And what is that you ask?
It’s the natural progression from Sober October.
It is a self-imposed month of celibacy. That’s right. Celibacy.

Why would a single, cosmopolitan gal like myself make such a choice? Well, for those of you who have read most of this blog, the answer is probably crystal clear. If you are a new reader, all you need to know is that I need to just be still. In my heart. In my home.

When I was in the midst of my last big relationship, which was really not working, I used to imagine my single-hood. In my fantasy life, it consisted of a fabulous bachelorette pad (check), lots of fun social engagements (check), many long baths (check), and a string of lovers to delight and amuse me (check. sort of.)

In the reality of single-hood I have realized something essential, which I was initially frustrated by. On occasion, I have met a perfectly fine fellow who I could simply enjoy a good romp with, however the boys that actually move me are the ones I get very attached to, so as soon as you introduce sex into that mix, I start to feel things. Lots of things. I also start to imagine scenarios involving this other person, and forget my promise to live in the moment. The best way to this girl’s heart is apparently NOT through her stomach.

Things like shopping for chutney together in an open-air market become vastly symbolic. Each lyric that is sung or typed becomes rich with meaning, and charged with emotion. When you make me soup from a chicken-carcass you’ve frozen I feel like you have infused it with love, and are feeding it to me in squashy liquid form. And for god’s sakes, when you stand out in the rain, while getting over a cold, to watch me perform at an exclusive engagement, I think it means something big. Big. Not casual.

Not casual. I am not casual. I am french cuffs with your great grandfather’s monogrammed cuff links on an Egyptian cotton shirt that fits like its supposed to. I am your Auntie’s cherished chutney recipe with that secret ingredient handed down from generation to generation. I am the real crystal that sings to you when you trail a slightly wet finger slowly around the rim. I am linen pressed with lavender water, fluffy monogrammed towels, and real silver tea service polished to a shine.

I am not casual. A slightly tipsy make out is great fun, but the big guns are going to be reserved. Casual sex is like a stale cookie. It’s still kind of tasty if you have a major craving, but it isn’t gooey, and warm, and you certainly won’t want to dip it in milk.

There is an expression that used to make me cringe: “Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free.” Its utterly (pardon the pun) offensive. First, because in this modern age, I feel a woman should be able to have sex when she feels like it, without playing head games. Second because it makes men sound like callous idiots who are only running around in search of as much free dairy as they can get their lips around. I also think this is gross because I don’t like to think of myself as livestock.

But guess what? If my field research is accurate, this expression might be horrifically true. Nobody is in the market for a cow, and up until Saturday, I was a bovine at well-staffed dude ranch with over-active mammary glands.

Not anymore.

If you have magic beans, then we can talk about a deal. I will lead my prize Jersey into the market square, and you can have a look at her from every angle. You can inspect her teeth for signs of disease. You can smack her rump to check her muscle tone. I may even climb your beanstalk…but this time, I’m only going to do it for the golden egg. And by god, there better be a giant involved.

It’s so easy. A few quick flicks of the thumb, and I’ve tossed my heart out into the ether again. Perhaps a ‘delete’ is in order, to spare me the ridiculousness of it all.
This is a hard one. Which, to me only serves to illustrate the fact that I’ve made the right decision, but on nights like this, when I am home early and trying to think of creative ways to stay warm, it’s very difficult to be strong.
Although it’s rather presumptuous of me to think my texting would be answered with a positive…

I can’t shake this funk. My days are spent in a fog, and I want to either curl up and sleep them away, or soak them away in a hot bath. I know it’s a cumulative funk. It’s not just from one source. It’s been building over many months of what now feels like recklessness on my part.

I’ve never run away before. I’ve always run headlong into these things, against all reason sometimes, and stuck it out to “just see”. Always. If it felt good, I felt no need to quit. But first there was the special, secret friend who wasn’t always so secret, who I flat out said no to because I knew I would fall too hard. That became a clear and wise decision very quickly. Then there was this last…so much of it made sense that it was almost impossible to hear the alarm bells, but they were there. This one hurts me.

I said “pause”. I feel like it was the wrong term. I don’t have enough faith for “pause”.

Maybe if I was someone else, if I hadn’t been through so much pain so very recently, I could have chilled out enough to just coast through the unknown and see what happens. As it stands, now I have retreated deep into this attic, and I’m buried under piles of quilts. I’ve stored enough nuts up here to last me well into the spring, so I intend to hide out from the elements until the weather gets better. It would be cozier with two, but despite all of this space, nobody else seems to fit.

Winter makes cowards of us all.

