PROLOGUE:

     BUY NOW!

     I toss the virtual clothing into my shopping cart of sin.

     I have never owned a corset top before, but I simply must have it. A beauty, a splendor, a black satin jacquard wonder clasped with gold swing hooks that make me look like I just arrived on the steampunk train. I have a rock gig, and I will make sure they remember this night. I have been traipsing all over my previous life, broken halo toppling from my head, and I am deep into seeing how much pleather I can stuff in my cart before noon. 

     My phone buzzes. Hey stranger! 

     KinkDude. I barely remember him. What’s he doing muddling my inbox?? I toss my phone back on the couch, message ignored and unanswered. 

     I continue my shopping spree. I find crazy stiletto boots with a two inch platform AND chains AND flames AND a jeweled skull on the heel. Unsure if I can even walk in them and CLICK here they come. 

     Why not? 

     I am celebrating. I smirk to myself at the irony of the physical chains on my clothing having replaced the prison in which I was once trapped. 

     I will tell my story, and I will start with a piece of forbidden clothing. 

     Hint: It’s not a corset top.

CHAPTER ONE: CHAINS

      I should have opened the door and run. 

     I’m biting my lip hard, my whole body tense as I try to focus…don’t cry… don’t cry…My not-so-genius technique of tensing up so I don’t cry never works, and fails me once again as the tears march down my cheeks in stark rebellion to my strict order for them to stay put. I stare intently out the car window at anything other than what’s happening in the car… silos full of something, billboards summoning me to yet another Cracker Barrel Inn to purchase hopelessly outdated trinkets, perpetual rows of twelve-foot Illinois corn standing tall and ready to suck me into oblivion. 

     I wish they would, and momentarily debate a daring escape, popping open the door at the next slowdown and doing a heroic tuck-and-roll, sprinting for the endless cornstalks, and then running, running, running down the arrow straight rows toward another life that’s not this one. 

     I am trying to distract myself before I completely lose it. My stomach is concrete, my heart crushed. 

 I sit in late 80’s velour comfort in the back seat of Pastor Strict’s polished black sedan. His wife is Pentecostal perfection in her hand-sewn floral dress and impressively large bun. Not just any bun, her hair would touch the floor if it were unleashed from its impenetrable nest of bob pins. This formidable creation runs in a thick twirl all the way up the back of her head, resembling a foot tall soft-serve cone from Belt’s, located in Stevens Point and totally worth the trip. 

She sits submissively – and quietly – at his side. She has stunning features. Huge bright brown doe eyes, naturally full lips like you used to see before duck bill filler took over the planet, tall and willowy in a way I will never know at my Oompa Loompa height. She could be a model, but remains unaware of her Milan runway beauty. Pastor Strict, stern and intense, is quite untall, squat and mean in his polyester suit. His face is squashed. He looks like a Ken doll head that was run over, pressed down until the face distorts, the forehead becoming swollen and prominent, eyes squished between thick folds of flesh. His hair is not even what I would call any sort of style exactly. It looks like a scruff of brown Velcro he probably cut himself with a dime store clipper. Nah, I’m positive she does it for him. She does everything for him. 

I am being indoctrinated well. 

My uncut hair is neatly braided, and I sit next to my husband. I am sidecar to the important bit. We are traveling to a revival, chasing God to wherever He decides to surprise with His presence next. I don’t bother asking why an omnipresent God would tour the world like a wayward circus, packing up all of the spectacles and sideshows for the next lucky location down the railroad line, rather than simply being everywhere, which is kinda what I thought omnipresent meant. It is not my place to inquire, however; I am a woman and must listen quietly, not ask questions. It’s a helluva show, though. There will often be truly amazing music… powerful huge choirs backed with a full band, swaying, clapping, dancing. Speaking in tongues, possibly interpretation…throw in a dash of holy laughter and some spastic moves that would make Elaine look good, and you get the idea. And lots and lots of impassioned preaching. 

 Only snake handling churches are more extreme. At least we don’t do that.

     Yet. 

As my tears pour down and drip on my offending garment, no makeup is ruined and no mascara drizzles down. Cosmetics are not allowed, so at least I am spared looking like Alice Cooper’s wayward sister. 

I consider the words that started the tears:

      “I got the pattern for these from my friend in the church up North”, I proudly say. I am wearing what was called a split skirt in the 80’s, pants wide enough to look like a full skirt in a beautiful peach floral cotton… if you picture 80’s wallpaper, you’re right. Hey, back in those days the whole world was peach and teal, and I loved my creation.  I have been doing my best to do the right thing, and doing the right thing means following the rules, and following the rules means no cutting your hair, no pants, no jewelry, no makeup, or no anything else that might make you look like you’re relevant to society.  

We look bizarre. 

   Pastor Strict in his Texan drawl: 

     “Sister Monica, anything with two legs is of the devil. What you need is a proper skirt.” 

     …And with that sentence, my handmade treasure is relegated to the dustbin, an unworthy garment only a heathen would wear. One more bit of freedom, of personality, of self expression, of ME, is stripped away.  His Pastoral power over me stings, a spiritual cat o’nine tails stripping away the flesh of my identity. 

     I stare through the blur as the silent tears stream down my cheeks. I mustn’t complain, I mustn’t think anything bad toward Pastor Strict. 

   How easily we allow control of our life to another human being. I had gone in with wrists out, practically begging for shackles, thinking this was the noble and right thing to do. For me, the whole mess started with the superstrict United Pentecostal Church, though there are endless ways lives can be co-opted for another’s use. 

If you’re looking for a doctrinal argument, close these pages and go find some Facebook shill to debate, you’ll find an angry ocean of them online. I really don’t give a shit about your argument. I’ve had enough doctrine to start ten churches of my own, and I’m not interested. I tell this story because it’s ridiculous, infuriating, and hilarious, though I am also driven to help others retain ownership of their lives. I start with this moment in Pastor Strict’s car because it was one of many watershed moments in giving myself up…my being, my essence, my cuss words, my personality, forfeiting myself as a person.

 I was systematically deconstructed, then exploited, then triumphant.

 And I’m going to spill the story like Noah’s big ass flood. 

Want to know how a life is annihilated? Come along…

     BUY NOW!

     I toss the virtual clothing into my shopping cart of sin.

     I have never owned a corset top before, but I simply must have it. A beauty, a splendor, a black satin jacquard wonder clasped with gold swing hooks that make me look like I just arrived on the steampunk train. I have a rock gig, and I will make sure they remember this night. I have been traipsing all over my previous life, broken halo toppling from my head, and I am deep into seeing how much pleather I can stuff in my cart before noon. 

