In Which I Consider That I May Be An Adult Now

As I begin this post, I am thirty-nine minutes into my fortieth birthday.

I thought about doing a massive party, or even a smaller party, some gathering of friends playing games or roller skating or sharing food, but that didn't happen.  Maybe it was a failure of planning, maybe the fact that most of the activities I considered are better when it's not brutally hot, maybe it's that my life is so full of gatherings of friends and family, celebrations of joy, that I don't need a dedicated party to mark another year on the planet.

My birthday has been a fortnight-long affair.  My father and stepmother came up to take me to dinner, birthday wishes have been showered upon me at community gatherings and dinners with friends.  I have a loving boyfriend who's used my birthday as a perfectly reasonable excuse for presents and cake and random hugs and messages, and not one but two special birthday dinners.  A regular gathering of my tribe will share my actual birthday.

Today, my best friend chose to spend one day of her first real adult vacation at Fiesta Texas riding roller coasters, and she invited me to go with her.  So, in celebration of my fortieth, I screamed and laughed and stood in lines and collected sunburn.  It was glorious.  I love to be an adult.  She and I, we have some things about adulthood figured out that I think maybe some adults never get.

When I was a little girl, I thought 'adults' were these magical figures who had it figured out.  I listened carefully to them, sure they were dispensing secret and brilliant wisdom and True Answers.  I've since learned that adults don't have it all figured out, that we're grasping and muddling just as much as we ever did.  We've got some pieces of it, and others have some pieces of it, and all together we've got some right answers and some wrong ones and no way to know which is which.

But today, in line for one of the rides, a mother turned to me and said, "If you're riding alone, will you take my little girl with you?  I don't really want to go on this ride."  I said I would, and suddenly found myself entrusted with an eight-year-old named Josie.  She said, "I'm not scared."  I said, "Me either."  She said, "Mom thinks I should be."  I said, "People say you should be scared a lot, and it's OK not to be."  She nodded wisely, and said, "I know."  We had a great ride, and I returned her to her waiting mother (people give me their children a lot; I have one of those faces, I think).

A little later, my friend and I got caught up in the conversation of a couple of preteen girls, who were talking about the rides and the people and math and everything else.  We joked and chatted with them, agreeing that the man trying to text on the ride thought he must be important.  As we walked out, we talked about how "Those girls are probably going to grow up to be us.  I'm comfortable with that."

There's a fun part to being an adult, the part where I get to decide when it's Roller Coaster Day and when to eat cookies for breakfast.  There's the part where I have a control over my life and destiny I never had as a child.  For a long time, I thought that I was 'paying' for my breakfast cookies and my mental health days by being a responsible citizen the rest of the days, by paying bills and being on time to work.

But...that's not how I pay for my indulgences.  The real price of adult freedoms comes when a pair of perfectly trusting eyes looks up at me, unafraid, and I have the chance to nourish her courage.  When two joyful children on the cusp of adolescence test the waters and engage with 'adults' on a more equal footing, I have the choice to shove them back down into childhood or to relate to them as peers.

At forty, there's an argument to be made that I am now entitled to greater respect, that I've got a greater level of experience and understanding, that I should probably embrace my 'grownup' identity and settle into some stability.  But I'm going to keep eating cookies for breakfast and ice cream when I want it, and I'm going to consider roller coasters or skydiving or base jumping or hiking alone a perfectly reasonable pursuit for 'a woman of my age'.  I'm going to laugh and love and choose all the things that bring me joy.

In part, I do this because I a choosing joy and love as the life I want.  But in part, I am doing it because I *am* the adult, and I *do* want them to learn the things I have figured out.  And the things my forty years have taught me, children, are (in part) these things:

When you have the chance to meet someone's eyes, do it.  When you have the chance to laugh, take it. Sometimes you have to work hard and sometimes you can play, and there is a value and a beauty and a necessity for each in the healthy life.  Friends are the people who love you whether you are weak or strong, and trust you when you know where they are weak.  You can have cookies for breakfast, but if you have them every day you'll stop thinking they're special.  People who love you will try to understand you, but they won't always succeed; forgive them the failure and forgive yourself your own.  It's all right to admit you're afraid, but you never have to be afraid just because someone else expects you to be.  You have the right to be happy, and the responsibility to get that way.

