20 Things To Do When You’re 30 That Will Make Life Better At 50

Mostly because I haven't posted much lately .. but also because ... well, I want to remember this stuff? I'm 35 going on 100 most days ....... still feeling the blah's .... so, here's to better days and better plans? (article not mine, but I added the pretty pictures from google images, cuz I'm schnazzy like that.. and also cuz I'm avoiding doing a pile of dishes/pots in my kitchen over there <<<<<< )

 20 Things To Do When You’re 30 That Will Make Life Better At 50 

by Beth Buczynski with Thanks to Distractify for this article 

Someone asked a bunch of 50+ people about things they wished they had done in their younger years. The answers are incredibly smart, and in most cases, simple. If you’ve recently hit the big 3-0, this is your homework. 

 

1. Don’t smoke. If you’ve started, stop immediately.

“If you could see me now, I’m down on my poor, crackling knees begging you to at least consider stopping smoking,” writes Quora user Cyndi Perlman Fink. It’s expensive, smells gross, and is 100% guaranteed to cause health problems. Want to be cancer-free at 50? Stop smoking.

2. Stop eating crap.

“You can make a lot of money in 20s, 30s, 40s, 50s,…90s to buy the whole world when you are at age 50 or beyond,” writes Quora user Sireesha Chilakamarri.  “But, you cannot buy your health. Give up on fast food right now at age 30.”

3. Maintain (or repair) relationships with parents and siblings.

“…Chances are you’ve come across ideas and changed in ways that mean you don’t see eye to eye with them on many issues. But then – that’s part of what a family can help with – to learn to get along with people you don’t agree with on many issues,” writes Quora user Robert Walker.”I come from a family which is very argumentative. If you didn’t understand the situation you might at times think we hate each other. But it isn’t like that at all. Rather, we free to speak our minds because the family ties are so strong.”

4. Stop going out in the sun without sunblock.

“I was stupid. I didn’t listen. Do you want wrinkles and thin skin from sun damage like I have and do you want bruises from just lightly touching the side of a box and having your skin peel off? Go ahead, enjoy lying in the sun without sunblock,” writes Quora user Cyndi Perlman Fink.

5. Exercise regularly.

Build an active lifestyle now, and when you’re 50 you won’t be stuck in a Rascal. “Don’t gain weight. Exercise. Keep your weight at a normal level that’s good for your body,” continues Cyndi Perlman Fink. “Weight does all kinds of bad things for you body. I’ve been fat, I’ve been thin, thin is healthier.”

6. Start saving money. Even if it’s just a tiny bit.

“Save money. I know this is a boring, trite, and unsexy suggestion, but it’s true,” writes Quora user Cliff Gilley. “In your 30s, the average person has a lot of disposable income, some of which can almost always easily be set aside for use later in life.  Plus, building the habit of saving early means you’ll continue it further down the line.”

7. Learn to be content with what you have.

“…Happiness is what matters far more than worldly success,” writes Quora user Robert Walker. “If you are content with what you have then you may be a bit less likely to end up a millionaire, but you will have a happier life.  And if you do become a wealthy person – is no reason why not, you’ll be a more happy, fulfilled and productive wealthy person.”

8. Don’t delay pursuing your life goals.

“Want to buy a house? Have kids? Write a book? Get a second degree or advanced degree? Change your career? Learn to play a new musical instrument? Learn to cook gourmet meals? Try scuba diving? Run for public office? Start a business and be self-employed? Then start today,” writes Quora user Bill Karwin. “It’s easy to put things off. “I’ll get to that someday.” But it’s really true that time starts accelerating as you enter your 30’s, and it keeps accelerating. The time that you’ll get around to those dreams should be now.”

9. Get some sleep.

“Use stellar sleep hygiene,” writes Quora user Nan Waldman. “A dark room or sleep shades will block out light. No bright screens before bedtime. Go to sleep at the same time and wake up at the same time.”

10. Take care of your teeth.

“…Go to the freaking dentist already,” writes Quora user Caroline Zelonka. “Get your little cavities fixed as they come up. Unlike many body health issues, dental problems only get worse — and things like crowns and implants are uncomfortable, time-consuming and expensive (like, close to five figures per tooth for an extraction, implant and crown). If you have a good savings and income stream, the bills won’t be the painful thing — but there’s no getting around the pain and the time suck.”

11. Collect memories instead of things.

You are the sum of your experiences. Don’t wake up when you’re 50 and realize that you’ve wasted life gathering possessions. Memories won’t depreciate and can’t be burned in a fire. (Inspired by Quora user Richard Careaga).

12. Give something back.

“Give to others so you feel the goodness that service brings,” writes Quora user Nan Waldman. “However you give, do it with your full heart, soul, and effort. Expect nothing in return.”

