Happiness Holding Me Back

First things first. Even though this happened back in August. I went skinny dipping for the first time in my life. It was a lazy sunny late summer day in the French countryside with the river running through it when my girl love Pamela insisted we go for a run. I protested. Did I mention I was feeling lazy?

There are few people in my life who insist I do something. Perhaps because I'm too busy insisting something first. Pam is one of my only friends who tells me to do things (and the following are all things she had to persuade me to do (and you thought I was adventurous)): ride a Velib bike around Paris; go on a run to find the Eiffel Tower; and worst of all: when we get to the unexpected end of the narrow overgrown path in St. Aignan sur Cher, where the river divides, instead of turning back, she strips off all her clothes, jumps in, swims to the middle, and then turns around and says, come in! What? You've never? There's no one around for miles, Abeer! Do you know what the water feels like against your naked skin?

No, no I don't.

I mean, I didn't.

It's pretty fabulous.
River weeds against my breasts
river stones under my feet
river water between my thighs

I don't like baths. I never have. And not just because I'm a tepid water kind of girl. I don't know whether it was growing up in Nigeria with cold water showers (I mean, the water wasn't *that* cold), but I'm not going to be that lover who you want to take showers with. Every partner I've had who's jumped into my shower has jumped out immediately thereafter screaming like a little girl. *I* don't think it's cold. Maybe luke cold. Like I said, little girl. Add to that, the idea of sitting in stagnant water and your own filth... And don't get me started on hot tubs with other people.

Which is why it's interesting that one of my most delicious-out-of-body-I-am-so-supremely-happy-to-be-alive moments this year (there were so many) was in a bath. Never say never. It wasn't in the River Cher - that was cool running fresh water. This bath was in San Francisco this December, in a Japanese tub, built for one. I used Arati's thank-you present to treat myself to a Bliss spa appointment at the Kabuki Spa on Geary Street. This included 25 minutes in a candle lit wooden slatted room, sitting nakedly on a stool while a stout Japanese woman poured heated water on my steaming body. And then sinking into a green ceramic bathtub filled with water and ground tea leaves and cucumber oil. I'd rouse myself every few minutes to eat slices of lemon-salted apple and drink water, and then lie back dripping with joy.

Speaking of joy, I had my tarot cards read by James. It was past midnight, pouring rain outside, the cats were luxuriating by the heater, and my favourite Radiohead song was playing on the stereo. Unfortunately (or not), I was drunk on scotch and interrupted the reading to insist (there's that word again) that he dance with me. The only thing I do recall from my reading was the card that represented my challenge: the three of cups, which is a symbol of happiness. Happiness is holding me back.

That actually sounds about right. Not that I think one has to be sad to be productive (though I do think you have to have been broken at some point, to understand). Take Rumi, a 13th century Persian Sufi, one of my all time favourite poets - he turned his ecstasy into art. But if my life is all scotch and sleeping in and midnight kisses and sunshine and rock band (I love playing bass), then why bother sitting down and gut wrenching this book into shape? Um.

Ok, before you smack me upside the head, let me tell you about the sex club I went to last weekend. It was girls night out, in honour of Cynthia's visit from New York, and we had just gotten kicked out of Levende on Mission and Duboce. Levende sucks. They wouldn't let us in for a drink b/c we got there just after 10pm when they start charging cover. If you know Suna, Melissa, and Cynthia, then you know that it wasn't about money (obviously I'm the weakest link here). But we had a dinner reservation for 9:45pm - let the hotties in for a drink and a dance, no? No. So after a heated battle with the management, we let loose a flurry of insults and left. No matter. We recouped at Andalu and discussed our next target: Kickies, a jumping jack and jane flashing scene in the Mission that Suna, sexy dancer extraordinaire said had good dance music.

First we had to get dressed up, so Suna took us back to her phat new pad in Potrero and pulled out her costume trunk. [Note to Hardik - you need to start a costume trunk now that you're living in San Francisco.]