Most of all, you are loved and beautiful and you have infinite capacity for joy and suffering, and EVERY SINGLE DAY is a series of choices you make to create your own destiny.

I love you all.

In Which I Am Not Triumphant So Much As Resolved

Something amazing happened yesterday.  Texas Democrats stood up and fought like hell to prevent the passage of SB5, which would have brutally restricted abortion access, imposed an arbitrary and unrealistic 20-week limit, and closed the clinics that currently provide essential women's health services to tens of thousands of women, especially the clinics that serve poor and mostly-nonwhite parts of the state.  Just under a dozen Senators stood up for the women of Texas, backed by THOUSANDS of citizens who turned out to stand with them.  And in the end, despite cheating, despite a complete assault upon parliamentary procedure, despite lies and despicable tactics on the other side, despite the literal (and possibly illegal) alteration of the legislative record, that plucky little band of Democrats prevailed.  Just before 3 in the morning, word came down that we had prevailed, that the vote had not happened in time, that the Democratic filibuster had succeeded in running out the clock.

There are a lot of names to remember from last night.  Senators Wendy Davis (who kept her feet and her head when all was chaos), Kirk Watson (who wielded procedure and verbiage with fabulous aplomb), Leticia van de Putte (who stood her own ground, in her grief, with a grace and courage that stunned me), Royce West (who ran Senator Duncan around after his own tail on whether you could appeal a ruling that is not a ruling once the presiding officer has ruled...or not ruled?), Rodney Ellis (who asked, "Is it fair to say the rules have become very flexible in this body?" at just the right moment), and Juan 'Chuy' Hinojosa (who had the foresight to print out the evidence that proves GOP tampering with the record).  Even Senator Eddie Lucio, who supported the bill based on his personal beliefs -- but refused to vote with Republicans to suspend the rules of the Senate and accelerate the process, out of respect and compassion for his friend, Senator van de Putte, so that she could attend her father's funeral and return in time to vote.

Soon, they will all need our support because you can bet they'll be targets in the next election.

There are other names to remember, too.

Lt. Governor David Dewhurst and Senator Robert Duncan, who between them completely mocked and gutted any pretense at parliamentary order or rules.

Senators Donna Campbell (who insisted that the legislation already existing to restrict abortion was not germane to a discussion of restricting it further), and Craig Estes (whose irrelevant, insulting, and bullying questions I lost count of), and all those who supported not only the bill, but the unethical tactics used to try to force it through.  I can respect those who voted 'yes' on SB5 for reasons of conscience, on which we disagree, but not those who participated in devious, underhanded, and dishonest tactics to push it through without scrutiny or debate.

Governor Rick Perry, who has already called another special session to force through legislation that he KNOWS does not reflect the will of his constituents, a special session that will cost the taxpayers of Texas money they must find somewhere: schools, state parks, highway maintenance, environmental monitoring...

*They* will also be targets in the next election.  Remember them, find out who is standing against them, and support every one of their opponents.  Not one of them ever deserves to hold an office with more responsibility or power than 'Second Assistant Deputy Inspector of Dog Park Fecal Collection Bags' ever again.  Let's remember how we feel today, and keep it in the coming weeks to fight through the special session, and then in the months beyond as we work to get these people OUT of office.

In Which I Do Not Care Why You Made That Choice, Just That You Were Free To Make It

I'm going to tell you something I generally only discuss with people I'm considering as potential long-term committed sexual partners:

I do not believe it would be ethically or morally right for me to terminate a healthy pregnancy, so I won't do it.  If I become pregnant, and the fetus and I are physically able to survive and thrive, I will carry the baby to term and raise it.  The level of the father's involvement will be at a minimum fiscal, and based on our relationship at the time.  I won't sleep with anyone who can't accept that reality.  I have great respect for the two or three partners over the years who've said "Yeah, I am really not ready to be a father in any way shape or form and I am not willing to take that risk," and either limited involvement with me to non-risk behaviours or ended the relationship entirely.  That takes a lot of self-awareness and integrity.