October 26th List.

Today would have been my six year wedding anniversary. The following list is only partially related to that fact.

What I Need, Today:

Something pretty, and very, very feminine to wear.
Rain boots for proper grounding.
Coffee
French toast with sausage
Coffee
To be surrounded by strangers, while I listen to my ipod
My journal
A good hair day
My pretty umbrella
The motivation to clean up in The Fortress
Lots of affection from Toulouse (already in progress)
Some time to read a novel and forget who and where I am
A lively, productive rehearsal
To laugh. A lot.
Hope. (an extra dose. with a side order of faith, which I hear is hard to get at this time of year.)
The lump in my throat to dissolve
Probably some tissue
Fresh sheets and pillow cases
A steaming mug of Nuit Calme
Perhaps another bath
A good night’s sleep
Dreams that I can remember in the morning

My brain came back from Vacation just in time.

We’re very glad to see you again brain, and you look so refreshed and revitalized. The tan suits you beautifully. Once you’re settled, heart and gut would like to sit down and catch you up on everything that’s happened, and most significantly, the things that haven’t happened while you were away. Oh, and they watered your plants.

Tonight I pranced up and down a very grand staircase with nine stunningly beautiful women, wearing turn of the century underwear in front of 1000 people.

You stood beneath a tree, outside, in the rain watching us through the glass.

I can think of two ways that this can unfold.

You will either remember me always as the girl in the fishbowl.

or…

Next time you could be inside, sipping Shiraz and wearing a three piece suit.

The water is just fine, in case you were wondering.

This evening I got home from work and spent an hour attending to household administration, and then packed up my laundry and wheeled it down to the laundromat that I frequent. I swear I will feel like an actual grown up when I have my own washer and dryer somewhere. During laundry, I shared dinner with a friend who I haven’t seen in a little while, but then I was left alone. Utterly alone, at night, in a deserted Laundromat devoid of people and whirring machines. Even the too-loud television was turned off for the night. Laundry is such an incredibly domestic chore, and one I’ve always rather enjoyed, but tonight it made me incredibly uneasy. As I folded my laundry, I began to think…

When something is stained, really stained, it becomes an embarrassment. We pre-soak. We spray. We spend an extra .75 on that oxy stuff that’s supposed to remove even the toughest, ground in whatever. All of these efforts will surely make the stain fade, but it’s obviously still visible. Your whites will never get whiter again sometimes.

So then what? You can toss the offending article out, but it’s still perfectly usable! That sweater will still keep you warm. Those socks will still make your feet toasty. That bed will still provide the deepest, sweetest slumber. But who can see past that unsightly mark? Who can appreciate the inherent worth of an article without getting completely hung up on what the stain might have been caused by? Is it mustard? Rust? Grass? Mud? Blood?

No late-night infomercial gimmick will work. No Martha-Stewart, Haley’s Handy Hints, Aunt Bea’s secret solution will lift and remove. No cold bucket of water, no sea salt, no club soda will make this mark go away. It will fade, and in the right light you will hardly ever see it, but when the sun shines a certain way, or you approach it from a certain angle, there it will be.

The question is, do you throw it out, or do you decide that you love it for its character?

My head is so full, but my lips are perfectly sealed. I’m amazed to discover that I can, at will, completely shut off my heart. It’s extraordinary and terrifying. It’s like watching someone else live my life with utter, cold, detachment. I feel like I am my own Victorian chaperon; one icy hand on my own shoulder to steer me away from temptation and heartache. In the past, it was only under extreme emotional duress that I have been able to feel such vacancy.

But when I am alone with my thoughts, I am mostly afraid, and that fear is now spilling into my dreams, which until now I’ve been unable to remember upon waking in the morning.

My heart is flickering to life like a camping lantern that needs stronger batteries. Can you feel it? I used to slip so effortlessly into abandon, falling so far, so fast. Uttering aloud each moment and each discovery. Now, I am keeping these things so close. Now these words can’t find their way to my lips. They dissolve in pools of awkward uncertainty, and I wonder how I must come across…

Your kindness comes as naturally as breathing, and if I think too much about what an effect it has had on me, I feel that terrifying lump that means I’ve opened these doors too wide. To even try to write this feels strained, and I hesitate to hit the “publish” button.

I can give my heart freely to my friends and my family. For them my love knows now bounds and I openly express my affection and joy each time they make my heart swell.

Anything beyond this feels like alien territory. It’s been so easy to offer up various other parts of myself in these last few months, but now I feel like Bambi on the skating pond.

Limbs akimbo, here I go.