13. Be curious and do one thing that scares you every day.

“Get out of the house and have an honest-to-God adventure right now,” writes Quora user Mary Leek. “Make it as big as you can possibly manage, take lots of pictures, throw caution to the wind, take on the risk, grab the brass ring. If possible, include someone you’re close to – make a BIG memory. It has to be more than jumping out of an airplane – it needs to be measured in days, not hours or minutes. You’ll still be smiling about it when you’re old and creaky, I promise. I am.”

14. Read at least 10 books a year.

“Gee I wish I spent more time watching TV and playing video,” said no 50 year-old ever. Your brain never stops growing, so exercise it with media that matters. (Inspired by Quora user Vanitha Muthukumar).

15. Travel. As much as possible, whenever you can.

“Traveling will change you like little else can. It will put you in places that will force you to care for issues that are bigger than you,” writes Jeff Goins. “It’s about experiencing true risk and adventure so you don’t have to live in fear for the rest of your life. And…inspiring others to step out of that fear, too.”

16. Learn to meditate.

“The list of benefits is endless, it only costs you a small amount of time a day, the change in your life and the people you love will be amazing,” writes Quora user Rens De Nobel. “And compared to ten years ago, there are long lists of scientific studies to back it up.”

17. Do you.

Trust me, the day your body starts to show the signs of wear & tear, you no longer see any fun in partying or trying to impress people around you,” writes Quora user Satish Kumar Grandhi. “You need to start your path of self discovery right now to become stronger by the time you are 50.”

18. Keep a journal.

“You WILL forget more of your precious memories that you’ll remember,” writes Quora user Mark Crawley. “Your written records will entertain and endear in your future (wish I had). Your computer should make this archiving all the easier to implement and retain / recall. Put files on memory sticks with photos. Your kids (or surviving spouse) may someday love you for it.”

19. Become a homeowner.

“Buy a house, it’ll be nearly paid for by the time you’re 50,” writes Quora user Liz Read.

20. Take care of your friends.

“Choose people who make you feel like you already are your best self, who challenge you by their example, and who you genuinely enjoy,” explains Nan Waldman. “Nurture them. Laugh with them. Be silly too. Contribute to their survival and enjoyment of life. Take the time every week to be in touch.”

Thanks to Distractify for this article 

blah day is blah

things and stuff....

Useless things, and stuff .... they keep cluttering up my head-space.  I'm not sure if it's just age, and life, and life and aging ..... or if it is something to do with my new medication (because, after all, we are all just walking pharmaceutical experimentations under-way) .... but I can't seem to focus on anything of much substance. I keep mixing up letters in words (I can understand this when I'm at a keyboard, but when I'm two-thumb typing on my cellphone, it seems a little odd that I'd toss letters around inside a word, and OFTEN too!) and replacing old words with new words that don't actually mean what I thought they meant .... my whole internal dictionary seems to have gone haywire.  Why I'm even attempting to write something in a semi-public forum, I'm not even sure......!

I'm drunk on oxytocin and I want the world to know ......... but I'm terrified.

From Practical Magic -- Sally Owens: [Sally's letter to Gillian] Sometimes I feel like there's a hole inside of me, an emptiness that at times seems to burn. I think if you lifted my heart to your ear, you could probably hear the ocean. The moon tonight, there's a circle around it. Sign of trouble not far behind. I have this dream of being whole. Of not going to sleep each night, wanting. But still sometimes, when the wind is warm or the crickets sing... I dream of a love that even time will lie down and be still for. I just want someone to love me. I want to be seen. I don't know. Maybe I had my happiness. I don't want to believe it but, there is no man, Gilly. Only that moon. 

Those words hold me still and silent, rapt with attention. I've always yearned in this way -- "I dream of a love that even time will lie down and be still for." Suddenly, from nowhere that makes sense, I feel like it has found me. I feel as though I have been preparing for this moment my whole life, but somehow it still caught me with my pants down (and NOT in the fun way!) ..... so I just swallow my fear and go with the flow and hope for the best, right? That's what you do when you don't know what to do ... hope for the best. What is the best?

What if I said, every other day I think about letting my daughter go live with her father? What if I wished for an out ... from the burdens of responsibility? What if I wanted to let go of all the material possessions I've gathered in order to give her the life she deserves, the home, the stability, the opportunity I'm supposed to give her ... what if I'm tired and I just want out of it all? .... of course, I know I can't .. I know I wouldn't be able to live with that decision ... I know I need to be here for every joy and every sorrow while I still can, because one day she'll have her own life, away from me ... and I'll look back and cherish every single moment that right now feels like an eternity of not being me..........

