Going, going... But not yet gone.

The Mad Scientist has to go away this summer for a few months. The leaving and the going thing sent me spiraling into the fear of The Mr. having to do the same.

I know that none of these fears or at least the level of fear and anxiety that this is provoking, have anything to do with the 'right now.' Rationally, in my grown-up brain I expected this.

And then The Mr. gave me dates. He will be gone for two to three weeks right around our 1st wedding anniversary to train as an alternate for a year-long... ugh, I can't even say the word... a big D.

The knowledge that The Mr. will be gone for a couple weeks is manageable. The timing bites the big one as that month is not only our 1^st wedding anniversary, but his big Four-Oh. We’d talked about doing it big with a trip to Vegas or something memorable for the milestone. I went skydiving for my Three-Oh, and plan on continuing the trend by really celebrating those decade milestones. The Mr. agrees, just not with the skydiving thing. That’s not his cup of tea.

We are still seven months away from that, and a lot can happen. We don’t know what things with The Mad Scientist will be like by then. We don’t know if we will have opened things up more, redefined our boundaries, made new friends closer to home… a lot can happen in 7 months. But The Mr. can turn into the King of ‘What-if’s’ pretty quickly. He gave me the dates on Wednesday while I was still working. I wanted to have a melt-down right then and there, but my break was over and I had to put on my Big Girl panties and continue being screamed at for another few hours. My root canal was Thursday. That meant that on Wednesday night I had to take a Xanax, then again on Thursday morning I was medicating to quell the anxiety I have over unwanted things drilling into my mouth. *Insert cute innuendo here*

My first real meltdown happened in the dentist’s chair. I was laying there doped up on Xanax with the nitrous mask strapped to my face. There weren’t any clear thoughts, just fear as I started to cry uncontrollably. The dentist and his assistant were just sitting there waiting for the topical numbing cream to take effect. My ear buds kept falling out and I had to move my glasses to wipe away the tears. The dentist was genuinely concerned and said that we didn’t have to do the work today if I wasn’t okay. I just asked if they would get The Mr. for me.

For over an hour The Mr. held my hand while they worked in my mouth. The nitrous high came and went as they mixed the oxygen flow. There were no thoughts except of the memory of huffing balloons full of nitrous with friends in my 20’s and thinking that The Mr. just *had* to try it. There was a small annoyance when I reached out and The Mr.’s watch was in between me and his skin. I unlatched it with surprising skill, given the situation. At another point when the oxygen was higher than the nitrous I heard the sounds of daytime TV from the screen they have mounted on the ceiling. I gestured to get them to turn it off. Pieces of forgotten ASL came back to me in that moment. The Mr. had no idea I knew any sign language at all.

Last night I had a little more of a meltdown. The tooth pain coupled with my ‘soft foods only’ diet had me hungry, cranky and the Xanax just killed any semblance of my ability to keep it together. I keep reminding myself that this is different than the marriage with my ExH was. The Mr. and I did move very quickly, but we have put so much time and effort into knowing each other inside and out. We talk about all the heavy things that people in other relationships keep hidden out of fear of rejection. We work through the issues that got in the way of being our true selves and never stop talking about everything- big and little.

I recently told the Mr. that when we met I knew he was still a work in progress. I had already spent years accepting who I am and how I got here. I have already learned my boundaries and why I’ve got them in place. He never had the chance to explore things the way I did. I told him that I knew some assembly was required. He has pushed some of his own boundaries by choice, and is working through the process of defining it all in his own language. We all need that.
 
