volume thirty-three

where it began

Hey, you!

Do this right now:

~Shrug your shoulders up as high as you can and then let them fall and relax.

~Unclench your jaw — move it around or use your hands if you need.

~Wiggle your toes, preferably in bare feet.

~Take one big breath through your nose, hold it. HOLD IT. HOLLLLLD ITTTT. Let it go audibly through your mouth.

This is what I have had to do every time I have sat at my desk this week to get back in the moment, so I have written it at the top of each of my projects as a gentle reminder. I am leaving it here because maybe you might need it too?

I am just a *little* stuck this week friends, and I think it is because I have so many balls I am currently juggling (and not to mention the obvious that the world is the way it is). Lots of things are happening in Lauren World 🌎 and I am doing my best to keep my ducks in a row with a smile on my face! 🦆 

I think it will help me this week to share something super cute (in my opinion) that I wrote last week. So yes, this substack volume is completely self-serving. When isn’t it? Maybe it will strike a chord with you, and if it does, I would be so happy to hear about it in the comments. I also want to say I have been listening to a lot of Hozier this week and ~it shows~ this volume.

So last week, I was prompted by the very lovely Lindsey Trout Hughes in a writing meet-up to write about a walk I once took. I guess* this man has been on my mind lately because below is what poured out of me.

*haha “I guess” — he absolutely has. 

By sending you this, with him none-the-wiser because he is not one of the 80 (!!!! wow. blessed) of you subscribed to this weekly love letter to y’all, I thank the dreaminess of this walk and the years that followed and let it go. I clear my head, ready to get back to my regularly scheduled programming and continued Lauren World domination.

💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌

I order three tacos, he orders two. As for the margaritas, there were arguably too many for a school night. A mutual friend will ask me the next day “did you have margaritas?” and when I respond “yes” I will be told, “yeah that’s his thing” and then they will leave that comment hanging mid-air for me to wonder what on earth that means for weeks to come, analysing it over and over.

We are ‘those’ people, the ones who still sit there pretending (?) to be oblivious, as the staff begin stacking chairs onto tables and turning the lights up brighter giving not-so-subtle hints that I am for the first time here and willing to ignore. I have never been ‘those’ people. I have never had a reason to be.

It is a warm summer evening when we finally leave the restaurant. My hair is voluminous on the verge of mess in the humidity and my cheeks glisten with a hint of perspiration, rendering the speckle of my brand-new highlighter useless. The heat doesn't seem to show on him at all, as he maintains the coolest of composure.

Despite my obvious margarita-induced-tipsiness, I am on high alert of my every move — not enough tequila consumed to feel comfortable in my own skin — a blessing and a curse of my demisexuality.

As we step out into the open air, I know if that is indeed the plan, we are heading home in the same direction. But I have never done this before — that is, I have never consciously gone on a first date — so I panic about the etiquette. Am I being presumptuous that we will walk together? Do I even want us to walk together? If we walk together what does that mean?

The cobblestone streets are lit with fairy lights in every tree and street lamps that glow golden. In the distance, I hear loud drunken friends yell over each other in busy bars.

He turns towards the way we are headed, suggesting we begin our journey without starting it. Instead, he lets his body language open up the path ahead as if to say “after you, if you’d like to.”

I’d like to.

My hands are sweaty. All I can think of is how much that would be felt by him if he grabbed one, so I tuck them into the pockets of my black velvet pants. This only makes them sweat more.

Unknown to me, he wouldn’t grab my hand this night, that would come the next time I saw him.

It would happen after a few ciders when we both explode into the chorus line of Sweet Caroline in a small, crowded Irish bar with a one-woman band we stumble upon by accident.

It would happen right at the moment I wave my hands enthusiastically to the song.

Then.

That is when he would grab them, intertwining each of his fingers between each of mine and we would sing our lungs out, eyes locked, mouths not meeting, but sitting in that but will we? linger for the remainder of the song. The lyrics would dance off our tongues across to each other.