Honesty is tough.

So what do I want? What do I need? Where am I GOING?!

My psychiatrist, who I have been seeing for the past 12+ years, discharged me last week. It was unexpected and sudden and came with a few tears. Am I well enough to be on my own without him? I don't know. I still have another psychiatrist through a separate program here in this city (rather than the next one over) ... but I've only seen him a handful of times over the past 2 years. He doesn't know me. He doesn't know the me that I was 13 years ago. The me that could hardly escape her front door for fear of upsetting the universal chaotic status quo ........ but I suppose that is not the me I am today. I suppose it is time to let go of those fears. It is time to be the me who is a 35y/o mother to an 11y/o girl ... a woman in love. I woman with no idea where her life is headed. A woman afraid to make big changes towards her dreams......

So, I'm putting it out there, into the world at large.  This is what I want to do: I want to be a 'wholistic life mentor' or rather, I want to invent a position with that title! :)

I want my own shop. I want space for private sit-down conversation, and another space for private massage-table work (like Reiki, crystal healing, fire-cupping, etc) ... and I want a large yoga-studio-like space, for group meditation and chakra jewellery creating classes... and I want a store-front with a share-library and co-op sales space for items and crafts and art ....... I want to be a "collective" of practitioners who share the space......

Now what are my first steps towards achieving that, after stating my intention? Oi! I don't know yet... but I know I'm going to find out.

Wish me luck! :)

Hi Jinks

terrified in life;

lost in love;

drown by a sea of longing;

grasping at straws;

sinking through self;

only to find,

upon standing…

…the water was only ever knee deep.

8:29pm October 13, 2015

My body isn't beautiful, it just IS!

So, just a few moments ago on Facebook, I saw Upworthy post about "7 real ladies get real about swimsuit shopping" and I watched this video:

Which prompted me to make this response in the comments:

Cassandra J. Henry I kinda dig .. I kinda don't ...... I guess, for me, when I try on a bathing suit, I'm more practical -- does it feel comfortable, is it going to ride up in the water, is there some strange massive amount of extra flap-like cloth that the designer thought would somehow "hide" my curves (cuz really, who WANTS that?!) .... if it passes those, and it's in my price bracket, then I put it on my body and go to the beach, or the pool, or the splash pad with kids..... THIS is my body. I'm required to wear something to cover parts of it to make it look "decent" for North American public consumption... but these are the arms that I toss my daughter around in the water with, these are the legs that break the waves to get me out to the nice cool deep water to refresh myself in the heat with ... and what it LOOKS like isn't really all that important. I think too many of these "everyone feels the same about their beach bodies" videos are still kinda missing the point -- those insecurities are only normal because we ALLOW them to be! We are beautiful, amazing creatures, and we need to stop focusing so much on what we LOOK like and instead on what we're DOING, THINKING, CREATING....! I love the skin I'm in, whatever size it happens to be... I want clothes that functions with my body and allows me to be, act and do ......!

And then another Facebook user replied directly to my comment with these words:

[Poster's name removed for privacy] You make that sound as if I hate my body and myself on purpose. As if women like me "allow" input from other people to effect us.

If that were true then people telling me I look nice wpuld help. Or my fiance saying I'm beautiful would make me believe that about myself.

How you feel about yourself has nothing to do with other people, as much as we wpuld like that.

Personally I've always hated my body. I had the perfect body once, perfect skin perfect hair, but I still loathed myself.

It is something you have to work on with yourself every day and I'm no where close.

But please, please don't try to say we allow this to "happen" to us. Like saying, well your just doing it to yourself. Because trust me when I say if I could change my mindset based on other people, I would love myself by now.

I felt kind of like a heel for my original comment, like I'd missed a really integral part of my journey to where I am today, so I followed up to her comment with this response:

Cassandra J. Henry  Oh [name removed for privacy]! *hugs* I'm really sorry if what I said hurt you and your struggle. I wasn't trying to be callous with my words. Your fight is real and the way you feel is very real. I didn't always feel the way I feel now. I'm 35 and I remember blowing on dandelions when I was 9 years old and making wishes, that I would wake up and be thin. I remember 'star light, star bright, first star I see tonight' wishes that I would have a body that fit into normal sized clothing and not adult clothing that never quite fit right. I remember hating my body so much that I stopped even SEEING it from the neck down. Your pain is not something I dismiss. I've struggled with an eating disorder for nearly 3 decades. I've been up and down in weight. The proudest I've been of myself is the last 6 months -- I haven't lost a pound, I'm still the biggest I've ever been in my life, but I am STABLE and I can look at myself in the mirror in a dress and SMILE.

