The Fat Goddess of Tacoma

I weigh…a good bit more than I did in my first round of Tindering. When I started my initial Tinder adventure back in the day, I was fresh off some severely disordered eating. I had been working intense days hauling art around a cruise ship. And for my body, I was tiny, a size 10/12.

Once I got home, I struggled. It turns out, it was during this period that my fibromyalgia, a chronic illness that causes extreme fatigue, depression, anxiety, and pain, was beginning. I was constantly exhausted, and I turned to sugar and margaritas and fabulously cheap Mexican food to see me through. And you know what? My body did great. It’s still here. It kept going, holding me through it all. My body held me together even as I felt I was falling apart, trying to find a way through any way it could. I don’t regret a single thing I consumed during that time or a pound I gained, or that I’m now a size 20/22.

Most of the time, I love my body. My stretchmarks, my juicy thighs, the curve of my hips are precious to me. But it’s hard when a lot of the world spends time telling you how wrong you are for that. From the tininess of airplane seats to what clothes are available in actual stores, the world very clearly screams “MAYBE IF YOU WEREN’T FAT LIFE WOULD BE BETTER. YOU SHOULD WANT TO BE LESS FAT.”

I vividly remember dropping two dress sizes from a long bout of the flu in high school and how complimentary people were. So much attention! The compliments! My grandmother and mother joyously bought me new clothes. In college, I spent summers eating a bag of steamed broccoli and 3 pretzel sticks a day, then heading to the gym after a day of nannying, attempting to reach that point again. Being thin grants access and privilege and a legitimacy to your presence. The social psychology embeds itself in you, no matter how many times you try to channel Jenna Maroney on 30 Rock.

And so sitting here in my now rubenesque body, my brain starts extrapolating. My body isn’t typical. It doesn’t fit in. It’s not at that place where the compliments and flattering looks come constantly. How can I expect other people to appreciate my body?

I try to be super upfront on Tinder, with full body shots, plus a bio that concludes”Built like Tess Holliday/Lizzo. It takes a lot of curves to hold this much personality.” But the hard truth is I don’t expect anyone else to like my body. I’ve learned to love it, but I’m completely convinced everyone around me would like me better if I were thin.

Fully vaccinated and after months of emails, two of my best friends in the US and I met up in Port Angeles, Washington for a long weekend of hiking and talking about absolutely everything and nothing. One is happily married to a wonderful man she met on Tinder, the other just celebrated one year with a sweet man she met on Bumble. And I admit I felt a smidge of envious. I am so happy they are both happy! A little bit of me wants what they want, in spite of how content I am on my own and with my life at present. Having a somebody would be nice.

Every time I get on a plane I think how nice it would be to lean my head on somebody’s shoulder and point out the window as we take off, going somewhere with a someone who matters. Airports always seem designed for romance to me, not in the sense of the big airport hello or farewell but more in terms of having someone to help you into your jacket after security, trade off watching bags while you run to the bathroom, be excited to go somewhere together, and lean on for an inflight nap. At airports, I get romantic and wistful, a weird sort of maudlin fueled by conveyor belts and ID checks.

And so I redownloaded Tinder sitting in the Seattle/Tacoma airport, my backpack at my feet, swirling an obscenely large iced coffee as I typed out a quick bio that included the aforementioned caveat about my size, and picked a few photos to upload, including my favorite from the trip. I aimlessly swiped for a few minutes as part of the Tinder onboarding process and boarded my flight home.

A few days ago, I matched with this guy, and he thinks I’m stunning in every way. At first, I thought he was trolling me. No one could find me, my body, this amazing. He says he’s been waiting for a woman like me. He’s even deleted his Tinder.

The catch? He lives in Tacoma, a match resulting from my short jaunt and momentary swiping while in the Pacific Northwest.

He is mind-numbingly handsome with an accent. Romantic as hell. He’s traveled to over 40 countries and all 50 states. He has the same obsession with sitting by water that I have. And he thinks I’m a goddess with a perfect body.

I don’t know where it will go. Who knows if we’ll ever even meet. But just being adored in my own skin is refreshing and joyful. It makes me see myself in a new light: someone other people can love just as she is.

Welcome back to TinderButtons, everybody. Thanks for joining me on this weird adventure.

