...Of The World

If my life were a movie and and whoever chooses the music for those things had to find a song that perfectly encapsulates my love life, it would be Another One Bites the Dust. Which would explain why I can't stop humming it. Sorry, anyone who hangs out with me ever. I'd file a request for We Are The Champions - or at least a rousing round of Bohemian Rhapsody - but the musical powers that be would just laugh at me and then I'd have to hate them. My seething bile would inspire them to fill the soundtrack of my life with John Denver and the Oklahoma soundtrack and then I'd have bigger problems.

Love Life Reframe Because, Queen's Genius Aside, No More Dust Biting For Me

Things happen as they should and at the right time. I literally have to believe that or I would go crazy. Isn't that what beliefs are for? To keep us from going crazy? I think you should believe anything you want, if it will make your brain calmer and help you live a nicer life.

Zombie apocalypse? Start stockpiling canned chili and slingshots! Military-induced armageddon? Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we dive into randomly appearing bunkers with really hot guys who have just the perfect amount of stubble! Flying Spaghetti monster? You know I support any activity with pasta monsters.

Not that you need my permission, but consider it hereby granted: BELIEVE ANYTHING YOU WANT.

I can continue to think about how and why I haven't found anyone and why I wouldn't be good at a relationship anyway so I just shouldn't have one, but that really doesn't get me where I want to go.

I want to be happy whether I'm walking down the street humming Another One Bites The Dust or I'm still asleep and that guy coming out of the coffee shop bought that second coffee for me. The bagel was a nice touch, dude.

Besides, I have control over my thoughts and my actions, but I have literally no control over my romantic timeline. Sorry, self. I know you'd like to think that if you implement systems and create spreadsheets and do the work that you'll gain some measure of control, but you really just don't.

So revel in the fact that it might not be the right time. And how that allows me to merrily plot a summer in Paris or somewhere tropical, when I probably wouldn't be planning this if there was someone in LA that I didn't want to leave. Doors open when you're in a relationship, but other doors close. Like the doors labeled Now You Get To Have a Hot Fling On An Island With Palm Trees, Enjoy. I can buy plane tickets and get visas without taking anyone else into consideration, a blazing and delightful sort of selfishness that I won't always be able to indulge.

Really, I just want to look at what is, rather than what isn't.

What is: I can go anywhere I want. I have work I love, people I love, and I always end up in the perfect place for me. Sure, I'm lonely sometimes. But being in a relationship doesn't mean you're never lonely ever again. The loneliest I've ever been in my life was sitting on a couch with a boyfriend. The fullest and happiest I've ever been has been sitting in a car by myself. Probably singing. The person I will sing in front of is a rare specimen indeed.

So I'm totally giving myself rousing round of We Are the Champions. Then I'm going to look at plane fares. I can buy my own damn bagel.

I Think My Nomad Is Showing

I'm feeling a deep, dark urge to remain as unencumbered as humanly possible. Which is a nice way of saying that I can't even commit to a bed. Seriously, people. I've been sleeping on an air mattress for the last eight months. And not for lack of options. They do have furniture stores in LA. A friend even offered to sell me a bed, a beautiful bed, the kind of bed I would really like to own someday, for seventy-five bucks. I didn't take her up on it. Because what would I do with it if I decided to leave? I'd be tied down by a bed! It would be one more thing to deal with! CUE FURNITURE-RELATED PANIC AND THE INTERNAL SQUAWKING OF MANY BRAIN CHICKENS.

I don't need that kind of mayhem. So no bed for me.

Guess I'm just feeling squirrelly about permanence right now. I mean, I'm fond of having a place to live. It's convenient to have somewhere to put my stuff. I like having a mailing address and knowing where to buy the cheap popcorn. But you trade a certain amount of freedom when you sign a lease. At least, you do if you aren't Mark Zuckerberg or Scrooge McDuck.

Part of me clings to my routine. Part of me craves motion and adventure and believes that my strength doesn't come from daily stability.

I have one more month in my current place. It's lovely - a beautiful little house with sun and a backyard sculpture garden and a hammock. My bedroom has hot pink walls and a tree that taps the window. But it's time to leave.

I've gotten pretty good at recognizing when things are finished. But just because I know it's time to go doesn't mean I know what's next. Diving into the great unknown every six months is fun and exciting and good for me, the me who really likes stability. It's also a little scary.

So I get to choose. The stability of a lease or the general flightiness of summer adventure with sublets, plane tickets, languages I don't understand, and dashing home just in time for weddings.

You can be stable without roots. I'm learning, over and over again, that everything I need I already have. My peace of mind does not depend on having a bedroom somewhere. If I say it over and over again for long enough, maybe I'll even believe it.

And it's not like I'd be totally adrift. The Bay Area remains my home - it's where my family and most of my friends are, where I can always go and live pretty easily for at least a couple of weeks without taxing anyone's hospitality. There's comfort in that.

I don't know what my plan is yet, but I'm pretty sure it involves digging out my passport and finally putting it to use after a longer hiatus than I ever intended. Sometimes you need your cocoon - I did. Sometimes you need to say to hell with the details and make it work.

Hi, unknown. Let's be friends.

On Hitting a Rough Patch

I recently hit a rough patch. Maybe it was the milkshake, maybe it was the skipping of the gym, maybe it was the stars crossing through Mercury and sending latent bits of werewolf howler monkey into my DNA. (That's what astrology does, right?) Who knows. Whatever it was, it was a rough time. Especially when I started to beat myself up about having a rough time. This is exactly as helpful as you'd suspect.

