Smell-how does it affect your day?

As I type, I smell the acid of fresh ground coffee. Sharp and skunky, it fills my nostrils and wakes me up.

I know once I get to work, the smell will change. Walking into the office I share with six guys, the most noticeable smell is body odor. It wafts from the far right corner of the room, settling somewhere in the middle by my desk.
The smell is J. An obnoxiously privileged white guy, he gets under my skin. The fact that he refuses to bathe or wash his hair regularly just makes me angrier. The smell permeates our shared office and grosses all of out.
Since he started working there, we no longer eat at our desks. His odor nauseates us and taints the taste of our food. Everyone has started wearing cologne to try to mask the odor and to keep it from causing us to stink.

Due to the extreme political correctness at my place of employment, we are not supposed to say a word about it to him.
We brought in a fan to try to eradicate the odor, but he got upset because he doesn't believe in 'artificially blown air'.
We cannot use air fresheners(or disinfect our desks) because he is offended by chemicals.
We cannot prop open the door to let the office air out because he thinks it feels 'oppressive' to work with the door open.

I never knew another persons smell could bother me so much.

What is your most distinct childhood memory?

My most distinct childhood memory is my mother's criticism.

"K, stop talking. Your voice is annoying."
"Stop talking. Nobody cares what you have to say."
"You're so stupid. Why would anyone want to be your friend?"
"You annoy people. That's why nobody likes you."
"You shouldn't eat that. Nobody wants to be friends with a fat girl."
"You need to lose weight. Nobody likes fat people."
"Don't laugh. Your laugh is loud and annoying."
"Please don't sing in the choir. Your voice is horrible."
"Be quiet. Your voice is shrill and annoying, and nobody wants to hear you."
"Nobody likes you because you are fat and loud. I don't know how I ended up with a daughter like you."

Over and over and over. I spent hours trying to figure out why she hated me so much.



From my mother I learned to disappear.

When I stopped eating and talking and tried to take up as little space as possible, she finally liked me. She stopped criticizing me. I tried to be as tiny and quiet as possible so that she would continue to not hate me. I wanted her to like me.

One day she told me she had put on twenty pounds in fifth grade, so her mother had covered the fridge with pictures of cows and pigs and oinked every time my mother opened the door. She told me that her mother was trying to help her become a better person.

After she told me that, I knew why she treated me the way she did....and I stopped trying to make myself disappear.

At 36, I no longer give a damn what she thinks. I eat what I want, say what I want, and laugh loudly and happily whenever I want.

She may not like me, but she respects me.

Why do you live where you do? Does it feel like home?

I live in St. Louis City. And I embody more than a few of the stereotypes. I like Imo's pizza, I hate the Cardinals, and I have strong feelings about certain flavors of gooey butter cake.

 I love the free concerts that happen every night in the summertime, the museums, all of the outdoor art. I adore walking down South Grand and hearing four different languages being spoken at once. I love the fancy shops and cluttered sidewalks of the Central West End, even as I bitch about the lack of parking. I love walking The Loop and and seeing the St. Louis Walk of Fame, as cheesy as it is. I'm charmed by the tiny shops and funky houses of Maplewood and will spend hours discussing different types of greens at the Tower Grove farmers market. I could spend days sitting on Cherokee, just watching the art and the anarchists and eating at restaurants where nobody speaks English but me. I've been to every coffee shop in town and have strong opinions about the merits and drawbacks of each one. I enjoy the friendliness of the people here, and how we will jump into conversations(and arguments) with perfect strangers about the weather, the politics, the racial issues, which neighborhood is the best (Shaw!) and the city-county divide.

But I'm not a native. I just moved here nine years ago. I moved here for a job; I planned to just stay a few years and move on. 

The first year was awful. I lived in the suburbs and didn't talk to my neighbors. I spent my weekends planning how I was going to get out, the ways I could get away from this place. I decided to give it three years, then look for jobs in Chicago.

But then I moved into the city and everything changed. Everything. 

For the first time, I understood why people felt so passionately about living in the city. Because I'm one of those people now.

I'm home. And I don't ever plan to leave. 

November Writings, post one

Once again, I will be participating in November Writings, a group that writes 30 blog posts in 30 days.
The first topic is: Interview someone about their best moment of the year. Share what you heard.

September 2014. 5:30 PM

C trudged up the stairs, stopping to grab the pile of mail out of the overflowing mail bin by the door. It was warm and the hallway smelled faintly of onions, probably the remnants of someone's supper. She pushed open the door, shooing the cats away with her foot. Throwing the mail on the table, she happened to glance at the large white envelope on the top.
It was from the college. She froze.