Meaningful Meaningless Sex

Sometimes I get shit from people for having what they consider “meaningless sex,” as if it’s pure debauchery and you get nothing lasting from it. “It’s just so meaningless. Hedonistic,” said self-righteous friend #1. You can probably hear my exaggerated eyes rolling wherever you are in the world. And that’s simply not true. Just because something isn’t romantic doesn’t mean it doesn’t have value. Wow, so many negatives there.
Here’s the deal: meaning doesn’t have to be mutually derived. As long as it is consensual and entered into in the spirit that everyone’s there to have a safe and fun time, then hell yeah. I’m a firm believer in Meaningful Meaningless Sex.

I’ve had liberating-ask-for-what-I-want sex. The kind where you walk in the room, and you know what you want, and you look someone in the eye, and you say I want it like this. The “I want to see all your tattoos, and let’s drink some tequila” kind of sex.

I’ve had let’s lie around and cuddle, and then we’ll do some crazy stuff, and then we’ll meditate sex. I left feeling centered, reminded that sex is such a human act, and found myself affirmed in my own humanity in the process.

I’ve had I just need someone to make me feel pretty sex. Several rounds of just for the hell of it sex, because sometimes the meaning is simply physical satisfaction and a damn good time. I’ve had do it for the story sex. I’ve had let’s see if I like this sex.

And you know how much of it I regret? None. Not a night of BDSM, not a lazy afternoon in the sheets, not a well-that-didn’t-go-as-expected.

Because I learned from it. I got better at asking what I want. Hell, I learned what I want. I learned what lines I’ll draw from the start. I figured what I don’t like and got more comfortable saying stop. I’ve learned to catch myself when I’m looking for affirmation from others and instead seek it through myself.

Those things mean a lot to me. And maybe that’s not how you find meaning, but that doesn’t mean I can’t find mine that way.

Is it great to have emotional, eye-contact-y, feelingsy sex with someone? Hell yeah! That’s awesome. But that awesomeness doesn’t invalidate the positive experiences I can have through sex without all the feelingsy romance.

We get to make our own meaning.

And you know what? That is fucking awesome. Literally.

P.S. Got a question for Tinder Buttons? Ask away. My love life, your love life, whatever. The comments section is open, and I’m an open book. Well, blog.

My Thighs are Applauding (Shamu, Chub Rub, and our Secret Bodily Shames)

“When I said cute dress, I didn’t think you’d wear leggings underneath,” he said, resting his hand on my knee as we sat having drinks by the fire at a rooftop bar. Given I didn’t know quite how fancy the date was, I had asked if I should go with a cute dress or jeans. He’d suggested the dress, and realizing that if we walked anywhere my thighs would be rubbed raw, I stuck a pair of leggings on underneath. I feigned some excuse about how it was cold, but in actuality, I was trying not to blush that they were necessary to keep my curvy self rash-free.

I wasn’t bothered by his personal preference that I didn’t have them on (while I do take suggestions on occasion, no one gets to say what I wear but me), but the fact that I too would have preferred otherwise and couldn’t figure out how to make that happen.

This chafing issue has plagued me for much of my life. I vividly remember getting splashed at the whale show at Sea World. My parents shepherded one drenched and exhausted little girl to the car. Yet as I walked back to the entrance, my legs burned. They felt like they were on fire, my soaked jean shorts suddenly grating my chubby thighs. I found myself hobbling, legs splayed, walking with a weird figure 8 motion as I tried to keep my legs apart, tugging my new black and rainbow t-shirt with a panda on it as far down as possible in a vain attempt to stop the pain.

That was the beginning.

In the fifteen years since then, I’ve nearly stopped wearing dresses, skirts, and shorts, and on the rare occasion I don one of these non-pants articles, I typically only do so with a protective layer of leggings underneath.

I hated the rubbing feeling, the red rash on my inner thighs, spoiling my walks places, making even a short errand uncomfortable. And the sound! That slight smack-pull-smack-pull as my thighs rubbed against each other made me cringe. I was convinced everyone could hear my chatty thighs which inevitably screamed “LISTEN TO HER FAT THIGHS. SHE’S SO FAT THEY’RE CLAPPING THAT SHE CAN EVEN WALK.”

These days, the sound doesn’t bother me (they’re applauding my awesomeness!), but the burning that accompanies the sound does. It’s hard to have a night out dancing with your friends or strolling around town when you’re walking like you’re sheltering a herd of puppies beneath your thighs.

