The last time I moved back home with my parents (third time’s the charm!), my dad insisted that I write up a tenant’s contract, which we would all review, revise, and sign before nary a box crossed the threshold.

This was not mean-spirited, nor particularly unusual in our family. He’s always been a “get it in writing” kind of guy; proposing daddy-daughter nights in middle school via Outlook appointments (yes, my dad invited me to Chinese and the movies via email; and yes, I was using Outlook, albeit forcibly then, in middle school). Then, when it came time to discuss exactly how I was to plan going about procuring a vehicle, most of my friends’ parents were solidly in one of three camps: Camp “um, you save money and buy one, bratface! Nothing in life is free, uphill both ways, snow, *more loud noises*”; Camp “we’ll decide which of us most wants/needs a vehicle upgrade when the time comes, you’ll get the old one, and you’ll like it, how was practice, and where’s your sister?”; or Camp “don’t you worry your little coif about it, princess, daddy will make sure you have a vehicle in keeping with the image of ease and opulence we’ve so carefully cultivated for you and ourselves, now scurry along – and don’t forget to suck in!”

Yet again, I was in a camp of my own. While grateful I was expected to tend to my health and grades, and not asked to get a paying job to save for a car in addition, I also knew pretty instinctually I wouldn’t be trading gripes about sound systems with Princess-Barbie-Corvette-Just-Because campers, either, just as a matter of principle.

Correct on both counts: I had to write a proposal as to how I thought I should go about earning a car, then present it to my parents over dinner via PowerPoint deck. A few rounds of negotiations and revisions ensued, signatures were granted by all. In the end, the age, the degree of luxury, and the say I had in the final selection were all tied, accordingly, to an algorithm that accounted for my GPA, compliance with my health needs, overall attitude, and service efforts. This all took place either the summer or early fall of my freshman year of high school, so I had two years of knowing what to expect, and a fairly large degree of agency in determining my own fate (within my parents’ macro guidelines, i.e., nothing new, because why, for anyone, ever?; no convertible, because *death trap*, and nothing with more than 6 cylinders, because I may be liberal to the point of genuinely confounding 68% of my blood relatives, but lord help me if a very loud, low engine throttle doesn’t make me stand up a little straighter and squeal a little on the inside. In other words, because *death trap again*.)

So I almost forgot that it wasn’t just “Tuesday” for most people, when I had to draft a rental agreement before moving back home; what surprised people the most, it seemed, was that not only was I not insulted, I wanted one, too. And take a minute and hit the google machine, folks – in virtually every article addressing “boomerang kids”, there is some mention of a contract or agreement advised, or at the very least, a frank conversation on the front end about everyone’s goals and expectations (see here, here, and here). So our agreement includes:

• Monthly Rent – not even a meaningful sliver of market value, per se, but enough that I feel some sense of tenancy (I can put a nail in the wall without quivering, “daaaaddyyy?” but I still can’t, like, PAINT without asking); and that they don’t feel taken advantage of. This “rent” also includes utilities, “your stupid mutt is back and crapping in our yard” penance, and copious paper product supplies from Costco (and also sometimes ahi tuna and/or massive boxes of hippie crackers about which my landlords have changed their fickle, faux-paleo, palate-minds). I’m weird about light bulbs though, so I pay for those. (Again, Father GOPlant-a-tree likes the swirly fluorescent ones. They give off freaky light for pictures and make my head hurt. I put my boots on for this carbon footprint.)
• Noise and Visiting Hours – If I’m going to be having people over and their cars might block anyone in, and/or it’s going to be loud after 11pm, I’ve got to give them eesh, I have to check, either 24 or 48 hours notice, when possible. Embarrassingly enough, more frequently, they also have to do the same for me.
• Basic human “ballpark ETA so I can know when to worry that you’re dead in a ditch” information: Again, goes both ways – I don’t have a curfew by any stretch, but as I would anyone else I live with for their sanity and my safety, I try to give them a ballpark idea of when – or if -  I’ll be back if it’s going to be a particularly late night. Or if it wasn’t, and evolves in to one. I sincerely ask the same of them, since if I’m expecting them at 11 and it’s 12:30 and they’re still not home, I’m pretty much convinced they’re both in an ER and/or morgue somewhere and begin texting frenetically, until Early-Morning Eyebags McGee comes plodding in behind a tetteringly skippy Giddy McSparklepants Babysurpriseface, one kindly-but-groggily wishing me goodnight as he-or-she plodshuffles off to bed; and the other regaling me with stories of his-or-her evening as if it’s the middle of the afternoon – stories that I will most surely hear, in their entirety with nearly identical inflection, again the next day. I’ll leave you to assign roles here. (And for the record, kidding aside, I adore that my parents have great friends, and actual lives that still include unchaperoned nocturnal socialization; I also adore that these particularly late nights and ahem, relaxed days that follow are not so frequent that I suspect mid-life crises for either. I’m pretty sure they feel similarly re: my quarterly-if-that channeling of Ke$ha).
• “NAKED!” and other things you don’t want to scream at your Dad – To avoid either of us walking in on situations we’d rather not, whether that be scrambling eggs in ones’ underwear (I’m not sure what I want to wear yet, OK?) or interrupting naps, all of us have to make a due-diligence effort to contact the other floor before ascending/descending – usually via text – unless of course it’s an emergency (I need help, so I go upstairs; they hear things indicating I need help but I haven’t contacted them, they can come down and check. Usually I’ve just injured myself in a way that has angered or startled me more than actually caused pain, and therefore reacted appropriately, aka screaming epithets). This took some getting used to for both of us, but Dad learned his lesson the hard way one time when he came be-bopping down the stairs to ask me a question just about the time I came be-bopping out of my room to grab the bra I left in the living room. Nobody was scarred for life, but it was a close call.
• Tenant’s Meals – I was flattered, but both parents insisted that I cook dinner for them twice a month, seriously-just-because-they-like-my-food. I then realized it was a pretty covert way to come spy and make sure I wasn’t hoarding puppies, or trash, and vacuuming ever, but everybody’s pretty confident in my general “gee whiz! She may still eat fruit snacks but by god she’s a grownup!”-ness in that department, so now it really actually is about the food. And it really does happen, health and travel schedules permitting, twice a month. Except that per a few revisions after a particularly foodietastic trip this summer (I miss you too, Whisknladle, be back soon!) the stakes are higher than stir-fries and roasted chickens, and they now pay me to do this, rather than it offsetting part of my tenancy. Still, the name stuck, and it works – as a recurring “event” on my google calendar. (See? the platform changes, but the familial scheduling concept remains). PS – This week’s iteration was particularly easy AND delicious, and will be headed to a browser screen near you later this weekend.

See? It isn’t just about a long list of what I can and can’t do because mommy-and-daddy-say-so-and-it’s-their-house-and-as-long-as-I’m-under-their-roof… it’s also about what they can and can’t do because yes-I’m-under-your-roof-but-for-the-love-of-cheese-I’m-not-16. At least in my case, it wasn’t – and isn’t – about shaming me into getting off my ass and supporting myself already for pete’s sake!, or the old, “making it comfortable but not *too* comfortable lest I stay for posterity” bit – seeing as how I insisted on riding the bus to the first day of kindergarten because duh, that’s the whole point of big kid school; just from a basic, innate, ego-and-independence standpoint, they knew they didn’t have to worry much about that one. Rather, it’s about recognizing that times ain’t what they used to be, and it’s kind of silly (and, cue Republican GreenPeace Dad, “a waste of resources, even if the finances worked out for you”) to be heating, cooling, lighting and soundtracking an entirely separate residence just in the name of proving my independence (to whom, by the way?) according to a certain schema of social norms.

So am I a relatively ambitious twenty-six year-old living with her parents? Yes. Is this what I imagined my life would look like when I was eight, or twelve, or eighteen (or twenty-four…)? Hardly. But am I miserable? No. Moreover, am I apologetic or ashamed? Also, NO. It’s not my natural response, unfortunately, but all in all, I’ve come around pretty heartily to a “bloom where you’re planted” sort of paradigm, both literally (i.e., Mapdot, NC would not be my soil of choice otherwise) and figuratively – no matter what the situation, you can always control, at the very least, your reaction to it. And oddly enough? Leaning in to the fact that this is likely not a super-temporary-just-until-I-totally-get-better-again-because-I’ll-totally-get-better-again-and-then-I’ll-rule-the-world-for-a-living-and-plan-events-and-decorate-houses-on-weekends-no-I-haven’t-had-much-caffiene-why-do-you-ask?! situation, and putting down a few roots – decorating the space with a touch more permanence, for example, or actually planning and inviting people over – has given me a confidence, peace, and positivity I never had when I was walking around in a metaphorical “Ask Me To Explain How I’m Not A Loser Living With My Parents” sandwich board.

All that said, however, I feel the need to own a few caveats here. I know there are a handful of things that are relatively unique about my situation, that make it both literally and psychically easier on everyone involved.