Last weekend seems to still be weighing heavily on his mind:

“In that moment he lost a piece of the illusion. The line between reality and the pornographic fantasy he’d been fed for so long came crashing down. The immediate response of the cleanup crew was validating and allowed the mending to start right away. But in the aftermath it became clear that there were bigger holes to fill and he owned the only shovel in the world…. ”

Sex and Breakfast

Meals have always played a major role in socializing, bonding and general human connection. Dating most traditionally involves going out for a meal then an activity of sorts. The type of meal can signify the intent of the interaction or the stage of the relationship. Going out for coffee is a non-committal ‘getting to know you’ before deciding if a full-blown meal would be enjoyable. Going for happy hour is another step in that evolution. This means, we will have booze and lower our inhibitions but still not sit alone at a table and try to master the art of conversation while our meals get cold.

Actually having a meal together is another level. We are at a table and the only other person that we will speak to is our server. Unlike the random drunk beside us at the bar, the waitress’s interruptions will primarily involve our menu choices and the ever-crucial desert decision. That weird drunk guy at the bar… he will interrupt or butt into the conversation to talk about the game on TV, make small talk, or even attempt a solid cock block from time to time. Point being- dinner at the table is more defined. It’s not until the 2nd or 3rd meal together that people will start to learn a balance between talking and the eating laced with comfortable silence. That’s how you know you may be forming something.

From the ‘going out meals’, people move into the ‘dinner at my place’ which for most women is code for, “I’ve decided I want to fuck you.” My personal hierarchy when I was single was a little different. I wouldn’t cook for anyone I hadn’t slept with yet. I also wouldn’t go down on a guy that I hadn’t had intercourse with. It was always my belief that I needed to know that he would take proper care of me before I would spoil him whether with fellatio or fettuccine.

The hook-up culture we have begun evolving into doesn’t often follow any of these rules. There aren’t always the ‘getting to know you’ coffee, drinks, dinner type of dating associated with having sex with someone once, or even on an on-going basis. The “friends with benefits” style is becoming more common and more mainstream. I seemed to do that a lot in my married-and-cheating days, as well as in my single life. It was less complicated and there weren’t the same labels and expectations of ‘dating’ and having a ‘boyfriend.’

In our “not poly, not swinger, non-monogamous” adventure, we have discussed the ‘label’ and the ‘relationship’ with The Mad Scientist mostly in deep, intimate talks and once in a drunken Facebook chat. How do we define the relationship with a guy who is not bi but will play with the Mr.? Who we have drinks and dinner out with, but also have movie nights and cards in with? Who drives an hour to hang out with us, but leaves most mornings before coffee? A guy who we have gone to events with and the check gets split in half but sometimes the server puts me on The Mr.’s tab, and sometimes on The Mad Scientist’s?

We talk about him when he’s not here, and discuss all the self-exploration his presence brings into our marriage. We worry about him when he seems exceptionally stressed out, or when he’s sick and we know that he doesn’t have anybody there to take care of him. We both like his dick. We both have fun hanging out with him and listening to his stories about growing up with brothers in the south. We all three have a blast watching bad B-movies and playing MST3K over beer and pretzels. We aren’t having sex with anybody else, and until recently it had been inferred that he was also flying solo between our visits.

This weekend he showed up with a hickey; a deep, purple, unmistakable mark on the side of his neck. He’d mentioned plans a couple nights during the week, but was non-specific about it. What he chooses to share or not is only our business if it involves a prescription. But being a crazy chick first and a grown-up second, I did have a moment of irrational jealousy when I first noticed it. I’ll own that.

The funny thing was that the next morning while The Mr. and I were making breakfast, The Mad Scientist walked into the kitchen with an odd look on his face. His tone was almost accusatory as he pointed to his neck and asked what that was all about. My reply was genuine belly laughter as I told him he had shown up with it the night before. He had no idea it was there, and started texting the chick he’d gone out with while The Mr. and I finished breakfast. I made the remark that I don’t mark anything that’s not mine, and that it’s just bad social tact to mark anyone without long hair like that. Apparently she texted The Mad Scientist and said that she’d just been ‘lovingly sucking on his neck.’