Why won't I terminate a healthy pregnancy?  Because I'm physically, emotionally, and financially able to take care of a child.  Because I'm educated about birth control and pregnancy.  Because I have access to reasonably effective, reliable birth control.  Because I live in a city where I have access to emergency contraception in the event of rape, and good prenatal care in the event of accidental pregnancy.  Because, to me, an unplanned pregnancy would be inconvenient and perhaps a little awkward to explain to my conservative employers, but it would not require me to give up an education or a career or other opportunities.

There are personal reasons and spiritual reasons and all manner of other reasons, but what really matters?  Two things:

1.  That I have the right and legal protection to make whatever my choice might be, with the guidance of a trusted physician, and receive safe, legal, reasonably priced healthcare.

2.  That I understand that no part of my personal reasoning for whether or not I would choose to terminate a pregnancy has any bearing whatsoever on the decisions another woman might make.

In Texas right now, laws are being passed to deny women the right to terminate a pregnancy after 20 weeks.  Many proponents of these laws say "Well, isn't five months enough time to decide?"

You know what?  Maybe it is, and maybe it isn't.  Maybe a woman's just found out she and her husband are carriers for a potentially devastating disease.  Maybe she's escaping an abusive relationship and knows her ex will use a custody fight to keep stalking her if she has the baby.  Maybe she's got erratic periods and she didn't find out she was pregnant until her fifth month, and she's been taking medicines that cause birth defects the whole time.

And maybe, just maybe, nothing in that last paragraph matters because a woman seeking an abortion at any time, for any reason, does not need to justify it to me or to anyone else.  Maybe there should only have to BE two people in that room when the choice is made, and one of them should be the patient and the other should be the doctor.  Maybe we should trust women to know their lives, and their needs, and their capabilities, far better than any other person would know them, and make their decisions accordingly.  Maybe we should assume that a woman considering an abortion has already talked to her partner, her mother, her spiritual advisor, her therapist, or anyone else whose input she feels is important to the decision, and does not need a governmental mandate to do so.

A lot of people say "If you don't have a uterus, you don't have a right to an opinion on abortion."  I disagree absolutely.  We all, every one of us, have the right to that opinion, and the right to speak it freely, and I think that as long as we can do so respectfully, we have an obligation to speak our minds freely.  I believe that a clear and open discussion of the moral and ethical issues surrounding sexuality, pregnancy, abortion, and parenthood is long overdue in this country because we'll never stop using shame and fear to control sexuality until we can have those conversations openly and without judgment.

What we don't have?  The right to turn opinion into law.  The right to assume there is a common religious morality that should direct legislation.  We don't have the right to assume our choices are a universal ideal and judge or shame those who don't fit it.  We don't have the right to claim a moral high ground we do not actually hold, and deny essential healthcare funding (and access) in a perversion of 'Christian values'.  We don't have the right to establish rules regarding when others should have 'made up their minds' or whether someone's reasons are 'good enough'.

There are dozens of reasons a woman might end a pregnancy, and dozens of reasons she might not.  I refuse to split hairs, to even engage in the act of finding 'defensible abortions' that justify why a woman might have a 'reasonable' explanation for it.  I say, absolutely, that it does not matter to me that another woman might choose differently than I might.  It matters to me that both of us are given equal respect and freedom to make those choices, and equal care and opportunity to carry out our choices in the way that is healthiest for all concerned.

In Which I Admit Lust

I was going to write a light philosophical musing about the range of Beltane practices in the pagan community, from the visceral and orgiastic to the fully academic, but instead I find myself focused on something else.

Desire.

For years, I buried passion in compassion, earthing it down and keeping it tightly reined.  My sexuality was something deeply private, even its *existence* shared only with the few partners who managed to make it through the intellectual and emotional obstacle course to my bed, and even then I didn't always admit the most powerful truth: it's not the act of sex that pleases me, but the exchange of desire.  Inexperienced and fumbling, lacking the right vocabulary or even a complete understanding of my own feelings, I could never fully explain that it mattered far less how a man touched me than it did whether or not his hands shook with pure need as he did it.  Being wanted wholly, utterly, helplessly has always been my greatest aphrodisiac.