First, and most obviously, the health stuff. Current economy be damned, I’m still pretty confident that I would at least have the option, financially and otherwise, of living elsewhere (even if that meant roommates) if it weren’t for *my particular disease pathology*. I say that not to make excuses, and I say it that way to clarify that CF does not necessarily look like this for everyone, even for folks technically “sicker” than I am. For me, the disease symptoms themselves are not what keep me from pursuing a traditional career path; I had many days at the law firm where I was discretely spitting blood into tissues while organizing case binders, or “running out for coffee” so I could run out to a much more public restroom. For me, and many bazillion other adults with CF, that part is so normal that it’s easy to forget it’s not.

The hindrance in my case is that instead of a slow plod of progression, I tend to get REALLY sick, REALLY quickly, but then rebound (knock on wood) to my original pre-setback baseline. What that means, though, is for a few weeks, I’m THE BEST EMPLOYEE EVER, 110% ALL DAY EVERY DAY!…until I have to randomly call in sick after seeming mostly fine a few days ago, and oh by the way? I’m headed in-house, so I’ll be MIA for at least 3 weeks. Catch you on the flip side, and send me anything I can help with between naps, procedures, force-feeds and treatments? So actual character aside, I’m just not particularly reliable in jobs where my physical presence matters, and increasingly, in those with hard-and-fast deadlines, period (even with a laptop and good wi-fi, there’s only so much work a girl can do in the hospital if you’re on meds that mess with your thinky parts, or that render you so drowsy you have to be woken up mid-bite and reminded to, you know, chew.) So yes, while I don’t think my parents would be passive-aggressive haters otherwise, I think the role my illness has played in shaping my adolescence/early twenties does contribute to the fact that there’s not more of the underlying “what are you doing with your life?! Where did I go wrong?!” tension that I hear bubbles up for other, healthier boomerangs. Also, even with the CF stuff, I beat myself up enough that if I was in this boat healthy, I think they’d be more concerned about coaxing me out of the corner I’d been rocking in, singing “soft kitty, warm kitty” for 96 straight hours, than lambasting me for my failures as a human being.

Furthermore, as I learned the just-hard-enough way in grad school, it’s really not particularly safe for me to live straight up, 100% alone. Thankfully, I had amazing friends who were neither scared nor bothered when called at midnight (they were up, at least, we all were) … but to um, maybe, do you mind swinging by and dropping me off at the ER? (No, stupid, I’m not dropping you off at the ER, I’ll just bring my laptop and books and finish the papers I have due tomorrow while I wait with you. …um, Jess, I love you, but since they gave you that medicine you haven’t stopped talking in 97 minutes and this paper is due in 38 more of them. What was that thing your mom said? sleepy ears or something?) However, a few calls too close then, and an episode once I’d been back home a while that, had I NOT had anyone around, would have likely had a very different and very ugly ending, has led me to the conclusion that so long as relationships and resources allow it (they don’t for everyone in my position, I know), it really is best I live with/(ish) other people. And because I’m an only child not used to sharing stuff, and because I’m a prideful person who would feel like I needed to pay a roommate some sort of cripple-sitting fee for that aspect of co-habiting to keep from feeling gross and indebted, but my parents CHOSE to have me! and KEEP me! and therefore I don’t feel (as) gross about it, it just works out that they’re the ones holding that particular short straw until someone else decides my delicious fare, penchant for home décor and endless witty banter outweigh my perpetual grossness, fear of frogs and penchant for clogging up the DVR with trashy teevee, and put a ring (and health insurance) on it.

Then there’s the other stuff that just makes it easier. Namely, that I have no siblings; I actually like and get along with the middle-aged humans who happen to be my parents; and thatI don’t have a bedroom, I have a bunkerpartment. I thinks it’s pretty clear already that I’ve got a fairly communicative, fun, mutually-respectful relationship with both of my parents. I know not everybody has that, and I know that not everybody can have that, even if all parties involved want it to be so. So I’ve got nothing, there, except a big fat cosmic THANKS.

But seriously? The no-siblings thing is HUGE. I don’t have little brothers and sisters in high school, wondering why IIIIII get to stay out as late as I want (because I’m a shamed twenty-something for whom a life without curfew is one of the only traits substantively distinguishing me from you, so shut up and do your homework) or for whom I have to watch my language or set a good example – when I stub my toe on the doorframe and scream MOTHERF—ER (the missing letters are “r, a, and m” for those of you playing hangman. Ohhh, those framers…) I get little more than a “Jess? You OK?” down the stairs. I hear this is not the case if you have an eleven-year-old housemate. I also don’t have toys, and games, and anybody else’s childish crap lying around and generally rubbing it in my face that I’m still living with my nuclear familial unit instead of a fancy, urbane, downtown apartment with floor-to-ceiling windows and exposed brick walls and/or industrial stainless appliances; or sharing and renovating a precious mid-century craftsman bungalow with 3 of my bestest DIY girlfriends. (Yes, I watch too much TV read too much internet; this has already been established).