September 2011. 5:30 PM

She walked quickly across campus, hoping to make it to class on time. She had been up since five, teaching all day before heading to the college for her night classes. She sighed and wondered again why she had thought it was a good idea to go to grad school full time while she was still teaching. She was so exhausted and had another five hours to go before she started the long drive home. By the time she got back to the apartment it would be dark.

September 2012. 5:30 PM
She jogged back to her car, hoping to beat rush hour on her way back into the city. Between taking two grad level classes and teaching two sections of freshmen English, she felt as if her entire life was spent on campus. She was glad not to be teaching high schoolers anymore, but money worries kept her up at night. Reaching her car, she grabbed her Whole Foods apron and quickly tied it around her waist before shutting the door and grabbing her sandwich out of her bag. She drove out of the parking lot, chewing on her sandwich and dreading the six hour shift ahead of her. Days like this she wondered why she was still doing this, why she was still chasing a dream that seemed unattainable.

September 2013. 5:30 PM
She walked through the back door of the coffee shop, feeling the rush of warm air across her face. She had a few minutes before her shift started so she pulled out her laptop and tried to spend a few minutes proofreading her thesis. She felt like this paper filled up every waking hour of her life. Weekends were spent at the coffee shop, either working behind the counter for minimum wage, or hunched over her laptop at the back table while she gulped down coffee. The alarm on her phone went off, so she snapped her computer shut and walked behind the counter, still thinking about her research.


September 2014. 5:45 PM.
Sitting down in her favorite chair, she slowly opened the envelope. She slid out a piece of heavy paper and immediately knew what it was.
Three long years.
Hundreds of hours of research.
Long days and late nights.

It was finally here. Her diploma, stating that she had completed a Masters level degree in English rhetoric and composition.
She leaned back in the chair and thought about the times she had doubted herself, the times she wanted to give up. Those days were gone and she finally had proof of her accomplishments.
Finally.

225

225.

That's my weight right now. It's a nice round number.

It's 25 less than it was a year ago, but that 25 pounds lost has made a tremendous difference in how I feel. 225 feels better to me than 250 did. I have more energy and my pants fit the way I like.

One of the things that I find so fascinating about our society is our obesssion with weight. We talk about dieting, the best foods to make us lose weight, the best times to eat to lose weight. We discuss celebrity diets, friend's diets, diets we read about and try, and diets we wouldn't try for all of the money in the world.

But rarely do we mention the actual number.
Most people don't want anyone to know the actual number.

I have watched my mother diet my entire life. She has turned down more desserts than I can remember, and spent weeks on end eating nothing but fat free turkey sandwiches on fat free(and nutrition free) white bread. She has measured her food, eaten diet dinners galore, and subsisted on diet shakes. She goes to the gym, goes to Weight Watchers, and dutifully writes down every bit eaten into her little blue notebook.

Every family gathering begins with the conversation about who has gained weight, who has lost weight, and what diets they are using. I remember one year where Thanksgiving dinner was fat free turkey slices with lowfat canned gravy(yes, its as disgusting as it sounds), instant mashed potatoes with fake butter, and chunks of baked pumpkin instead of pumpkin pie.
My father took pity on us and took us to Hardees so we could have burgers for Thanksgiving.


The funny thing is this: She still looks exactly the same to me as when she started. Exactly.

She has spent the last 36 years losing and re-gaining the same 30 pounds.

And she has never, ever told anyone what she weighs. The number she obsesses over is a number that nobody will ever know. She's too ashamed to tell anyone the number.

Kinda silly, isn't it?

re-booting

One of the things I have learned in the past few years is that I really need to write.
It calms me down.
It helps me get my thoughts out.
It helps me process my emotions instead of bottling them up.


But I don't do it. I think about it, I plan to do it, I tell people I'm going to do it....and then I don't do it.
I watch television. I read. I play on the facebook, getting lost in other people's drama.
But I don't write.

So one of the things I've been researching lately(NERD ALERT) is our body's natural cycles, and how our outer environment and inner environment don't match up the way they should.
I've also been reading about cycles of extroversion and introversion and how they relate to our surroundings.

One of the biggest things I've been working on is learning to listen to my body. I tend to disconnect from myself and focus on other people's needs and wants much of the time, so paying attention to myself is scary.
Listening to myself is scary.
Putting my needs first is fucking terrifying.