My reply, “Sweetie, lovingly sucking happens below the neck…”

We’d talked about the date and that he really liked her. He said that she was the first single woman he’d met recently and been interested in. That was a point of validation for me in a way. Part of me had wondered how much of things were about the novelty and friendship we’d all established verses the actual interest in me in that way. It was somewhere between that conversation and the boundary pushing experiment with The Mr. that any hint of catty girl-brain jealousy had been replaced with genuine happiness that The Mad Scientist had met someone cool that lives closer to him than we do.

The hickey brought up the question of how to proceed if he does take things further with her. The Mad Scientist wanted full disclosure and asked me what my thoughts on it were. Again, I repeated my policy of ‘Unless it involves a prescription, it’s not my business.’ We talked about our recent physicals and that everything came back okay for us both. There was a little more detailed ‘grown up talk’ about condom use and scheduling. She is apparently part of the ‘Kink Community’ which implies a non-traditional approach that may allow for continued open non-monogamy on his part. He said that she knows about us but being that it’s so early in things that he’s not sure where it’s going. On top of that, he has to leave the country this summer for work. He said he’s not sure how that will go with her, and that he wouldn’t expect her to wait for him or anything like that.

The thing that took me by surprise a little was that he had disclosed to his employer in some manner that he is “in a relationship with a couple.” There are many other euphemistic ways of expressing the situation that would have kept him in the clear in terms of disclosing ‘risky behaviors’ or other things that could jeopardize clearances if found out second hand. To me, the term “in a relationship” means that we matter to him, which is something we had questioned in a way. We had wondered if we were putting more emphasis on things because of it being our first experience with non-monogamy. We wondered, and never got a clear answer on how he views this. Would he refer to me/us as ‘friends with benefits’? Or maybe call me a ‘girlfriend’ in conversation? Either way, we matter enough to disclose not only to the employer but to the girl that gave him the hickey.

On the same note, we have talked about plans for our birthdays which fall in the same zodiac shortly after he will be back at home. Not that we are ‘committing’ to anything, because that’s not what this is about. But I think it says a lot about the kind of connection we have formed and it makes me happy.

There were so many things about this weekend that validated and solidified things in my marriage and in our relationship with The Mad Scientist…

All of this started because I was thinking about the evolution of meals and relationships. This weekend was the first time The Mad Scientist stayed, not only for coffee but for breakfast. We had bacon, eggs and chocolate chip pancakes.

Sex and breakfast is a step in that evolution that seems to add a little more familiarity and bonding no matter what a relationship is called. For now, we’ll just call it “Awesome!”

Those Bitches!

Seriously... So I wrote something not a week ago and then saw the very same topic on a website I happen to love. Those Bitches! They are doing what I love for a living, and here I am just being all catty and jealous over it. Where do I even begin on how much this frustrates me.

*Sigh*

Here's what I wrote in its unfiltered glory. I only posted part of it on my Facebook because it spun into a rant about work:

I am a powerhouse. I am a force of nature.

The Mr. said to me, while we were still in the ‘getting to know you’ phase of things, “You have your own gravitational field. It’s like people come and go from your world in an orbit, but they never truly leave.”

I am pretty fucking awesome at everything I do. And, damn it! Why aren’t we “allowed” to proclaim such positives about ourselves?

It is one thing to finally learn how to graciously accept a compliment, but even now when a random stranger like the receptionist at my doctor’s office for example, looks up from her computer screen and says, “Wow! I love your hair!” I sense a change in her tone when I reply with a simply “Thank you” rather than some kind of self-deprecating explanation that “It’s a mess today” or some other such excuse that really means “I don’t believe that my hair IS fabulous.”  