     My phone buzzes. Hey stranger! 

     KinkDude. I barely remember him. What’s he doing muddling my inbox?? I toss my phone back on the couch, message ignored and unanswered. 

     I continue my shopping spree. I find crazy stiletto boots with a two inch platform AND chains AND flames AND a jeweled skull on the heel. Unsure if I can even walk in them and CLICK here they come. 

     Why not? 

     I am celebrating. I smirk to myself at the irony of the physical chains on my clothing having replaced the prison in which I was once trapped. 

     I will tell my story, and I will start with a piece of forbidden clothing. 

     Hint: It’s not a corset top. 

WHEELBARROW RISK LEVEL: ARE YOU SITTING IN THE DIRT?

You wake up in a 1962 double-wide with Mulletdude surrounded by food-smeared paper plates, pizza boxes and Busch Light empties. Surrounding you is a crooked couch bearing a stained slipcover and a throw pillow stating TEAM SAUSAGE, a gang of unruly screaming brats who look nothing like you and a stack of unpaid bills reading FINAL NOTICE… 

How does this happen? And, more importantly, how does one avoid it?

Constant diligence is necessary to maintain possession of your life. There will ALWAYS be someone, or something in your life attempting to creep in and attempt a coup, and once again you find yourself and all your dreams in a wheelbarrow, getting hauled along to someone else’s destination. In the interest of foiling any such attempts and in order to retain the life you’ve finally won back, here’s a list of what can derail you as well as the risk level indicated by the burning wheelbarrows:

1- HUNK/BABE SYNDROME: This is when you see that gorgeous guy with the six pack and the devilish grin (or the boobalicious blue-eyed Pamela Anderson lookalike) and get so caught up in your Harlequin romance fantasy that you forget…their appearance could be concealing a job-free status, six totally undisciplined children and a deranged Rottweiler, or a hidden sociopathy that’s going to turn your life into a six-part Lifetime special. Many severely good-looking guys I met had an equally severe ego problem, complete with a full set of side pieces and a dash of crazy. Beware the extremely good looking, they have often spent ample time polishing the fenders and precious little time doing any of the actual inner work that really matters. Don’t be fooled by a pretty face and forget to check under the hood. And when I say under the hood I mean character… what’s in their head, not in their pants. When tempted by an empty vessel with a hunky appearance, keep in mind… Ted Bundy was hot.

RISK LEVEL… THREE BURNING WHEELBARROWS ***

2- CHAMELEON COMPLEX: Wowiee wow woww is that guy at the Fou Fou Bougie Country Club on Stuffed Wallet Lane ever gorgeous!! I’m going to go to Nieman Marcus to buy up every brand name and doll up like a little Preppy Princess. Then I’ll order a cosmo and sit at the bar waiting for him to notice that I’m a cookie-cutter Country Club girl, perfectly prepared for what I THINK he wants… 

STAAAAHP!!! 

This was my mistake with Prepdude. I have NEVER been a preppy girl, but I knew that’s what he liked, so I killed all the fun. I ditched the wild Monica energy and smartassery, threw out my leather and bought Nieman Marcus clothing that made me want to choke an alligator. I became everything he wanted, and retired my genuine potty-mouth rocker self to the attic to gather dust and make no music at all. It took years to put my real self back together. Please learn from my lost years and don’t hide who you really are. Don’t hide the real you. DON’T HIDE YOUR PERSONALITY for anyone!!! This doesn’t have to be prep style either, you could be getting the whole cowboy-hat-and-boots getup in order to attract Farmerdude. Or have ear gauges and tattoos to entice Punkdude, it really could be anything that isn’t the real you. You need to find YOU and be YOU, whatever that may entail. Authenticity is attractive, and being anything else is essentially a costume and props, which always comes across as a bit circus, and no one wants to be a clown. 

RISK LEVEL: FOUR FLAMING WHEELBARROWS! ****

3: COUPLE CRISIS: “Are you STIIILLLL single?” “ Don’t you want to be with someone?” “Let me introduce you to my brother/friend/coworker/gardener/weirdo who’s been single for a million years and everyone knows why, but let me palm him off on you…” For some goofball reason (misery loves company?), some people just can’t handle seeing you happily single. When this happens, realize this is insecurity on the other person’s part; many are deathly afraid of being alone. But being alone is something to celebrate, you are with the best person, YOU!  Even when in a great relationship, certain magical things only happen alone. Self-development, planning, compass-setting, study, practice, meditation, learning skills, creating art… much of the productivity in our lives is accomplished alone. Michelangelo did most of his work solo, and only you can dream up the masterpiece of your life. Don’t couple up just because some other dork can’t handle being alone. And if you do find a great significant other, continue to be an individual capable of making their own decisions. 

RISK LEVEL: FIVE BURNING WHEELBARROWS *****

4- SIAMESE TWIN SICKNESS: OMG I did it!! I met the perfect partner. I’m ready to spend 100% of my time with him, and abandon all my interests and all my friends to spend 24 hours a day staring into each other’s eyes telling each other how in love we are!! We will do EVERYTHING together!!!

You have a case of the Clingies, and you need to cure it before they RUN. You need to remember they fell in love with a whole and complete you… with your busy life, idiosyncrasies, hobbies, crazy like for old cinema and love for pickles on pizza; all of the uniqueness and busyness that makes you who you are. Too often I see someone pair up and toss all of their cards carelessly on the table, as if it’s not a good idea to hold on to those precious aces. Do not, do not, DO NOT pitch away your busy schedule and all that you are the minute you meet someone. No one likes a lamprey, and they will not feel like themselves if you are stuck to their side, a parasite sucking the very life out of them. Not to mention, of course, this is once again giving up your life. Two strong individuals walking through life together is amazing, two people who ripped themselves apart for each other limping along are just mutants and it will make it difficult for both to reach the finish line. Let them wait, let them be alone sometimes, allow some space to allow both of you to do your own things and you will both be far more excited to see each other and will have something to bring to the table, because you’ve both been busy doing your own shit. 

RISK LEVEL: SIX BURNING WHEELBARROWS ******

5- GURU FEVER: Sales people are everywhere, and if you’re not careful, they can sell you right out of your destiny. You meet someone, and they have a story so convincing or a cause so compelling that you commit to their direction. Before you know it, you are letting go of your dreams to jump on their fancy, perfectly decorated bandwagon, only to discover that the bandwagon was really a dumpster-fire of a wheelbarrow all along, too late to rescue your own abandoned dreams. This is what derailed my life at 20, you really have to watch out when you get caught up in any other person or cause. For me it was being convinced that my husband’s direction, and then the church’s goals were more important than my own carefully honed destination. This could also be something like a drastic relocation, a job change, or just Amway. Make sure your causes are your own, and that you’re not getting caught up in propaganda. 