I also don’t have OLDER (or oh dear god, younger) siblings out of the house and looking down their “I got a degree that would actually get me a job, you ‘passion-chasing’ asshat” noses at me, again, like horror stories I’ve heard from others. And, I don’t have to split my parents’ allocated “failed adult child fund” resources and emotional energy with anybody else, either.

But most importantly, my actual living space situation is pretty unusual, in the grandest of ways. First of all, my parents don’t live in the house I grew up in, and haven’t been since my freshman year of college, so even when I was “just” in a bedroom (Boomerang 1.0 and 2.0, respectively), it wasn’t like I had memories of getting ready for prom in that bathroom, or doing homework at that desk. I think that helped a lot. But when they built this house, they pretty much planned on it being the last, ever, and so they built a basement with the idea that either of their parents (or me, I now know, but they didn’t want to pee on my I CAN DO ANYTHING! BEAT THE ODDS! Rainbow back then) could move in if need be and still afford my parents their privacy and sanity, as well as the tenant-de-decade.

So that’s where I live. Not in a bedroom, but in a 2-bedroom, 2-bathroom, full-kitchen, living room with fireplace, patio with carport walkout basement apartment. Due to my mom’s distaste for the phrase “lives in the basement”, and the fact that it’s situated so deep in the earth (sideways, I mean) that I’m on a self-imposed challenge to go all winter using only the fireplace and without turning on the heat, rendering a rather “bunker”-like quality, my not-so little space has taken on the affectionate title of the “Bunkerpartment”.

So when I’m squirrelly about saying “I live with my parents”, it’s not out of shame, it’s more out of respect for my boomerang compatriots dealing with disappointed parents, bratty siblings, and My Little Pony wallpaper. But I’m also trying to convey that when I invite you over for dinner, or game night, or whatever, mad respect, compatriots – it’s really not the same AT ALL as inviting you over if I DID live obliged to a chore wheel on the fridge, in a twin bed down the hall from my parents. In fact, you probably won’t even meet them until and unless I want you to. We share an address, a hot water heater, and a Costco membership – and not much else. So seriously, come on over.

Unless it’s Tenant’s Meal night. Then my dad might cut you. Or at least make you chip in on the bill.

Apparently, I confuse people.

More specifically, I confuse people who presume I have a long and storied romantic history – I do not; or people who previously thought that I was all hardcore, bitch-on-wheels, single-by-choice-and-for-a-reason-RARGH! – I am not.

The older I get, the more people ask about this. And upon discovering that I’m in the camp of mid-late twenty-something laydee persons who generally find BOGO restaurant coupons useless; and that no, I’m not just getting out of a relationship, I’ve actually been this way for quite a while and – wait for it - still managed to remain largely happy and fulfilled; and no, I’m not a lesbian; and no, I don’t have Daddy Issues…

It confuses people.

And I get it, kind of.

I’m hardly model/singer/actress/LA trifecta – or probably even reality TV – gorgeous. I’m also perfectly OK with that, and not in a, “le sigh, I’ve made peace with it” way; in a “I Can Math! … and um? almost nobody is that pretty, period, and even the ones who are naturally still work really hard to stay that way? and I don’t want to to work that hard at that? so… why am I supposed to be sad again?” way. (Are you annoyed already? That you’re actually hearing? A really annoying voice? That makes statements in the form of a question? When you’re just reading words on a page? You’re welcome. Just be grateful I cannot yet visually impart vocal fry; guilty. as. charged.)

However, I’m not so explicitly, strikingly ugly that I catch your eye and pity;  I’m not so great at (or comfortable with) that reductionist “scale of 1-10” thing, but I can confidently say that on the bell curve of human attractiveness (with exceptionally long tails on both sides) I’m comfortably on the right-hand side.

I’m also at least one standard deviation to the right from center on the intellectual capabilities scale (again, remembering that the “I CAN TYPING” guy is creeping pretty close to the center, as he can read…ish, and type…ish); I’m funny enough; I’m even wifey-domestic enough that I’ve actually been a little self-conscious about it, as if Naomi Wolf is going to swipe my feminist card and tear it to a bajillion bits if she finds out that I like to cook and host and decorate and organize things.