I _really_ _really_ think that you might want to read more about the way that our social programming defines beauty, and the way that we're taught what that perfect image is, and how unrealistic it is for anyone to ever achieve or maintain those forms of so-called beauty. We are beautiful by the actions we do, not by the skin we wear. I've spent a long time reading about things like the #HAES movement and #effyourbeautystandards support networks. Because what it all boils down to for me, I am alive and I have been through hell and back, but I've fought it with every breath I've taken -- and THIS body was there with me every damn step of the way. I want to live life and I want to enjoy it. I want to DO things and MEET people and GO places. I refuse to hide behind the hate and the fear that the world has told me I should have towards my body because it does not match up with the unrealistic expectations of beauty that are portrayed everywhere I turn, in every shop window and every commercial and every TV show and movie. I am not the comic relief of my life, I am the main character and I am going to shine! And you, [name removed for privacy] can be the star of your own life, too! Again, I'm really sorry if my words felt dismissive of your struggles!

I'm not sure if I covered the whole nuance of what I meant, or what I feel... but I wanted to transpose it over here, so that I can retain these words.

Update Thankfully she responded and the dialogue continued:

[Poster's name removed for privacy] Thank you for your words. They mean so very much, I really hope you know that.

I know mentally that my body is fine even by normal standards or whatever.

The problems I have with myself stem from being adopted and I know that. That is what makes it so frustrating. I know in my head and heart EXACTLY what the problem is, but no matter what I do or what I try, at the end of the day I still feel like a useless ugly piece of garbage, even though I KNOW that I'm not.

It is the most awful feeling in the world to know and believe you are beautiful and perfect just the way you are, but just not FEEL it.

The "fight song" brings me to tears every time because of that. I believe and know my worth, but just can't seem to feel it.

The beauty standards I was raised around were European/Asian. So pale skin, light hair, light eyes, tall, small waist, big hips, big breasts, small butt, small feet, heart shaped face, long hair, etc. And my (adoptive) mom is amazing with that. She never wore makeup, had weight issues etc but every day she said: you are special and beautiful and I want you to know how awesome you are.

Even still it is an unshakeable feeling of self loathing for the way you look, act, speak, read, listen, feel, smell. It sucks. :/

Again, thank you so much for your words of encouragement and thoughtfulness. People like you are what make people like me keep going. Your kids have a wonderful mother and I couldn't be happier to know that you are raising happy healthy kids. <3

And so I wrote back with these words:

Cassandra J. Henry I'm so glad you responded. Thank you for sharing your pain so publicly -- never an easy thing to do. You most certainly sound like you've got a lot of "fight left in" you :)  I'm sending hugs across the internet to you! Just know, day by day, it will get easier, it will get better, if you keep fighting for YOU.

[Not to be presumptuous in any way, but I always want to wear my mental-health hat in this moment, just know that if things AREN'T ever getting better and you feel yourself sinking, medical help might be needed. Depression can feel like a lonely dark hole that you can't ever climb out of, but there are resources out there to help!]

Remember that you are worth it all in the end, and every battle will make you that much stronger! Congrats on your engagement. It is always wonderful to have someone who sees the things we can't see about ourselves, sitting in our corner of this crazy fight we call life. From your words, I believe you will make it because anything else simply isn't an option for you! <3

Update So my original comment is currently 52 Likes strong... and our little thread has had the following comments:

Well said, Cassandra! I liked the content of both posts and I have no doubt of their authenticity. We have never met, but I think you are a beautiful person! You too [name removed for privacy]

You two are making me tear up over here... <3

Same here 

Update Up to 73 Likes and the following comment added:

Beautifully, eloquently, sensitively said Cassandra.

Related:

Earlier in the day, my sister shared this blog post titled "My wedding was perfect – and I was fat as hell the whole time" with the tag "Because being fat and happy and in love in public is still a radical act." 

To which I commented "Mom, maybe reading this will help you understand why it hurt so damn much when I felt BEAUTIFUL in my new dress and you said "isn't it a little too tight for you?" ... I know the problem began when I asked what you thought, because really, what mattered was how I felt .... I haven't worn that dress since, in case you're wondering." 

And my mother's response "Sorry, I am always going to answer honestly if asked." 

And my sister's to that "The question is though, honestly - why do you believe a dress to be too tight when a person wearing it is larger sized? It's all embedded in our ideas of who is allowed to wear tight clothing / what is beautiful."

I love both my mom and my sister, but I'm really lucky to be able to benefit from my sister's wisdom to balance it all out!