Well fuck that! My hair IS fabulous! And yes, I just saved our company another couple thousands of dollars in pay outs because I didn’t stop when I was told ‘No’ the first 4 times. I also got these ‘non-refundable hotel rooms’ refunded, helping our company live up to the reputation they have for taking care of their customers. *And by the way, I don’t believe that I am only number TWO on that list of stats. I clearly see seven names and seven schedules and one of those names is someone who does NOT currently do our job. You are not fooling anyone!*

While I’m at it, I am livid that I may have to start working on the weekends again. I have not worked a weekend shift in over two years. At the last call center I worked for, I was promoted into leadership as a trainer before my training had officially been completed. Even in my ugly skirts and clunky heels, I walked around the place like a rock star and was treated as such. My reputation as the “Wicked Bitch of the West” didn’t stop the corporate big wigs from offering me the work from home gig when I announced that I was leaving Texas. These days I still talk to people in that call center as part of my job. Someone I’d never met called me by the wrong name once, and when I corrected him he replied that he was surprised he would confuse me because everyone around there always talked about how “Hot” I am. I guess my skirts weren’t as ugly as I thought.

*PS- that really was a typo. The guy that out-ranked me is fabulous and I adore him. Except that the fucker got the shift I wanted. So I hate him. But I love him. Really. And now I'm working 8 hr days instead of 10 hr days.

And here's what I came across on my news feed this morning:

http://www.xojane.com/fun/i-can-take-a-compliment-but-i-cant-dish-it-out-sort-of

THOSE BITCHES!

Fat and Happy

I have never been this happy. Also, I have never been this fat.

Okay, for about a year after my daughter was born and I smoked a lot of pot and ate everything that wasn’t nailed down. I had an ass the size of a small couch and tipped the scales on the other side of the 200 pound mark for awhile. I looked like I was bending over when I wasn’t. Seriously. But the upside to my inebriated state is that I don’t remember much about that time in life. I lived in a haze and once the smoke cleared the weight fell off.

I was only truly “skinny” for a brief period in my late 20’s. The Ex-H had deployed to Iraq for the first time and I was insane. Before that I had been on a crazy work out kick doing kick boxing aerobics 5 days a week, followed by a run on the treadmill. I ate the same high protein meals every day and was a solid, lean 5’4” 140 lbs. I still thought I was “fat” because I was in a size 10. I could kick myself for not keeping that body.

Sadly, it was all the exercise that did me in. At 24 years old I started having excruciating pain in my hips. Most days I’d be fine, but then out of the blue the pain would hit me and I would be rendered immobile for up to three days at a time. I would lay there and cry from the pain and all the crazy that was flowing through me. 

Without exercise, I plummeted down to 120 lbs in January of 2005. Of course, that was the month that I didn’t get out of bed. At all. My roommate would bring me food and books from our library downstairs and occasionally pry me out from under the covers to shower. Did I mention I had also just bought my boobs and was unknowingly withdrawing from the narcotics and barbiturates they had refilled for me after one of the Magic Water Balloons needed a repair?

Point being—for me, skinny = CRAZY. 

It didn’t get much better after I moved to Texas. I gained enough weight that my amazing size 6 red pants didn’t fit any longer. I stayed at a crazy, blonde size 8 for the rest of my 20’s. And then the divorce happened and I had to get a job. The first year wasn’t bad. I waited tables and worked in a psyche facility. Wrestling small children was quite a work out. Then all at once, it all went ka-boom and since then I have not seen the inside of single digit sized pants. My divorce was finalized the same week that my father passed away. Adding insult to injury, a close friend who had been staying on my couch due to her own divorce was outed for screwing an ex-boyfriend of mine. I didn’t care that she nailed him a couple times, I cared that she had lied to me. I was devastated and overwhelmed by it all. 

That was March of 2010...

Looking back I have no idea how I was paying my bills or functioning on any real level. Most of that month was spent getting drunk and making pancakes. We aren’t talking just simple Bisquick here. I made banana pancakes with cream cheese filling, pecans and butter pecan syrup. I made Baileys and chocolate chip pancakes and topped them with Cool Whip and chocolate syrup. I made blueberry pancakes with strawberry puree and sweet cream cheese icing. That was the month I also perfected my Baileys and cream ice cream recipe. Yum.