The face I showed the world was one of service, kindness, duty, compassion, hiding my more feral impulses beneath a calm, smooth, helpful smile.  I was considered, by many who knew me, as prudish, repressed, even frigid.  Some of this came from my own acceptance of the idea that lust was something only thin, pretty, socially normalized girls got.  As a fat girl who's been more than once described as 'sort of plain', I assumed that my chances to be truly desired would be few and far between.  The events surrounding my marriage, which don't bear going into here, only served to reinforce that assumption, to add yet another layer of "so much is clearly wrong with you that your lust could only ever be a burden to its targets, gratified as an act of pity or mercy."

For years, I believed that anyone in whom I felt a sexual interest would be embarrassed by the knowledge, and if he were sufficiently generous of spirit, he could bring himself to accept and perhaps even indulge my desire without showing his revulsion.  I cannot begin to count how many men I watched, hopeless, fiercely hiding any evidence of my interest to spare them.  Even when I could manage to admit it, I was circumspect to the point of nonchalance, and probably gave the impression of lukewarm interest instead of the burning passion I felt.  Very few men saw through it, and I wish now I'd made it easier on them to love me.  (I'm sad to say that some of you, reading this, have probably missed out on a certain amount of what I imagine would have been pretty incredible sex, as a result of my fear.  Sorry about that.)

Each year, Beltane came and went, and I buried myself in academic musings about personal creativity and intellectual fertility, shying away from the true celebration of desire, of lust, of the sheer blissful sharing of intimacy as a sacred act.  I said, "This is not really one of my holidays."  I feigned disinterest in the romps and celebrations of my friends, while secretly wishing I could join their headlong burning.  I so tightly bound and constrained my own expressions of desire that they only rarely woke reciprocal desire in others, and when they did I found myself thrown off balance and inclined to deny them entirely.

Just before I moved to Texas, that began to change.  I began to work with fire magic, and I learned that you can't actually hold a flame suppressed indefinitely.  It must be given freedom to burn, to shine, to glow as it will.  Before I was able to move into safely holding and working with fire in any meaningful capacity, I had to address my own desires -- not just sexual -- and acknowledge them as valid and worthy.  I had to learn to make "I want" statements without feeling I was a penitent asking for a favor.  I had to stand, open to the gods and myself, and admit that desire is a sacred prayer, a ritual of will, an expression of being alive.  This led me to the practice of sacred sexuality, to the idea that all acts of intimacy can be joyful rituals of shared love and lust.

This Beltane, I choose to formally honor my desire, to acknowledge that I am grateful for passion's presence in my life.  I honor the gods with my spirit, and with my heart, and with my body.  I begin from a willingness to accept my own wants and needs as valid parts of my experience in this life, and I embrace my nature as a sexual being.  I will not be embarrassed by or ashamed of my own lust, and I will not hide from what I desire.  I will offer to share my passion as I will, and on my own terms, with no constraint beyond my respect for the boundaries of others.  And when the opportunity for shared and passionate joy comes into my life, I will not suppress it, will not temper that passion with the fear that I am giving too much, delving too deeply, flying too close to the sun.  This Beltane, I join that headlong burning, that spinning arc of sunward longing, that visceral and joyous celebration.

I want.

In Which I Finally Understood Easter After I Stopped Being Christian

One of the last times I visited my grandmother, she wanted to give me 'a little money' (I think it was $20 or so; she liked to tell me to 'get myself a treat'), and I followed her into her bedroom so she could get her purse.  Looking at all the family pictures on her dresser, I noticed one that wasn't a relation.  Neatly tucked in among the shots of my mother and aunt, sister and cousins, of my great-grandmother and my great-uncle and my nephews, was a small framed picture of Christ.  I didn't really think much of it until I was headed home, but it says something profound and significant about my grandmother's relationship with her faith.

