Working Backwards

written under a full moon in Taurus, on my half birthday, with every planet and their brother in retrograde. Everything’s fine. Just fine.

Out of breath from a vigorous mental health walk in Volunteer Park and sweating from the dry Seattle summer heat, I anxiously waited for my mom to pick up on the other end of the line. This week’s Sunday call would be a little different; I had a confession. She was giddy with excitement to come visit for a long overdue trip to Victoria and to be my plus one to a wedding I was officiating— such was the source of my anxiety. “I feel like I’m letting you down.”

Dear reader, my mid early thirties are hitting me hard. Most if not all of my friends are years deep into marriages and having kids— or just about to start. They’re established in their careers and settling into a more stable and secure life. And I want to make it clear: I objectively do not have a bad situation. My bills are paid, I have a mostly steady job, and I still live fruitfully. It’s just not what I expected at this point. I thought I’d have a fleet of chihuahuas and a husband by now.

I’m a woman of the cloth. A reverend of a ministry, albeit online, but still. I’m on my sixth wedding ceremony and two more to go even yet this year, with a 100% track record, thank you very much. And bestowed upon me are the honors of presiding over love and having a part in some of my dearest friends’ special days, yet I’m twiddling my thumbs waiting for a love of my own. This isn’t new, if you’ve been following along. In fact, I feel like I’m feigning a stick above a Clydesdale, waiting for the poor thing to let out a final fart and crack open a Budweiser after the deed is done. Or a chipped vinyl hiccuping a sad lyric over and over again. I’ve wanted a serious relationship since I came out decades ago. And of the endeavors I’ve had, most have taught me what not to want out of a partner. To sum it up, I’m disenchanted with it all. I don’t want those aforementioned kids, barely desire the institution of marriage, and can’t imagine a McMansion in the suburbs. I am wholly invested in a weird life, aspiring to be that rich auntie who pops in and out between bestselling novel debuts and retreating to her Nordic castle. And those of you who are single (with the important distinction of those who want a partner) know how rough these streets are. The dating pool? It’s a pissy swamp with creatures or avoidant fuckbois all the same. I don’t have the experience to know what it was like in the before times, but whatever is happening to us is at best social decay or at worst a covert psyop. Notwithstanding, I’m too much of a yearning soul to succumb to the bland, sanitized corporate institution of modern dating. I need mysticism, a story, a sultry glance— and also more than a maybe.

But it isn’t all gloom. The summer went by so quickly, replete with paddle boarding picnics and Pacific Northwest glory. Victoria was a delight, and I treated the greatest mommy in the whole wide world to a luxury vacation. We’re not high tea kind of people, but we put on our big city clothes at the Fairmont Empress, pinkies up with the best of them— two hours screamed by as we nibbled at the goodies and sipped exotic teas, people watching throughout. Strolling around Butchart Gardens and splurging on a boat tour of the surrounding waters, we couldn’t have asked for a better time. And well deserved, too, because this trip had been rescheduled on multiple occasions, not the least of which was by my grandpa’s passing some years ago. Back to that phone call with my mom earlier in the summer: in the midst of preparing for this wedding to a very deserving pair, I grew weary of this continued singledom. This manifested into the fear of disappointing my mom. Who doesn’t want their kid to find love and happiness? I am so grateful to have an understanding mother, and she has not and does not put pressure on me to seek partnership (though, as an aside, many moons ago she said, “Y’know, I don’t think I want grandchildren.” I retorted, “I really don’t think that’s up to you,” but nevertheless she’s lucky that I don’t want crotch goblins). This is a pressure I’m putting on myself, because I want that happiness and for her to witness that happiness. After all, I was co-officiating a wedding of her favorite gay couple. Juxtaposed against a beautiful and well thought out ceremony, I became exasperated of my lack of romance. She validated my feelings but assured me that she’s just as proud of me with or without a partner.

“To believe in this living is just a hard way to go,” The late John Prine’s words flow through Bonnie Raitt’s angelic voice in Angel from Montgomery— so apt yet dramatic, and again, I’m fine. I just don’t feel aligned with this season of life. Sometimes I feel like I can’t catch my breath with how fast I’ve arrived at this point, despite no deadline around. It’s an absurd and arbitrary feeling and a notion of a mutated biological clock. There’s a theory that those who don’t find a sincere romantic partnership are said to be on their last soul journey. And my old soul could give in to believing that.

All of this to say, and I promise this too often, there’s more on the way— this blog and otherwise, I should hope. Meanwhile, this full moon and the introspective nature of autumn is calling on (read: begging) me to release this. I’ve made it 34 and half times around the sun; not quite to a midlife crisis yet, but we’re examining our choices. I sat down with a dear friend whom I’m soon to marry, and she asked how I feel about it all. I hate whining without  solutions, but how do you plan for the next steps of something that is not guaranteed? How do you remain hopeful and not let hopelessness reign supreme? I refuse the dating apps. I already do things with likeminded people, although I am soon to volunteer with an organization very close to my heart. The biggest hurdle is simply not being home, and I don’t have a remedy for that anytime in the near future. There’s nothing left to do but pray, scream, cry, manifest, think well, or hope in one hand and shit in the other. Sorry to all my internet boyfriends, but we’re going to have to reset and connect in a more meaningful way. Sometimes I wonder why I make a self-inflicted incision around the sternum, punch through thick layers of scarred gristle, and wave around this unused container for the world to see. I ensure you it’s not a humiliation kink, but every time I lay bare the vulnerable truth, I get a little more camaraderie with those other wistful souls out there.

I’m going to work backwards and highlight some of the biggest and best moments over the past few years. I can’t say how frequently, but I will regale you with stories from Santiago to Stockholm and everywhere in between. And maybe through this exploration, I’ll gain some more insight to whatever fresh hell is happening now. I have to shake up this stagnant energy— the only way out is through. In the meantime, I am, in fact, going to whisk myself away to write that bestseller in a Swedish ski chalet— or just drink schnapps to get through these elections.

(Please for the love of Gagá, get your ass out to the polls and vote for Democrats down the ballot. I don’t want to hear any excuses.)