The bite was subtle, and if it weren’t for the captain ogling each of our rods I would have missed it. I don’t know if it was the soft rocking of the boat anchored 2 hours off the coast of the Seward peninsula, but for someone who prides herself on good reflexes I was moving unusually slow. Fortunately I reacted just quick enough and began reeling as fast as I could.
Boo hollered encouraging words and offered to tap in should my right bicep decide it had had enough. And the others, two from coastal Florida and two from rural Texas with much more fishing experience than I, looked on. Did this dyed in the wool city girl have it in her?
With every turn of the reel the fish felt like it gained ten pounds. My internal monologue ran wild. Why do they live so close to the ocean floor? Where did all my pilates swoll go? Why does the world feel as though the volumes been turned down? Damn, they make it look so easy on Wicked Tuna.
This was the first time I ever came close to reeling in a fish. And like most things in my life, it couldn’t have been the starter baby trout. No, it had to be the 25-30 pound halibut. Not because I thought it out. But because I showed up and told myself I could.
I felt my right arm begin to go numb. Then my rubber soles lost their traction and I slid into the wall of the boat. It suddenly occurred to me that I may have been at risk for losing this battle and being dragged overboard. I regretted not opting for the life vest. Shuddering at the idea of becoming an orca snack, I refocused and engaged my core. I had to bring this one up on my own.
After a few minutes, or was it a few weeks, I finally saw the outline of the halibut’s body rising to the surface. It was certainly the biggest fish I had ever seen. Whatever it actually measured, who cares, I completed the mission. Once the fish reached the surface the captain stepped in to bring it aboard. I felt proud, and sore, and really sedated. Shit. Did I take too much Dramamine?
Fishing in Alaska this past August was one of several highlights from my summer. It was unlike any experience I’ve ever had, and it totally kicked my ass. There was the aforementioned charter boat where I successfully reeled up 3 deep sea fish from 350 feet off the ocean floor. All while stupidly sedated on way too much Dramamine. (follow the directions y’all) And let’s not forget the crash course in deckhanding for Boo, a seasoned fisherman, on the Kenai River.
In addition to learning how to fish, I’m stoked to report I spent a lot of time hiking and recreating outdoors. There was also a gorgeous weekend visiting Vale, CO to see one of my favorite bands, The Black Pumas… A multi-day bash in honor of Boo celebrating significant milestones…Cookouts galore… And, oh yeah, I became a first time home buyer and moved to a brand new state! Buhhh byeeeeeee Colorado Springs.
I feel really blessed for all the momentous experiences I had this summer. Especially buying a house. What a life?! But as is the case with me, multiple truths exist. I adventured hard and by the time we pulled up the Penske to our new home, I was completely burnt out. And not just tired from moving, but burnt out in the way I would get from over exhausting my physical and energetic resources at the club. Done with people. Done with responsibilities. Done with doing much of anything. And I’m retired! I haven’t worked at a strip club in six months.
I don’t know why I thought this, but somewhere inside I believed that once I hung up my plastic stilettos my habitual burn out would simply fade away. I guess because I burned out regularly during my 13 years as a sex worker I just linked the behavior to the work itself. In retrospect I see I had forgotten one of the reasons I was able to immediately thrive in such an intense atmosphere is because I tend to gloss over how I’m feeling in real time in favor of compulsively doing.
It’s one of my great paradoxes. I am gifted with extraordinary intuition, and I selectively listen to it when it comes to myself. Which parallels another annoying habit I am trying to rein in. One I also believed would magically self-correct once I stopped working at the club: excessive screen time.
Every Sunday, as is ritual with most iPhone users, I get a report about my daily screen time usage from the previous week. Since I’ve retired there are some Sundays I approach said report with a confidence that comes dangerously close to self-righteousness. I smugly tap open the report knowing damn well I barely touched my phone that week. Then I congratulate myself for not being technology's bitch.
But on more Sundays than I care to admit I tentatively approach my usage report. Harboring a flavor of regret once reserved for the kind of poor decision making that involves too much tequila, high hopes, low standards, and a questionable stranger.
On these particular Sundays I sit hunched over my phone bewildered by the graphs specifying the apps where I spent most of my time. More often than not I try recalling how someone with great discipline in other areas of her life ended up here. Was I hypnotized? Did quantum entanglement do me dirty? Has someone been using my phone and racking up 2hrs 26 min a day on Amazon?
This ritual concludes with me reminding myself it’s an easy trap to fall into. That my silly human brain couldn’t possibly outmaneuver the mega engineering that went into making smart phones and apps so addictive. Never-mind that it’s the same silly human brain I’ve used to learn new languages, build businesses, and power through a dense pharmaceutical fog to reel up a really big fish. Dusts shoulder. Nahhh. When it comes to that tricky phone I am no match for it’s witchcraft.
In the past, I’ve shaken off this self-flagellation by reassuring myself I will achieve my goal of getting my daily screen time down to one hour a day or less. But the truth is I’ve never really thought out how to actually achieve this. It’s really been more of a, just show up and tell yourself you can.
Lately I’ve begun to reframe this. Because if I’ve learned anything in nearly forty years of fucking around and finding out, it’s that nothing changes if nothing changes. I admit, it certainly helps that I’m no longer at the mercy of awaiting a 2am bar rush so I can pay my bills and death scrolling ornamental grass on Pinterest to keep me awake. But after 6 months it’s obvious that retiring from the club has not been the cure all for all of my poor habits.
Ironic, isn’t it? That for as much as I compulsively keep busy I’m also still spending the equivalent of a part time job looking at my phone. Perhaps the two have more to do with one another than I initially realized?
Which makes me wonder, is the trouble I have with slowing down and listening to what feelings come up in real time when I’m… say… over extending myself, is that related to or adjacent to the thing that also causes me to mindlessly scroll on my phone? Can a lack of emotional presence with ourselves make us soft targets for the tyranny of algorithms, advertising, and burn out?
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