and there. Being in Grand Junction again is bringing up body image issues I thought/hoped I'd worked through during my two years of no makeup/no shaving/nothing pretty ever. But it's easier to work through body image issues while on the move, because you know that people aren't holding you hostage to previous images of you.  For example, when I was teaching yoga in Grand Junction in 2012, I still struggled with an eating disorder. I weighed 15 pounds less than I do now, and it wasn't a healthy 15 pounds less. I'm afraid that people will look at me now and hold me to that previous, unhealthy self. And regardless of whether or not the comparison takes place outside of me, the comparison gets stuck in my mind and I begin to feel inadequate. 

No... I haven't let go of vanity or insecurities. The only thing I let go of was the idea that my body is of any consequence at all. When I talk about this experiment, I talk about how I had all those meaningful relationships IN SPITE of my hairy legs and naked face. My body got in the way, but my sexy brain thing and heart stuff outweighed, overwhelmed the negatives my body brought to the table. So instead of growing to love my body as it is, I've grown to regard it as irrelevant. 

Boy and I have recently taken an OWL's (Our Whole Lives) class at the UU church. This class really delves into the issues of sex, gender, relationships and body image. During the final workshop, we were asked to write down all the things we believe keep us from being "sexy". 

I wrote down on my slip of pink paper, 

"I'm not sexy when I use my sexuality to manipulate others." 
"I'm not sexy when I use my sexuality to survive." 
"I'm not sexy when I view my body as an obstacle or an enemy." 
"I'm not sexy when I'm feeling controlled or disempowered." 

All of these... are head or heart things. None are actually about the body. While all of these are valid and true in my life, I want to invite myself back into my body. I want to celebrate my physical self. When I think about the beautiful, sexy moments of my life, I want to feel like my body helped facilitate beauty. And sexiness. Not that beauty and sexy triumphantly managed to occur in spite of this body. 

I know where I want to end. 

Now I'll just have to figure out where to begin. 

Okay.