RISK LEVEL: SEVEN BURNING WHEELBARROWS *******

6- DIRECTION DISORDER: This is when you lose control of the steering wheel. It can be tempting to just drift down the same road most are headed down because, well, it’s easier!! Figuring out your own destination and execution of your own roadmap is much more difficult than wandering aimlessly, but here is where I will call you out to the challenge of RUNNING YOUR OWN DAMN LIFE!!! We are surrounded by those drifting along in rudderless ships, wherever the wind may blow, that’s where they go, no specific direction…could literally wind up anywhere. Which is tragic, because the chances of you winding up on that beautiful Caribbean island with Raul the towel boy serving you fancy umbrella drinks on the white sandy beach are about nil if you never set your direction. DIRECTION IS EVERYTHING when it comes to your life, and I advise that you get the hell out of that dinghy and get yourself a speedboat and some coordinates before you wind up in Antarctica with snow and a few penguins your only companions. Those who never set their direction are hopelessly lost at sea and never make it to any destination at all. 

RISK LEVEL: EIGHT BURNING WHEELBARROWS ********

7: SELF-DOUBT QUICKSAND- The most dangerous of all is doubting yourself and the direction you set for your life. Once you have decided what you want, and have escaped all of the traps I have listed, there is still the one person most likely to derail everything. 

YOU. 

You absolutely HAVE to believe in yourself, this is something no one else can do for you. If you don’t believe in your dream, no one is going to come rescue your life for you. You will just remain stuck… and a person without their own dreams is the easiest to cart away of all. Find your dream and keep your conviction that this is what you are going to do, and push those doubts out of your head!! 

RISK LEVEL – TEN FUCKING AWFUL BURNING WHEELBARROWS!!! **********

So, now that we have gotten the risks out of the way, what’s left to tell?

There is a tiny bit more to the story, and it starts with a time-warping trip back to Tiny Town…

A head of blonde hair rests uneasily atop a rumpled lavender pillowcase…something isn’t right. 

There is an unexplained sound in the house. 

A quiet clinking… and she thinks she is maybe dreaming until she jars fully awake, realizing the sound is real. Having eight children will make you a bit oversensitive in the waking up department. Then her blue eyes open wide, and she still hears it… a tinkling sound, like chimes… glassy, thin, high pitched. She is instantly alert, and sits up. what is that? oh God I hope that’s not an intruder… how do I check on this and not let them know I’m here… what do I do?? Oh wait… that’s probably the kids WHAT THE HELL ARE THEY UP TO NOW?? God, what is it, 5 am? I want coffee…

She stands up and pads quietly down the hall in the early morning darkness as the crystallic tinks grow louder. She descends the stairs slowly and peeks around the corner, and there it is. 

3 year old Monica, little hands firmly gripped to the oversized early 70’s dining room chandelier. Swinging for all she’s got, having a blast, entirely unaware that this is #237 on the list of Unacceptable Behaviors. You see a light fixture. SHE saw a jungle gym hanging from the ceiling, an overhead amusement ride waiting to be climbed and swung upon. She cares absolutely not. Wheee!!! 

                               ***

Why do we give up the chandelier? 

Somewhere along the way, we let others tell us what’s inappropriate, what we “shouldn’t” do.

We let family do it. We let friends do it. We allow societal expectations to do it. 

….but honey, I was born to swing from chandeliers. This is who I am. And I’ve been shut down by well-meaning adults, “friends” who weren’t really friends, the Church, and a worthless army of men who didn’t want me going too crazy on the dance floor. 

And since when should chandelier-swinging Monica EVER be tied up with anyone who isn’t even brave enough to dance??? 

I allowed my classmates, then the church, then a whole collection of boring, stodgy non-dancing Dudes to rip out my soul and take away who I am. 

Then, I found out how to get it all back. 

And NO ONE. NO ONE. is silencing my crazy ass voice, ever again!! 

I will NEVER. EVER. allow anyone or anything to take my chandelier-swinging soul again. I’m happy, and wearing my dancing shoes, and am unstoppable. 

Don’t ever let anyone tell you you can’t dance. Or do whatever that thing is that is YOU. And if that insignificant other isn’t dancing with you, find someone who will. Yes, it’s that important. When I was deep in the trenches of my time in Dudesville, I kept wondering why dancing in particular seemed like such an important litmus test… why should I care if a guy doesn’t dance? Can’t I just head out to the floor and let him do whatever? But the problem is, there are two types of people, those who sit and watch the people having fun, and those who are ACTUALLY OUT THERE getting in the fray, getting their hands wet and their feet dirty, casting their limbs about with abandon, willing to look ridiculous, having a great time. My personality requires the acceptance of Monica level unbridled enthusiasm, and the chair sitters? Well they have plenty of other chair sitters to sit with, but as for me, I’ll be out on the floor. (I fully understand that this may not be you, and that’s just fine. The whole idea is to be unabashedly true to who YOU are. Dance floor results may vary.)

For me, not dancing was a sign that I had given up on me, on myself, on my goals, dreams and life vision. Here, at the end of my story, you see a woman who has reclaimed her life, and all of those things I had lost. 

It wasn’t easy. 

It WAS totally worth it!!

And I’m no longer seeking “acceptance”. 

Acceptance is bullshit. 

I have amazing hand-picked friends who don’t just “accept” me, they appreciate my whole personality.  Hand-picking your friends goes wayyy beyond acceptance, and ensures you are decidedly NOT changing who you are for anyone or anything else. I draw into my life those who love who I am and what I do. That’s not acceptance, that’s finding your people, establishing your tribe. It’s on your terms, not anyone else’s. 

I have a book, I’ve told my story. I’m launching into a whole new arena in which I can use all that I have become from my experiences. My kids are amazing. I’m still good friends with DX, and we continue to co-parent very effectively. I play in bands or by myself now, free from the church restrictions that had me afraid of doing the wrong thing. I perform with abandon, and if anyone sees me onstage and thinks I’m nuts, well, if they knew the whole story… I was caged up for so much of my life that I can’t help but cut loose and be wild and free every chance I get. It feels amazing to be free, not only from the church, but from the Dudes, from expectations, from the all of it. Life is good. I am incredibly, incredibly grateful for all of it. 

I will never be caged again. 

And you can find me, dancing, singing, 

…and swinging from the chandelier. 

Yes. 

I found myself. 