One of my goals for this winter is to allow my natural cycle of introversion to happen.

Generally my first instinct when the weather gets cold is to spend time outdoors. Alone.
But what I do is socialize and volunteer and go to parties and throw parties and join groups and spend time on social media, all the while wishing I were sitting quietly in a room thinking and writing.

I need to work on this. And I plan to.

Snow

Snow! Snow! Snowsnowsnowsnow!!

I'm very excited about the snow. It makes me feel all peaceful and happy inside. 

Close Object-Scarf

A beautiful pink,

Soft as silk. 

Fringe at the end

That flutters in the wind. 

Planned Parenthood logo, 

Carefully embroidered on the edge. 

An unexpected thanks

For a day answering phones. 

It's a soft reminder of why I do what I do. 

Broken Heart

The first time it broke I was 17. The boy all of my friends told me I should date had started dating another girl. I didn't particularly like him, but in the manner of most high school girls, I felt like I should have a boyfriend. I cried for a week. 

Six years later, I ran into him. He was working at Taco Bell and living with his mom. 

The second time it broke I was 19. My first girlfriend had gone back to her ex. I sat waiting for her, as the dinner I made her slowly got cold, until midnight on valentines day. The next day, she called to tell me that she had realized she was still in love with her ex and that she would be by later to pick up her things. We would get back together three weeks later, then break up again. It was a pattern we would continue for almost two years. 

Fourteen years later, I'm friends with the ex and the woman I thought I loved is living in Montana with an abusive man and their child. 

The third time it broke I was 27. The woman I loved wouldn't stop drinking and getting high. I begged and pleaded, bargained and cajoled. She spent all of our money getting high and drained my savings account to buy tequila. She told me she didn't like drinking but that she didn't want to stop. On our anniversary, I told her the only thing I wanted was for her to be sober for a week. She agreed and said she really wanted to change. Her sobriety lasted less than a day. 

Seven years later, we are friends on Facebook and she has been sober for five years. She said when I left she realized she needed to get help. 

After three heartaches, I wrapped my broken heart in barbed wire and poured a layer of concrete around it, and made sure nobody got close enough to hurt me. 

Four years ago, my niece was born. My heart broke open with joy, and I felt a kind of love I never knew was possible. I became softer, happier, and my heart, broken by lovers, was healed when I held her. 

Two months after that I met the woman I call my wife. The barbed wire is gone, the concrete has been broken down and my heart is free again. 

Fences

Inside Looking Out

Standing by her best friend's car

She looks in his angry eyes

And wonders why he's here

She hears him yelling at her

"We'll help you and your baby"

"You don't have to do this"

"You're going to regret this"

She knows she is hearing lies. 

She finds herself judging him

Wondering why she's here. 

It's none of his business anyways. 

She turns to walk inside. 

Just another Saturday at the clinic. 

Outside Looking In

Standing on the sidewalk

He looks past her sad eyes

And knows why she's here. 

He starts telling at get

"We'll help you and your baby"

"You don't have to do this"

"You're going to regret this"

He knows he is telling lies. 

He looks at her and judges her.

Wonders why her boyfriend isn't here, knows it isn't his business anyways. 

He turns to harass another woman. 

Just another Saturday at the clinic. 

Fuck

"Fuck" ,she cried in pain. 

Looked up at the cliff. She knew

she'd never be found. 

"Fuck!" She pushed again. 

She heard the baby's first cry, 

knew it was worth it. 

"Fuck" he shouted. 

I told you 'Don't touch my guns'. 

Smiling, she shot him. 

A Story in Five Sentences

Vegans of fifteen years, Pam and JB were well known in the vegan community. JB ran a popular vegan blog and Pam was a nutritionist who touted the benefits of veganism. One day, while searching for the soysage, Pam came across a strange package hidden underneath the tempeh in the refrigerator. Upon opening it, Pam was horrified to realize that it contained Hickory Farms sausage. Judging from the look on JB's face when confronted with the package, Pam knew it wasn't the first time. 

My Favorite Holiday

Crispy, cold air. The smell of woodsmoke in the air. Big smiles on kids faces. Bells, jingling everywhere you go. 

I love Xmas. I'm not even Xtian and I love it. 

I love seeing my niece shriek with joy when she opens the tool set or the books we got her. Everyone else gets her dolls but she knows Aunt Kerrie buys her fun gifts.

I thoroughly enjoy the White Elephant game my family plays---the rule is you must bring something used to exchange. One particularly ugly set of towels made it to the White Elephant six years in a row, until one of my aunts finally took them to goodwill. 