I stayed crazy and miserable for another two years and the weight just hung on. I bounced between 165 and 180 lbs while in a bad relationship that involved a toddler. No joke. When I was asked about that ex and why I was with him my answer is simple: He had a big dick and a small child.

Also he was fond of fluffy girls. Like the Ex-H, he preferred women of size and complained that his stripper Ex-W was too thin. Ex-H was dating a girl that was half my age and twice my size at that point- a testament to his true nature as a “Chubby Chaser” as well.

You would think that by this point in my life I would have learned to accept the fluff that slowly, then all at once encased my frame. I remember writing about the first time I discovered I had back fat and how odd it felt to have the extra rolls of flesh meet up when I would lay down and cock my hip up towards my rib like I prefer to sleep. Since then I’ve purchased new sneakers, ordered my favorite old Tammy Lee Web Buns of Steel videos online, and amassed a collection of yoga DVDs. This year I even went so far as to go back to Jazzercise.  I dubbed it “The Land of the Geriatric Woo Girls” for the way the little old ladies would jazz circles around me and still have enough breath to go “Woo!” at unpredictable intervals.

I liked it, but it took me six weeks before I could get through a session without seeing stars. I missed class for a little over a week in February and when I came back I fell out so fast that the instructor offered me her inhaler. I haven’t been back since, partly out of the fear I will pass out for real next time, and mostly from the embarrassment of being the youngest chick in the room, leaving in tears after 20 minutes due to the pain. Sadly, I did the stupid thing and signed a one-year contract. So there’s $45 per month wasted.

At the urging of My Mr. I finally went to the doctor about the pain in my hips. She prescribed physical therapy and diagnosed me as “OBESE.” Only a week earlier I had done a nude photo shoot and the night before got an offer for a paid shoot. But there it was in medical print: OBESE.

I cried, ate some ice cream and made my appointment for evaluation with the physical therapist. The short version of that story is: after 2 sessions my therapist dumped me because the exercises she wanted me to do made me cry. A lot. 

The cycle is this: I need to exercise to lose weight because the weight is making the pain worse but exercise is so painful that I can’t function. 

And don’t get me started on all the “other” reasons I “should” lose a few pounds. There are a dozen or more hanging in the back of my closet in the form of pants I used to wear when I worked in an office. These days my wardrobe consists of two decent pairs of yoga pants, two pairs of sweats I stole from the Mr. and lots of fuzzy socks. When we go out, I have the same two pairs of jeans that work still and have begun to acquire dresses that show off my curves. And by curves, I mean the Magic Water Balloons. 

The cycle sucks and it is only made worse by this ridiculous guilt I harbor for being this size. I am a size 14 and weigh around 180 lbs. My tummy isn’t flat, but it is defined enough that you know where my boobs end and my belly begins. There is no doubt that my ass is round in a manner that has always caused a disproportionate amount of black men to admire me from behind. Even in my smaller days I was often asked, despite my fair skin and red hair, “Are you mixed?” 

In today’s media there seems to be a backlash against the traditionally appealing body type. Facebook pages like “I like my women like I like my milkshakes, thick” praise the fuller figured women as the Goddesses we all are in our own right. The Mr. was known to remark how odd it felt (in a good way) to be able to wrap his arms all the way around me. The women before me were larger and even now he admires women that are more round than I am. 

I am still in the middle on this front, though. I think that’s where my issue comes in. I am not “fat” enough to be fetishized for being fat, but I am not thin enough to fit the other side of the spectrum. As always, I find myself called “Cake” and living here in The Middle Layer.

Lasers and Boobs

I have hairy nipples. There, I said it.

About 10 black hairs grow around my nipples and for years I have plucked them. However, I along with my thick, Italian hair I have very thin, fragile skin. What that means is that for years I have fought this vicious cycle of plucking ugly hairs only to have them become ingrown and then uglier marks were left after my attempts to dig them out. Gross, right! And all of this happening on paid-for ta-tas that I have been told are some of the nicest (insert professional person who sees boobs all day) has seen. 