That weird, new-agey, Jeanne Dixon, Miss Cleo, horoscope-sounding bullshit narrative? Turns out it’s absolutely real. You can, indeed, go on a self-discovery journey and find yourself. 

And it’s totally worth it. 

It’s been a Temple of Doom journey through pious churches and rowdy taverns, musty basement prayer meetings and swanky hotel rooms, heavenly havens and debaucherous dens. 

I dropped like acid at Burning Man into the church world, in which I repeatedly and mistakenly put my trust in men after being taught they somehow represented God. Many of these men jumped at the humblebrag pastoral role (isn’t pastoring really the boss-level humblebrag? Who else claims to represent God AND humility?) and easily ascended the throne of Let’s Take Over Monica’s Life Direction, whilst also becoming an authority figure over all of those taught that the pastor should have some sort of de facto authority over your life. 

I escaped the chains of the church world just to fall into the Burmese tiger trap of DudeWorld, overly decorated with bright flashing neon lights and every showoff advertisement humanly possible. DudeWorld’s glossy promotional flyer shouts “The Best Experience Of Your Life!!” in the most vivid, eye-catching candylike colors… a giant sham that turned out to be a disappointment-packed not-so-amusing pile of catastrophe with fiasco topping, sprinkled with an infestation of clowns smeared in greasy colored face goo. DudeWorld only served to make you chuck up the multicolored cotton candy you paid an overly tattooed carny with teeth numbering in the single digits wayy too much to buy. 

Yet at last, I finally found my own Paradise, carried at first by a rusted creaking wheelbarrow, then journeying on foot, then zooming along in a racecar, then shooting for the moon in a warp speed rocket.

I am free, flying solo, and pretty damn happy. Once I discovered that I was perfectly capable of driving the bus myself, and that the need for some sort of “expert” bus driver is just a bogus claim, I secured my own map, threw everyone else the hell out of the driver’s seat… and started driving. And now I’m cruising, and the window is down, and the wind is blowing my hair, and my destination may be 2000 miles away but every moment I drive is taking me closer to what I always knew I wanted… 

And I will NEVER allow anyone else to drive this bus, not now, not ever. There never should have been anyone else at that wheel. The funny thing is, it’s actually easier to let someone else take the wheel. Let someone else take the responsibility, the work, the decisions… but you are very unlikely to be happy and you are also ABSOLUTELY. NOT. FREE. 

It’s not perfect, of course.  I still have those long, dark, lonely evenings when just mayyyybe it would be nice to have someone there, but what I kept missing before is the opportunity to grow. I believe loneliness is the Universe’s instructions that it’s time to work on yourself, to improve you and your skills, to do the things one can only do for oneself, free of the dictates and boundaries of another. We grow dramatically in this way, and I hope you, too, experiment with what can be accomplished when you are alone, just with YOU.  

The results? I’m in several bands now, from solo gig to ten piece band…free from the judgment and limitations I experienced in the church. I am finally able to be the exact kind of performer I always wanted to be, chock full of costumes, stage choreography and vocal acrobatics that would have been considered showing off in the church. I am continuing my original goal I had before my life was derailed at 19, aimed at being the iconic performer I always wanted to be. Turns out, as so often for so many, the cage I was trapped in was all in my head, and the door to freedom was open the entire time.

 Each one of us carries the responsibility for our own feet to walk the hell out that door, and you choose whether you are brave enough to actually do it. 

In my mind, I’m 19, and this time I’m taking the fork in the road that leads to a full fucking delicious dinner, and all of the dreams I wanted. Every passing day is making me more of who I had originally determined to be. 

I have close friends who don’t try to run my life or question my dreams. They support my life vision, and are my best cheerleaders. 

The pastors are gone, as is the church authority. What about my spiritual life? Well, what I decided along the way is that I’m not EVER AGAIN going to put the brakes on my life and my goals just because I’m not quite exactly sure what’s going on spiritually. I tried to figure out these questions for over 20 years and got nowhere except to put off all of the things I wanted to do that had clear and obvious steps to achievement, rather than nebulous wonderings. I have come to the conclusion that some things just can’t be figured out. I know this will likely breed some persuasion mail, but rest assured, for all of you sending me “the answer is A!” there are just as many sending me “the answer is B!” Or C. Or X. Or Scientology. Whatever. While the navel contemplaters try to unscrew the inscrutable, I’m going to be over here living my life. I have a conscience, and a gut, and a heart, and it has been serving me just fine, thank you. I will not waste another minute of my life trying to figure out what no one has ever been able to figure out. Someone else can do that, I choose to live.  

The crazy control freaks are gone, off to ruin someone else’s life. They will always be with us, the constant vigilance required to keep them the fuck out is well worth not having to clean up after these thirsty bloodsucking life-vampires. It is well worth learning how not to allow someone to vampire you, and Twilight should be enough warning that if you hang around vampires enough, you’ll wind up Kristin Stewart with a weird CGI freak baby. 

As for the Dudes? They are gone, too. Who I am today no longer draws this kind of bottom feeder, and when they do come around, it’s an obvious three-dollar bill languishing over his third Scotch at the bar.  If I ever become involved with someone again, it will be on my terms, absolutely not allowing anyone to derail my life, no way, not ever again. I know who I am and I will thrive in my personality and will not allow anyone to change it. I WILL NOT ALTER who I am for anyone, I spent too much time getting myself back. And the lack of Dudes keeps my inbox delightfully drama and dick-pic free. Every now and then I get a message from a Dude of days gone by, but my new bestie, Mr. Block Button, continues to be an escape hatch from these conversations destined for nowhere. 

I fucking did it. 

I won my life back.

And I am here to help you get yours back, too, and I intend to continue the find yourself party at ____ (this is not up yet, keep posted) to help with the reclamation and subsequent party. 

My life is good. 

I am free of the influence of pastors or Dudes. 

I have it all. 

Allow me to introduce myself.

I am Monica. 

Gone wild, and free at last. 

I walk with intense purpose through the field. I have to find them, I want to help them. 

Living in an abundance of freedom and purpose, having been so blessed with having found such a place, I am compelled to go back, to help those who are still enslaved. And as I shade my eyes with my hand, searching the field, I eventually find them. 

Abandoned wheelbarrows sit in the distance, rusted, worn, left behind by those who never should have been trusted with the care of a life. I have become accustomed to approaching them, finding a person inside, pale and cramped, victim to the life of servitude, living locked in undesired chains of someone else’s forging. I approach the wheelbarrows in the distance, and suddenly I start at the sight. 

I burst into joyful laughter at the recognition. It’s been a while. 

