Two weeks ago tomorrow, I snuck away to spend time with my sister. We planned it back in January. We planned it knowing that by March things would be bad around here, here being ~ looks around gestures wildly ~.
We weren't prognosticating. We didn't have some truly Magic 8 Ball. We didn't flip some Tarot cards for interpretation.
Like you, we just knew.
Hell, anyone with functioning gray matter knew.
And regardless of how satisfying it has been to watch all the fuck arounders enter the finding out stage, the collateral damage of their ignorance, and the speed of it all, has been sobering.
So we snuck off to be not sober(ing). For me it was to spend time with the person I consider my safe place - her. It was to enter into the Lester Bangs line from Almost Famous:
“The only true currency in this bankrupt world is what you share with someone else when you're uncool.”
This world is increasingly bankrupt, hostile, threatening. There is no debating that fact. We have been bought and sold as a nation, our very underpinnings ripped out, our private information splayed out like financial porn, and our leaders, well, not leading. We are emotional, we are frightened, we are depressed, and we are, to the deepest levels, angrier than most of us have ever experienced in our lives.
It's unhealthy. It just is. I feel it. All. The. Time. The rage, the hate, the fear for those I love, for those I don't even know. It never goes away. It creeps into dreams; it interrupts my morning coffee; it dilutes things I usually enjoy; it makes laughter a scarce commodity; it keeps my heart in a constant vise.
Like you, I worry about the literal health of my loved ones. Especially of my oldest loved one, my brother-in-law, and my youngest loved one, my granddaughter. They are separated by 78 years, yet threatened by the same viruses that could sweep them away - currently they both are fighting influenza A.
(PSA: GET A DAMNED FLU SHOT, PEOPLE. MITIGATE WHAT YOU CAN.)
As the mother of a transgender person, I do not know a single moment's peace. NOT. A. ONE. The target placed on my child's back by this government is unforgiveable. The way they have whipped their ignorant hordes into a state of trans panic is so very dangerous. My son works from home, and I am glad. That I have asked him to basically Anne Frank himself and keep his footprint as small as possible? It's wrong, but it's necessary.
My husband would like to finally retire, but is afraid to pull that trigger because of all the unknowns. We removed ourselves from the stock market just before it all went to shit, and in a normal world, one where an election was not fucked with by a ketamine addict with money, he may very well have stopped working by now. But the best laid plans, huh?
Every morning I wake to see if Genghis Con has succumbed to Big Mac poisoning. Admit it, so do you.
Again, this constant feeling of dread, hanging over everyone like a shroud, is suffocating, soul destroying, and I'll use the word again, unhealthy.
Which brings me back to my sister and our escape for a few days.
She lets me share. She lets me entertain. She lets me be uncool, Lester.
Now, I know she'll read this and probably disagree with my referring to myself as uncool, mutual admiration society and all, but still. Uncool.
One simply must be uncool to undertake what I have long considered part of my life's work. You see, since we were young, I make her laugh. Not just in a passive hahaha way. But in a way that disrupts her ability to breathe, eat, speak. Basically, it makes her face leak. Tears, snot, whatever she was trying to chew.
We all have a gift in this world, and that is mine. Uncool jester.
So away we went. To our favorite place, a ship built by a mouse, to float away from all THIS.
For five days and four nights we hid from the world. We shared. We ate. We drank. We met up with cast members who have long become family and who openly share their lives with us. And we laughed. My God, did we laugh.
And it felt great. But it also felt foreign. Both of us realizing how long it has been since we felt light, happy, in the moment. How we, like you, have been in survival mode. Living a literal fight or flight response that will not let up.
She let me be uncool. She indulged my storytelling abilities, losing gallons of laughter induced tears and eyeliner in the process. (Kim, you're still beautiful even with a charcoal trail snaking its way towards your nostrils...)
Uncool - a tale about a still uncooperative toenail - injured almost three years ago when I dropped a bookcase upon it - so committed to giving me false hope as it grows out just to go all Nsync and sing Byebyebye over and over and over.
Uncool. A long soliloquy about all the Tik Toks of men bragging how they shit their pants because #realmenshittheirpants. NO. Real men learn early on to wipe until the Charmin is clear, and to never, ever trust a fart. The only place skidmarks should be found are on the road from avoiding a deer, not in your Hanes because you avoided your own escape hatch. How these same full sized BOYS who proudly create fecal autopsies in their underwear, or brag about not cleaning up their cracks in the shower because GAY, are the same ones who then climb on their Tik Tok ponies and ride into the manosphere sunset whining about women not going down on them. Do the fucking math, guys. The distance between your swamp ass and your dick? Measure it, you know you have a tape measure.
Uncool. Sharing the frustration over my ability to turn into a menopausal thermal strobe light every night. To go from sleeping to pulsing nightclub in hell back to freezing in one minute's time. How my poor husband dresses like he's sleeping at Base Camp on Everest every night to indulge my need for subZ temps and a ceiling fan on high.
On and on, un and un. We laughed about everything and nothing. We walked on the beach sharing childhood stories about our different styles of competitiveness. Her? Tetherball, foursquare, kickball. Mine? Eating Twinkies and winning the spelling bee. She was tall and lithe. I was short and round. You go with your strengths.
I lost track of how many times during those days that I just stopped and thanked her for making the time for the getaway. How I was enjoying having literal spans where I was not completely consumed with this national hellscape, where I was finally just in the moment. She echoed the same sentiments. Our minds and hearts, like this beach, totally fascist free, if only for a while.
Like all great things, it was over too soon. But as we hugged at the airport and she walked into the terminal, all those uncool moments of sharing such pure currency coalesced into a single thought: It's still in there.
Laughter. Still in there. Joy. Still in there. Hope. Still in there. Lightness. Still in there.
I have not lost it. You have not lost it. It's just been getting buried under a torrent of relentless breaking news and dread. And it's why I have been quiet around here since getting back. I have not wanted to let go of that feeling.
Find your safe place. Invest in your tribe. Find the funny. Make the funny. Be uncool. Bring the light forward in each other and refuse to let that light go out.
Because Orange Shitler and Felon Musk want you to feel hopeless. They want all of us to give up, to acquiesce, to submit. Don't do it. Do not let them near that inner real estate. It's still in there, and it's YOURS.
They don't deserve it. Not simply because they are horrible human beings. But because you just know neither of them wipes their asses very well.
Recent Comments