In my early 20’s, in the throes of college, I felt impatient to know how to live as an adult. Back then, I thought I’d magically know how to handle situations when this ‘adult’ stage appeared. I had no idea how much work would be involved, or what sort of work I’d even have to do. I started this thing that lingers even now – buying books to help navigate the way. As in, life as an independent study, complete with homework.

Now near my 30’s, I’m pretty damn grateful for all that musing, reading, curiosity. And pretty amazed at how much more there is to unravel, experience, feel, ponder. In my 20’s, I aimed to seduce, and seduce well. For love. For friendship. For saucy stories. For life. Somewhere in the mid-twenties, I aimed my seductions at myself. I must confess: much sexier.

Apparently, to understand seduction is to understand oneself, as a whole person, not just the intended target and their lingerie preference.

Over this decade-long study, I’ve found some highly enlightening books. I’ve had epiphanies that involved tears of relief. I’ve failed assignments and I’ve rocked them. I’ve been proud of taking care of my own needs rather than seducing someone else to take care of them. And I’ve still never found that memoir that laid out this whole adult thing exactly as I needed it. And that’s because: I’m writing my own damn story. It’s been in me this whole time. But that doesn’t mean my amazon wish list is any lighter.

It does mean that the story’s ending is in my hands.
And that’s fucking amazing.