I stride toward a rusted one off in the distance. A head of snarled hair peeks out at me, then quickly ducks back in as the person realizes that I can see her, too. 

Walking quickly toward it, I reach the barrow and look at the crumpled form within. I speak. 

“Get up, Monica, you’re done with this.”

And she is, but she hasn’t realized it yet. 

“…Can…I??”

I’m adamant. “Come on!!”. I reach out and grab her hand, tugging her out of the inferior vehicle. She is hesitant, and whispers something I can’t hear. 

“COME ON!! You can do this!!” 

She finally steps out of the wheelbarrow and stretches out, setting first one, then the other foot on the ground. Yes!!! 

“There you go! Now straighten up!” I admonish. She gives a half-assed effort and straightens up a bit.

“TALLER!!” I shout. 

My tone surprises her, and she gets a look of realization and holds her head hgh, chin up, shoulders back. Much better. 

“Let’s walk.” And we do, we walk and chat, as I lead her away from the wheelbarrow. The one I know is destined to be her last, though she is yet unaware of this fact. She turns back at one point before we can no longer see the wheelbarrow, and looks at it… not quite longingly, but as a child would look at a security blanket being given up at last, feeling uncomfortable, yet brave and bold in the knowledge that they are growing and that this is a necessary step involved in growing up, in progressing, in being able to achieve and succeed. 

“What the hell is going on?” she asks, totally confused. 

“You don’t know who I am, do you?” 

“I mean, I’m pretty sure you’re me, but how? And why??” She glances back, but at least now it’s just a glance, and the wheelbarrow is just a dot now, a few more steps and we won’t be able to see it at all. I stop and take her hands.

“Monica, I am the possible you. I can be the future you. You can choose me, or you can choose another version of me, but you need to know that this is what’s possible…”

We turn to continue walking and I am  telling her about what she can become, all the while knowing damn well that I am the one she is to become. My long hair ripples in the wind, and I firmly speak, with the encouragement borne of one who has come, seen, and conquered. 

We are now far beyond the scope of the wheelbarrow, and its dead-end path. I can tell that the more we talk, the more I tell her about the possibility of never getting caught in someone else’s wheelbarrow, not ever again, that she is becoming very excited about the possibility. 

And then she does it! She manifests her own entirely new path. It dazzles and gleams in the sunlight, which is now out. 

And I step back into her, the dream of what she is to become, the aspirer to a new dream, and later the rescuer of those stuck on a dead-end, dull, gray path to nowhere, overturning the wheelbarrows and setting the captives free to create their own fantastical pathways, into a future of their own creation. 

Monica is running for her life. 

And I am the evidence that she did, indeed, find it. 

*Reference chapters 79 and 80

Summer is simply the best. 

The sun, the intoxicating warm balmy air, the sound of the leaves ever fluttering in the breeze, the heady smell of suntan oil being applied by Cabana Boy Raul, his dark muscles rippling in the golden afternoon sun, smelling like a Pina Colada as he rubs oil on my aching… wait a sec, I was carried away thinking about all things Summer, a smorgasbord of sensory delights spilling from the bounty of a much closer sun. 

Right now, it’s Spring, a time of rebirth, new beginnings, exciting starts. And I am ready to roll in it all, toss myself into the meadow of tender new grass popping up from the ground. Bonus: it’s finally nice enough to have lunch in the warm air, OUTSIDE. If I seem unreasonably excited about this, remember, I live in Wisconsin. I just finished chipping myself out of a block of January ice, an aging Neanderthal coming back to life after a frigid season buried in permafrost. It’s finally over, and I’m ready to bask in the much warmer April heat wave. I’m happily mowing down a trendy technicolor salad with bits of odd everything in it, twelve bucks worth of overpriced lawnmower trimmings, whilst enjoying the company of my very good friend. We are seated outside at a cafe enjoying the temporary benevolence of the sun.  My companion has known me forever, and we have been chatting about my time in the church, my years of leading worship, and the craziness that has happened since I’ve left. 

 I’m about to get the bonus Easter Egg of a lifetime. She looks at me intently. 

“You know, you’re still a spiritual leader.”

I stop mid-bite into the trimmings, in spite of the fact I was previously devouring it like I was on a desert island eating nothing but sand for a week. Or was that gluten free bread? Anyway, I probably have a chunk of dandelion hanging halfway out of my mouth, but I’m so shocked I don’t notice or care. 

I regroup and launch my highly intellectual counterpoint. 

“..Huh?…”

“Look at your book. You’ve been aiming at entertainment, but there’s also so much in there to help others reclaim their lives. And I know you deeply desire for others not to get caught in the trap you were in for so long. You’re still spiritually directing people, helping them, you’re just no longer in the church.”

Well. Adding some flabber to my gast, this is a shock to me. And suddenly I realize, after all of this regret, all of this kicking myself for ever getting involved with the church and a bunch of Dudes, I finally get it. 

None of it is being wasted, it’s all being used. 

I can help. 

I’m a broken Queen, tarnished crown hanging askew off one ear, standing on the roadside yelling to all who pass “Don’t go that way, it SUCKS!!” 

Every last church service, every last shitty Dude, ALL OF IT has created the me who has finally taken charge of herself, who has now written a book and a blog, who has succeeded in pulling away from the pack and creating her own life, who is able to communicate to others how damned important it is to not get in some guy’s wheelbarrow and let him cart you away from your dreams. Because there’s a whole shitload of wheelbarrow pushers out there. And they aren’t all Dudes, either. The mean girls of my story did a similar thing. They all conceal themselves behind cheap Halloween costume masks, every single one looking like a wonderful friend or partner while underneath the disguise is that same old spiritual vampire who will suck you bone dry and leave you feeling deader than a desiccated mummy, void of everything and lying forgotten in the desert. They will try to get you to climb into their wheelbarrow and relinquish control over your life, giving in to the easy way out, which is always Fulfilling Someone Else’s Dreams but Not Mine. 

I am terrifically excited to help people go ahead and NOT do this. 

In fact, as I stare beyond my forgotten salad, a vision flashes into my head. I stand in front of a room full of people, but instead of explaining life through the lens of the Bible, like I did for so many years, I’m just explaining life. Not that I know so much, but I can be the tour guide as to  where some of the potholes on the road are, so you don’t need to bend a rim like I did. My disaster has become another’s refuge, my Dude mess allows me to identify exactly what one looks like, and how to avoid it. And I realize something. 

All of those years in the Church, I learned things. 

