Notes from the Road. Part Eleven: San Francisco. One, Two, and Three

Notes from the Road

Part Eleven: San Francisco

One


Six shows left.
 
I have been trying and trying and trying to write something, but nothing is coming out. Which is to say, lots is coming out, but none of it is post-worthy.
 
I didn’t fall asleep until after 5am last night (this morning). When I was younger, my insomniac thoughts inevitably let to spiral of suicidal ideation. I’m happy to say that doesn’t happen anymore, but I still just lie there for hours on end, worrying over shit I need to do.  Or things I want to do but “can’t.” Or things I should have done but didn’t. Or things I shouldn’t have done but did. And before I know it, it’s 4am and I don’t want to take melatonin because it’s too late, even though I don’t officially have anything to do the next day until 7pm and could easily sleep all day if I had to. And I know I’m supposed to get up and do something to make myself sleepy, but that always seems counterintuitive. So instead I just lie there.
 
I live in a constant state of panic that I won’t get enough sleep. When Saint WhoeverItIs meets me at the pearly gates, he’s going to show me a tally of how much of my life was wasted in sleeping or trying to sleep.
 
I have to keep reminding myself that I am working right now, and I’m preparing to be a full time single parent again, and I’m in the middle of the end-of-the-run panic; That panic that comes with the end of any job, but is compounded by having to pack up eight months-worth of crap (What do I do with loose packets of Throat Coat tea? And what does this random cord go with? And why are there so many pennies at the bottom of my tour trunk??). So, it’s not like I have endless actual or mental time and space for creativity. It makes sense that my brain isn’t creating during my “free time.” It would just be nice if it would shut down at night. Maybe that’s when I should be trying to write.
 
Here’s evidence:
 
False Start Number 1:
 
I left my…back massager in Charlotte. I don’t know how I could have managed that. It’s a massive piece of technology that plugs into the wall. But somehow, I left it on the floor by the bed and got all the way to the airport before I realized what I had done.
 
One would think, after more than 20 flights in a year, I would know how to pack a suitcase. Inevitably, however, I’m standing with a TSA agent as they go through my carry-on, saying, “I don’t need that. Just throw it away!” I swear to god, if there were a zombie apocalypse, I’d be the one bringing up the rear with a Smarte Carte™, going, “Don’t worry about me guys, I’ll catch up!” That’s assuming I woke up in time to escape the zombies in the first place.
 
So, as the TSA agent is fingering my belongings in the Charlotte airport I’m suddenly aware there’s no “back massager” in my bag for me to be embarrassed about. I mean, we’re all adults here, and we all know that we massage our own backs from time to time, but still. And afterward, as I’m racing to the bathroom to relieve myself of the 16 ounces of water I downed in the security checkpoint line so I wouldn’t have to throw away another official The Humans Water Bottle™, I’m frantically looking up the phone number for the Air B&B host to ask him if he found my back massager. He didn’t.
 
He didn’t find a foot long VIBRATOR left behind in an otherwise empty apartment.
 
Hopefully whoever *didn’t* find it, cleaned it before they *didn’t* massage their own back with it. I mean, I have a very clean…back. But still.
 
Anyway, the point is, I had to buy a new vibrator. I did a bunch of research and settled on one I think I’ll be happy with. So, I find it online, enter all my info, spend five minutes deciding where to have it shipped (Tempe? San Francisco? Seattle? New York? Where the hell am I going to be when and do I need to add another thing to my suitcases?), and hit “Submit” and suddenly find myself wondering when I’m going to have time for that particular form of self-care. I will be spending at least the entire summer sharing a bed with my five-year-old. And yes, I know I have a shower, but the issue is more complicated than that.
 
At 38 I am just figuring myself out. I have a child to raise. I’m going to be living with his father. What am I going to do? Bring a parade of gender queer folk into our house and have super quiet queer sex and then get up and take my son to school and go about my day?
 
It’s been a super fun, interesting ride, guys. I started out kind of Bi and ended up full on poly queer. Polyqueer? Is that a facebook orientation choice yet? But I think the ride is over. I think I have to get off the carousel and watch from the sidelines. I don’t have $5 to ride again. I didn’t get enough in while it lasted.


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False Start Number 2:

Something very strange is happening. Or maybe it isn’t happening. Or maybe it is happening but it’s not that strange. Or maybe it’s not strange that it is happening.
 
Or maybe I’m strange?
 
I tried on a button down the other day and Ryan told me to button it up to the top (universal non-femme Lesbian calling card). I turned to look at myself and got hit with a wave of feelings that were hard to grab ahold of. Looking at myself in this shirt buttoned all the way up I felt giddy, confused, unattractive, attractive, handsome, pretty, ugly. And turned on. And sad.
 
I saw a pair of knee-length, baggy shorts and thought they might look good on me and felt flooded with sadness.
 
I see sequined dresses and think how pretty they are but can’t imagine myself ever wearing one again.

Why is it making my sad? 
 
I tried on one of Ryan’s binders and hated my silhouette.
 
When I was young I wanted breasts so badly. I thought breasts would be the signal to the world that was no longer a little girl. I was a woman. The ones I got are small, but they get the job done. And after nursing my son, I’ll admit, they don’t stand at attention quite like they used to. But they make a nice shape and I like them. I don’t want to bind them.
 
The concept of “gender nonconforming” is complicated. To say that you don’t conform to a prescribed gender is to implicitly admit that there is something normative to conform to. And I know we live within a system that relies on language to convey ideas, and in this system, we have generally operated under the assumption that women are one way and men are another. I think a more accurate term would be “nonconforming to made up gender ideals,” but economy of language is important, so we’ll stick with “gender nonconforming” until we can all agree that there is no such thing as a gender norm to conform to.

And in the meantime, I'll try to figure out what damn clothes I want to wear.
 
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Maybe if I chose to write about a TV show, or food, or puppies I’d be having an easier time. But, no, I’ve decided that I need to have an identity crisis in public.
 
I need a nap.