What To Do When You're Having a Rough Time and Beating Yourself Up About It

Maybe you're beating yourself up about something right now - a work project, a problematic relationship, unwashed dishes, a thought pattern that you just can't shake even though you know it's not doing you any good.

I'm asking you to stop. Stop beating yourself up. Gently let go of that keen desire to flog yourself like a medieval monk who misspelled Ezekiel in his illuminated manuscript. Remind yourself that you're doing the best you can in each moment and, since this is life and we're in the middle of it, some moments are just better than others.

A Handy List of Ways To Stop Beating Yourself Up

1. Take a deep breath.
2. Imagine yourself letting go of whatever is inside that deep, dark need to bop yourself over the head.
3. Or imagine yourself stepping into it. Sometimes I imagine stepping into whatever feeling or emotion I'm having - especially the scary ones. I step into the dark ball and feel something or cry or be dramatic for a few minutes, but ultimately I realize it's just not that bad. And it dissipates.
4. Take another deep breath.
5. Think about an action you can take right now that would make whatever you're beating yourself up about a little better.
6. Now do that thing. Yes, now.
7. Make a list of all the things you're beating yourself up about. Now write your rebuttals, from that nice gentle place. Or send it to a dear (and gentle) friend for a list of outside rebuttals.
8. Or take your list and set it on fire over the sink.
9. Take another deep breath.

(GASP.)

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My Own Personal Hunger Games

There comes a time in every self-employed person's life when you realize all that pretty, pretty money isn't really yours to keep forever. Because the government wants its cut and, come April, it will collect. This brutal revelation should have hit me sometime in late 2010 but, since I'm the first to admit that I don't understand money, especially the way that it can just sit there in a bank vault and magically become more money, my realization was delayed until about two weeks ago. When my accountant told me what quarterly taxes really meant and how much cash I should have on hand, just in case.

"Quarterly taxes" and "just in case" are now officially my two least favorite phrases in the English language. Trailed by "Sorry, we're out of salted caramel" and "We need to talk." Hey, at least talk is cheap.

Anyway, my accountant mentioned a number and I died, people. Collapsed on the cold floor, sightless eyes trained on an unfeeling ceiling. Dead. I didn't stay dead because the dog informed me in no uncertain terms that my death interfered with his dinner. So I fed the dog. Then I created a rigid budget spreadsheet I lovingly labeled Dear IRS: Please Don't Break My Legs.

Despite totally blowing my budget on the very first day (sheriff rooster was worth it) and deciding to move at the same time I'm paying the government, I should be okay. I won't even be that hungry because beans are cheap and, let's be real here, I eat too much anyway.

Another thing I don't understand about money: Whenever I realize I need a certain sum by a certain time, I always manage to have it. Next goal: utilize this talent for things like trips to tropical islands. Don't waste your financial superpowers on the government, Amber.

So I have a plan and a budget and things should sort themselves out nicely as long as I don't need a root canal or suddenly remember an old mafia debt when a ham-shaped man named Frankie pounds on my front door with a wrench to remind me.

No Frankies or root canals have appeared, so I let myself be lulled into complacency.

Until last weekend, when I spent a day in the hammock plowing through The Hunger Games. Suddenly all I wanted in life - more than the smugness that follows being a real adult with a real budget, more than easily handing the IRS a check for thousands of dollars, more than moving into an apartment by the beach - is to go see the movie.

BUT THERE'S NO DESIGNATED HUNGER GAMES COLUMN IN MY SPREADSHEET.

I can't stray from the budget because that would be admitting defeat. And I get so much joy out of seeing how I can shift my habits to make those numbers add up. Yet I must see this movie on the big screen. Oh, how cruel life can be.

While pacing dramatically, I noticed a small bowl. A bowl I never gave a second thought until it suddenly becomes the gateway to fulfilling my deep, dark longing to watch teenagers fight to the death in an arena while I eat popcorn and wonder if I should take up archery.

This?

Equals This:

Plus popcorn.

WHO WINS THE HUNGER GAMES NOW, SPREADSHEET?

So Here I Am

People who talk about writing - uh, writers mostly - really like the idea of the muse. Specifically, how to pluck her flighty ass out of the ether and ground her into whatever you're doing. Most writerly sorts agree that you need to give her a space to land. She may or may not appear, but you need to be there to meet her. Sitting down at your desk doesn't guarantee that you'll write anything worthwhile, but letting your chair stay empty guarantees you won't. I've been real tempted to let that chair stay empty this week. Milkshakes instead of yoga, bed instead of writing, leaving instead of talking.

My experience with communication - especially in a romantic anything - is that, at best, it spackles a thick layer of soul-sucking awful to my life for days. At worst, it marks the end.

So instead of fighting, I've become a creature of pure flight. In the depths of my subconscious lizard brain, I decide to save everyone the trouble of talking and jump straight to the part where we all leave mad. This strategy has exactly the success rate you would expect.

I've been poised to fly out of two relationships this week. Something happens, my walls shoot up and I prepare to bail. I tend to live in fear of not doing things right, especially uncomfortable conversations. It's the sad plight of the perfectionist. And when you're learning how to set boundaries, it can be unclear whether you're doing the healthy thing by leaving or if you're abandoning something right before it has a chance to grow stronger.

Sometimes the best thing you can do is just show up.