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Not My Life

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Last night I said something that would have ruined my 25-year-old self.

Last night I got a text from a producer at 9:45PM, a text that the victim-blaming society that lives inside of me would say I asked for. I’d exchanged numbers with this producer at the top of the year, I justified. It made sense that he was using it. But it didn’t make sense that he was using it, not really. Phone numbers are for friends, not for texts from work contacts. They’re for pre-planned phone meetings, not for questions that could be answered in an email. And they’re certainly not for 10PM last minute meetings on Sunday nights.

The patriarchy that lives inside me started to revolt — and then I got angry. Because no. I had not asked for a Sunday night text about work. And no, I never asked for my phone number to be used to set up a late night phone meeting. It was the weekend. It was late. And I was tired.

But still, that red bubble indicating that I had a message lodged itself into a corner of my brain. And then I said it.

“Playwriting isn’t my life.”

Because it isn’t. It’s my career.

My life is deep friendships that transcend long drives, silent reflection, fights and reconciliations, tears and laughter. My life is an apartment I love spending time in, that I love sharing with others through food and warmth and barefoot conversation. My life is a partner who’s grown with me more than I ever thought we could, who worked through our “first marriage” — those joyful and then hurtful first five years together. My life is knowing that we have ten, twenty, thirty other marriages to work through together. My life is the books that I read, the music I sing and dance to. My life is meals cooked at home, treating myself to a new recipe, a new ingredient, a new flavor. My life is going out for lunch. My life is evergreen trees and rainy days. My life is pockets of sunshine and being happy in those moments.

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I haven’t set a boundary with this texting producer.

I’m a little ashamed I haven’t. (And I’m more than a little aware that this entire blog post is a veiled attempt at indirect contact.) I’m planning on it. I wanted to as I called him back, sharp tone and one-word answers at the ready. I wanted to say, “Don’t text me about work. You know better.” But I didn’t.

I will. But I’m fragile and human too. It’s hard for me to set boundaries, but it’s so healthy once I do. In the meantime, I’ll revel in the knowledge that my life is so much fuller than I could’ve ever imagined.