Things I Will No Longer Be Doing…Part 1

"What flows flows,
what goes, goes..."

I will no longer be saving my money for a rainy day.

Truth is, it’s been hurricane season for the last couple of years.

 I’ve been windswept, rained on, and blown about. I’ve walked through the storm dishevelled, bushy-haired, shoeless, sometimes even mindlessly.

But I kept going.
And more importantly, I kept my sense of humour.
Because if life insists on being a tempest, I might as well dance in the downpour.

I will no longer grant keys to occasional visitors.

From now on, the keys are reserved for the die-hards, the everlasting cheerleaders, the ride-or-die comrades who walk through the fires with me: When I’m grouchy and grumpy, or needy and pleading, or blasé and bitchy…
When I’m all the nuances  of me, good and bad, agony and ecstasy, ugly or just plain pretty, they show up.
So if the downpour comes and you’ve got the keys?
Grab your bag.
We ride at dawn.
Wear a raincoat...and nothing else.

I will no longer be available for last-minute plans.

Especially if said plans require me to be far from my bed after 8.

(Yes, I said 8pm. Don't @ me.)
There is nothing on offer that can compete with my plush bed, dressed in 300-count Egyptian cotton and steeped in the rich scent of oud drifting through my home like a love song.
I sleep like a baby.
No regrets.
Mind at peace.
Diagonally, if I have my way.
I flail. I fling.
Enter at your own risk.
And if we’re spooning?
I’m the big spoon.
That should last… oh, about two minutes.
Right before you're engulfed by the flames that will inevitably erupt from my midlife inferno.

I will no longer be wearing fussy pants.

Not the rigid ones.
Not the ones with buttons that mock me, zippers that betray me, or waistbands that dare to challenge my waistline... and where exactly is my waistline now, and when did it and my boobs migrate toward each other?
My thighs have spoken.
My mood has co-signed.
And my hormones are the final vote.
Give me floaty dresses, soft robes, loose wraps, and kaftans with pockets deep enough to hold snacks, secrets, and my mobile.
Give me freedom, airflow, and fabric that doesn’t judge.
Because life is too short, my patience too thin, and my ass too divine to be imprisoned by denim.

I will no longer be wearing bras that hurt me.

If it digs, pokes, rides up, or leaves red marks like I’ve been in battle,
It’s dead to me.
Underwire? Out.
Padding? No thank you, I’ve got enough going on.
Straps that slide off just to taunt me? Be gone.
If I must wear one, it better feel like a whisper,
a gentle suggestion, not a medieval torture device.
And on most days?
I’ll go free.
Breasts in soft rebellion.
Because I’ve carried enough in this life. Gravity can do its job, she’s earned it.
And so have I.

I could keep going, but I’m hungry, tired, and just the right amount of bored.
Might be brain fog.
Might just be me being me…fickle and feckless.
I swear I’m fully functioning? Just slightly unstable.
But that’s today.
Tomorrow, I might show up humourless, horny, and a full-blown horror show.
At least you won’t be bored.
Or frustrated.
But you might be very, very scared. (Okay… maybe only a little.)
Or I might be MIA.
Depends on the weather.
With any luck, there’s a downpour and I’m out dancing.