But we wouldn’t kiss that night at the pub.

Kisses were to come at a train station, after dinner, after drinks, after a show, in a hotel room as we lay and talk for hours and after other walks home. Our kisses are spread out over long breaks of coming back into each others’ lives, time and physical distance between each visit connected between with long phone calls.

But we don’t kiss on this first walk.

We just walk.

Speaking in calm and curious and respectful tones. I hang on to his every word, my attention split between what he says and how I look as I listen to him.

As we make our way through dark and quiet streets my shoes clack on the pavement — a notification of our presence to people we might pass before they see us. People out for summer evening romance.

I assume the other people can smell the first date on us. As if, as per usual, I assume that the whole world revolves around me. I feel the heat of the gaze of the couples walking the streets who are so comfortable, with their hand-holding happening like it is no big thing. Then I imagine them going home to judge in snickers, my hands tucked away and my eyes to the ground in front of me.

He asks me questions about my life, my likes, my dislikes, my work, my family, my creativity, my home country, my idea of fun, my tastes in various things. My sexuality is brought up in a comfortable way and without gnawing. I am not used to speaking of it like this with men. That is, without desperation, but with a seeing me.

He asks everything he could possibly ask, but he never once asks for directions.

💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌

I love you,

Lauren xoxo

Three things I struggled with this week:

• Which one of you suggested I watch One Day? Someone did, and I have a bone to pick with you. As someone who loves romantic films that I can cry to, I in theory should have loved this, yet I am so so so angry after watching. Thanks, I hate it (and him). 🤢🤢🤢

• Another week of Miley Cyrus not knowing I exist. 🙍

• Impatience in getting to people to just squeeze the crap out of them in a giant hug. Soon! 🤗

Three blessings from this week:

• This week I realised that by leaving Montreal I will finally be able to again buy fresh produce that is not wrapped in plastic. Delightful. 🍄

• I went out for a nighttime dog walk (the dog alone is a blessing) and the stars were above for me to see clearly for the first time since leaving Australia ✨

• I feel so loved. 💕

Three goals for the coming week:

• One task at a time. I have so much to do and never enough time to do it. But I can only take it checklist item by checklist item and that I shall. ✅

• Start selling off my things! Getting my life down into four suitcases (+ one carry on for good measure) over the next month ready for my next chapter that will roll into the next and the next. 🧳

• Get creative with my meals. Leaving means clearing out the pantry fillers. So long cans of food, jars of long-shelf-life items and excessive stock of chickpeas and lentils. It is your time to shine! 👩‍🍳

What I am enjoying this week: 

Hard times? Never heard of her.

But in case those harder times are creeping in on you in this messy messy week, as a bloody delightful gift, fellow Writers’ Hour pal, Dionne, sent this list out in substack and it has been a care package just as we (I) needed it. There is more in the substack and in particular, this has been saving me daily all of this week. 🧘🌠

BONUS PLUG! I have been asked to be in conversation for Sutton Writers and I am so excited! They do monthly talks with writers and this month it is yours truly. Your first talk attendance is FREE (but donations are greatly appreciated if possible!) I will be hosted by the wonderful Lauren M who is no stranger to a lot of you — The Laurenation™️ taking over zoom screens everywhere!

This month we will be in conversation with Lauren Deborah (she/her), a writer who comes from the world of stand up comedy (both on and off stage) and is currently writing her first-ever comedy television series inspired by her sobriety, sexuality and undiagnosed OCD.

She also writes a weekly substack ‘hi, lauren deborah!’ — a digital journal of a chronic oversharer — where she word vomits and attempts to make light of some of the heavier themes in her life. (Or sometimes just because she is experiencing the completely and utterly catastrophic feeling of having a crush.)

If you feel inclined to say thanks for this post, please like or comment (it’s free and means so much!), forward it to a friend or you can buy me a slice 🍕