How the Man Detox finally ended

The business of the Man Detox was not over and I was, once again, sitting in my therapist's office, spending precious time and co-pay talking about this thing, this gift that fits in my hand, this possession that has a much bigger hold than it should.

It felt pressing and so I explained that I still had it, wrapped in pretty blue tissue paper, tucked haphazardly back into its box and then thrown into the back seat of my car. I needed to do something with it. I wanted it gone.

She got right to it, offering suggestions, just as my friends had, for what I could do with this gift I no longer accepted. But none of them felt right.

"What does feel right?" she asked.

"I want it to go back to the boutique." I felt very clear about that. The owner had rejected it as a return or exchange, but still, that store is its home.

I told her that I'd considered leaving it there anyway, handing back and bolting. I second-guessed myself. I held on to it because she said no.

"Oh," my therapist nodded. "This is big for you because you didn't stand up for yourself in that situation just like you didn't stand up for yourself time after time in the relationship with the person who gave you that gift."

I didn't have to say a word. Without pause, the tears came. A quiet, steady stream of tears made their way over my cheeks and into the palms of my hands, pressed into my face. Yes, that was it.

Too many times, I gave in. I yielded. I stood holding all of the stuff I no longer wanted to surround me because I wanted it to be OK. I wanted it to work. I wanted him to be someone he so clearly was not. I wanted to resist the whisper in my head that said, "Run. Run. Drop the bag and run."

That pause in the boutique lasted a few moments. The pause in the relationship lasted months. Sitting there, I felt free of hesitation.

"I'm going to take it back to the fucking boutique." I was clear. I felt like I opened the door and through the screen door, just a hint of freedom breezed across my face. The tears were there, but I knew now what I had to do. I just had to figure out how, when. I let the urge to drive out to the boutique and throw it in the door and drive away, tires squealing, pass. Twice.

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Sunday in the park with E

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Weekend aMusEment

You know what's nerdalicious? Taking photos of the pretty, pretty lights with your phone at concert.

You know how I justify that? By the conversation that happened among the guys in hoodies in front of me that went something like --

"Dude, did you hear that riff at the end of that song?"

"Dude, like 2% of the people here got that."

"Heh heh. Yuuuup."

Since I was not one of those 2%, I totally felt justified in taking a few more shots.

This was my Friday night at the Muse show. My seats were so good, I could almost see the reflection of my smoky-eye make up in Matthew Bellamy's silver sneaks. I loved every minute of it, including an understated and great opening by one of my favorite bands, Silversun Pickups, that seemed purposely bare-bones in comparison to the big light/graphics/music/fantastica that Muse put on.

Considering that I'm merely with the 98% of the audience, I won't go into some big analysis of the set list or similar that I've rolled my eyes at for years to hear men go on and on and on about while I was silently dissecting the lyrics to see if they were as raunchy as I'd hoped.

I will share that I caught my heel on a passed-out under-ager whose mother would have been very upset that half her backside was hanging out of her pink '80s leggings scribbled with Muse lyrics, tripped down a step, successfully recovered with my beer and body in tact and created a bruise the size of Montana on my thigh (OK, I really just tripped on the step...no high schoolers were harmed in the awkward hematoma-ing of my body).

Although Duder Down the Aisle from Me said these eyeball balloons were "a total fucking embarrassment for the band, yo," I liked them. Thus, they are forever captured here and on my iPhone.

The show was captivating. And it was just as fun to laugh about how much easier it was to drive out of the United Center parking lot than normal because all the kids were taking the El or bus (this is where I felt elevated to elite 2% status). As long as we steered clear of the trajectory toward La Pasadita, we were all good.

Next time, they're in town, I'm totally going to see them. And maybe get a little more entrepreneurial. With a bit of planning ahead, I'm sure I could make a gazillion dollars selling jeggings in some kind of specialty men's-junior size. Something to think about while I'm so not getting the guitar riffs.

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