Red lingerie, lace up corset, high heeled boots, strapless gown, mini skirt, silver tinsel, flameorange leaf head dress. (done and done and done)

But if I wear the ankle length strapless gown, couldn't I keep on my jeans underneath? Ok fine, but what about my negative heel Earth shoes? I had to ditch my orange socks too? Hmpf. Just to be sure, I didn't sneak on something from my decidedly unsexy wardrobe, my caring friends replaced the dress with a pleather tube top and skirt. And handed me a set of 3 inch heels in my size (damn you Suna. Next time, I get the corset).

I have to say though, as is so often the case, the pre-party dress up phase was the most fun part of the night. This is why Sara's naked lady party (a clothes exchange) was fun the entire time. It was all about ladies stripping down and dressing up, over and over again. While getting drunk. 100% fabulous. Plus I scored a pair of sexy ass hugging jeans.

But I know I know, you want to know about the sex club. So one accessed it with a password, an unmarked door on the street, and $30. There were rules. No photography, clean up after yourself, bring your own booze and leave it at the bar. There was a smoking room, a dance floor complete with a pole and mirrors, a bar, a terrace, and two "sex" rooms, one in which you could play or watch and another one in which you had to participate. The decor was hoholicious fab: Mexican papel picado strung along the ceiling, candle lit altars filled with eye candy kitsch, rocking horse, velvet couches, and of course, guests in sexed up holiday-themed Burning Man-esque costumes.

Unfortunately (for the diversification of my sexual education), I think my girls were the hottest guests. So we made do with kissing each other in the voyeur room, drinking in the champagne room, and dancing til the wee hours. (Does everyone know how to pole dance except for me?) I did not make it into the other sex room as there was no one I wanted to participate with. Perhaps the hot ones were already in there but I wasn't taking any chances.

However, the hot ones were in plain view at the hot tub and swingers party in Glen Park that the beautiful Florencia took me to. I love it when gay boys turn out to have (female) wives and straight boys start kissing other straight boys on the dance floor. Even better when the girls have feathers in their hair and lace bustles and strip tease dance moves. As previously mentioned, I don't do hot tubs, but I don't mind when someone shows up from the steaming outside, flushed and heated and half dressed from a recent dip, and asks for a dance. Would you?

There's a body deep understanding I've learned from years of ecstatic dancing. Like the shrooms that put diamonds in my eyes, no matter how long ago my last trip. I was sober in Glen Park, but who could tell amongst all the languid flailing boys and girls?

It was like when Scott Skinny Red Feathers came on stage with OURS at the Bowery Ballroom in New York City this fall. The low rumbling sound of his didjiridoo pooled around my feet with all the oceanic force of epiphany. I suddenly saw my meaning of life. Wasn't vision reason enough to be? Wasn't music essence? Wasn't motion language? Didn't touch have the most integrity of all?

All this and I'm entranced by my facebook, email, and texting love affairs, as incorporeal and one-sided as some of them are. The half Indian web developer gypsy I met underground. The outrageously flirty and funny editor who gives as good as he solicits. The fire fighter mountain climber (not nearly as aggro as that sounds) who I'm still half in love with. The 23 year old (good fucking lord) who fancies himself in love with me (oh but his kissing lips).

Speaking of children, now that I have appraised the playgrounds of San Francisco with TopCookie Audren, and hence the children who frequent them, I understand why people breed. And why they don't. You know that saying about everything you needed to know you learned in kindergarten? Well, what if you're like Audren, and you just always knew how and why to share - after the 17th kid has grabbed his/her toy back (or yours for that matter) saying mine! wouldn't you learn to return the (dis)favour? I am ever more disenchanted with the idea of having children, even as my body desires them more desperately. I have 5 years til I turn 40 and hopefully this demented urge to destroy my pitch perfect life will disappear.