And then, low and behold, I saw that episode of The Office in which Andy contends with nipple chafing as he runs. WHAT. Chafing happened to people! Or at least, to Andy “Nard Dog” Bernard. I felt less alone, at least in that “oh, well, if it can happen to someone on tv, maybe I’m not being individually punished by the chub gods with my freaky thighs” kind of way.

I heard a rumor deodorant would help, but it was a shortlived solution, and there’s only so many times a day a girl can sneak off to apply antiperspirant to her thighs without beginning to loathe the smell of cucumber Dove.

A few years, many thigh-hole riddled pairs of leggings, and way too many sticks of deodorant later, I happened upon an article on chub rub. And not just any article-an article with actual preventative measures and garments! It was a revelation unto me!

And by “a few years later,” I mean last week.

So I’ve ordered a few different products! I used one today, wearing that same dress I’d worn with leggings on my date. It wasn’t the best choice given the nearly freezing weather when I got in the car, but I spent all day thrilled that I could walk around in a dress comfortably AND see my knees at the same time. Hello knees! You are beautiful, you dimply lumpy bumpy bendy things!

So what’s the moral of this? It’s simple. I felt so alone about something so normal. Something that was in the realm of my control, and I didn’t even know it. Why the hell don’t we talk about these things? Why did it take me 25 years and American sitcoms and the internet to realize my thighs weren’t outliers but were perfectly a-ok, and simply victims of friction? We all have bodies. We don’t have to be alone in the struggles bodies inevitably bring.

I’m challenging myself to talk more openly with people about the challenges of embodiment. Oily hair, sweaty thighs, that weird chin hair that sneaks up on you every few months…brace yourselves my friends. I want to know your tips and secrets!  I want to share your mucus-y, rashy, painful woes!

After all, as the newly half-score old great piece of cinema that is Highschool Musical reminds us, “we’re all in this together.”

The Mystic Cuckoo Bird of Love

I always thought dating was something that happened when your life was perfect.

I’d be thin and absurdly pretty, with a well-paying distinguished job and a classy apartment filled with practical but comfy boho-chic throw pillows and exactly zero stuffed animals. I would wear contacts instead of glasses, having gloriously overcome my fear of things being near my eyeballs. And then love would find me.

In actuality, the stars don’t align. I still don’t fold my underwear, and I can’t wear liquid eyeliner. I wear my hair the same way I did when I was 8 (ponytail, slowly drooping over the course of the day). Sometimes my twenty-five year old face spontaneously erupts in acne. I still sleep with my stuffed snow leopard. His name is Sam. He’s every bit as snuggly as the day I got him in Kindergarten.

I’m chubbier than I’ve ever been, thanks to the depression (and carbs. God I love carbs.) that came with my OCD battle and now my OCD meds which cause weight gain.

I say this to myself on a regular basis. Even though it’s not true.

Two months ago, I had to have a ping pong ball sized super glue tangle cut out of my hair.

I work two jobs, both of which I love, but neither of which are particularly fancy. At one, I still manage to push on the door you have to pull and then run into it like a bird on a cruel Windex commercial. Every. Damn. Day.

I never evolved into glamour, grace, or effortless charm like post-makeover Mia Thermopolis in The Princess Diaries (though I have my moments). Clearly someone should have tied me to a chair with Hermes scarves more often.

There’s no magic timeline. At no point does the mystic love cuckoo bird that lives in your biological clock stick its scrawny little neck out and suddenly go “you’re a legitimate enough human being to date now.”

Because you’re legitimate already. Messy, ridiculous, not always pulled together you. Or even if you do have it all together, you don’t have to wait for some magical someday when your schedule becomes free and clear, or when you’ve done enough yoga that your tummy won’t be jiggly when you’re making out, or that you’ve mastered cooking and calligraphy and how to fold a fitted sheet without watching a youtube video.

You get to be you. And if dating/romance/love/like/monogamous handholding is something you want to pursue with someone, then you can. And if you don’t want to, that’s great, too! You do you! But know there’s no formula. You don’t have to wait to become perfect. You can enjoy meeting people and kissing people and dating people and all sorts of things at whatever point in your life you find yourself.

Show that screwy cuckoo clock love bird who’s boss, you lovable imperfect bad ass, you.

Let’s Makeout in the Beer Cooler!