I am overjoyed by the food. All of the women in my family are always dieting so there's more pie for me. 

I don't generally like my family, but for a few magical hours on Xmas Eve...we all get along. 

I adore spending Xmas Day at my in-laws. C's mom always slips me a fifty dollar bill and tells me, "Don't pay bills with it. And don't buy C anything with it. Spend it on yourself". 

It makes me laugh when her Uncle Derek (who refers to me as his white niece)tells me that I'm *almost* part of the family. Almost. 

I love how her aunt drives up from Atlanta with gallons of a special brand of ice cream you can only get in Georgia. They bring so much it barely fits in the freezer. 

I revel in all of the visitors--her extended family is huge and everyone shows up with hugs, food, and laughter. 

It wasn't always like this. For years I refused to celebrate the holiday due to its associations with consumerism. I hated the crowds. I was saddened by the excessive spending and the sheer wastefulness of it all. 

I also didn't like the Jesus aspect of it. I hated all of the pins and shirts that touted Jesus as the reason for the season, when for the majority people it really isn't. 

A few years ago, I realized something important. The holiday season isn't about shopping and buying and excessive consumption. 

It also isn't about Jesus, at least bit for me. 

It's about family and friends and laughing together and reminding them of how much you care. That, to me, is the real reason for the season. 

Sunday Morning

Those who have known me for a short time would be surprised that my Sunday morning ritual used to involve teaching Sunday school and playing in the church handbell choir. 

I loved teaching Sunday school. I taught the three year olds. We sang songs, spun in circles, drew pictures, and ran around on the playground. I was never into the 'message of Jesus' as the other teachers called it, but I did want to teach the children important things. I wanted them to know that they were loved, that someone cared for them, and that the world was a friendly and wonderful place.

I was in the handbell choir simply because nobody else wanted to be. In my small Lutheran school, you HAD to either play a sport, be a cheerleader, or volunteer at the church. I tried basketball and hated it, and despite my mothers dreams, I loathed the thought of being a cheerleader. That left only one option: volunteering. 

I spent a few weeks organizing the church library, but the secretary got mad at me because I asked why all of the books for women involved obeying men to make them happy. The next time I went to volunteer, the secretary said she didn't need help. 

I had a few weeks of mailing out offering packets, but it was a short lived gig. 

I asked if I could volunteer to mow the church lawn but that was met with a resounding NO. Apparently only boys could volunteer to mow. 

Given the option of visiting the elderly or playing handbells, I chose the handbells. Every Sunday I would dutifully pick up my bell and chime it in unison along with an assorted group of older women who had joined the handbell choir out of sheer boredom. 

After I got done with my Sunday school kids and chimed my bell intermittently throughout the church service, my dad would take off his church usher's jacket and drive me home, stopping to get a forbidden doughnut from the local bakery. My mom would get mad if she knew he was letting me have a doughnut, so we would eat them in the bakery, sitting on tiny chairs while he chatted with the old men who came there to drink coffee after church. 

At fifteen, I abruptly stopped going to church. I told my parents I had never really believed in Jesus and my mom got hysterical, telling me," It doesn't matter if you believe, Kerrie. You go to church because you don't want people to talk bad about you." Every Sunday she would scream and yell and try to cajole me into going long enough for people to see me there, and every Sunday I refused.

My peaceful Sunday mornings had turned into a living hell. 

These days my Sundays are different. I roll out of bed late, throw on some comfortable clothes, and head to the coffee shop where my partner works. 

She brings me a steaming Americano and a raspberry white chocolate muffin, and I settle into the big leather chair by the front window with the newspaper. 

The Sunday morning regulars come by. 

 Ms. Ella, who is 75 and has her daughter drop her off, sits and talks to me. We swap recipes and she makes her shopping list. She LOVES my partner and doesn't care that we are atheist lesbians. She and my partner talk on the phone weekly and my partner takes her grocery shopping twice a month, patiently helping her carry everything in and put it away. 

The Asian family that comes by every week drops by to pick up some coffee, their kids giggling as we make silly faces at each other. 

There are a lot of kids that come by the shop. I smile and wave at them and occasionally we giggle together. I want them to know that the world is a friendly and welcoming place, and that they are loved. 

Stevie Wonder plays on the CD player and I sing along. 

Ray-Ray comes by and sits at the table right outside the window, chain smoking and gulping coffee. Before he leaves, he points at my partner and jokingly tells me,"Watch out for that one. You gotta keep her in line."