She had, of course, all the other pictures of Jesus that Midwesterners have, the one over the TV, the one in the guest room, and so on.  But here was one that made a statement that defined her: Jesus was part of my grandmother's family.  He was not a remote and unknowable being, a distant mythical figure to be worshiped but never understood.  He was a friend, a brother, a father to her.  When she prayed, she genuinely believed that he heard her, and that feeling of being heard gave her comfort whether her prayers were answered or not.  Though, my grandmother's prayers were usually answered -- not because she was better than the rest of us, but because she knew what her God could give her.  She wouldn't pray for an end to a sickness, but for the wisdom of the doctors and the courage to endure.  She wouldn't pray for a good harvest, but for the strength to work hard and the skill to make the most of weather and circumstance.  When my grandfather was diagnosed with cancer, she didn't ask God to take it away: she prayed for smart doctors, and her own courage, and her husband's comfort.  She understood that faith isn't about waving a magic wand to get what you want; it's about having support and comfort for your journey.

I'm thinking today about my grandmother's relationship with her gods because it's Easter, the most holy and joyful day of the Christian faith.  A lot of my friends like to mock it with faux-clever quips about zombie Jesus, but I can't really see my way clear to mocking something that meant that much to someone who's meant so much to me.

When I was little, I didn't really like Easter because it wasn't as fun.  Sure, there were eggs and candy, but Christmas had a TREE and PRESENTS and maybe even SNOW and time off school.  I left the Christian faith at 19, before I fully understood the idea of self-sacrifice, of making life choices for the love of others.  Within paganism, as I've chosen a path of duty and service, I've finally come to understand Easter, to understand why this story of incredible love and compassion is so powerful to those of the Christian faith.

My grandmother believed that once upon a time her God had looked forward to everyone who would ever be, and had known that someday she personally would exist, and he had asked his son, "I love these people.  Will you also love them enough to die for them?"  And she believed that Christ had looked forward, and had seen her (and everyone else who would ever be), and said, "Yes, I will."

In the Fionavar Tapestry by Guy Gavriel Kay, a character named Kevin Laine swears an oath: "Though he be a god, and it mean my death ... to this I will make my reply."  Later, another character references that promise and points out that you give a little leeway to a man who says that sort of thing, even if he doesn't quite know how he'll accomplish it when he says it.

That's sort of how I feel about the Christian promise.  I am not a Christian theologist, and I have my own ideas on the nature of free will and redemption that may or may not jibe with the Easter story.  But the gist of it is that one man said, "Yes, these people, I love them so much, even the ones I've never met, that I'll go through this horrible thing for them, just because of my own belief that somehow my sacrifice will make something possible for them that they couldn't have otherwise managed."  And...I have to give a certain amount of respect to a man who swears that sort of oath, even if the fundamental mechanics are sort of unclear to me.

If you've read Fionavar, you know what Kevin's reply was.  If you haven't, you should.  And it remains to be seen what Christ's reply really means in the long run; people have their own beliefs ranging from 'nothing' to 'everything'.  Maybe he never existed.  Maybe he existed as a man and teacher who's been expanded to the Son of God to fill a mythic role.  Maybe he was the literal Son of God.  I don't know.  I can't know.  Personally, I don't need to know.

But I do know that my grandmother loved him deeply, with all her heart, and that her love for him was profound and important enough to her to inform every single aspect of her daily life, to color every interaction, every conversation.  And just as I wouldn't mock someone's dead father, or dead brother, and just as I would be hurt by someone mocking my grandmother or the best friend I lost in 2004, I simply cannot find it in myself to disrespect her love that way.

I love you all.

In Which I Advocate for Domestic Partnership

Almost everyone I know is currently up in arms about gay marriage.  It's understandable; a substantial portion of the American population is being denied basic civil rights on a flimsy 'moral' pretext.

The argument as to whether homosexuality is moral or immoral is relevant to the social and personal treatment of gays, but it should be irrelevant to law.  Law is not, contrary to popular belief, derived from a moral argument.  It's derived from an ethical agreement we participate in as a society.  Things are not illegal because they are 'wrong' on a moral level.  In a pluralistic society, things should be illegal because they're detrimental to the social order, not because they're in opposition to a theological position.