My first date with this gentleman found us walking to my neighborhood grocery store, hand in hand. We’d had dinner and drinks, and we decided to pick up some beer and continue the conversation by the firepit in my backyard.

We stopped at a bin of dollar toys, pawing through a sea of bizarre plastic walruses, snakes, and dinosaurs, delighting in a garish yellow sawfish and red raptors with teeny claws.

We moved on to the beer aisle as we discussed what to get, and he said let’s makeout in the beer cooler. I laughed, riffing on his suggestion that in fact that is what I’d waited for someone to ask me my whole life. A few minutes of joke swapping later, somewhere between the cases of Not Your Father’s Root Beer and the refrigerated case abounding with golden ales and IPA’s, he grabbed me and kissed me, right there under the gleaming fluorescent lights of my neighborhood Kroger.

Sometimes you happen upon someone who can make an ordinary moment magical, who can find fun and romance anywhere,  who inspires Ron Swanson level dance moves, and who transform your embarrassing moments into hilarious stories almost instantaneously. Someone whose humor resonates with your own, whose taste for adventures matches yours, but at the same time, who brings out your own laughter and spontaneity on a whole new level.

Most importantly, these people remind us that laughter and fun can be intimate and romantic in their own ways. They bring light to our eyes and joy to our hearts, be it for a single evening or a year or a lifetime.

I’ll brave the chill of the beer aisle any day for that.

Shut Up about Your Penis (Boundaries and Good Guys, Self-Proclaimed and Otherwise)

My boundary lines have been stepped on and crushed into oblivion so many times that I have built them into walls. The only way to get across how non-negotiable my boundaries are seems to be to let men run into them. Typically, they ignore my stating my boundaries, my warnings when I feel uncomfortable. They ignore every clear statement that they exist, seeming convinced that they alone hold some magic power that will force my boundaries to crumble before their greatness. They want to hold the key to my heart, so therefore in their addled mind my boundaries don’t apply to them.

Let’s take this example from a Tinder date I went on a while back:

I got home from a Tinder first date that involved watching our mutual childhood favorite musical, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, at his place, only to find text messages about how turned on he was and how hard his penis was. And I wasn’t happy about it.

Me: I mean, it was fun kissing you. Really fun. But trust me, if I wanted to know the current state of your penis I’d ask.
Him: Oh don’t be like that
Me: What, having boundaries?
Him: No, just don’t be so shy
Me: That’s not being shy
Him: Well sorry I’m so open thought you’d like it
So here he’s positioned the situation not as I have boundaries and he’s broaching them, but rather that he’s open and I’m by comparison closed. Open is deemed superior, and I’m somehow inhibited, and it’s up to him to open me up and get me to not “be like that.”

Let me make this very clear: The least inhibited thing you can do is to respect and name your own boundaries. That is the ultimate way to honor yourself as a sexual being.

Unfortunately I didn’t have a fork.

When I say I don’t want to hear about your penis, I mean it. That doesn’t mean I’m shy or sexually inhibited. It means I don’t want to hear about your penis. I had had a nice evening. There was some hand holding, a little bit of kissing. I moved his hand a few times when it roved to places I didn’t want it to go. But all in all, a nice time.

However, I wasn’t at a place where I wanted to know about his arousal.

If I’m not at a place where I’m comfortable talking about intimate things with you, then pressing me to do so is only going to make me more uncomfortable. Attempting to manipulate me into doing so shows a total disregard for my feelings and my needs in light of your own desires and priorities. He did this several times, not seeming to realize that it wasn’t complimentary that he felt the need to tell me how turned on I make him but rather threatening that he cared so little about my boundaries in conversation. If he’s this dismissive via text, how bad did this have the potential to get in person if I went on a second date with him?

I should’ve realized this before this first date. When I had asked him if I should dress nicely or more casually, and he said t-shirt and panties.

I replied: You get that I’m not coming over to sleep with you right?
Him: Yes I know you’re not coming to spend the night or sleep with me if that’s what you meant
Me: Yes
Him: I’m actually a good dude, you’ll see
Him: You mean seven brides for seven brothers isn’t a hint for sex? Lol
Me: You mean comments about my panties aren’t hints for sex?
Him: Was a joke! Sorry thought you saw it that way
Me: I get that you’re kidding, but when it’s someone you don’t know, it comes across as kind of like you have expectations or particular intentions but are trying to mitigate them with humor
Him: I get that and sorry, promise no expectations or intentions or plans other than watching a musical that I’ve known since I was like 7

The first date struggle is real.

