I lift the crystal to my lips and sip dry white wine. It was a fabulous visit with my long-lost friend of forever ago. She got herself a giant pickup, and we had a few precious days of good, old-fashioned redneck fun in the Appalachian foothills. I’m so happy to have her back.
Na Zdrowie! A Polish cheers to myself in a bustling North Carolina bar, as I watch families haul gaggles of children and diaper bags larger than the kids, businesswomen hustling along with their Vuitton bags as they click clack on their way to somewhere expensive, guys in hoodies and the mandatory accompaniment of earbuds that are surely grown to their ears by now with backpacks that are unquestionably wayyy too stuffed to be anywhere near acceptable size. How the hell do THEY get allowed on the plane? I like to imagine they have to stand there in front of God and everyone and offload seventeen copies of Fodor’s before they can embark, but they are probably allowed through, according to the number of yak-sized backpacks I see hauled up to the overhead bin. All taking the space I wanted for my petite suitcase, which now has to be checked and shipped to Peru.
I sit and consider the final Dudes I left in the snow as I flew away to restructure my life.
As I was in voluntary self-confinement, rebuilding myself, I wrote a song called Rapunzel’s Tower. The word picture was an escape to a safe tower, followed by chopping off my hair so no one could come up. A protective, self-inflicted exile whilst I figured out how to defend myself. And I can’t leave till the hair grows back. Okay, so it’s pretty fairytale, but so is fucking Stairway to Heaven.
It kind of reminded me of when my kids were little and fighting over toys. I would put the toy itself on time out, now no one gets the toy. So many used me, and I would tolerate, and let them take what they wanted.
Now no one gets me.
I banished myself to a time-out in the tower until I learned my lesson, and my hair was long enough to climb down. I was severely in need of some alone time to rebuild my own life. Plan, learn, grow, create.
My new, much higher walls of the Tower kept the relentless Dudes at bay. It’s getting better.
There’s Guitardude, a guy who was doing some recording with me. Then he wanted to kiss me. Then he confessed he was extremely married with a teenage daughter and a wife who had no idea he was unhappy. Fucker. These guys never seem to get their shit in the right order.
There was the crush on Musicdude, a guy I was working with in a band, but didn’t pursue because of my mental exile. He was flirting, flirting, flirting with me, and complaining about being single again, though I did wonder why he never really made a move. The entire band thought he was single, and were kinda waiting for us to connect. While tearing down after playing a larger festival gig with him, his twelve year old son came bouncing up, dark haired woman in tow. Who is this? I introduce myself, are you watching his son? Child care provider?
Nope.
Fiancee, as she proudly held out her hand with the cheap solitaire, one of the kinds that attempts to make itself compete with an actual diamond by packing together a bunch of little diamond chips. He told exactly none of us who knew him that he was engaged. Never even mentioned a girlfriend. How in the hell is THAT marriage supposed to work? She deserved a better ring, and a better man. What a little shit. But it just makes it even easier to sit in the tower and do the self work as my hair gains length with every passing moment…
I had been friends with DownerDude, a guy in the local bar who constantly complained about his job and life situation. I wasted precious hours listening to his negative diatribe. He, too, fell by the wayside as I sat in the tower deciding who would get to spend time with me once my hair was long enough to exit the thick walls of stone.
I left potheads behind who never have the energy to accomplish anything significant, I left flirty guys behind who constantly had the hope that they could sleep with me without a relationship (PLEEEEEAASE can’t we be friends with benefits? Benefits to whom? I want to read a good book and go to bed. Wanna do the dishes, read to me and rub my feet? Now THOSE are benefits.). Guys who dangle the promise of satisfying me like no one ever has. Satisfy?? They have no idea what women really want. Well, maybe someone does, but not this one.
I think men underestimate how exhausting staying up for hours of whatever they are calling “satisfying” you actually is. Are ya done yet? And I know there are millions of women with sore knees, jaws, nipples, and a severely chafed netherplace that would concur. It’s rarely worth it. Most guys who talk about “satisfying” you wind up being remarkably selfish in bed, and wearing us out till we want to send them home to their mother’s basement so we can just get some sleep. These Dudes need to learn something more, well, satisfying.
In the tower, I have clarity. I can see the scam behind the curtain. They call out, hawking the shell game, tempting me with the goodies that come with a great relationship, yet once the shells are scrambled around and one is lifted to reveal its surprise, there is nothing and I invariably am left with empty pockets and disappointment. Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me. And I’ve been fooled so many times, I no longer even cast a glance at the games, I know the con, and it’s over.
There is absolutely nothing under that fucking shell, ever.
