I'm wearing my Bad Energy Dress today. I've worn it on at least one bad date and several bad evenings. It's really easy (i.e., good for days when I'm feeling a little pudge), comfortable, and (most importantly) cute, I just never have fun when I'm wearing it. I was hoping the spell wouldn't extend to the daytime, but it looks like it does. It seems to create a sort of dead energy around myself. Everything I have touched today seems to break or be broken.
I may just have to burn this dress (I'd give it away, but that'd be like transferring the spell to someone else...messed up).

That's the problem with consumer culture, it has yet to give credence to the energy of clothes, houses, cars, etc.

Just for today, I can blame clothes for my problems.

If you told me a few years ago, that I would be spending my mid-thirties at salsa clubs three nights a week, I would have said that I must be crazy if only because that surely could not be good for the ever darkening circles under my eyes. I know I'm supposed to be worrying about my biological clock and trolling Internet dating sites for a guy whose resume fits the West LA demographic, but...well, anyway...

Just for today, life is different than expected.

I don't know what's gotten into me. I have all these birthday gift certificates to cash in for mo' stuff, but I'm not really feeling the shopping vibe (weird!). Not only that, but I haven't had coffee for two days and I don't even miss it. It's like all my addictive behaviors have gone on strike and now I don't know who I am. I did spend a good portion of the evening compulsivly cleaning...so all is not totally lost.

Just for today, my addictions are at bay.

My therapist thinks that one of the reasons why I get depressed is that I'm unable to "tolerate" (her big word) excitement. Basically, I fear happiness (so lame). Somewhere in my psyche, I believe that too much fun is dangerous, and that I'm morally obligated to live as if I were an impoverished invalid (the stupidest neuroses ever...).

Last night I was out at one of my favorite salsa clubs having a ridiculously fun time. I say "ridiculous," because unlike anything I've ever pursued with such fervor, there's no long-range goal with salsa. It's an end in itself, an experience that defies planning, logic, or explanation (so very not me). So, I was having a wonderful time when the thought came into my head, "time to go home." It seemed a rational thought because it was 11:00 pm on a schoolnight, but I was also having an unusually good time...and you only live once (well, maybe not...but I can't wait to come back as someone with a cooler life).

So, I said good-bye to my dance partner, grabbed my coat and was almost out the door when Smokin' Salsa Stud asked me to dance. What?! Me?! My Inner-Junior High Child came out and glowed. Salsa is all about the business of finding a better dance partner than yourself. This was like winning the lottery. I managed to dance without offending him with sloppy footwork. Afterward, he asked me why I was leaving so early (in Salsa culture 11:00 pm is like two in the afternoon). When I told him that I had to "work in the morning," he looked at me like I was crazy. Work, a good night's sleep...these are not reasons to not dance salsa. Missing a limb, maybe. But even then you can always move your hips. Without meaning to, I had let him in on my grandma-ish ways.

As I was driving home I wondered if I had left because it was late and I was tired, or if dancing with Smokin' Salsa Stud is really is too much for me to handle. And what does that say about the rest of my life? If I have trouble embracing the love and passion I feel for salsa, how will I ever accept other kinds of love...? It's not about staying way past my bedtime, but the timing of how I show up for my life. I have to stay on the beat, and not just in salsa.

I didn't fall asleep till after 1:00, anyway.

Just for today, I can handle a joyful life.

Either it's an unconscious form of female bonding with my friend who is probably in labor as I type (if she hasn't already given birth), or my other friend's attempts to get pregnant, or an increasing hormonal imbalance due to my own ovaries' cry for fertilization, OR early menopause. Either way...welcome to 35.

Just for today, I can be hormonal.

Today, while I was walking around Trader Joe's in search of Stevia, a guy approached me and said, "I know this is crazy, but you're really beautiful and I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee with me." Of course, I had just come from yoga (where I had sweated like a dog) and was wearing my booty-flab revealing yoga pants (it must have been the way my mascara was running down my face or that yoga room must). Naturally, I was so overwhelmed by the positive attention and the sincerity that I did the thing people with negative self-images do when presented with a contrary perspective....I lied.

"Thank you so very much, but I'm in a relationship."

