I'm a bit Feral, But I'm Housetrained

"I'm a bit feral, but I'm housetrained."

I think I’ve finally recovered from July. It’s our busiest month of the year. My partner, two daughters, sister-in-law, and daughter-in-law all have birthdays in July. People born this month pull me in. Represented by the crab, I like to think they too have a hard external crust, with a sweet ooey-gooey centre. If you can weather their initially aggro attitudes and sharp edges, you will be rewarded with the love of loyal, generous, and caring people. I am blessed, but back to my point.

This summer month is busier than Christmas for me and tends to whip by with untethered speed. Few pictures are taken because I live in these moments. It is unfathomable that I should ever forget them. Now, as August is here, and with it the yearly infestation of fruit flies, all seems surreal. What is lasting is the toll on my (slightly) aging body. July saw my man, Big Daddy, and I build and paint a corn hole game for his sweet sister, attend a Canada Day/multi-birthday camping weekend, and execute my daughter’s 10th birthday pool party complete with balloon arrangements created by yours truly. As well, we accompanied our fourteen-year-old daughter to The Calgary Stampede for her birthday and hit up the new club for Big Daddy’s 42nd. My back remembers all of it, especially when I was dropping it like it was hot. It was probably more of a flop, and lukewarm at best. I’m not 22 anymore, but that doesn’t stop me.

July also held for us a bachelor/bachelorette/birthday party and a wedding shortly after. Dear friends of ours got married and we are still giddy with joy at seeing them finally hitched after a long and colourful love story. A story that includes a long hiatus and the gift of falling in love with each other twice in a lifetime. Just before the wedding, it was the groom's birthday, and I dig how they decided to have a full-on co-Ed camp-out party to celebrate the whole shebang. It was a blast. The bride-to-be even got a couple of awkwardly humorous lap dances. Okay, guilty.

The groom is one of the July collection of people I adore. Nearly 7 years of acquaintance passed before we had a real conversation. He’s the strong silent type. My bro for life now, I’m honoured when he chats with me as I know it means something for someone so tightlipped. I became close with the bride first in 2002, and she’s remained my friend in her understated yet steadfast way ever since. I love them both, infinitely. They are part of a group of friends that came with my ex-husband. When I left him, I accepted that not only would I lose the love and support of his family, but the connection to these friends as well. I’ve been pleasantly surprised. Through conversations had by me and Big Daddy alike, I’ve found they care for me, and now him. They’ve seen how I carry myself through the trials of my ridiculous life, and I’ve earned their respect. This humbles me.

Reconnecting with these old crazy punks is always an adventure. At another friend’s acreage where the reception was held, people brought their children and set up yard games which we played until sunset. To see some of their kids now grown into teenagers and young adults still blows my mind. Tired from the festivities and summer hot sun, the parents claimed the latter part of the night as their own and eventually tucked the young ones into their respective camping trailers and tents. By late evening or early morning, we got the groom to switch the music over to Geordie Kieffer @geordiekieffermusic. The punk playlist created for the bride and groom was great, but a couple of us wanted to dance. If you have an off-side sense of humour like we do, then you surely appreciate the lyrical stylings of ol’ Geordie. It was what happened next that I mildly regret. It’s the type of eye-rolling ridiculousness that I would scorn my children for, and then chuckle to myself at their moxie.

I’m a bit feral. This is how I like to think of myself. How can I judge an animal for its animalistic nature? Instead, I love myself like the first wolf that man companioned. Wild and majestic. During family dinners, the five of us might break into a howling contest. I’ll cop a squat and pee wherever, if necessary. My elementary school years were spent scrapping with the boys and I don’t mind getting dirty, but I can put on a killer dress and heels and eat with the right fork. I’m a bit feral, but I’m housetrained.

I made the mistake of challenging one of the baddest bitches I know to a ‘friendly spar’. My dad always wanted a son and as the fifth daughter in our blended family, the onus to uphold testosterone-driven pastimes was on me. He taught me to box. My dad is a small, but feisty, man. I’m no great powerhouse, but he taught me what worked for him. Get in as many jabs as quickly as possible, and maybe you’ll get to walk away. He used to say to me, “It’s not the size of the man in the fight, it’s the size of the fight in the man.” To which I would proudly correct, “Or woman!”

Ryley didn’t want to spar. I need to learn to shut my mouth sometimes, but she and I are the same weight class so I simply couldn’t resist. She politely, and then not so politely, refused. “It’s all in good fun, just a playful spar between friends!” which I followed with a quick jab to her kidney. When she dropped me to the bathroom floor in a half-nelson I didn’t see coming, I knew I had made a mistake. She proceeded to Raggedy-Anne my ass all over that ensuite while I maniacally giggled, unsure of what to do. All I could picture was getting impaled on a towel hook, what an embarrassing obituary that would be. At one point I went limp, hoping she would get bored and walk away like a Brown Bear will if you play dead. It didn’t work. Both of our men stood at the bathroom door as witnesses. I only remember their eyes, impossibly large and disbelieving. Fighting back was futile, though I got in a few well-placed slaps on her jean-shorted ass before she finally let me go. She didn’t hurt me, but it terrified me to my core. As is with the Brown Bear, I became acutely aware that she could rip me to shreds if she so chose, and I was thankful for her benevolence.

That could have been a turning point for my lingering back problems post-wedding. You would think after putting myself through that kind of physical punishment, I would sit my ass in a corner to lick my wounds while I contemplated my choices in life. But then I noticed the two teenage caterers practicing an interesting dance. I like dancing, so I went over and asked the girls what they were doing. Turns out it was Rasputin, and they asked me to join in as they put the song on the big speaker. Have you ever tried to do the Rasputin? If you’re over thirty, I don’t recommend it. It’s like doing squats on speed. At least that’s what it looked like when they did it. My attempt was in slow-mo and short-lived, but the pain in my quads remembers.

So what if I’m feral and ridiculous, and spastically enthusiastic about life? I think it’s more desirable than self-imposed tedium like my parent’s generation succumbed to. They were old before I was born, but it was a choice, not a surety. As I age, a @baddiewinkle future looks a hell of a lot more fun to me. (I love you Baddie!) If you’re living your life with integrity, honesty, and good intentions behind your actions, what does it matter if you’re a little feral? Life is too short to worry about being ‘respectable’. That in and of itself means you’re choosing to be measured by other people’s opinions of you. My advice to you is to howl at the moon, do stupid shit, be unpredictable, and laugh hard at yourself.

~Leah Marguerite