Show Me Your Work

There’s making a decision. Then there’s explaining a decision.

My decision to stop dating, to dismiss the idea of love and romance in my life? A sound decision. One I’ve circled since my last relationship ended in 2016. And maybe before that, when my boss (full disclosure: I am an executive assistant) gave me a “thank you for putting up with my shit” speech right before he gave me a $2,000 bonus and I remembered every time I’d heard a similar sentiment with no tangible reward at the end.

Either way, it’s 2022. I’ve workshopped this theory for six years. There isn’t a possibility or corner that I haven’t considered.

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Retirement Blues

I don’t understand why men are so boring when they want to fuck you.

The man in question is my checklist incarnate. Tall. Clean cut. Boyish charm with the promise of mischief in his eyes that belies his age (within a comfortable two years of me). And so it starts the way things do when an influx of out of towners invade a small-ish city. Busy, well-traveled boy spots local girl. What passes for fliting in 2022 (an exchange of Instagram handles) ensues. His mission is clear: he wants to secure companionship for the night. Mine…less so.

I’m testing a couple of theories.

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On the Third Anniversary

It’s my anniversary…

It’s been three years since I had my fallopian tubes removed (a.k.a. elective tubal saplingectomy surgery). 

Other than the initial consultation with my doctor (she trusted me to make decisions about my body without question — shocking behavior), the process was unremarkable: a few hours in a hospital on the really good drugs, a few days of rest and taking it slow, and tiny twin incisions on my lower abdomen that, three years later, are almost gone. ¡Voila! A vision made real: no bebes, ever. 

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