Urban Mermaidz

“I am learning how to get out of my own way,” I remember telling my cousin over the Christmas holiday.

“What does that mean?” she asked in earnest.

“I am a control freak. I have to always know what I am doing and where I am going at all times. But this hasn’t brought me happiness. The times I have been most happy are when I am not trying to control things. When I just flow.”

When I am traveling I flow. My senses are at their best. I am present. I am aware. And why can’t I be this way on Planet MyAmi? Just because I’m not hopping on a train every 3 days doesn’t mean I’m not traveling here.

And so, I decide to continue writing this chapter. I feel relief to still be with him. I didn’t feel finished…and now, here I am, riding in his passenger seat. My legs start to shake. My heart beats faster. My natural desire to control is in full gear.

“Look at my hand,” I tell Sharky B.

“What’s wrong?” he says. He chuckles. He tells me there’s nothing to be nervous about. And I try to breathe like I did at my yoga class just a few hours before.

We pull into his parking garage…into his personal parking space. He points out his motorcycle collection. We ride the elevator up to the 7th floor. We walk into the living room. I hear a small dog bark.

“My roommate’s dog,” Sharky B says as he takes off his shoes. I take off mine and hang my scarf and jacket on his dining room chair. It is a typical Florida style apartment. A living room in the middle, a small, walk-in kitchen with two bedrooms flanking each side. I make myself comfortable on the floor in the living room. I lie on my stomach and check out his books. You can tell a lot about a person by his or her books. Design books. Lots of them. He is an artist.

“Is this where we’re hanging out?” I ask, even though I know it’s not. And I go into his bedroom. It is a bachelor’s bedroom. Huge computer screen on a desk. Full-sized bed and a futon for chillin’. His bathroom is connected. His watercolor paintings framed on the walls. Plastic action figures on shelves. It is comfy. And I’ve stopped shaking.

He tells me to pick a movie. I don’t really want to. I’d rather he play some music. And paint me. But maybe it’s too soon for that. I’m such a plotting, conniving bitch.

“Ok, I’ll pick a movie.”

I know it’s important to choose the first film you watch with a man. I don’t want to pick something full of sex…cuz then, well, ya know…I don’t want to pick a psychological thriller that is too heavy and puts me into moody contemplative mode…I don’t want to pick a sappy romance, cuz then I’ll just feel cheesy…what then? What? He says he likes foreign films, so I go to that section. “Ma Vie En Rose.” Nah. A bunch of others I can’t remember. Nah. Nah and Nah.

“Do we have to watch a movie?” I ask. “What do people do besides watch movies?”

“Plenty of things,” he says.

My back is to him. I keep browsing the Netflix films.

And then I see, “The Art of Travel.” An American boy who finds out his fiance is cheating on him with his best man and decides to go on his planned honeymoon alone and ends up traveling for a year through Central and South America.

Aha! It fits the theme of the week. And I choose it.

“If it sucks, we can stop it, right?”

“Yeah, that’s the beauty of it,” Sharky B says.

Such is the nature of life, isn’t it? We create stories in our lives and choose the characters who will be in them…and we can end those stories at any moment, just by using our God-given ability to choose. It is sad that so many people are stuck in stories they don’t like and don’t know how to end.

The film starts off with bad acting…but a good premise. When the gringo lands in Managua, Nicaragua, I feel energized and excited thinking about how I felt when I arrived there. And I was thankful that I was with someone from Central America rather than a gringo who is a BIG FAT target. We blended. We flowed. He led. I followed. I had complete faith in him. I never doubted him.

We ceased to tango this way after a year on Planet MyAmi. I couldn’t follow him anymore. He wanted to focus on A-S-Ses and I wanted to focus on architecture. Our paths separated. And I had to continue on my own…until it crossed with Rabeat…until it separated again…and now it is crossing with Sharky B…for how long, I don’t know.

As I lay next to him on his bed, with a healthy space in between us…the giddy shakes had traveled into my belly. I felt like I needed to pee. So I went to the toilet. Not much came out. Ugh. What is wrong with me?

I wash my hands.

I return to the bed. I try a few different positions. I can’t get comfortable.

Sharky B turns on the music and mutes the film. “Paper Planes.”

“Oh. Oooh. Yeah. It is much better this way,” I say. I think of Diplo and MIA sitting in front of a web cam producing this song that would get nominated for a Grammy. It’s a video on YouTube that Diplo posted after MIA told a journalist that he didn’t have much to do with the famous track that is featured on “Slumdog Millionaire.” It’s not nice to diss a co-creator after your paths have separated. Artists have a code to love each other forever, even if their moment in T-I-M-E together has passed.

The fluttering in my belly has stopped.

This movie is dragging on and on. When will he reach for me? When will he hold my hand? I have learned that if I want to be happy, I must be patient. I must not be the aggressor. So I wait. And wait. I go to the toilet again. I wash my hands. I go back to the bed. Shift positions 8 more times.