The only one remaining is LastDude, who seems like he miiight be worth it? But unlike before, I don’t get in his wheelbarrow. We casually date, here and there, but I`m holding him at arm’s length. He’s not in the tower, and he’s not affecting the direction I am ordering.
This time, I’m the one who’s not ready to commit.
So, when my hair was finally long enough to leave the tower, I climbed out the window, rappelled down the stone wall carried by my own golden locks, hopped on my horse and galloped riiiiight past the stunned looking gentlemen who had been waiting outside.
Sorry, Dudes, I have a plane to catch.
And, clad in a Little Black Dress and spike heeled boots, I sip my overpriced wine in an ostentatious bistro in the Charlotte airport. Blonde waves hang by my face, as I’m flanked by business travelers at the sleek, backlit marble bar. This is more like it, rocking Monica with her ideas. I have been journaling miles of plans for my life, and ideas churn in my head, gradually thickening into precious gold. “Standing room only?” the two gentlemen nearest me are striking up a conversation. Oh hell, why not? Part of the suit-clad brigade at the bar, they do business in tobacco, and are headed to Antigua to possibly purchase some kind of production machinery. I miiiight have been eavesdropping.
Wait, no, the one guy is selling to the other guy. I get the feeling he thinks I can add a little butter to the conversation. Already this is way more interesting than chatting with Dudes back in Big Suburb.
As I quickly discovered back at O’Hare, there are distinct advantages to traveling alone.
Traveling with another person, or a group, you have an obligation, a social commitment. You need to speak with that person, with that group. You really aren’t free to pursue a wild hair.
Traveling alone? All bets are off, and this social butterfly is airborne, flitting here and there, the sky the limit (literally, today) to with whom I can communicate. Hell, I could trade in my Miami ticket for a one-way to Bali and stay there indefinitely with the swipe of a credit card. Right now, today. Such are the advantages of the single, and one appreciated by me wayy later than I ought to have, but now I can’t unsee it, and I intend to advantage this to the fullest.
I and the two businessmen finish our drinks and we go our separate ways. I find my gate and line up in the crowd of impatient everyones, waiting their turn to scan their ticket DING! and board the plane. I am on the plane and about to get in my aisle seat, when I notice two rows back the two businessmen in aisle and window seat, both looking desperately uncomfortable as a Costco-sized gentleman attempts to wedge his ample posterior between them, into the dread middle seat.
I was made for moments like this. I barely hit 5’3” on a good day, and am perfectly comfortable with room to spare in airline seats.
“Sir, would you like an aisle seat? I can trade with you.”
Andre the Giant turns to me, looking very surprised at anyone willing to make this clearly one-sided exchange. “Thank you! “ he says with great relief. I note smirks of gratitude on the businessmen’s faces as I tuck myself neatly into the seat between them, leaving room to spare for their elbows, and cozy in for the ride.
‘I believe you’ll be buying my drinks.”
And they did.
Such is the life I am living now. I have hit my stride. Being alone is totally fucking underrated.
Each day, I’ve been determining my own destiny, deciding what I want and going to get it. I watch movies I want to see, I read nonstop, I go out when I want and stay out as late as I like. I drink, or don’t drink. I come home and cuddle up in my heated bed with seventeen thousand pillows, I wake up early if I like, sleep in if I like. I have created a fantastic world for myself, and am on a mission to make it even better.
We chat, joke and laugh, and it seems seconds until we are already landing in Miami, and the friendly banter continues on as we land and allow the others to wait in a pointless line of impatience. We finally all collect our things, my luggage gratefully hauled by Business Guy #2, and tumble off the plane.
I am instantly, irrevocably, madly in LOVE.
Nothing to do with any guy.
A warm, pillowy, delightful semitrailer of intoxicating balmy Florida air runs me over while I’m still in the tube leading from the plane to the airport. I’m not even outside yet and I have finally found my soulmate. Florida! Where have you been all my life?? The three of us decide to catch one more drink at their hotel bar, and we sit, and sip, and cheers to the onset of vacation time, though all of us still have a purpose in the morning.
We exchange business cards, and I fetch an Uber to carry on to my hotel, a very nice Aloft on Brickell, close to I don’t know what. I know zero about Miami, except for knowing I already love it. The door to my room opens with a click and I am here.
Monica’s world.
I slide open the glass door, which remains open the rest of the time, and peek outside. There are interesting looking places everywhere.
I consider calling Lastdude, but decide to just shoot a text. There’s nothing serious going on here, and I have no obligation or commitment.
I stand on the balcony and gaze into the night.
It’s late, yet I hear music, traffic, banter, everything.
I grab my key and exit, hearing the door close behind me with a satisfying CLICK, but I’m already down the hall.
There just has to be something exciting going on in Miami at midnight.
Worship Leader Gone Wild 