I find it intimidating when someone assumes, or even implies, that I’m going to sleep with them. Suddenly a date is less about enjoying getting to know someone and seeing what happens and more about worrying if I’m sending the wrong signals, even if I’ve clearly spelled out my intentions for the evening, or how I’ll respond if and when he makes me uncomfortable again. I stop getting to function as a human being and become a sex object trying to regain her humanity.

If you care more about me as a sex object than you do about me as a person who needs to feel heard, to feel safe, then you’re not a good guy.  Too often in my experience, when I call a guy out for objectifying me or making sexual jokes or comments that make me uncomfortable, the default comment is “but I’m a good guy.”

Correction: In real life, the self proclaimed good guy is frequently an entitled prick.

The “Good guy” identifier is an excuse to say whatever and then defend their delusions of what it means to be respectful using a self-applied label of who they think they “actually” are. “Good guy”-ness gets treated like a get out of jail free card. It’s a way of telling women that because I’m a good guy, I can lay claim to your body, objectify you, and make you uncomfortable, because I can’t envision myself as anything otherwise. Anything you confront me with that substantiates the opposite will fall on deaf ears, because I’ve decided I’m a Good Guy.

Being an actual good guy is more than “well, I’m not going to try to rape you. I’m not going to kill you, hit you, or drug you.” It is respecting someone else’s boundaries. It is making the effort to clarify those boundaries if you don’t understand them. It is consensual conversation, not only consensual actions.

I frequently find myself with the burden of deescalating the situation, of convincing someone that sexualizing me isn’t ok. Genuinely good guys don’t do that.

Real good guys don’t need to tell you they’re good. They establish their credibility over time. They build trust and understand that that takes a while. They become good guys in your eyes because they have been good to you, without expecting anything other than respect in turn.

Multi-tasking: I get to be Hogwarts, McGonagall calling the shots to protect the boundaries, and the knights defending Hogwarts.

Honestly, this is one of the hardest lessons Tinder has taught me: in my relationships and interactions, no one can advocate for me but me. As much as I can moan to my roommates and friends about frustrating conversations and they may commiserate, it’s up to me to stand up for my boundaries and champion myself. And sometimes, there’s only so much I can do. Sometimes you just have to walk away and know your own happiness and well-being are more important than someone you barely know.

Here’s to the real good guys. I’m glad you’re out there.

The Disney Princess of Pubic Hair (my relationship with my razor, on my own terms)

I remember being about 7 or 8, looking down in the bathtub, and being so excited! I had hair down below! I called it my “Teddy Bear hair,” convinced that somehow it was a magic initiation into the world of fuzzy things. Bears would love me! I could commune with nature! I sang little songs about my pubes, with extremely unimaginative lyrics. I would be the Disney Princess of pubic hair!

And then I grew up, inundated by a world of Cosmo articles that claimed to espouse equal-opportunity-pube choices, but in fact heavily emphasized the popularity of the Brazilian wax and its presumed superiority.

I had a man once tell me “I like my women shaved bare.” Oh, how nice. I missed that part where you own me just because I’m down to sleep with you.

But you know what? I shaved.

It was interesting and exotic for a few days, but the novelty was quickly overtaken by the incredible itchiness. I couldn’t wear any of my favorite underwear, because it caught on the stubbles like Velcro. Plus, I felt babyish. I missed that sense of bad-ass primal curliness that laid in wait between my thighs. I felt exposed, and not in a fun way. It may work for some women, but it definitely doesn’t work for me.

Tina Belcher bemoans conforming to society and waxing her leg hairs in Bob’s Burgers magical episode “Mother Daughter Laser Razor.”

Worse, I realized I had let somebody else make that decision for me through the power of suggestion. I felt ill about it. Heck, sometimes I still feel ill about it. I didn’t speak up for myself and defend what I like. After all, if you’re lucky enough to sleep with me, you can just feel damn lucky to get to see my body in all its bad ass curvy splendor. You can take it or leave it, but I won’t change it for you.

Somebody else’s personal preference doesn’t trump what I want for my body. Ever. If I want to dye my pubic hair hot pink, look upon my work ye mighty and despair. Vajazzling? More power to me.