The Last Holdout

Keeping this here for memory purposes .... I remember reading this for the first time in my parent's house... in the computer room ... I remember how it made us all laugh. I never installed Windows95, to be honest -- but I did have win98 until at least 2006 :)
---

The Last Holdout (from Windows 95)


There was a knock on the door.  It was the man from Microsoft.  "Not you
again," I said.

"Sorry," he said, a little sheepishly.  "I guess you know why I'm here."

Indeed I did.  Microsoft's $300 million campaign to promote the Windows
95 operating system was meant to be universally effective, to convince
every human being on the planet that Windows 95 was an essential, some
would say integral, part of living.  Problem was, not everyone had
bought it.  Specifically, I hadn't.  I was the Last Human Being Without
Windows 95.  And now this little man from Microsoft was at my door, and
he wouldn't take no for an answer.

"No," I said.

"You know I can't take that," he said, pulling out a copy of Windows 95
from a briefcase.  "Come on.  Just one copy.  That's all we ask."

"Not interested," I said.  "Look, isn't there someone else you can go
bother for a while?  There's got to be someone else on the planet who
doesn't have a copy."

"Well, no," the Microsoft man said.  "You're the only one."

"You can't be serious.  Not everyone on the planet has a computer," I
said.  "And certainly, not everyone has a PC!  Some people own
Macintoshes, which run their own operating system.  And some people who
have PCs run OS/2, though I hear that's just a rumor.  In short, there
are some people who just have no USE for Windows 95."

The Microsoft man look perplexed.  "I'm missing your point," he said.

"Use!" I screamed.  "Use!  Use!  Use!  Why BUY it, if you can't USE it?"

"Well, I don't know anything about this "use" thing you're going on
about," the Microsoft man said.  "All I know is that according to our
records, everyone else on the planet has a copy."

"People without computers?"

"Got 'em."

"Amazonian Indians?"

"We had to get some malaria shots to go in, but yes."

"The Amish."

"Check."

"Oh, come on," I said.  "They don't even wear BUTTONS.  How did you get
them to buy a computer operating system?"

"We told them there were actually 95 very small windows in the box," the
Microsoft man admitted.  "We sort of lied.  Which means we are all going
to Hell, every single employee of Microsoft."  He was somber for a
minute, but then perked right up.  "But that's not the point!" he said.
"The point is, EVERYONE has a copy.  Except you."

"So what?" I said.  "If everyone else jumped off a cliff, would you
expect me to do it, too?"

"If we spent $300 million advertising it?  Absolutely."

"No."

"Oh, back to that again," the Microsoft man said.  "Hey.  I'll tell you
what.  I'll GIVE you a copy.  For free.  Just take it and install it on
your computer."  He waved the box in front of me.

"No," I said again.  "No offense, pal, but I don't NEED it.  And
frankly, your whole advertising blitz has sort of offended me.  I mean,
it's a computer operating system.  Great.  Fine.  Swell.  Whatever.  But
you guys are advertising it like it creates world peace or something."

"It did."

"Pardon?"

"World peace.  It was part of the original design.  Really.  One button
access.  Click on it, poof, end to strife and hunger.  Simple."

"So what happened?"

"Well, you know," he said.  "It took up a lot of space on the hard
drive.  We had to decide between it or the Microsoft Network.  Anyway,
we couldn't figure out how to make a profit off of world peace."

"Go away," I said.

"I can't," he said.  "I'll be killed if I fail."

"You have got to be kidding," I said.

"Look," the Microsoft man said, "We sold this to the Amish.  The Amish!
Right now, they're opening the boxes and figuring out they've been had.
We'll be pitchforked if we ever step into Western Pennsyvania again.
But we did it.  So to have YOU holding out, well, it's embarassing.
It's embarassing to the company.  It's embarassing to the product.  It's
embarassing to Bill."

"Bill Gates does not care about me," I said.

"He's watching right now," the Microsoft man said.  "Borrowed one of
those military spy satellites just for the purpose.  It's also got one
of those high-powered lasers.  You close that door on me, zap, I'm a
pile of grey ash."

"He wouldn't do that," I said. "He might hit that copy of Windows 95 by
accident."

"Oh, Bill's gotten pretty good with that laser," the Microsoft man said
nervously.  "Okay.  I wasn't supposed to do this, but you leave me no
choice.  If you take this copy of Windows 95, we will reward you
handsomely.  In fact, we'll give you your own Caribbean island!  How
does Montserrat sound?"

"Terrible.  There's an active volcano there."

"It's only a small one," the Microsoft man said.

"Look," I said, "even if you DID convince me to take that copy of
Windows 95, what would you do then?  You'd have totally saturated the
market.  That would be it.  No new worlds to conquer.  What would you do
then?"

The Microsoft man held up another box and gave it to me.