Civil rights are not detrimental to the social order.  Equality is not detrimental to the social order.  If you give everyone the same rights and privileges under the law, it creates a more stable system, not a less stable one.  Greater social stability is an inherent benefit to those who live within a society, so long as it doesn't prevent the growth and progress of that society.  Any expansion of civil rights encourages the growth and progress of a society.

Marriage equality is a complex issue, and one that affects me on a number of levels.  As a non-Christian, I object to living under the assumption of 'Christian morality'.  As a straight ally, I see my friends and loved ones denied a basic right I enjoy simply because my sexual preference is more palatable to a certain segment of the population.  And as a clergyperson, I have to wrestle with the issue of whether or not I will perform heterosexual marriages when I can't legally solemnize same-sex ones.

The first two are larger social problems, but the last can be viewed as a matter of contracts.  Ultimately, what I've come to consider is that I should give up my power to confer legal status on anyone, straight or gay.  When I perform a wedding, it should be solely a spiritual and social ceremony, with no legal standing at all.  I believe that clergy should play a simple role, managing the rites and rituals of community life.  But I believe that ultimately, the only way to maintain a proper separation of church and state is to create two separate elements to marriage.

The first element is the social and spiritual one, the ceremony before community in which consenting adults swear oaths to one another by whatever they hold sacred, oaths that create no legal obligation.  This element of a wedding confers a social standing upon the participants, by which those who share similar values can recognise that these people have made promises to one another.  It creates a moral obligation, but no connection under the law.  I feel, as a priestess, that I am qualified to perform these ceremonies because I intimately understand the structures of oath and obligation, the social fabric of community that makes that ritual meaningful.

The second aspect of marriage is the legal contract.  It creates a connection under law, a set of obligations with fiscal and legal ramifications, and a set of privileges that affect property transfer, parental rights, healthcare decisions, and financial standing.  The set of promises entailed in civil marriages all relate to simple contract law, and should be handled as such by a state-appointed official well-versed in contracts, estate law, tax policy, and property rights.  As a priestess, I am not an expert on contract law, and am not best qualified to legitimize that relationship.

I propose a complete severance between the aspects of marriage, that the clergy be left unmolested to perform any marriage they choose:  man to woman, man to man, woman to woman, three or more people.  In cases where one party is unable to legally consent (age, mental incapacity), clergy marriage shouldn't provide protection to the relationship (if you find a priest to marry you to a twelve-year-old girl, "she's my wife" should not protect you from statutory rape), but otherwise there should be no legal restrictions on who can be married in such a ceremony.

In tandem with this, any domestic partnership should be required to undergo a civil contract registry to obtain the rights, privileges, and legal standing available to married persons.  Any number of consenting adults can sign a contract, provided all signatories agree to the terms.  You can be married all you like, but without a domestic registry the state recognises nothing about your union.  Each state has a standard set of rights and privileges associated with marriage, and a simple "John Doe and Jane Smith agree to enter into a domestic partnership according to the laws of (state) with no exceptions," contract would cover most marriages, and those with more complex relationships are free to seek legal counsel to codify the terms of their marriage contract, just as a couple can seek legal advice for a prenuptial agreement now.

Most suggestions of 'domestic partnership' offer a 'separate but equal' dodge around marriage equality, creating a second tier of 'almost the same' to be offered to gays and lesbians, but that creates a second-class marital status.  Pure equality under the law requires, ultimately, that only the law determine who has a legal standing.

This involves me giving up a power I currently hold under law, but I've been feeling a growing conflict with that power for some time.  I am not qualified to advise on the legal ramifications of contract marriage, and if I am truly taking the responsibility of officiating weddings seriously, I should be able to intelligently explain to everyone involved the full ramifications of the thing we are doing together.

In Which I Am Not Pretty

This poem by Kate Makkai is making the rounds again, and it hits me so hard every time I hear it.