You don’t actively study the Bible and sit through three messages a week and learn nothing about human nature. You don’t counsel people year after year, and get involved with their lives, and assist in putting their lives back together, and come out of it without knowing a few things about how life works. Not that I’m any great guru, but let’s say you spend 23 years learning how to make craft beer, and you suddenly lose your job, you probably can still go make a pretty great craft beer. If you spend two decades building homespun furniture out of tree branches, you can probably make a Lake Winnebago castle’s worth of tacky cabin furniture at the drop of a hat, birch bark and all. 

If you spend all those years doing anything to the level I was performing, according to that 10,000 hour rule guy, you are a master at that craft. And I had mastered what I did in the church, but I thought it was all for nothing, merely a wasted path that had a complete one-way dead-end impasse at the end of a journey that felt wayyy too long.  

I was wrong. 

The Bible may be the basis of Christianity, and foundation to a thousand religions, but it also contains one hell of a lot of information on how to navigate life well. 

Don’t kill each other. Hold your tongue. Wait before responding to verbal attacks. Wine can be dangerous when it swirls in the glass and makes those little legs that tell you it’s a fantastic wine, but also, you’re getting drunk tonight and may A. say inappropriate things only you think are hilarious, B. lose your keys/jacket/phone and leave your credit card at the bar or C. decide it’s a great idea to send a message to your old ex who was kind of an asshole but still really cute hey stranger! How have you been? leaving you with a big stupid social mess in the morning when you come to with pillow creases, cotton mouth, and dragon breath. 

Practical, applicable information that I was stewed in for 23 straight years, not only studying and researching it, but living out the real-life application. Not only did I learn, I also taught, advised a parade of people through a  myriad of situations, and observed a thousand more personal situations that either went really well, or went south and derailed in a spectacular shitshow that turned up on the front page of the Tiny Town newspaper, back when actual paper was a thing. 

I know people. I know homo-sapiens. 

I know more than I want to about how humanity works, as I am well aware of how close any and all of us are to cracking up, sleeping with the boss, or giving that lady in front of us at the gas station taking twenty minutes to pick out lottery numbers a good punch in the face.  We are humans, and we are decidedly imperfect. Yet we can still do amazing, incredible, world-changing things with our lives, if we just get a leash on this thing and get it to go the right direction. 

And suddenly, the 23 years I thought to be totally worthless…turns out to be extremely valuable. 

And I am here to tell you now… if YOU have time in your life that you feel was wasted, that you feel made as much sense as me shopping at a Big and Tall Emporium sale, think again. 

Revisit the past you are convinced destroyed you. 

Revisit that dead-end, Godawful  job you thought was a total waste of time, effort, and 5-hour energy shots.

Revisit those years you were bullied, or abused, or whatever you think in your life was worthless or wasted. 

And pan through that dust like a prospector in 1848, leaving no speck unturned as to the hidden gold within. 

Because I’m pretty sure right now that I have the makings of being some sort of life coach, or motivational speaker (living in a VAN down by the RIVER), or TED talker, or something. I’m not sure yet, but the words of my lunch companion that day made one thing clear. 

Like a chicken in China, everything in your life gets used. Every experience is an education that has prepared you for something, should you choose to use it in that way. All of it helped hone the person you are today. 

Grew up with an asshole stepparent? You are in the perfect place to mentor some teen with a shitty family situation. Past sexual abuse? You are specially qualified to talk to a girl who had a bad experience and feels no one can relate. Or, like me, get fired from a job you were, if anything, overqualified for? YOU…can start your own shit and edge them right out of the market. 

I had felt bad because I was bullied and had no friends in my younger years… BUT my parents had a home library chock full of classic success authors like Dale Carnegie, Earl Nightingale, and Napoleon Hill, which means when everyone else was goofing off with their friends, I was busy learning  the 80/20 rule and how to treat others so that they never leave my presence without feeling like a rockstar. I learned more about life principles before I was 12 than most study in a lifetime. But without the bullying, without the painful experience of coming home from school every day alone and in tears, the magic never happens. If I had friends to play with, I would have been hanging out with them, not reading obsessively through our huge shelf of encyclopedias and personal development literature. 

I had felt even worse when 23 years of ministry crashed and burned, a field of debris attesting to the damage done, a seeming colossal waste of life energy and a massive misdirection ending in a ruined life years later, when it seemed all of the “good” years were already used up. 

What I hadn’t seen until now was what was built in that fire… what I viewed as shrapnel turned out to be slag pulled off a veritable mine of gold I hadn’t even realized was there, until my dear friend pointed out the Captain Obvious sign: GOLD MINE. ENTER HERE. 

I’m gonna put on my miner’s light, grab a pick and see what I can pull out of them there hills! 

I have a sudden infilling of gratitude as I realize that all of the everything I’ve experienced has been a sort of training for what I am to do next. It’s perfect, and I can sense the next leg of my journey, now on the way. 

And the final phoenix in my life is rising from the ashes, better, newer, bigger, refreshed, restored… to journey through the skies and carry my life to places it never could have gone had my life not died in the first place. 

I know exactly what I need to do, and it’s time to finally do it. 

“It will happen when you least expect it.” 

I heard this one so often, I wanted to put a sign in my business:  $10.00 FEE FOR SAYING IT WILL HAPPEN WHEN YOU LEAST EXPECT IT.

It’s been months since I dated, over a year since I was intimate with anyone. I’ve kind of forgotten about it at this point, I’ve been so busy working at being a rockstar goddess author mogul and any other superlatives I can come up with. 

I’m proud of myself. 

Even the woman in Eat, Pray, Love who made a 365 day commitment to celibacy couldn’t make it an entire year without jumping into the sack with an exotic dude she wound up divorcing anyway, and this after penning a follow up 285 pages about commitment. And she was paid 200,000 smackers to write her book while chomping her way through Italy, contemplating her navel in an India monastery, and basking in the Balinese sun. If my story ever made it to Hollywood, the location would be largely the not-so-exotic Midwest, but at least I made it well over a damn year, albeit amongst cows and the corn rather than ancient ruins, fancy temples and tropical islands. 

Heck, I’ve gotten so good at this that I’ve lost track of how long it’s been. 

Losing everything actually helped. Enduring terrifying financial pressure and having to sink or swim helped me gain the self-sufficiency I needed to finally fly solo. And the beauty of flying solo is that you go wherever you damn well please, no permission required. 

 I fought hard for this life. I earned it. No one handed this to me.