The one great thing to come of this is I realized it’s okay to experiment with my body my way. I don’t have to shave to know I like being unshaven. I don’t have to comply with someone’s standards to be sexy. And if that’s a turnoff for them, then that’s their problem, and I can walk away.

Society may condemn something about your body, and individual people may condemn something about your body, but nothing else matters but your relationship to your body. People can critique all they want, and while words may hurt, words don’t dictate my shaving regimen or how I interact with my body. In loving ourselves on our own terms, we open ourselves up to find people who will gladly do the same.

Disney Princess pube powers ACTIVATE!

(P.S. Everybody send their love to my mother, who still reads and supports my blog even when she has to deal with me being a sexual being or me talking about bizarre things! You’re the best, mom, and I love you heaps!)

Be Weak, Be Human, Be Vulnerable (Must Love Stories)

I went on a date recently with a wonderful man of whom I’m quite fond, and as I realized he had no stories to tell my heart began to sink. My mind twisted and turned, trying to piece together his identity from the scraps I’d been told. There were no sweet inferences or revealing adjective choices. There is no reading tone or basking in an adventure or lack thereof if there are no words shared, no attempts made.

I adore stories. They are the stuff I thrive on. And when I tell stories, I feel like I light up, like a Christmas tree, or a birthday cake candle, or your favorite childhood nightlight just when the dark starts to get spooky. I’ll mock myself, share my lows and highs, my good choices and bad (sorry, mom, I try). So often it reveals who I am, frequently in a way that makes me feel very vulnerable and strangely relieved and almost uncomfortable.

It makes me really damn happy to make people feel something right along with me. It’s my favorite part of being a person; it’s being human together.

And I love people who tell great stories. It’s why I adore dating artists, writers, and musicians, people who are willing not only to lay claim to their stories but to share them. Sometimes I meet amazing people who do amazing things, and then they can’t manage to tell you about it.

I’d far rather someone be boastful and tell a story that will make me laugh than have no story to share. I’d rather share in your embarrassment than protect whatever overly perfected image of you my brain accidentally mistakenly concocted. I’d rather sit rapt while you attempt to tell a story and fail miserably. Be weak. Be human. Be vulnerable. I’d rather see who you really are than fall for some half-baked construction of you that is painstakingly crafted and story-less.

I know some people don’t have this inclination. We don’t all think of our adventures as small narratives etched in our lives. But isn’t it at least an adventure to try to tell a story at all? A story in and of itself, that you attempted and failed to tell a good story?

There may be no glory in them. Goodness knows, many of my stories cast me in a terrible light. But at least try. Try and fail, try and be ridiculous, stumble and falter as you regale highs and lows.

Be human with me.

Please?

After all,

You beautiful tropical fish (of compliments and broken egos)

I love Leslie Knope of Parks and Rec’s unabashed use of compliments to celebrate the people in her life. While her metaphors may seem absurd, they speak of the intensity of her love for her colleagues and friends. She values them, and they’ve come to accept that, bizarre as Leslie’s esteem may be, it comes from a profoundly genuine place.

So when I had the opportunity to spend some time with one of my favorite Tinder fellows this week, I found myself surprised as I reconsidered my own relationship to compliments.

This gentleman does wonderful things for the world, for his community. He stumbled into an opportunity to help others and has seized it, serving on a board advocating for those who need a champion and a role model. He worked hard to get a job at a place he dreamed of working. He mocks people on HGTV like a champ.

Oh, and word around the block is he can make chocolate chip cookie dough spring rolls.

I think he’s pretty amazing. He jokingly attempted to refute me. I wasn’t having it.

Then I realized I was being a giant hypocrite. So often when people pay me a compliment I try to brush it off. I try to play it as humility, as if modesty were some magic circle that made being complimented acceptable.

However, that’s operating on the assumption that accepting a compliment is somehow to be vain. I’ve spent my life treating embracing compliments as a shortcoming. I want to appreciate people. I love telling people why they inspire me, why they bring me hope, joy, and inspiration. Why would I not give them the joy of appreciating me if they should want to do so? Why hide behind the guise of modesty?

The answer immediately rang in my head, and I’m ashamed to admit it’s because I don’t think I deserve it.

