Time and Space

Time is not sacred. 
They say Time is money. 
But money is not sacred.
Time has no real value to me. 
Not like Space.
Space is different.
Space is precious. 
Space is sacred. 
I pick and choose who and what I make Space for.
I picked you.
I chose you.
I decided to make Space for you.
I held back no part of me.
You saw it all.
The good, the bad, the ugly.
The past, the present, the future.
The attractive, the absurd, the insecure.
You took it all.
You kept taking it.
And I kept giving because to me, giving is loving.
But after a while,
I had nothing left to give you
Because you never loved me in the way I deserved.
You gave me Time.
You made Time for me.
I mistook Time for Space.
I took whatever I could get from you
Because I was so wrapped up in you.
You held back from me.
I only saw what you wanted me to.
And no matter how many times I tried,
You would not let me see it all. 
Maybe he just doesn’t have as much Space to give as you do.
Maybe he speaks a different love language.
Maybe he really is trying the best he can.
Maybe you should stick it out just a little longer.
Maybe you should just give him Time.
Maybe this is what people mean when they say a relationship is work.
I tried being patient.
I tried kicking.
I tried screaming.
I tried begging.
I tried manipulating.
I tried guilting.
I tried blowing it all up.
I tried loving.
I loved you so hard.
By the end,
I had become someone that was so lost.
I was so lost in you.
I was killing myself trying to breathe life into something that was already dead.
I was so afraid that without us, I would have nothing.
I was terrified of the empty Space that you would leave behind.
And it was terrifying.
But only for a moment.
Now, here I am.
I am taking back my Space.

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My Cocktail Server Experiment

I was trying to put a fussy 6-month old down for a nap in a chic Williamsburg apartment that I will never be able to afford myself when I get a text from my manager.


Hey, wanna play cocktail server tonight? 
You can wear all black.
I hate my work uniform and the idea of getting to look good at work was exciting.
Our clientele like their cocktail servers just the way you’d expect. 
Young, thin, beautiful and dressed like sex on a stick.

I knew exactly what I was signing up for.
Time to break out that little black dress.
The one that’s just short enough. 
The one that’s tight in all the right places.
The one that says, “Look, I’m getting over you.”

Lucky for me that I had done my hair that morning. 
All I had to do was wash out the baby spit-up.
I always say my hair is my best feature.
I kept my makeup simple. 
Eyeliner, highlight, blush. 
I’d add my standard red lip right before service.
War paint.

I looked good. 
And I knew it.
When you know it, 
The world becomes a different place.

Hello, world.
It’s been a while.
I got to work and the heads start turning. 
Any woman who says she dresses for the approval of other women is lying to herself. 
We dress for men. 
Or at least my shiny, newly single ass does.

My coworkers were all seeing me in a new light.
They couldn’t stop staring.
It was like the way he looked at me that first time.
The night picked up steadily. 
We were well into service, 
When a group of 4 middle aged men find their way into my section.
The very first thing they say to me,
“Do we need to sign a permission slip for you to be serving us?” 
It takes me 3 seconds to size up these guys.
I determine that they are a non-threat.
Whatever that means.
I laughed off their stupid remark and threw it back in their goddamn faces. 
“I’m not telling you how old I am but wanna know what I’m dressing up as for Halloween?”
“Tell us!”
“Jailbait. So watch yourself.”
In that moment, I decided cocktail serving isn’t for me.