This morning, as you’re lying next to me, you look at me with those big, beautiful, blue eyes and ask, “Do you fantasize about me?”

And I’m dumbstruck. I don’t know what to say. Because I don’t.

I cherish this moment—feeling the warmth and softness of your naked body next to mine. The sensations are incredible. I feel alive, and I hope you do too. Your flushed cheeks indicate you do.

And the memories of what we did last night… and again, twice, this morning are as fresh as the morning dew.

I enjoy you immensely. You are lovely. You know how bodies were designed to slide together. You understand pleasure—and how to deliver (and receive) it.

Yet, fantasize? No. There’s nothing there.

Wait. That’s not exactly true. Plenty of my fantasies are truly a vast void. But there is one. There is one girl I fantasize about.

An incredible, tall, brown-eyed beauty. She’s the one I imagine walking hand-in-hand along the beach with. And curled up next to me in bed in the Marriott in Chicago. And exploring Ibiza. And sharing a bottle of wine with at an outdoor café in Bucharest.

Her. Not you.

Do I fantasize about you?

No, I don’t. And I don’t know how to answer your question. Without a lie. You don’t deserve a lie. Yet, you don’t deserve to be hurt either.

This morning, my friends did something that shined a headlight right in my face—and revealed (yet) another struggle I face in my journey.

I awoke to a barrage of unsolicited calls and texts telling me about cars available in the area, and they’d love to show them to me. At first, I was terrified… dozens of car dealers have my number. And my name. And my travel patterns… where I live, and where I primarily visit. Like, where did the algorithm break down? Facebook is deactivated, Instagram and Snap both have a Google Voice number. Has my phone been listening when I tell people about my car surpassing 318,000 miles (which happened yesterday)? Talk about a head scratcher…

Suddenly, I’ve lost control of my phone number. And I don’t like it.

Academically, I understand EASE. Apparently, practice is another story. This reveal began last month at the conference, but now I see I need to dig deeper. This thing has roots. I am addicted to control. And somewhere along the way I developed an aversion to notifications—I detest them.

Today, I finally asked myself, “Why?” And that there is a lesson here:

1. Have I really become so humorless? After all, it is pretty funny—and I do profess to embrace chaos… but…
   
   
2. Seventeen years ago TODAY (uncanny, isn’t it?) I got this cell phone number. And never have I ever entered this phone number on the internet, or mail order, or on a form. Nothing. Clearly, a control issue. And, to be honest, I’ve always had a sense of satisfaction being a ghost.
   
   
3. The practical joke reminded me of a song—some of you may be familiar—“Sweet Surrender” by Bread. It’s a beautiful song, and every time I hear it, I long to feel like that. But, I don’t. know. how to. let. go. For whatever reason, I never have. Even in my youth, or while drinking or partying. I’ll pass out/fall asleep before I’ll release control. There’s no ease—no chaos—in my life. Or, at least, that seems to be my modus operandi.
   
   

The timing is serendipitous. Maybe it’s not too late to learn to surrender. Maybe this is why I’m called to this journey. Suddenly, I recall the surrender in every delightful interaction I witness. Suddenly, I realize… I really do have good friends. Suddenly, I realize (at least part of) the reason I am missing out.

What i'm listening to:

Sweet Surrender
Bread
Guitar Man