I’ve spent the past year feeling like a giant loser. Hell, right now I’m applying to jobs like crazy and can’t manage to get an interview. I’ve taken to paying for groceries in change (sorry not sorry, people in the self-checkout line at Kroger). I couldn’t even afford my own car insurance (generous grandmother to the rescue!), can’t afford to get my eyes checked, and haven’t had a haircut in over a year. Between stress eating and OCD meds I’ve gained a stunning number of pounds, reducing my wardrobe to mostly jeans, leggings, and t-shirts.

My ego has been shot to pieces.

I didn’t realize how vain I was until I found myself hitting what has felt like rock bottom. Me, Miss Phi Beta Kappa, fancy liberal arts degree, talk your ear off, charming to a fault, somehow held down three jobs at a time during college—an incompetent mooching failure laid low by OCD and the job market.

And yet people still seem to like me. As all the things I thought I valued in myself have fallen away, academic success, employment, even my old appearance, people still like me. People still somehow have compliments for me. It’s absolutely blown my mind. I found myself attempting to dismiss kind words with a laugh, or sentences starting with “yeah, but…” Upon further thought, as someone who so values words, how unkind of me to dismiss someone else’s for the sake of my current lack of self-assuredness.

I’ve learned people value who I am so much more than what I achieve. They celebrate for me when I succeed and hurt for me when I struggle, but at the heart of that is a profound respect for who I am as a person, in spite of what I may or may not accomplish.

So often we forget that the measures of our own esteem are inherently flawed, twisted by years of assumptions and false comparisons. While we may think we fall short, in another’s eyes we may absolutely shine.

Even if in my heart of hearts I’m struggling to see myself in a positive light, I owe it to these people to believe them when they say kind things to me and to trust, even if I can’t quite see the good things myself, that compliments come from a genuine place based on their experiences with me.

So, you beautiful tropical fish, if I tell you you’re wonderful, trust me, and I’ll do you the courtesy of trusting you. Here’s hoping that the more we let ourselves be wonderful in each other’s eyes, the more we’ll learn to be wonderful in our own.

We are inevitably thrifted. (thrift shopping, past loves, and hidden treasures)

So long time no post…because I’ve been moving! Admittedly this has put a bit of a damper on my life. Somehow moving boxes just aren’t super sexy to me.

Look at this trove! Treasures untold! How many wonders can one townhouse hold?

I’ve fallen in love with thrift shopping at a little store a few blocks from my new place. My roomates and I scour every room, including the un-airconditioned back room which inevitably leaves us drenched in sweat. We know the volunteers there. They greet us as we walk in, suggesting favorite pieces, letting us keep our treasures in small horde-like piles at the front as we gallivant through the store and peek into every corner.

The things we gleefully haul home have been previously loved, broken in for us. I find myself imagining their past lives as I settle them into my room. A chair in a child’s bedroom in which her mother read tales of talking cows and princesses who save the day, a table on which an old man placed his spectacles and crossword puzzles before having a nap, a throw pillow which has seen its share of pillow fights and secret midnight forts.

Why are the tales of objects’ past lives-that which renders them “previously loved”-enchanting, but in our love lives past relationships make us uncomfortable?

I suppose it might be the “newer model syndrome.” There’s a sense that because we’ve moved on to a new relationship, any mention of a past one implies comparison. There’s no comparison. I don’t need to compare myself to your ex, and you don’t need to compare yourself to mine. My relationship with someone gets to be wholly my own, not marked by my past. But knowing my past and my exes exist is also critical, that they’ve somehow made me who I am…they will ever and always be characters in my story. To erase them would be to erase a part of myself, to skip over the middle of the story which got us to happily-right-now-ever-after.

And admittedly, there are some not so glorious moments in my past relationships and even in past dates. I’ve made mistakes aplenty. But I’ve learned so much about myself and the world in the process. I learned to stay up late and make art and drink hot tea, to appreciate forehead kisses, to set high standards like finding people who will not hesitate to dance with me in the rain. I learned guilt is a weapon, not a tool. I learned to let go of control and how to hold hands best during a movie. I learned to love myself so that I can love somebody else.

Learning about ourselves and the world comes with loving, both romantically and platonically. Whatever level of learning you’re at is beautiful. We’re broken in and a little worn around the edges, and that is hard and scary and wonderful. As challenging as it can be sometimes to face our own and each other’s pasts, we’re the better for doing so. Our lives are the richer for unearthing such treasures.

We come previously loved. We come previously loving. We are inevitably thrifted.

And that’s ok. All we can do is keep hunting for those treasures of people whose stories will resonate with our own lives.