When I was younger, I wore "I am not a Pretty Girl" like armor.  I've never fit the measured social standard of 'pretty'.  I am too large, too curved, too strong, too loud, too smart.  My features are described as 'striking' or even 'majestic' and 'beautiful' but I never fit into the pretty pink size four prom dress, and so many of my high school colleagues tried to make sure I'd wear that failure for the rest of my life.

Every 'friend' who said, "It probably doesn't come in YOUR size," every young man who rejected me in favor of some tanned and slender, soft and smiling creature, the teacher who 'inspired' me with "It's OK.  You don't really need to worry about your looks, because girls like you are admired for what's inside," all served to remind me that there is a mold for 'girl' in this world and I grew out of it somewhere around the eighth grade as the Pretty Girls were just learning how to grow into it.  The Pretty Girls took that power and they made my life hell for years.  And I let them.

I wore my rejections as a reminder that 'women like me' didn't have to be desired to be valuable.  I told myself, for years, that I didn't need love if I could just be smart enough to figure out how.  I had crushes like the other girls, but I assumed their futility from the start.  I operated under the expectation that who I was, this too-tall and too-present body, the unafraid opinions and the aggressive pursuit of my own ideas, the fast-moving mind and the mouth trying to keep up, spelled a diminished mating fitness that everyone could see.

I spent years of my life believing I'm not (and never could be) the sort of woman men pursue; as much as I've always flirted and joked, I secretly believed anyone showing interest was settling.  When I look back at my 20's, I have to admit that while I dated some wonderful men, I also threw my time away on some real losers just because they showed an interest and I didn't think I really had the room to be picky.  Girls like me, I was made to believe, should learn to take what they can get and not complain.

In short, I lived Makkai's premise as a defiant embrace of failure, a deliberate rejection of my own pursuit of happiness.  Fuck 'pretty', I said, which was a good start, but then I took the fatal step of missing the point entirely, of becoming complicit in the exact thing 'fuck pretty' is supposed to reject.

I agreed to accept, somewhere along the way, that only pretty girls deserve to be loved, desired, happy, and fulfilled, and that by embracing my own lack of 'pretty' I was giving up any chance at all that.  I decided I would reject their stupid notion that women have to be pretty, but instead of taking that next step to "I deserve the chance to pursue what will bring me joy regardless of whether I grew into or out of the 'pretty girl' mold," I said, "I'll just get used to not having the nice things pretty girls get.  I'll content myself with more cerebral, more spiritual goals and maybe find love with someone who's willing to look past the outer me," never realizing that by doing so I was automatically devaluing myself, those goals, *and* anyone who might look twice at me.

Whether I meet that standard or not has nothing to do with whether I deserve to be loved, whether it's reasonable for me to want to be desired, whether it's shallow for me to want compliments, whether I build loving relationships or spend my life alone -- or move between paired and alone as life moves and changes.  If I choose 'deeper' pursuits, it's not settling for having a 'nice personality'.  If I seek partnered relationship, it's not a desperate chasing for something I'm not 'supposed' to have.

These days, pretty's not my enemy any more.  It's just another way for people to be.  Pretty is more than just 'easy on the eyes'.  Pretty is easy to know, easy to approach, easy to like and accept.  Pretty is more comfortable, more pleasant.  There's nothing wrong with being any of those things; pretty people are actually pretty nice to have around -- especially once we all got out of high school and 'pretty' stopped being a weapon in the wars girls fight to destroy each other.

But...I will still never be one of them.  I cannot fit the pretty mold and I won't kill myself trying.  I'll keep being too big and too loud and too 'striking' and I'll keep challenging assumptions about beauty and I'll keep on being just awkward and ferocious enough that 'pretty' falls off when you try to hang it on me.

There are any number of people who'll read this and want to reassure me that *they* think I'm pretty.  While I appreciate the sentiment, it's not necessary and I'd rather they not do it.  I've come to terms with it.  It's not a denial or a resentment, not a resigned acceptance of my 'never have' status.  Not pretty is a way to be, just like pretty is a way to be, and I've abandoned "Fuck Pretty" for "Hey, Pretty, did you know we're on the same side?  Let's go get a beer and hang out."