On the way home, I stop at Aldis and get our groceries for the week. I buy what I want and what we can afford, and if I want doughnuts I get doughnuts. 

Coffee

I didn't taste the glory that is coffee until I was twenty two years old. 

I have no idea why I waited so damn long. 

I was never the kind of person who needed caffeine to get going; if anything, I needed substances to calm me down. 

I didn't like the sound of coffee. In my mind, it was something old people drank. It made your breath stink and your teeth brown, two things I didn't want to experience. My mom drank a pot of coffee daily. I didn't want to be addicted to something like that. 

But. I had a friend Dave who ALWAYS had energy. He taught college full time in addition to being a balledero and working on a novel. He was the kind of person who seemed to wake up perky. 

One day I asked him how he was so productive. He replied simply, "Coffee". 

I mulled over it for a few weeks, then decided to take the plunge. Somehow I knew once I tried it there would be no going back. 

I went over to his house one afternoon, mug in hand, and told him I was ready. He took his time, adding sugar carefully and making sure it was just right. 

I closed my eyes, put the mug up to my face, and took a sip. I instantly felt it: warmth, comfort, peace. 

When I introduced coffee to my friend Jeremy three weeks later he shouted in joy, "I feel so attractive and sexy when I'm drinking this stuff!"

The next day we ordered an espresso machine off eBay and went halves on an inexpensive coffee pot from Walmart. 

I've had months where I drank six cups a day. I've had weeks where I only wanted a few sips each morning. I had an early morning job that involved double fisting iced coffee so that I wouldn't yell at the clients. I've quit for months at a time, only for friends to bring me a cup and say, "Please start drinking coffee again. You're so much more pleasant with it."

It's a part of my life in a way that I never expected. I'll go weeks at a time without it, but when that craving hits I HAVE to have it. It calms me, makes me feel whole. That first warm sip lets me know all is right with the world. 

I know where every coffee shop in town is, and I can produce packets of instant coffee at a moments notice in an emergency. My coworkers tease me because I can't produce that first 'Good Morning' until I've had at least half a cup. 

I'll never be able to quit the coffee completely, and I never want to. 

Taurus

I both love and hate being a Taurus. 

I love the fact that I value deep friendship, that I'm loyal, earthy, sensual, and pragmatic. I love the sense of being grounded that I get when I'm around other Tauruses. 

But. 

I hate how stubborn I am. 

When I'm doing something difficult and I refuse to give up, I appreciate the innate stubbornness many Tauruses have. I revel in my dogged determination. 

But when I refuse to admit I'm wrong, or find it impossible to change my ways, I hate the stubbornness of my nature. 

Don't get me wrong; I've tried to change this part of myself. I've tried wearing a rubber band around my wrist so I can snap myself back into agreeableness when I'm being obstinate. 

I've written letters to myself. I've put notes in my wallet and purse reminding myself that it's okay to give in, that my life will not end if I admit to my mistakes. I've gone to counseling. I've read dozens of books. 

But still, I find myself standing in my own way. Over and over and over. 

When my boss mentions I made a mistake, I will argue with her for hours despite knowing that I am in the wrong. 

When my partner asks me to do something I don't want to do, I will flat out refuse to do it and make up dozens of reasons why I can't. 

When someone comes up with a quicker, better way if doing something, I will determinedly stick to the old, slow way if that's the way I like. 

I know I'm in the wrong. I know I should just give in. I know I'm only harming myself. 

But still, I persist. 

I often think that I'm going to be one if those old people who refuses to die. They'll turn off the machines and leave the room, and I'll still be lying there struggling to breathe. Stubborn to the very end. 

Comfort

The smell emanating from the crockpot after a long day at work. 

The sigh of happiness from a kitty cat as it settles into my lap. 

The creak of my favorite chair as I settle into it. 

Warm clothes straight from the dryer. 

That first sip of hot coffee on a cold morning. 

The sound of my niece laughing. 

The smell of fresh hay on a sunny summer afternoon. 

Our warm soft bed and a thick comforter. 

Comfort. 

My favorite person

My favorite person is sitting across the table, studying her laptop intently. Occasionally she grabs her notebook and quickly scribbles something into it, then takes a sip of coffee and smiles. 

This is how we spend our time together now. When she made the decision to go back to school, I was aware that our lives would change. I didn't realize how drastically different things would be. 