I am also giving myself this time to learn some patience. When I was young, I'd rage against everything. Cross me and lo, a pandora's box of wounding righteousness. And I'd be over it before my target's tears even started. Here's a little time line to illustrate:

Age 5
Abeer: rage rage rage
Simi: crying
Abeer: unrepentant

Age 15
Abeer: pointed barb
Simi: silence
Abeer: unapologetic but assuaged

Age 25
Abeer: underhanded insult
Simi: that wasn't nice
Abeer: silence
Abeer, a little while later on her own: damnit

Age 30
Abeer: impatient judgment
Simi: you shouldn't have said that
Abeer, petulant: true

Age 35
Abeer: careless comment
Abeer, almost immediately after: damnit

I believe my progress is accelerating, ever so slightly. Maybe one of these days, I'll be able to stop *before* I let loose one of my poison arrows. One can only hope. In the meantime, my 3 week visit to Pittsburgh to visit my parents over Thanksgiving loomed ominously in my mind. The goal was to limit my biznatchness to one outburst a week. Luckily for me, my cutie parents are nicer than ever, perhaps more aware of my limitations than I am, and willing to walk gingerly around them.

In fact, I don't think I had even one major eruption. Despite my father's occasional critical pronouncements, or having to accompany my mother to jummah prayer at the mosque. They let me eat what I wanted (I love my mom's cooking), run at whatever odd time I wished, read and write however much I needed. Easy peasy. So what if Abbu thinks that when a woman has a heavy travelling schedule for her job, it must mean she's a bad wife with a bad marriage. So what if Amma makes me listen to the imam expound at length about how when one goes on Hajj in Mecca, one will be so excited about being in this little corner of heaven on earth that one won't be able to sleep. No one rests in heaven after all - there's too many fun things to do (his words, I swear).

But it's true, Amma didn't expect me to believe no one sleeps in heaven. She knows how much I love to sleep, and never once rousted me early out of my yellow bedroom. Nor was Abbu judging my travelling, or my potential marital behaviour. Plus his increasing and troubling memory lapses break my heart. I cried at least once a day about yet another frustrating and mixed up conversation with him.

I know it's only gotten colder on the East Coast since I left, but the windy sleety snow that frosted each November day was more than enough to remind me why I hate winter. I spent most of my time in Pittsburgh indoors, next to the heater. Or dancing with my most beautiful Eshadee, who with each child she bears, with each passing year, only gets more breathtaking.

Not that December in San Francisco is proving much warmer. I know 30 degrees makes a difference, but when it doesn't go above 50 degrees one entire week in the state of California, you know there's something wrong. I'm cold. And I haven't written in almost 10 days now. I'm afraid of having to do what I must: chuck entire sections of my book and start over. It took me 3 days to realise that was what I had to do, another 3 to accept and internalise the decision, and the last 4 days were pure squander.

But I can't complain. Not when I get to go to over the top joyous funerals like the one Mary Patrick held to bury her dead dream of big time publication. And see Jules every day. And live in the most beautiful apartment ever (Hardik, you make me want one of my own, and that's saying a lot). And make up with my orgasmic brain deep boy lover after almost a year of silence. And eat Reggie's scrumptious raw food meals every week. And do photoshoots of Camalo and Karsten's Ghisele baby. And attend Neela's white elephant party. And see the hysterical Obama dildo. And peruse a science museum with coral reefs!

My monthly MUNI pass is getting a workout. Sometimes I use it 4 or 5 times a day. Potrero Hill, the Marina, Bernal Heights, the Mission, Noe Valley, Lower Haight, the Tenderloin, Union Square, Duboce Triangle, the Sunset, North Beach, Glen Park, the Castro, Japantown, the Richmond, Western Addition, Golden Gate Park. I love San Francisco and its windy park benches, strung out addicts, sunlight and sea. It makes me happy to be here. All those dichotomies between the East and West coasts of America: the hard and the soft, the edgy and the hippy, the intellectual and the free. I know I'd be fine on either coast, perhaps even better somewhere else altogether. But if I had to choose, even the hard edgy intellectual part of my brain would place me here, in my city of dreaming.