Sea Hags and Granny Panties

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I texted my friend Anya a few weeks ago and said “I’m tired of all the same things. I’m tired of the word gypsy and all the mermaid craze. I’m tired of boho and tribal. Basically, I’m tired of myself.”

I attempted to bury the thoughts for a bit to lower them into the ground and throw a handful of dirt over them. Little Lazarus’, they keep resurrecting themselves. Whispering and pulling on their leash. Not letting me go. Me not really wanting them to.

As magical time would have it, last weekend I donned a tiny dress and some moccasin boots and picked Anya up from the airport. {I’m not even going to tell you about the weekend. You wouldn’t believe most of it if I did. Like for real, you would think I was lying.}

I’ve been back in my nest for 5 days, but long before I left the weekend, I had this sense of urgency. That some things in my life needed a big time overhaul and that some things just needed to be burned to the ground. That a change must occur or I would be lying on the ground also, covered with grains of time and dried up things.

I was thinking about it in the shower just now. (Any kind of water always fuels my minds energy.) This lack of feeling for anything labeled gypsy-boho-mermaid and I realized I want something else.

I want to be a sea-hag. Not a mermaid. I want to be with the thieves, not the new day gypsies. I want to be in the dive bar, not at Whole Foods. I want messy plastic altars not shiny stained glass windows.

I’m tired of all the sparkly trendy things. I want realness. I want the depths. The unglamorous. Dirty real.

I want your granny panties and your dirty little secrets. I want your vulgar language, rather than your pretty poetry.  I want your whiskey instead of your fancy cosmopolitan. I want to eat with my fingers and lick them when I’m finished. I want a half smoked cigar, and some too short shorts, while I lay out tarot cards that I don’t even understand.

I am tearing down the matching curtains in my RV and covering the windows with mismatched sheets and faux sheepskin. I’m hanging disco balls instead of fairy lights. I'm donning a furry vest and some thrift store jeans. I'm listening to Kendrick Lamar on repeat and dreaming of being a pace car driver.

Forget Pinterest worthy photos. I just want to see your piles of clothes and your too full garbage. Your streaked mascara and your stacked up dishes. Your crying child and your unswept floor.

I can’t think that I’m alone in this longing, but I’m making peace with the fact that it may be only me who is ready for this revolution. I’m fine with being on the other side of the coin.

I am here.  I am renovating my life. I am letting go of all that no longer serves me. I am done pretending so that I’ll have more readers or more likes. I’m making no promises about what may take place in this space. Because even I don't know what will be here.

Before Anya arrived, I texted her and said “I want to re-invent myself” and I did that last weekend and once you do that you can’t go back. You can’t lean back wards towards what was. {And you don't want to.}

I can’t ignore these voices anymore. I’m throwing a tea party and inviting only the mystics and the drunks. I'll be the one on the dance floor with the tiny dress and the uncombed hair.