 I’ve always thought the Eat, Pray, Love protagonist came off as a bit of a  spoiled brat. Poor me, my heart is broken, waa, waa, I’ll just hop on this here plane and tour the world! All expenses paid, drowning my sorrows in Sicilian meatballs, Indian naan, and Balinese satay and whoopsie! I’m in bed again. In that book as she rationalizes away the breaking of her promise to herself to make it One Whole Year without sex, I’m thinking, this is why it’s sometimes better to just start the work on yourself rather than obsessing on a certain time milestone. She made it through her chaste almost-year like an alcoholic clinging by their nails to sobriety, tell-tale scratches on the frustratingly locked door of the liquor cabinet. A cabinet which wound up with the front glass smashed and the bottles empty, remnants of an eleventh-hour binge that launched a second book. 

Or, I’m just jealous about the 200K advance, and subsequent free trip. 

Back in my ordinary world,  I’ve been living out my crazy, awesome single life. I’m having a better time than Madonna at a Botox convention, but there’s a funny little thing happening. And that funny little thing is the surprising amount of people who can’t wrap their mind around me being happy alone. I think to some of my paired-up pals, I must look like a single shoe, completely worthless without its mate to complete the pair.  My God, how will she ever walk? 

The questions by people mystified at one choosing to journey through life alone are plentiful:

“There are plenty of fish in the sea.” 

Honey, I left the dock a while back. 

“Well, surely you don’t want to be alone…”

I’m not. I have awesome friends, and am in a great relationship with myself. And don’t call me Shirley. 

“Your time will come.”

My time is now, and I don’t need a chaperone for this ride. 

“How hasn’t anyone snatched you up?”

Okay, that just sounds like kidnapping. 

“You’ll find the right guy.”

This implies a nonexistent search. 

“I think you’re single because..” 

Now you’re a mind reader? Miss Cleo, is that you??

“I can’t imagine having to date again.”

Yeah, fucking, neither can I. 

“Maybe you’re being too picky.”

I can tell you what happens when you’re not… 

“You need to meet my nephew/son/friend/UPS guy”

This one ended up with me having a well-wishing aunt foist her nephew upon me AS A CLIENT, and made for a once-a-month awkward meeting in which he insisted on standing wayyy too close to me when he was in. “He needs a girl just like you.” Maybe I’ll just sell brunette inflatable dolls with a recording: pull string “Ooohh, your muscles are soooo big…” pull “Tell me more about the Packers…” pull “Sure, bend me in half. That’s not uncomfortable at all.”

“Are you putting yourself out there?”

Are you kidding me right now? I am “out there” more than anyone who has ever asked me this question. Being a musician/hairdresser/semi-professional instigator requires that I’m easily accessible on social media, and my messenger inbox of hey! Hi there! Good morning and random rose emojis from strange men, as well as the post-gig wobbling drunks who threaten to fall on the equipment I’m packing up at the end of the night proves that I’m absolutely “Out There”. For these people, it would seem it doesn’t count if I’m out constantly but not actively radaring every guy in the place. Maybe I should ask where this mysterious other “out there” is exactly, because whatever they are calling that, it’s clearly wherever I’m not. 

“I don’t know how you do it.”

Yes, I used to be there, too. It can be pretty hard for someone who’s never faced themselves to understand how one can enjoy being single. 

The little naggy statements go on in perpetuity. Let me be your wingman. Let me make a dating profile for you. You don’t really want to be single, do you? 

They just won’t leave me alone! 

The funny part is that some of these partner-pushers aren’t even happy in their own relationships! So, I should listen to you why, exactly??

So I was more than a bit shocked when Proud Single Me went to the gynecologist and lay there, really not concealed at all under that little joke of a see-through one-ply dinner napkin they give you that doesn’t cover anything, feet in stirrups as she asked me about my nonexistent sex life. I was proud of myself. Behold, my clean, untouched, pristine cooch. 

She… is not impressed. “How old are you?” 

Rude! 

I betray to her that I’m 50. 

 “Well, at your age…there’s a risk this will all atrophy if you aren’t having any sex…” 

WHAT??? She continues…”Yeah, you need to get something in there to make sure everything stays operational.”

 Did my OB/Gyn just tell me to get a sex toy? 

Yes, she did. 

Come on, man, can’t you just be proud of me? 

So, not having received any expected accolades or Oscars for Best Newly Minted 50 Year Old Born-Again Virgin, I leave clutching a paper prescription note to get myself some silicone assisted action. This is uncharted territory, am I gonna have to visit the Lion’s Den, a seedy looking building I’ve been driving past for years, billboards announcing ADULT SUPERSTORE directly next to billboards preaching THE EYES OF THE LORD ARE IN EVERY PLACE. Are these places even safe? Are the toys at Spencer’s any good, or are they just bachelorette party favors that will give me a cheap China product rash?  Doesn’t anyone do those Passion parties anymore? Do you bring your own batteries? 

Visions of butterflies, dolphins and rabbits vibrate through my head, and I consider the fact that the only action I get these days is flirting, something the single are free to do with abandon. At least I thought it was just flirting. Good, clean fun, until…

One night I’m out at a place with a somewhat younger crowd, and the music is hiphoppy enough that this 80’s relic feels a little out of place amongst the twerking and whatnot. I dance anyway, because I always will, and another guy who is a bit older than this nubile crowd starts to dance with me. We twirl, spin, enjoy, but after a while, he whispers in my ear that he’d like me to leave with him. But I was just dancing, you know, just having fun, but what I thought was fun, he saw as  foreplay. I am attempting to clarify this while he puts on the hard sell and my God he REALLY wants me to go out to his car. Oh, I’ve been down this road before, and I know the shitty place it ends for the woman. And then he utters the words that gave me a great chapter title: “Not even a handy??” 

Not even a handy. Seriously? Is that the price of a few dances these days? Inflation is worse than I thought. 

I coud not believe he actually asked me for this, but I looked straight at him and he was dead serious. “Uhh, no, I will not be giving you a handy.” 

He looks like I shot his dog.

He wasted his why-don’t-you-do-it-because-you-feel-bad-for-me-and-you’re-obligated-because-I-danced-with-you card on a girl who has already fallen for that little guilt trip and now knows better, and is leaving the table tonight with clean hands. He has two resources to provide his own “handy”. And I did NOT lead him on, this was fun wholesome Lionel Richie dancing, not  Nikki Minaj ass grinding. 

So, I dug in my high heels, and he went away disappointed. I wonder if he approached any other lucky ladies with his messy offer that evening. I’m not sure why he thought that the supreme sacrifice of dancing a few dances earned him the right to jizz all over some poor girl’s hand, but there you have it. 