"'Windows 95....For Pets'?!?!?"

"There's a LOT of domestic animals out there," he said.

I shut the door quickly.  There was a surprised yelp, the sound of a
laser, and then nothing.

Don't Shave That Hair!

I have been wanting to save all the important pieces of the internet, both new and old, that mean something to me .. and this ... well ... this I have read to many people in my life and never made it through without laughing to the point of tears.  I give you fair warning. If you don't find this hilarious, we may not get along! :)

Originally Posted: 2004-07-01 2:15pm

WARNING!!!

Don't Shave That Hair!!!
I have recently made a mistake in my life, and I offer my story to you, that you may learn from my error. It all started, as many things do, with me having trouble shitting.

No, I was not constipated; this was not a regularity problem but a matter of technique. It seems my ass-hair had grown to such a length that tiny grogans were constantly getting tied up in the matted jungle between my asscheeks. It led to much frustration, with me KNOWING that I still had something to drop, but unable to shake the tenacious turd loose from its butthair dwelling. Eventually I would have to do two things: either reach down with some paper and try to pinch off the lingering loaf (which required careful precision to avoid smearing the creature all over my rear, especially since I had no way of seeing what I was doing) or just go for broke, start wiping, and hope that I could remove all the leftover fecal matter before the toilet paper reached its Can't-Be-Flushed threshold.

I was contemplating this problem, when I had what seemed at the time to be a bright idea. "Hey! This is my butt and my butt-hair, right? So why don't I just eliminate all the hair, and then my grogans will flow out like beer from a keg!" I said to myself. It is a statement that will go down in history with a lot of other regretted statements. "How many Indians could there be?" said by General Custer. "Looks like a good day for a drive!" by JFK. "There! America On-Line now has complete Usenet access!" by some idiot system tech. Such was my anal shaving idea.

I performed the operation that night, with a cheap disposable razor and a towel to sit on. Starting from the bottom, and shaving from the crack to the cheeks, I began the arduous process of ridding my ass of hair. Occassionally, I would have to clean the razor of accumulated hair and miscellaneous slime, which I did by wiping it on the towel. Slowly, my twin mounds and the between-ravine began to resemble the hairless cheeks of a newborn baby. Finally, I wiped the razor one last time, and surveyed my work. The towel was covered with a pile of hair. My ass was smooth as ivory. I smiled, satisfied, thinking my troubles were over.

Little did I know.

I now have a great respect for anal-hair. Like everything in this world God created, it has its mighty purpose in existence. It was only after I had removed it that I started to learn how much I had been taking it for granted. For one, it provides friction. I learned this the next day, when I walked out into the sun heading for class. After climbing two flights of stairs and starting to sweat, I started to notice something unpleasant. The sweat was accumulating in my crack, and was causing the unpleasant sensation of my two asscheeks sliding past each other with every step. I thought about going to the bathroom and wiping it off, but had to get to class. Eventually, I thought, it would dry.

Unfortunately, it did dry, but only after mingling with the microscopic shit- molecules lingering around my brown starfish. When I stood up after class, my cheeks were stuck together with a slimy sticky shit/sweat combination. As I made my way back to my dorm, it started to itch. God-DAMN, did it itch! Felt like a swarm of ants was making its way up and down my crack. Fighting to keep from jamming my hand down there and scratching away, I rushed back to the dorm.

Unfortunately again, this exertion caused me to sweat, and when I finally reached my room, my cheeks were sliding back and forth against each other like a pair of horny cane-toads. I quickly dropped my pants, and attempted to dry my ass off by sticking it in front of a fan and spreading my cheeks. As I pulled the two mounds of flesh apart, a horrible stench burst free and filled the room. Every dog within a 4 block radius started to howl. I had it worst of all, as the ripe aroma of festering shit/sweat went into the fan and blew back into my face. I fought to keep from heaving. And as I sat there, fighting vomit, my ass cheeks spread and dripping, with the concentrated aroma of my body odor mixed with the tangy smell of my own shit blowing right into my face, I had only one thought: "It will be like this until the hair grows back. Weeks."

Later on, trying to deal as best I could, wiping my ass at every opportunity, I discovered another wonderful use for ass-hair - ventilation. I attempted to launch a fart, only to have it get stuck between my asscheeks. Apparently, with no hair, the two pink twins can get vacuum sealed together, and the result was a frustrating fart that slid up and down between my cheeks like a lost gerbil.

As if that wasn't enough, I am now enduring further torture. As anyone who has ever shaved anything knows, when hair is first growing in, it comes in as stubble. Imagine your ass having the texture of a brillo pad. Well, that is what I am dealing with now. It is a hellish torture, and there are many times when I just look out the window and contemplate why I shouldn't just jump out and get it all over with in one fleshy splat, rather than endure this constant agony.