Then I beat the hell out of the frozen food section like a bank robber looking for her get away car. I took a breather in the wine aisle to take stock of the Pinot, as well as my moral character. Giving guys false phone numbers was funny for about five minutes in college, but I'm 35 and overly-single! What's my problema?! He wasn't a bad looking guy and, I had to admit, I admired his courage and forthrightness. Was it really that I was afraid that the eggs would go bad in the trunk while I met the guy for coffee (really, I can spare another $1.50)? Or, that it would throw off my Saturday afternoon Target run (I did need new sponges for my Sunday cleaning blowout)...? No, the truth is that I am a coward and (when pressed) a damn good liar. But maybe I'm being too hard on myself, I thought. Maybe I should go back and tell him the truth...perhaps this is my big chance? At this point, he reappeared. I must have been wearing an intense, "Are you stalking me?" expression, because he immediately said:

"I'm not following you, but I just wanted to say that whoever you're with is a lucky guy."

"Thank you," I responded (with my head drooped down over my frozen chow mein), and proceeded to book it to the check out counter. I should have said, "He's not that lucky...not only is he imaginary, but he's dating a liar!"

I told my friend about the experience tonight and he concurred that I should have gone for it. He suggested, claiming that people's shopping habits are usually ritualized, that I go back next Saturday and wander the aisles casually until I see him. If I don't, he suggested I put up a sign, "Yoga Pants Lady In Search of Coffee Guy."

The shame of my own duplicity and wimpiness is, to say the least, humbling. Did I blow my chance of happiness and love at Trader Joe's? Who knows...if I didn't meet my soul mate, I did get to meet my own cowardice head on.

Just for today, I am humbled.

My friend and I took Mojo Rising out to lunch because he's moving on from our current work situation. I'm going to really miss him. Who else is going to deliver the irreverent refrain amidst frantic chaos, instruct me about the intricacies of his harem, or encourage me to date 20-year-olds? I need to surround myself with irrationally fun people because maturity is so overrated. Left to my own devices I'll check my bank account statement ten times a day and plot my Netflix schedule, while checking off "buy label maker" from my obsessive To Do List. OK, so maybe I'll have a five minute salsa dance with a 23-year-old gardener who has a thing for giration, but, really, with ten non-consecutive years (rough estimation) of singlehood under my belt, how %$#@ cheap is that...? I know there's more to life than shopping, working, and ritualized fun...

Just for today, I value my fun friends.

I once read that certain Native American cultures believe there is no distinction between our dreaming and waking lives in regards to the spiritual challenges they present. I don't know about anybody else, but when I wake up I usually have to make a quick check list of where I am, what age, and my current circumstances because I am so steeped in dreamland. The buzzer sounds (or, more often, the garbage truck), my eyelids flicker and I think "renter, 35, gainfully employed, in therapy, single, college graduate, Tuesday, mild depression...how many more seconds till coffee?" On most occasions I am relieved and grateful that, no, I am not a college senior who forgot to study for her final (so cliche...and, yet, so chronic). Other times I am slightly spooked by the recollection of an encounter with someone who has long since been deceased. I've never been one for the whole teeth falling out thing, but I hear that's a popular one. But I won't bore you with a litany of my top 10 (there's a whole high school series) because someone once said that listening to someone's dreams is about as engrossing as being on the receiving end of someone's drug trip experience. Unless you're Salvador Dali or a Freudian shrink (which mine happens to be...good thing I remember my dreams or I don't know what we'd talk about), nobody's interested. However, I will say, that I frequently wake up and don't know how old I am (which is most likely another issue altogether).

So, before I get too boring, I just want to say that in my awesome years (as I will heretofore refer to my mid-30's), I more and more think my dreams are my instincts lighting the way to the realities of my actual 3D life. Because DeNial isn't just a river in Egypt and runs so deep and pervasively in my day to day life, I believe there are many truths that remain hidden or cloaked behind my prejudices, fears, and taboos (yes, I have read Thomas Moore's "Care of the Soul").

Just for today, I value my dream life.

