Shut Up And. . .

Sometimes, not very often, but sometimes, I enjoy some rum in my Coke Zero, or maybe a glass of wine.

When I do have a nice drink, the wall around my heart tends to soften.   That’s when the Mary Chapin Carpenter songs come into my head.  Sometimes, when I’m sad it will be “Too Much To Expect, Not Too Much Too Ask,”   and sometimes her cover of Lucinda Williams’ “Passionate Kisses.”

Recently, though it has mostly been “Shut Up And Kiss Me.”

When I wrote about The Lost Girls way back in 1993, I understood their commitment to party therapy.  Long nights, various intoxicants and safe spaces lead these people who had lost their girlhood to break down the walls they built around their own hearts, to open themselves up to new experiences, and to see themselves in a ragged, ripped and real way.

And yes, there was a lot of kissing involved.   I remember one night at the End Up when. . .  Well, another story for another time.

But as I listen to Brené Brown go on about Vulnerability, about how it is only something we can learn to do together, not by ourselves, I think about those Lost Girls in the context of their search to open their hearts, their quest to find their own vulnerability.

While I was named an honorary Lost Girl, I wasn’t in SF often enough to really experience the long term effects of Party Therapy.    Instead, I had a partner who, when I said that I had done work on my own and needed to learn trust, wondered why I couldn’t do that by myself.

It’s a long time since then, and my PPP gets smaller and smaller.  I don’t dream of sweaty trysts or vigorous orgies, but I do have to admit, after being alone for so long, chilly and untouched, making out a bit is still something that moves me.

But as that bit of warm inebriation dissipates while I go out into the world to face everyday challenges, I know that I have to put my heart back behind the walls again.   There isn’t much tenderness out there for her, I have found.

I ended up going to the theatre this last week.   It was nice to be around other women who also were a bit dressed up for an evening out, though all of them I saw were not attending alone, having a partner or friend to watch their back.   In the improv show, a couple of performers — married in real life — ended up in a clinch, her pulling him in sweet and sexy, but for me a reminder of what feels denied to my heart.

Heck, even the girls on Take Me Out have someone to hold hands with when coming down the stairs in their pretty heels.

I will admit, just to you, that I kind of like that passing urge to just have someone shut up and kiss me.   It reminds me that I am not quite completely dead yet.

But that hollow feeling when you realize the odds of someone coming around the Trans-Wall, the smart wall and any other wall are way too low to expect that safety to actually that happen?

Not so good.