Raging Bull
Young, dumb, and 21 — I walked into the (now defunct) country bar in Boulder, CO slightly tipsy and ready to ride. I watched from the back as bodies glided through thick air over bartenders and frat bros and standards that promptly went missing once the third shot hit. Lucky me, the list was quick, and soon enough I took a seat on my jerky, Taurean sister. She had definitely seen some shit.
Summers in Colorado weren’t sticky like Texas, but the saddle stained with months of stale Coors Light gave home a run for its money. Things started slowly, or SEXY AF (that’s what I told myself) — grinding back and forth, side to side, flexing my calves and grabbing onto leather like the cowgirl I’d always dreamt of being.
Shoulders whipped over hips in every direction and SEXY AF quickly Irish goodbye’d into desperate flailing. The bull below, once sensual and steady, had had enough of my gratuitous pandering; the time was nigh to shake our shit up.
Hold on tight, McNasty.
Fast forward ten(ish) years and the mechanical beast of my mind is slightly more dressed up, sticky from $11 bottles of French rosé, and 100% back on her bullshit. Douchey frat bros grew into slimy politicians that are still smug, still laughing, and still pointing as the world spins out of control. It’s the metaphor that just doesn’t quit, y’all. Lanky flailings of my youth in a trashy country bar seem unimportant in the midst of a global pandemic and necessary civil uprisings (#FUCKTHEPOLICE) — but quarantine has given me ample time to over-analyze the strengths and faults of the raging bull within.
Since the onset of Q, I’ve neurotically read thousands of news articles, celebrated a socially distanced 30th birthday, and experienced more of my partner’s face than ever before. Getting laid off 24 hours before the stay-at-home order took effect laid early blueprints for the shaky, dare I say, UNPRECEDENTED days ahead.
In the beginning, I filled my newfound free time with salty cheese crackers and hours-long masturbation sessions (only once at the same time). I made it through three seasons of Married at First Sight and four boxes of wine, respectively. I gave myself full permission to lean into the laziness. Once an unfavorable trait, my laziness was now saving motherfucking lives. And all I had to do was sit my Taurus ass on the couch for ever and ever amen.
This was my quaran-time to shine.
As the indentation of my butt cheeks on the couch cushions grew more prominent, so did my longing for stability. Exes started popping into dreams which invariably led to unhealthy Instagram stalking and feeling bad about myself (just resist, y’all). I was reaching for anything and everything that could potentially tether my sense of reality, of what once was.
Of course, these relationships ended for good reason, but when shit’s spiraling — that dude with the monster cock who strung you along for the better part of a year when you were 19 gets a pass through rose-colored glasses and too many glasses of rosé. This cowgirl was grinding back and forth on nostalgia porn, a tricky little bitch that can envelope every inch of you if you’re not careful.
Now four months into quarantine and the lazy days of yore have slowly been replaced by uncomfortable conversations with myself and a breaking down of why I’m so resistant to change. Could be fear, could be getting older, could definitely be a little bit of laziness. It shouldn’t take a world crisis to shake out of my lack-luster routine and finally set boundaries, but a collective rage for change has finally been ignited. I’m hopeful that things won’t go back to slow and steady, at least not for now, but you can bet your ass that this Taurus ass will get off the couch and flail forward.
And I might even feel SEXY AF while doing it.
