ABBA and Take a Chance/ Get on the Bike Therapy

Living in the Memoirette is pretty wicked.

Living in the Memoriette means that I am no place and all places. It's an Internet thing. Ergo, it's science. I'm a fucking scientist. A philosopher of science, anyway. The Memoirette is a cross-dimensional playground. Or video archive. Or digital video archive. Living in the Memoirette I'm a writer, a scientist, and a godess. It's supermegadinosaur keen.

You get the point.

Living outside of the Memoirette, on the other hand, isn't peachy keen. Not when it's ninety-five and counting and it's not even eleven a.m. yet. Not when your job that you used to love has become some chore. Not when you spend all day virtually chatting with people and talking to people over the phone by way of satellites in outer space because you can't just see them and you can't just go over their houses. Because your best friend lives two thousand miles away and, maybe, just maybe, you're crushing on some bear a thousand miles and an additional time zone over to boot. And there's still the heat. It's outside. It's inside. It's totally overwhelming. It's totally smothering. It's murdering your hair and limiting what you can where and when, and it doesn't even matter if the sun's out. At night, it's murderous. It's so humid, you're drowning in your own stink. Even when you're not moving. Even when you're catching the breeze off your own abanico.

My therapist thinks I'm risk-averse.

My therapist is right about everything.

I am risk-averse.

He tells me to get on my bicycle and I tell him how I wish it was mustard yellow. He tells me to take a spin around the block and I tell him that I should've gotten a basket for it already. He tells me that the wind I catch while riding will be a cool relief in the summertime nights and I tell him that my grandmother's died.

A week after therapy, I'm done. I'm done with risk aversion. I'm done with it. I've had it. And I am staring at that reflection in the mirror of dissatisfaction and just plain fedupness. I'm there. Wherever there is, that's where I am. It's aggrivating. A day after my therapist had prescribed for me to officially get back into dating, a point he took to include setting up an online dating profile again, I'm on it. I'm on the site and I'm depressed at the lack of options that I have living where I'm living. Reading those potential suitor profiles and cruising the catalog of pictures that they've posted to sell themselves, I'm near gagging and heaving at the prospect of one of those faces staring across some cafe table to me. Those mouths yammering away about things that should interest them and about how I'm so funny and I'm so pretty. Or not. Or the opposite. The opposite's possible, too. I'm thrilled at the prospect of not receiving messages from them. This time, for a week or so later, I barely receive any. Nothing like the last time I'd had an active profile then. When I had six or seven messages a day. And I wipe my brow and thank the baby Jesus.

A week after therapy, I'm essentially committed to a trip across the country to a city whereat I didn't even bother visiting my ex-boyfriend of a year because I just wasn't that interested. Or because I thought I might die. And this time, it's for someone else. Someone that maybe will maybe won't like me and that I maybe will and maybe won't like back. And he's committed too, to coming here. Because he's not going to be my ex-boyfriend either. Or maybe he is. But not the same one. Even if they both like Star Wars and actually care about the Skywalker Ranch. Even if they both worked in "the industry." I talk to Jen about visiting New Mexico and I'm committed for a visit there too. My mom supports my job-hunting in the Southwest. She reminds me how much she loves Jennie. She reminds me how much Jennie loves me and how much I love Jennie. And I think, "This way Jennie can have a dog and two cats. She won't be lonely for pets again. We can share. More love for them anyway." And the bear is happy even at the prospect of me in New Mexico because he's sure he can find a lasso long enough. As easy as snapping his fingers.

I tell Jennie that, at this point, "I'm out of options. I have to get on a plane."

She likes it.

My therapist is right about everything all over again.