Friends, DON'T SHAVE YOUR ASS-HAIR!

Eleventh — “epilogue”

For any who are curious, yes, he did come over for another '24' episode — only this time, I got to be fucked from behind while watching. It was hard to pay attention, but kind of a fun game to try to watch the show AND still cum!  (I think I managed alright..!)

We eventually started seeing each other somewhat regularly. We got together whenever we could.  I moved a couple different times, all out of town … so it made it difficult — perhaps the distance is what kept things okay, as in, we couldn’t really get together often, so the once in a while made it fun.

I have memories of him at every house I moved to. I have memories of the great connection, the amazing sex, the wonderful conversations, the enjoyment in time spent together.

He took some really hot pictures of me — I guess, because of the way I felt about him, looking back on those pictures, I really DID feel hot when he took them.

Finally, in July of 2009, I realized that my feelings for him had changed. I know I looked forward to spending time with him more than I did with anyone else.  I know that the sex we had was no longer just sex for the sake of sex. I had fallen in love with this man and I knew it could never be.

I think we both felt stuck. I think we both knew that things couldn’t go on like this, but we were pretty much addicted. The sex was JUST THAT GOOD. We felt so comfortable with one another after all this time, that we were open to try anything or talk to each other about anything. But it was never going to go anywhere. As great as the physical connection was, as great as our conversations were, as much time as we spent together — he still had a girlfriend. I was always going to be “the other woman.”  And I didn’t resent him for that.. I knew the stakes going in and I would never expect more.

But I also knew, that for the better part of 4 years, I had not been able to commit to another relationship, because I was somehow still holding on to the possibility that one day he would choose me. And he was never going to.  He knew he wanted to marry her (and as I write this, I can confirm, he did!)

I remember that day. I remember that last kiss.

I remember the amazing afternoon we had together before I told him he couldn’t come back again.

I remember closing the door behind him and sinking to the cold tiled floor and bursting into hot tears.

I felt like my world had shattered.

The strange thing is, and I know it wasn’t completely related, but that night I suffered the first 24hour psychotic episode in over 7 years.  There were all kinds of extenuating circumstances, but I can’t help believing the loss was a major precipitating factor.

I moved on. Life came and went. I think it was last year that I finally reached out to him again.  We don’t speak often, we both know it’s like playing with fire…. He confirmed that he still gets off to thoughts of us, to pictures of me, to these very stories.  Truthfully, I try not to think about him. Except, every fortune-cookie fortune brings him to mind. Every martial arts mention makes his quirky grin cross my mind. Every construction surveyor I drive past… Every set of bright blue eyes… truthfully, he seeps into a lot of my thoughts.

But it doesn’t hurt the same any more. It’s just a dull ache in the back of my throat (fitting somehow, I’m sure!)

Do I regret any of it? Fuck no! :) Do I wish it had happened differently, or ended differently? I’m not sure. I think it had to run it’s own course and our lives unfolded as they needed to at the time.

I’m in a really good place right now, so I can look back and feel nostalgic without feeling the loss.

What I am sure about is that I’m glad I wrote about our really hot times together. I’m glad I can look back and still get wet remembering them. And mostly, I’m glad I got to know him, even if we were never destined for more!

(if you’ve just read this and you’re confused, click this and read from the bottom up!)

fifth time...

[written as a spoken word piece.. I dunno if I'll ever have the courage to say this in front of an audience.. maybe one day ...!]

The first time I was only 16. At the time I couldn’t imagine letting anyone use the word “only” before my age. I was ageless, life was limitless, the future was mine to behold and from within which to be held. I was loud and out-spoken. I loved like time itself had swooped down and whispered in my ear that this, this was the one and I poured my heart into his mouth when I kissed him. The first time was after a broken heart, tears caught in my throat, and this 29y/o man was my island in the storm while I waited for the ride to whisk me home from the defeat of a relationship waiting on a precipice to tear me to shreds. The first time I said no, repeatedly, consistently, again and again until I did not. I said no until I said nothing. I stood my ground until the ground ceased to be something that meant anything to me at all and I faded into a crow’s view place, looking down on my body, knowing that my brain was controlling my movements but I was no longer there to take part. I said no until I shut down and let him take what he was so determined to take. A part of me. The first time was not brutal, it was simply not anything. The first time was a year after I wrote the poem I titled Butterflies ‘ a woman, no longer the child of moments before, departs the bedroom with a last, longing look over her shoulder. She had no regrets, only a feeling of emptiness, where there should have been love. ‘  The first time a man stole my body and used it for his pleasures, was also my first time. The first time was without my consent, without me even being present inside my body. He entered and I left. A year later, when I finally told my mother about the first time, she cried and told me about a different era, when she was raped and thought she had to marry her abuser. Later when I told my father about the first time, he looked me in the eye and told me he didn’t believe me. I moved out a year later.

