Over the summer, the word quaintrelle made its way down my Twitter feed and I was drawn to it. I remember saying to myself “If I believed in goals, becoming a quaintrelle would be an admirable one.” Unfortunately, I was navigating deep inner turmoil at the time and pursuing passion and pleasure couldn’t top my priority list. I had bills, after all, and an apartment I was struggling to afford (and clean regularly), and a job that was killing me slowly, leaving me with no energy for joyous pursuits in my off time.
I get in trouble when I write about boys.
Every guy who’s ever winked at me, or taken me on a date wants to make the post about him. And every friend of every guy I may or may not know biblically wants to make the post about his boy. It’s odd: my every word being treated as a reflection of men who hold small places in my life. Remember, I haven’t been in a relationship since 2011 and since then, I’ve never given anyone I dated any pseudonyms that would indicate they are a consistent fixture in my life. I’ve only presented vague “he” and “him” references that are rarely about the same guy more than once. That’s been on purpose, because again, it’s been a solid three years since I’ve been properly bae’d up.
I didn’t know how badly I needed to come home until I arrived at my mother’s apartment with movers, Saturday afternoon.
I walked in the door and immediately curled up on her couch. I didn’t care where the movers put the boxes. I didn’t have the energy to give anymore instructions. I didn’t have the energy for anything. I sank into the couch cushions, closed my eyes and let the warmth and Glade plug-in fragrance of my mother’s home welcome me. I knew I’d had a rough year, but I didn’t realize how rough until I exhaled my first real breath for the first time in forever in my mother’s home. As ashamed as I was about returning to my mother’s at 31 years old, everything in my mind, body, and soul told me I needed a damn break.