THE TORNADO SHELTER WITH BENEFITS

I was offered a tornado shelter with benefits.

By a man I’d known for FOUR DAYS.

Apparently Oklahoma has expanded its tourism offerings.

Holy fuck.

Let me back up.

I’ve discovered a wonderful way to cut through the bullshit of online dating. Ask a man if he believes in reincarnation.

That’s it. One question. Because reincarnation is fundamental to my understanding of existence, and the answer tells me pretty quickly whether we’re likely to resonate.

Not whether he’s right or wrong. Whether we resonate.

I asked this fellow. He wanted to know whether I liked to cuddle.

Well, sure. But could we determine whether our souls are even in the same fucking universe before we start arranging our limbs?

Eventually, he said he didn’t believe in reincarnation. Fine. I’d already experienced a relationship in which the Bible was the final word, while I kept asking, “But what else?” We could circle the same subject and somehow finish four inches apart.

I wasn’t signing up for the sequel.

Then came the Pepsi puzzle.

Three hundred pieces. Put them in a box. Shake. No completed puzzle. Try a bigger box. Still no puzzle.

Therefore, he explained, there must be a God outside the box who put everything together.

Well, no shit. I wasn’t arguing that God didn’t exist.

I was asking why God had to be OUTSIDE the fucking box.

I believe we’re all fractals of God. That the divine isn’t separate from us. He was explaining the existence of a creator, and I was questioning the separation between creator and creation.

Same vocabulary. Different fucking conversations.

I thanked him, explained that our fundamental beliefs didn’t resonate, and wished him well.

Then I headed west with six paintings and a road trip to enjoy. I posted on Facebook about the next scene in my movie.

He commented, “And… Action!”

Cute. Sort of.

We weren’t even Facebook friends. He’d found my public page through my book, which was fine. But I knew my route passed near where he lived, and I remember thinking, Oh, fuck. Please don’t get any ideas.

He got ideas.

He invited me to his house on the way back. Address. Phone number. A tiny detour. And, should the weather turn nasty, a storm shelter.

A STORM SHELTER.

With benefits.

I was taking paintings to New Mexico, not auditioning for the romantic remake of The Wizard of Oz.

Then I finally opened Facebook and found him commenting on my public posts. One was about the mirror behind the mirror—how another person’s behavior can reveal a limiting belief in ourselves that has nothing to do with their actual behavior.

He thought I meant physical mirrors. I explained.

He informed me that what he said seemed to trigger me. He wasn’t sure why.

NOT SURE WHY?

Buddy, I told you I wasn’t interested in pursuing a relationship. Now you’re on my public page discussing our private conversations and analyzing my emotional state in front of my readers.

Of course I was fucking triggered.

Then he suggested he might be toxic to me and told me I could unfriend him.

WE WEREN’T EVEN FRIENDS.

Blocked.

End of story.

Except…no.

The next morning I became obsessed with finding the exact message where I’d told him we weren’t compatible. I recruited my AI companion.

“Dig, D! Keep looking! I KNOW it’s there!”

We found drafts, fragments, replies. Everything except the fucking message. And I kept pushing.

Why?

Because I wanted proof I’d said no clearly enough. If I couldn’t prove that, maybe I was responsible for how he interpreted it.

Oh.

OH.

HOLY FUCK.

The mirror behind the mirror.

His behavior was his. My discomfort was real. But my frantic need to produce evidence? That was mine to explore.

I’d handed the authority to trust my own knowing over to a missing text message.

And the day before, I’d had this enormous realization that I didn’t need anyone else’s confirmation of what I already knew.

Apparently enlightenment comes with a fucking remedial course.

Maybe embodiment isn’t about never revisiting an old belief. Maybe it’s recognizing it sooner each time, until one day I don’t need to assemble a 300-piece legal defense just to say, “No, thank you.”

I never found the message.

But I found the lesson.

And no, I won’t be stopping at the tornado shelter.

I’ve got my own chariot.

Holy fuck…what else is possible?