I had a party last night and got my inner-Martha Stewart on. Well, that is if Martha Stewart bought pre-made items from Trader Joe's (which she might). Anyway, the planning felt so laborious (I did a lot of work to fix the ghetto-ish aspects of my apartment) that I wondered if it was even worth it (or if I'm worth celebrating). However, once everyone came, the love (and wine) flowed freely, and I had a great time feeling the abundance of friendship and generosity.

Despite the fact that I am seriously regressing (see blog below), I have to say that I have a far greater capacity to enjoy my life in my not-young years.

Just for today, I can age gracefully.

My "salsera" friends and I preface every activity (mundane or otherwise) in life with the word "salsa." We are"salsa buddies," take "salsa naps," get a "salsa buzz," have a "salsa affair" (without leaving dance floor), and have a "salsa birthday." Like all rituals in sub-cultures it doesn't truly make sense lest you live it with the commitment of a rock star (without the bottoming out on reefer and rehab part...).

Anyhoo, last night I had a salsa birthday till 1:00 am (take that one married people!...sure, domestic bliss can never compare to a night of salsa madness, but I have to say, it's gettin' pretty damn close...unless married people are like totally lying...).

Little did I ever imagine that I would be spending my prime years with 23-year-old Latino busboys who take full advantage of their salsa powers to do things on the dance floor I would normally put off till the tenth date in normal life. Nor did I think I would feel the junior high school abandonment when my favorite salsa partner has gone five dances without looking for me. But with all that said...35 feels pretty good.

Just for today, I can not have a boyfriend.

A lot of people have been congratulating me on turning 35 (as if it's an accomplishment to stay alive past 30...which it probably is). I think what they're really congratulating me on is how free I am with admitting my age. I've never gotten the whole idea of witholding this particular vital statistics (or really any that I can think of). When you have diarrhea of the thought process like I do, you really can't afford things like pride and prudence (I didn't mean to rhyme...but that really should be the title of my book). And then there's the fact that A) I'm a horrible liar and would trip over the first thread, let alone be able to function in a web of half-truths and evasions and B) I sucked at being young. I had the opposite of the attributes generally attached to youth. I had a grandma-ish perspective on going out at night, and only took risks if they would gurantee to result in heartache or bad credit.

Life is so much more manageable now...(which isn't really saying a lot).

Just for today, I am honest about my age.

I had an abundant shopping day today in which I spent far too much money on a dress that was intended for a fifteen-year-old girl trying to turn on her older brother's best friend at her younger brother's Bar Mitzvah (and I'm not even Jewish!). It seems the older I get, the younger my taste in clothes becomes. While at 25, I dressed like a 49-year-old secretary, now I troll through Forever 21 like a junior high school kid who just got her allowance.

While I like my silly dress, I still hold fast to the notion that the majority of Americans designers inject an "I'm Intentionally Looking Stupid" vibe into their designs for young women (and I'm not talking about the prices...although, it does seem like the more whore-ish and inane the outfit is, the more expensive...). There's a fine line between carefree sexuality and moronic desperation, and, up till now, I have stood on the other side of street from that line. However, now that I've hit the New Age Box and have internalized the fact that I can call the shots in all areas in my life (especially the bedroom), casual slutty doesn't bother me the way it used to. I think, perhaps, women over 30 are really the ones who can pull off the "I'm Just A Girl In the World...And Sexy, too? Gee, I Didn't Know That" look more than the teens and early twenty-somethings they are intended for. Sure, the Victoria Secret models look smokin' and powerful, but do they say yes when they mean no?

Or maybe because I'm still single and childless (is that a song, too?) the whole Ann Taylor "I'm Too Sophisticated and Fulfilled To Bother With Sexy" doesn't quite feel right. So, I'm stuck in fashion no-woman's land, somewhere between Talbot's and Forever 21, a Betsy Johnson/Nine West/corner boutique with crazy Pat Fields-like owner island where all I can do is scavenge for something resembling the spirit of something I feel (I wish there were more independent designers in America like there are in Australia).

Just for today, I can find my own style.

I'm hung over from chocolate birthday cake (my office gave me a birthday party five days early...not sure why, I think they just wanted some cake) and the last 34 years of my life AND I still have five days to go before I enter a new age box. Looking forward to a life of greater confidence and wisdom (as well as more facials and less cake).

Just for today, I look forward to aging.