The thing about body hair on a woman is that it is considered unladylike and something we are expected to remove consistently. We shave, wax and pluck every inch of ourselves and as we become more open about such delicate topics, stories about hoo-ha waxing become comedic fodder. But for all the stories involving pain worse than childbirth, glued shut nethers and my personal story with a Papa Smurf reference (blue wax makes it funnier than the other stories, dammit!) I have never heard anyone else admit to nipple hair. Well… here I am doing what I do best, turning the filter most ‘grown ups’ have in place into a microphone…

The only person I knew well enough to disclose they had done laser hair removal was a long-time friend with benefits from back in Texas. He had been so body-hair obsessed that he used to pluck his balls smooth. Seriously. He was an X-Tube star of sorts with videos showcasing his *ahem* talent for making a delicious mess of himself and on occasion, others. He was so in love with his own penis that he had a routine that involved supplements, oils, a penis pump and masturbation without release that I’m sure even the best paid porn stars don’t adhere to. Seriously, he’ll be a bachelor forever because he’ll never find a woman he loves as much as he loves his own penis. One day I went to visit and he told me that his most recent round of laser treatments had not gone well. They had turned the laser up too high and burned his junk. This not only shortened the battery life in my vibrator for a bit, but caused a level of fear involving lasers on tender parts. I love my boobs almost as much as he loved his penis and the idea of burning them was horrifying. 

That said- I’d experienced some particularly bad ingrown hairs that left an ugly scar on one of my boobs. I needed to do something about the hairs before I marked my ta-tas up anymore. On top of the fear of burning my boobies, the cost of laser hair removal had kept me from seriously considering it. However, the Mister being the master of Google offers and Groupon deals found a really great deal for laser hair removal. After seeing what my poor ta-tas had been going through he purchased a 6 treatment package for me. 

Last month I finally went in for my first appointment. The lady doing the treatment wore a white lab coat and was all kinds of professional. I was led into a back room at the spa where she talked to me about what to expect before leaving me to disrobe. I was wearing one of my loose wraps over my top because of the weather, and she remarked that I could leave that on but that my breasts needed to be exposed. When she returned I was covered, not out of modesty but from the chill in the room. 

My instinct whenever I am exposed like that is to make small talk and chit chat. Sometimes I go a bit overboard and have been known to cause a gynecologist or two to belly-laugh with a speculum in hand. That certainly makes the exam more pleasant!

This lady, however, seemed like she needed to remove more than just a hair from her own butt. When I remarked that I was concerned about marks because I had a photo shoot that weekend, she froze up on me and got a tone about her. 

“Are you a photographer?”

“No…”

“Oh. So you model... And… expose… your breasts…?” It was a mixed tone of shock, scolding and shaming. 

I downplayed her remark and just said, “Yep!” 

 Here it is a month later and I just came home from my second treatment. I didn’t see the same uptight lady coming and going between rooms and was happy when another aesthetician called my name. She was a petite woman that looked Middle-Eastern and had a hint of an accent. We went into a different room as she opened my folder.

“You’re doing your vulva today?”

“Nope… Areolas.” 

 

“Ah, okay… Get naked!” There was none of the sterile hesitation that the previous lady had and I loved it!

“I see balls all day around here!” 

 To which I replied that I knew a guy once that had his balls and shaft lasered and he got his junk burnt.

“Holy shit! Sorry… “

“Holy shit, nothing. I’m topless and we’re talking about balls. Don’t worry about offending me!”

And so the rest of the appointment went. She talked about this skinny white guy she worked on that has the biggest dick she’d ever seen and how she didn’t expect that from a white guy. I replied with a brief explanation about my 6’9” ex-boyfriend who was nicknamed “Moose.”

“Good thing he’s an Ex, right!”

“Yeah… there’s a line and he was on the wrong side of it.”