Gone are our leisurely Sunday mornings, where she would make me breakfast in bed and we would sit and talk for hours over coffee. Now our Sundays involve her jumping out of bed and throwing on clothes so that she can get to her second job. After that, I cook and clean while she works on her exit papers and scours the internet looking for job openings. 

She used to make over 60K; now her yearly income is significantly less. I don't make much working at a nonprofit so we live paycheck to precarious paycheck. It strains our tiny budget and has changed a lot of our habits. No more meals out when we are too tired to cook, no more thrift store shopping excursions. Every penny is accounted for and stretched until it can't be stretched any more. 

Our evenings no longer involve going to the movies, trying out new coffee places, or going to a concert. Most of our evenings now are spent with her reading and grading papers while I read and cook dinner. 

On the rare occasion we do go somewhere, it is to the coffee shop where she works part time, so that we can have free sandwiches and coffee, thanks to her generous boss. I never thought I'd tire of the menu there; now I occasionally feel nauseous when I look at their pastry case. 

Sometimes she feels guilty. She knows her research and work take her away and cause her to be grouchy, and she knows she isn't the loving partner she was before she started school. 

Last night she told me, "I know you don't love me the way you used to. I know my crankiness and stress have driven you away". 

I hugged her, smiled and her, and reassured her, "Boo Bear, you're still my favorite person". 

First Love

"Are you a commuter student, or are you just here for the free pizza?"

I turned and looked at the skinny brown boy behind me and smiled. I asked, "What do you think?. He answered, "Probably not. I'm not either but I couldn't handle the dorm food tonight." 

Thus began my friendship with my first love. He lived on the seventh floor; I lived on the ninth. We clicked immediately and spent every waking hour together that first year. We had our own language and habits. On Tuesdays, he would wear my favorite dress all day while I wore a suit around campus. He taught me about feminism and disco and I taught him about small towns and country music. We drank together for the first time. We laughed for hours on end.  We were just friends but everyone assumed we were more. 

That summer, I moved into an apartment with three roommates and he went home. And came back with his high school girlfriend. They got a small apartment together and I rarely saw him. She never gave him my messages and he told me that she didn't like him having females as friends, despite the fact that I had already come out and was crazy about my first girlfriend. 

A year later, he dropped by my apartment for a surprise visit. He sat down on my bed and told me that he would be gone for a few weeks because he was taking Michelle home. I asked how long she was going to be gone, and with tears in his eyes, he explained that she was going to be gone for good. They had broken up. I moved over to comfort him and he hugged me, then told me that he had initiated the breakup. Then he looked in my eyes and said, " I broke up with her because I knew it wouldn't work. I wanted to be with you and she figured it out long before I did. Kerrie, I know you like women and I know that I can't give you everything. I know I can't be your everything....but I need to be your something". 

Two weeks later he returned without her. In that time, I broke things off with my girlfriend. 

It was a beautiful relationship. He was girly and I was butch, and we fit together perfectly. His adoration allowed me to fully express my personality and become a stronger woman.

We were together a little under a year before we both had to admit that it wouldn't work. I was in love with him but I couldn't stop myself from looking at other women. He wanted to be enough for me and I wanted to be content with him. But it wasn't possible. 

 After hours upon hours of talking, we decided to separate. We also decided it would be too painful to be friends. Neither of us could handle the thought if seeing the other one with someone else.

It has been sixteen years since we made that decision.

It has been fifteen years since we last saw one another. 

 I remember everything about him: his middle name, his favorite foods, the way he smelled, his birthday, everything he was allergic to, the way he looked in the morning...everything. I think about him frequently, and wonder if he still thinks of me.

 I love my partner and wouldn't trade her for anything....but he will always be my first love. 

Safety

When I was younger, I was careless with myself. I drank profusely. I did drugs without knowing what they were. I slept around with anyone and everyone. 

Looking back, it's a miracle that worse things didn't happen to me. 

Now at the ripe old age of thirty five, I spend my days lecturing to teenagers and young adults about safety, pleading with them to be safe. I give them condoms. I talk to them about drugs. I discuss alcohol and it's long term effects in the body. And I talk about smoking and how bad it is until I'm blue in the face(while knowing full well that as soon as I get off work I'm going to sit in my car and light one up). 

I sometimes wonder if I'm making a difference. Are they really absorbing what I say, or are they just nodding so they can get out of the room? I know I did at that age. 

As they filter out the door, I hold my big bowl of condoms and tell them to take as many as they want. "Safety first", I tell them as they dutifully take a handful. 

Some days I have to laugh at myself. Despite my lack of safety, I'm still here.