I am watching Bachelor in Paradise tonight, and I am going to love every cringe-worthy, hard-bodied trash moment because I need this shit.
I need to remember there are people out in these buckling and boiling, climate change streets that are prepared to make fools of themselves in non-threatening ways. This morning I yelled to my daughter: “It’s Bachelor in Paradise day!
Not good morning, not how’d you sleep.
No. I got right to the point: a heap of castoff condiments will be parading around with their coconuts out and erect palm trees and there’s nothing else I can stomach right now but this, so ARE YOU AS EXCITED AS ME, CHILD OF MINE?!
She definitely was like, can’t wait.
But not dripping in sarcasm with angst on top. No, she’s all in. She yells “REG FLAG!” at the screen and I bask in the glow of everything I taught her while undoing it with my programming choice.
The other day a friend shared a meme from Instagram about how my younger self would be so proud of me...
No, no she would not. My younger self told Slasher, my then boyfriend and baby daddy, if he ever dared gift me a gold-dipped rose for a birthday, anniversary, some random date ending in cannolis, he could forget my name.
Now, I cheer on rose ceremonies like they’re some kind of divine intervention.
Oooh, Praise Jesus, he got one!
I am not even religious. I come from a long line of women who, upon stepping on the first concrete slab leading into a church, would turn into smoldering ash for our loose ways and foul mouths.
Young me would like a few words with old-ish me, possibly a shoulder-shaking. And access to my pin number so she can take what’s appropriate for her time.
Am I proud of who I have become? I mean it could be worse. Last night I fell asleep to Ghostbusters watching the Rick Moranis character, Louis Tully, mumble in the back of a paddy wagon that he was Vinz Clortho, keymaster of Gorzo, looking for the gatekeeper, Zull, (the androgynous broad with a flattop) — and I said to a barely conscious Slasher, “this really hits different.”
So yeah it could be worse. I could be fist pumping for conspiracy theories, making new friends with a horse while screaming that everyone else will perish in flames like a possessed lunatic.
I am thrilled to witness this full circle Xennial moment where young me is horrified by everything and anything old me has to deal with. A little bit brought on by myself, a lot more *gestures in not everyone should be Very Online*
I do feel uncomfortable about this rose show, though. But there is no right, wrong, better, worse, acceptable, coulda done a better job, babe way to preserve your capacities. I’m treading water again just like everyone else. Last week alone, a friend’s father died, another lost their home in a fire, someone else lost a job. I stayed in a rural motel this weekend that can best be described as “try not to touch anything” and a family was living in the next room over. There is no lack of suffering amongst us. Every call, text, feed refresh is full of the worst thing imaginable and yet at the same time a crushing mandate to continue as if nothing extraordinary is happening.
Growing up, my mother spent her weekends at the movies. At least one day, every weekend, she would go and watch a movie in the theater. A woman who, as a business owner, had no time, too much responsibility, never enough money, dragging around dead man weight and me with a pair of eyeballs and mouth judging every move. I asked her once, I said, “Why do you go to the movies so much?” I wanted to know what kind of light she found in the darkness.
She said, “It’s the only place I can turn it off.”
My younger self heard, but didn’t listen. I understand now.
Whether it’s a rose ceremony or Kevin Costner’s bare ass in Robin Hood, the only way out is through. So I will take every melodramatic tear in the sand and savor those tiki torches not attached to racists and I will, on Mondays, turn it all off.
CURRENTLY
On my nightstand: Eat Your Heart Out // Kids at fat camp battle zombies
Reading: A Read of One’s Own // If you were into R.L. Stine, Christopher Pike and The Baby-Sitters Club, you have to read this. At one point, I cried.
Watching: Jungle Cruise // Y’all it was so, so good
Listening: Gaslit Nation // This pod does not hold back on how fucked we are and have been
Coveting: This caftan in tribute to Catherine O’Hara // Here’s me in it
Supporting: This campaign to help Afghan interpreter “Zak” and his family get to safety
If you love FLOP ERA share it with the kind of person who loves mess — the more melodrammy, the better.