From there we talked about my boobs. She started to backpedal as though she was worried I would think she was checking me out. I told her that I’m the only straight person in my house and I love boobs. It was the usual conversation where she said she thought they were all mine and I said that I just wanted the top to match the bottom. She asked where I got them done and then was bummed to hear it was in Colorado so I couldn’t refer her. I talked about being at my personal heaviest weight and she remarked that I had a great shape. The visit ended with her rushing out to drop my folder at the desk while I put my necklace on and walked out to schedule my next appointment then her calling me by name telling me to have a good day.

She had asked me, while rubbing the gel on my boobs, “So, is life good?”

What an understatement!

Welcome to the Middle Layer

Too many times in my life I have had the same conversation:

Person: What are you passionate about?

Me: I love to write. I’ve been a writer my entire life. 

Person: Oh? What do you write? Poetry? Short stories?

Me: Well, It’s mostly personal observations, journaling, telling my stories… blogging in a way. I’ve got a footlocker in my closet with everything I’ve written going back to about age 9. I mean… everything before the digital copy. I had a piece picked up by The Stars and Stripes, another Op Ed in the newspaper where I lived in Texas and a site featured something on their front page once. It was titled “Toilet Paper…” 

Person: Cool! So you have a blog?

Me: Um, I post things on my Facebook page sometimes.

Person: You should start a blog. Everyone has a blog now. I know somebody who was paid for their blogging…

The last time I had this conversation something twitched in me and I told The Mr. I was ready to start my blog. As the logistics man, he started doing the leg work and asking me questions about what I wanted it to look like. Once again I hit a stumbling block. What do I call it? How do I describe all the random things I write about? Which stories can I tell and which ones do I have to censor? Or if I decide to just go all out open book, how do I protect the real life things that could cause judgment, or worse; job related concerns? I have no political aspirations and every time I take my clothes off in front of a camera I reinforce that. The Mr. on the other hand, has a job involving… stuff... in an environment wrought with political BS. So if I talk about OUR life I am in danger of someone connecting the dots and my desire to share my stories with others could do more than cause a drama llama to wander in on us. It’s an issue bigger than the threat of cyber trolls passing judgment from their little worlds.  

But I think I have to just trust the Universe and my track record of always being rewarded for always being my genuine, uncensored, unfiltered self. A dear friend from childhood gave me the best compliment imaginable about my writing. She said: 

“That's what is so great about your writing. You tap into the things that are gagged and hog-tied by the collective subconscious and you free them for the world to see. No matter how few people know about your blog, and whether or not any of your friends have access to it, I predict that it will be successful!”

So, welcome to the Middle Layer. The filling in the middle is almost as delicious as the icing on top!* (Something else that friend of mine said, and gave me permission to plagiarize!) 

The Middle Layer is where I live… In between the extremes, without a label that fits. We are too weird for the normal and too normal for the weird. I’m too small to be fetishized as a fat girl, but I am too fluffy to be looked at as thin. I do nude photo shoots in this state and despite the positive feedback, I am constantly looking in the mirror wishing there was a magic pill that would melt away the back fat I’ve accumulated over recent years. I’m too lazy to really get motivated to work out, and at the same time the fear of the pain I’ve experienced recently coming back remains, even on the days when the lazy wears down. I am too young to feel this old, but not young enough to want to be trendy and stylish as the “culture” around me is appalling both in fashion and in behaviors.

We are not polyamorous, we are not swingers. The closest term I’ve heard so far is “monogamous with guest stars.” But even that implies a certain level of detachment to the other party we get naked with together. It is this weird middle ground between the things that make sense in the “normal world” where our special flavor of weird is exactly what we both crave. 

As for the reference to cake (middle layer, not middle ground, middle turf, or middle of the road for example) – Cake is a nickname I was given years ago that seems to make sense of the way my world works. It’s a reference to the old adage that one wants to “Have their cake and eat it too” in a way.   But I'll get to that story another time...