The second time was two years after the first, in my own bed, awoken by the pain of a dry entry. Drug haze, a face I hardly knew. The second time I faded back out. The second time, some time must have passed, until I was awoken by his next entry through the back door. Blood does not for a good lube make. But the drugs were strong and I remember little else of the second time. The second time I remember little else other than the friend who brought him to the party, and when I asked for his contact information, he wouldn’t give it. And when I finally burst into tears trying to explain why I needed it, his words rung loud and clear, like a shot across my life, “but you were flirting with him all night”… the second time his words told me I’d asked for it. The second time his words explained it away. The second time his words perhaps led to the third time. And I told no one else.

The third time happened two more years later, at a club in Toronto. The third time it was my birthday. I’d been a sober party-er for a while, but my friends convinced me that a birthday girl should have a good time. Somehow the third time my friends and I held fast for the drugs and lost touch after they kicked in. The third time he said he’d help me find my friends. The third time, I passed out. There’s a narrow stairway at this club, it leads down to the bathrooms. The men’s room is past the women’s and I’d never been there before. The third time I came to in the stall. How they managed to get me from the dance floor to the stall, with no one commenting on my comatose state, I’m not quite sure I understand. The third time I was penetrated by him and his friend was penetrating from behind. Blood still does not for a good lube make. This woke me to my surroundings. The third time, a voice outside the stall called some sort of warning, something about the watch being on deck? A code known to those who frequented this sort of event. A code I didn’t understand. The third time he urged me up on the seat, his friend departed the stall and he turned to face the bowl. The third time I hunched down and waited. The third time the help I needed was on the other side of the door. What was I doing? Why was I still cowering. I waited with breath lost and muscles frozen. The watch retreated and with a laugh, my captor swung open the door and watched as I scurried back upstairs. Somehow, the third time I danced all night. Somehow, the third time I watched the sun rise as we were all ushered out of the party and my captor’s eye caught mine across the crowd and he laughed and winked and said “thanks for a good time” before his face was lost in the sea of faces. The third time I was drowning inside my body and no one could see.

The fourth time I was in another country and my world was falling apart. I had no voice. I went with the flow of the party. Wherever the action was, whoever had the most drugs, I followed them. The fourth time I was in an apartment with strangers and agreeing to take some fancy designer pills. The fourth time I gave consent with a swig of vodka and a grin. The fourth time I didn’t know what I was consenting to, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. The fourth time I woke beside a man’s warm body and a pile, a pile that resembled a mountain, of bloodied condoms. The fourth time, the first thing to go through my mind was, at least they’d used condoms. The fourth time I pressed the two of them for details, and they laughed and said I was a riot. The fourth time one of them took me aside and pulled from a plastic bag a balled up piece of fabric, he unrolled it and showed me his shirt, the front drenched in my bright red blood and he said, I’m sorry. The fourth time I shrugged it off and asked for a ride home.

The fifth time was a decade later. The fifth time I thought I was a different person. A different kind of woman. The fifth time I was a mother to a beautiful eight year old girl, who was away at her father’s for the weekend. The fifth time was in my own bed again. A different bed. A different scenario. We’d broken up, but I wanted him to stay. The fifth time he’d hurt me so much I should have run to the hills, but I depended on him. I’d let my life begin to revolve around him. I couldn’t have given so much of myself up if he was just going to walk away. The fifth time, when he took me to bed, I thought it was a good thing, I thought it meant we’d get back together, I thought he wanted me. The fifth time, all he wanted was to show me his power over me. The fifth time, somewhere in the middle, it was no longer pleasurable and he was hurting me. The fifth time I told him to stop and he laughed. The fifth time I realized, again, how weak my muscles were when compared to his. The fifth time I told him I was done, to get off me, to let me go, to please just don’t do this, please, no, stop. The fifth time he held me down and drooled into my face and spat across my nose and told me I was nothing. The fifth time he didn’t cum, he pulled out, wiped himself on my thigh and walked out of the room. The fifth time I had to live with him for another month, before I could move into my own place. The fifth time I had to pretend in front of my daughter that everything was okay at home, that I wasn’t dead inside, that I could be a strong woman and her mother and get on with life, because, the fifth time was nothing.

The fifth time I was raped, I learned, statistically, victims of rape are often repeat victims of rape, but no one really knows why.

I live in fear every day that the sixth time will be a conversation with my daughter crying about her first time.