I went to a camping festival this past weekend and spent solid time with my friend, Alle, reacquainted myself with Jacqs (who I’d met four or five years ago, but lost track of), reconnected with Hawthorne (who I met last year, but couldn’t find on Facebook) and Jen, met Kells and April and fell head over heels in adore with them both.
It was pagan themed, and those are often fraught with sexual tension and “am I attractive enough even now at this age” and coupling and uncoupling. I generally have a ‘free pass to play’ at festivals (which is actually not uncommon among the pagani) and that was the case this year as well, but the truth is, I wasn’t into any of that. I liked knowing I *could* connect with someone if I felt it, but I really missed the spousal unit and kept thinking that if I could just add him to the already lovely equation I’d be perfectly content.
I stayed up ’till dawn every night, enjoying the fire and watching the lovely dancers do their usual mating gyrations. Peacocks and hens, every one. I felt transcendent. Apart from it. An observer who wished NOT to enter the fray. I felt like I was spilling benevolence all over everyone, an empathetic fountain, a walking benediction.
It was as though not ‘wanting any’ sent out a signal to the young stags on site. I was surrounded by complimentary attention from boys I could easily have given birth to. It was adorable, flattering, and completely hilarious, but I wasn’t interested. I just wanted to hang out with my girlfriends.
That felt *amazing*.
I went home feeling a little like the Queen Bee ~ full of the honey of friendship with beautiful women AND the thrill of having been pursued without being caught.
I’ve been home since late Sunday, and I’m down with my usual summer cold. Being a hermit the majority of the time means that as soon as I enter civilization, I get *something*. I’m hopped up on Dayquil and wishing I could crawl into bed with a heating pad, a hot cup of honeyed tea, and a good book (Pandora by Anne Rice, I think. Or something equally ‘purple’ and bloody and full of verbose exposition.)
Couch Day last Friday was *intense* and full of revelation. I left my couch person’s office tear soaked and seemingly fragile. Processing on the drive to the fest site took about three minutes, though, and then my strength rose up like a flame and licked the tears right off my face.
It’s going well.
Downton Abbey rocks, and the spousal unit and I are bonding over it.
And we’re good, he and I. We’re in the upswing portion of the cycle that is our relationship.
I’m content with that for now.