I BOUNCED A CHECK TO THE IR-FUCKING-S

The pro’s and cons of feeling teenager-ish

Pro’s: Man, am I alive! And smiling. And interested in taking risks and doing new things and saying Yes! and sex, sex, sex, sex, sex.

Con’s:

I just bounced a check to the IRS. The I-R-fucking-S.. 

Clearly, I am not paying sufficient attention to certain details of my life.

Yesterday, I opened the letter from my credit union informing of this wonderful event, this new low in a pretty stellar list of irresponsible behaviors in the course of these 44 years.

But this time I couldn’t blame it on a disorganized office or a lack of planning or not sleeping at home for eight consecutive nights. (That’s a very rough estimate.) Actually, I did not know what to blame it on, because the money was in my account! But I know that this teenage distraction, this constant feeling that my mind is in my pants and my heart is covered with glitter, this has to stop!!

No more obsessive love behavior!

But it has been so sweet. Can I just tell you something he said to me Sunday? He told me he had been "thinking about my hair." Thinking about my hair! No wait, it gets better! He was thinking about my hair and looking for an Esquire article that he read when he was 27 years old, because my bangs reminds him of Chrissie Hynde (OMG!!!) He said was 27 when he saw her and fell in love with her at the Paramount. I am not making this shit up. He is lying there in the sunny grass next to me and stroking my inner arm. Surreptitiously. And he tells me that in this article the author wrote something along the lines of “you are in your room late at night, you can't fall asleep, you are pacing, you don't know why, so you go down to the corner bar and she is there. The woman you didn't know you couldn't stop thinking about. She is playing pool. She's the woman you don't want to take home to mom.”

That was interesting actually. What he said was" she's the mom you don’t want to take home..." And then he corrected himself. All this time, my son is playing on the playground with Violet, the girl he fell in love that day at the Radical Fairies Mayday Festival. Violet is wearing purple and giant fairy wings and Forest is completely smitten and on the way home he tells me that he wants Violet to come to his birthday sleepover instead of Christian.  We just met this girl. Do we do sleepovers with girls? Forest is seven. She's going to be nine! So, I say “Let's check in on that in a couple of days” and he gives me a look like I have just broken his heart because I don't believe in his love.

I want to believe in love.

I think I ought to. I think it's happening to me right now, and I still don't believe it, which seems like a questionable way to go about being happy.

What if I just believed it? I'm not quite sure how to do that, but it seems like a ritual is a good idea.

This man said he wanted to do ritual with me. What if we do a ritual “to consecrate our love!” Maybe that would work…

But that sounds too fancy. I just want to believe it's true.

Wait. Is this really what I'm saying? That I’m looking for "true love?" Seriously? Am I 13?

Yes, clearly I am! And clearly, my 13-year-old self has gotten a hold of my fucking checkbook! I bounced a check to the fucking IRS! I've lost track of my life because I am thinking too much about "Wuv, Ta-woooo Wuv,". (You've seen The Princess Bride, right?)

That movie came out in 1987. I was 16. Not 13. Actually, that was a much more dangerous age for me.

I called the credit union and while I was on the line, I figured out what happened. "I think I wrote the check to the IRS from my personal account instead of my business account!” I cried out.

Terry's voice – her name was Terry ­– which had been very friendly up to this point suddenly became intense. “I see. Yeah, there it is.” she said. Long pause, then, with urgency: “Can you hang on?"

And I'm on hold and suddenly it seems to me that this is not just about the check. It’s about the fact that I have lately been spending way to much time twirling my hair and playing “He loves me, he loves me not.” How did this happen?

What the fuck am I doing with my life?!?

Abject terror inspires such hyperbole.

As well as unquenchable thirst. I am parched, and pacing my house and panting like a dog in the desert.

So I turn to drink and realize I am drinking out of his water bottle still. His water bottle. It's so Molly Ringwald of me.

But listen to this, listen to what he said on Sunday! I got his water bottle from my backpack and then I looked at him and he was watching me and I said “You can have this back at any time, all you have to do is ask.” And he chuckled and looks down and then looked up at me and smiled so wide. "I like watching you drink from it,” he said.

And boom! I'm wet. Just like that! Could I be any easier? To please, that is, because we know the idea of a woman being "easy" is a fucked up tool that the patriarchy uses to take away the vast and awesome power that women derive from sexual pleasure.

This man is hosting a workshop on masculinity. Did I mention that? On Saturday night after our circle’s Beltane ritual we went to a bar and made out in the corner for about nine hours and I asked him what the questions are that they're going to explore.

He said "What is masculinity?"

He said "How can we use our privilege to undo it?"

How can this man be real? How can he be real and have been right in front of me, all this time and I had no idea?

Have I mentioned that he growls when we're making out?

I am in so much trouble.

I'm still on hold with the IRS bounced check and I have this moment of looking at his water bottle as if it is the water bottles’ fault. I can't do this anymore! I can't think about him more than I think about me! 

Nor would he want me to. He wouldn't want to date that person. He doesn't want to date that person.

THIS IS NOT ABOUT WHAT HE WANTS!!! I am NOT that person!!!!

JEEZ.

Before I do any ritual with him, (even a ritual of true love) I need to get my own house in order. Maybe I need to do an exorcism? Of my inner teenager?

But no! My inner teenager has my passport to hedonism in her name and that is definitely part of my superpowers.

Someone else has to be running the show though. I can't trust her with my bank accounts.

Terry gets back on the phone. “Okay!” she says. “We can do this! Usually they can't get into the system after 10 am, but someone is definitely looking out for you. I can put it through again, right now,” she says. “We’ll just transfer money from your business account.”

“Yay!” I cry.

“Hallelujah!” Terry cries.

I barely restrain myself from yelling "Halle-FUCKING-lujah!" back. Maybe this is a good sign that my inner grown-up is returning.

"The IRS will never know it got returned,"Terry says.  

(As long as they don’t read this blog. Seems unlikely, right?)

After I get off the phone, I have a marvelous narrow-escape-from-death feeling that lifts my arms up into wings, like there are helium balloons on my wrists and I dance around the house a little bit and make happy noises. In stories, the hero always feels reborn, has a bit of a supercharge after a near miss. Think Luke Skywalker’s escape after almost being crushed in the trash compactor…

This also feels like being 16. Maybe being a teenager isn’t so bad.

I can’t sit down to write. I can’t sit down at all. I am pacing, high. I need to harness this. So I put on my tennis shoes and grab Sunshine’s leash. Time to go down to the creek and do that ritual.