Moving Out

tentwoods

If you´ve read my last post, The Rent Mess, you´ll understand that I´m growing pretty tired of this old place. The rent is too high, the landlord isn´t empathetic – but, and perhaps more importantly – I have outgrown it. When I came here, I was a different person. It was 2014, one year and six months before I came out.

Those were the days of desperately trying to finish that degree at the university, and failing, because I simply wasn´t ready to deal with the outside world. I had too much troubles of my own. Those were also the days that I discovered flying and that I initiated my first soaring flights at the glider club.

Life was weird back then. I though of myself as being a rather strange young woman. A woman who was unable to relate to any other woman, who felt extremely uncomfortable both physically and intimately with someone else. Men made me feel even more uncomfortable, as if somehow I had to prove something to them.

I understand all of that now. I no longer try to understand women from that perspective, I no longer try to hide myself when in public, and I quit trying to hide the masculinity that was bursting to the surface inside. I feel as though I need a new skin to develop myself further. A new environment – and yet I am stuck here.

Honestly, I wish I could just drop a tent somewhere and live in the wild. No possesions, no belongings. Maybe a secret lair in the ground with internet access and a vault to store my booty and boxes of testosterone gel. Seriously though, I would freeze to death if I just went camping at this time of the year. And I would get arrested (it´s illegal).

Maybe when the flying season opens, I can set up a tent at the camping near the field. I´d be very close to any flying-related business and perhaps I´d have a chance to “bond” with the club members, which I have never done other than having a beer at the fly-inn. Eventually, I would like to move out of this place. A new start somewhere else.

Drinkin’ and dreamin’
Knowin’ damn well I can’t go.
I’ll never see Texas, L.A., or Old Mexico.
But here at this table, I’m able to leave it behind.
Drink ’til I’m dreamin’, a thousand miles out of my mind.

(Waylon Jennings)

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