 I don’t buy the lies anymore. I don’t have to acquiesce to his social contract. But he’s not the only guy out there with weird ideas about how this works.  One night, I go out with a work acquaintance and he introduces me to his friends as his girlfriend. Huh. That was interesting, did he just create a delusion in his head and hope I would play along? Nope, not doing it, and not going to feel bad about it.  I can’t feel guilty about someone else’s assumptions, what someone else wanted  is what got me stuck in the first place, wayyy back when I was 18. Guilt. Obligation. Sympathy. NO MORE. Their perceived suffering is NOT my problem, and I finally get it and nope the heck outta there. 

I go home alone and happy. Night after night, month after month as what some call a “dry spell” but I call “kicking ass and living my own best life”. 

I am happy, without Mr. Happy. 

…and as others get interested in how I did it, a part of me resurrects from the dead…

They were PERFECT. 

Four delicate twinned rows of tiny rhinestones around the toe, four more around the ankle, all attached to an absolutely divine champagne-metallic leather shoe that looked as if it was left on the stairs as Cinderella made her midnight escape. The most beautiful, perfectly designed shoes I had ever seen, with a steep stiletto heel and just enough platform to balance the design and render them actually wearable. A heel zip meant the rhinestone ankle circlets remained unbroken and unspoiled, a delectable disco ball of sparkle. 

I had to have them. 

The minute I saw them, I could envision walking down the aisle, Prepdude’s blue gaze upon me, as we lock eyes in passionate love, knowing we would live the rest of our days in the best kind of eternal bliss, never mind the fact that so far there were more red flags than China in this relationship. I am wearing an amazing dress I love, not the “modest” one I wore when I was married in the ultrastrict religion. That frumpfest had long sleeves, a high neck, a massive train and absolutely no fun. It’s no wonder I didn’t run, I physically couldn’t in that dress. This time, I’m sauntering down the aisle bearing a strapless gown with a nipped in corset waistline and angelic poof of chiffon short enough to show off these fairytale shoes… wait, no, maybe a sleek goddess dress with trailing silk organza butterfly panels as I float down the aisle on the magical glowing heels…wait, no, maybe an Oscar-worthy sequined sheath I can barely breathe in… 

A thousand dresses float by in my imagination, all borne on these delicious, wonderful, fantastical stilettos.  

I’m going to get married in these shoes. 

I was absolutely sure Prepdude was my destiny. Surely this madcap romance would end with him on one knee, waterfall in the background, my hair blowing in the gentle tropical breeze as he asked me to spend the rest of my life with him. And, of course, I say yes, yes, YES! and jump in the arms of the man who would hold me for the rest of my days. 

But, like so many fantastical scenarios we dream up in our love lives, he didn’t ask (thank God), and it didn’t happen, and time after time as I hopefully dated possible suitor after possible suitor, I failed to close the deal, and the shoes wound up on a high shelf in my closet, hopelessly waiting for their long-delayed trip down the aisle. The ornate box glared down at me every time I opened the door to their prison, why haven’t you worn me yet? Are you seriously this bad at finding a groom?? all preaching down at me from the pulpit of a shelf I couldn’t reach without standing on a chair. After a few years, I had a love/hate relationship with the shoes, who stubbornly remained in style, a timeless design I couldn’t be rid of just because they were hopelessly outdated. 

They were not.

They continued to be beautiful. Still divine, still amazing.

And they still represented something I did not possess. 

Or maybe I was wrong. 

I believe I mentioned there was a proposal? 

So there we were, hiking amongst the rocks of Wisconsin’s summer beauty with my somewhat reluctant daughter, and I see it. 

A beautiful vista. As we climbed a rather steep rock path, the trees parted to reveal a breathtaking cliffside view. And I suddenly have an idea. 

I get down on one knee: “Monica, will you marry me?” 

My daughter looks at me like I just produced three rubber chickens and started juggling while singing the Macarena. I continue, I am completely undeterred. 

I get up and take the other position, standing opposite, jumping up and down with excitement: “Yes, YES!!” 

 And then I hug myself. 

My daughter is laughing. 

Yes, I just proposed to myself. And then accepted. Am I nuts?

Maybe, but I do feel a true freedom from all the years of waiting for this to happen. 

So here’s my question. 

Why can’t we just buy the dress and throw the party now? 

Why not have the honeymoon by ourselves?*

Why not have the long years of contentment regardless of whether someone else happens to be present? 

The day I proposed to myself was a resolution. A resolution to throw myself a party whenever I want. A resolution to buy a fancy expensive dress if I damn well feel like it, and to make my own trousseau just for me, (what’s a trousseau again?) and get myself the presents and stuff and whatever makes my life happy and allows me to celebrate with my friends. 

Guess what? You don’t need a significant other to say Yes to the Dress. 

Buy it yourself. Set up your own party. Have a blast with your real Significant Other, YOU. 

People often wait around for a significant other to start their lives. Mine was in a holding pattern these past post-church years, all for men who were more accurately Insignificant Others. The day of the proposal was a big step in confirming I already had everything I needed for a fulfilled and amazing life, and that I could still have the cool dress and awesome party. Hell, I may even buy the ring. Honey, it’s right there at the store, and this time you won’t get something tacky. 

So, back to the shoes…

When I come back from getting engaged to myself, I open my closet one morning and stare. An idea forms. 

I’m invited to a party with friends, a somewhat fancier event. I drag over a chair and climb up. I reach up my arms and take down the formerly forbidden box. I set it on the bed and stare at it, gilt print radiating from the matte black square. 

All of what I thought would bring down that magical box has changed. I contemplate the changes in my life for a few moments, then I do it. 

I open the lid to reveal layers of brand-imprinted tissue paper, and unfold it to reveal the treasure within. 

They are still sparkly, beautiful, and stunning. 

I’m going to wear those fuckers.

And so I get ready for the party, makeup applied carefully, hair twirled in waves, dress gently stepped into and zipped. 

And finally, the shoes. 

I step into the forbidden shoes and beam a huge smile, because the puff-piece in my imagination has been punctured in favor of the reality that I had been letting life pass me by while I waited, waited, waited for my Cinderella moment. 

I’m making my own Cinderella moment, no prince required. 

I write up the story of these shoes, and post it to a bunch of my close single friends. 

They want to see the shoes, too. 

And so, that night, I slip on these beauties and zip the back, a maimed Cinderella hobbling down the stairs to my carriage (actually a Jeep), driving my 177 horses there, and tottering in to my own engagement party (okay, it was a party with my friends). 

And I am having a GREAT time. And my friends are awesome. And I am living out my non-marital bliss alone. 

I dance all night, and fall into my bed early in the morning. 

I guess any night can be your wedding night, when you stop looking and start living. 

And my friends there that night are thrilled with the union.

But there are those who clearly are not.

*toys optional