Word on the street is that I’m funny enough.

I may have in another life, and I still might yet, but I don’t have a big-time, hardcore, 100-hr/week, climbing-the-ladder and married-to-the-job career that is another last resort explanation when people encounter my kind in the wild. And while I have a very large, intense, and occasionally ball-busty personality – which I understand is more than enough explanation for people who think “obey” still belongs in wedding vows, and “submit” is more than a button in an online shopping cart – there are, unfortunately for our little investigation here, many, many, many other happily hitched women next to whom I’d look demure. I only bust balls figuratively, you guys. And apparently, my small in stature and high in vocal register makes my doing so considerably more palatable, and even somewhat amusing – provided your testicles are not the ones squarely centered under my proverbial mallet.

In short, there’s no easy, “Oooooohhh, OOhhhh-kay” answer – outside looking in – as to why I’m not just chronically ill, I’m chronically single. Even the CF thing doesn’t explain it; more of my CF friends – rockstars of humanity and normal folks like me alike – are coupled up or married than not, and most at least have a pretty “normal”, ebb-and-flowing dating history, all things considered.

According to a long list of varyingly reasonable social norms and cultural standards, I “should” have such a history, such a partnership, too. And I don’t.

I’m not upset about it, or even particularly preoccupied, but given the common impulse to reflect, and assess, and plan, at the turn of a new year, I had been thinking a lot about how if I do want to choose to spend my life with another person (because it is a choice, and I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the decision to not to do so, or the people who make it), then I probably need to start paying a little more attention to that choice, and giving it the intentionality and work it needs and deserves, like anything else I want for myself.

Full disclosure – deciding to adopt a puppy was considerably more straightforward.

And in so doing (reflecting, not adopting) – I’ve zeroed in on the two things I’m pretty sure is the answer to the befuddlement I often encounter.

Vulnerability and strength.

Painfully inept in one, and discomfitingly over-equipped in the other.

I will share, share, share, all day long. I’ll tell you stories; I’ll even seem and sound like I’m really going deep, and laying it out on the line. But if you know me well enough to contemplate taking my dad up on his offer of 50k and 3 cows, you’ll know me well enough to know that a lot of the “deep” stuff I offer up is pretty low-hanging fruit.

I don’t fail well. I don’t accept help well.

I don’t fear well. I don’t share my pain well.

I don’t risk my heart well.

I don’t trust well.

As with every painful admission, however, I can explain! And while still a bit navel-gazey, by definition, I swear my explanation goes beyond “So in high school? there was this guuyyy, right? and…” Heh, because there was no guy, I swear, not even then. LOTS of guy friends – great guy friends I adored and am thrilled for in their lives now. But no BoyFran.(Doo, dee, dooo doo….cue Wild Wild West saloon doors, blowing tumbleweeds, sepia tones).

It’s not this guy, this time…it’s this disease, all the time.  Not the grossness, even though it is exceptionally gross, and in just about only and every way that girls specifically would rather not be involuntarily gross. Not the bait and switch, in which I look and sound like the boisterous, thinky, normal-looking girl your friend knew in high school, who then SURPRISE! is involuntarily gross, rather than the boisterous, thinky girl who wears a brace, or wheels rather than walks up to the bar. Not the chess clock ticking in the background, just loudly enough, though there’s that too. Those are all there, and they’re all factors, but they’re factors I find reasonable, and logical, and in the same pile as “so he likes blondes” and “so he doesn’t vote” as just neutral reasons that two individuals in a very large given population aren’t particularly compatible. Happy trails, and read a paper now and then.

You want to know the kicker? Lean in, come closer…

It’s the fact that that vulnerability I so desperately need to nurture and cultivate as a woman, and a partner, and a person, seems diabolically opposed to the stoicism I have so carefully cultivated and that has served me so well as a patient, and I don’t know how to – or if I even should? – learn to flip a switch between the two.

Figure THAT one out over a mere cocktail and pretzel, Watson.

Because, as we’ve learned today, I don’t do vulnerability, but I DO do words, I have here a little metaphor. A fable. An allegory, if you will.

Here’s the thing. I feel like a zoo animal. (Hang with me here). Not a freaky one, like those birds that pump their necks all weird when they walk, or a gross one, like those (awesome) little monkeys that have to stay enclosed behind glass instead of just a fence because they fling their poop at each other.

No, one of the “feature” zoo animals. The ones they print on posters, and advertise in commercials, and when the price of business takes an unexpected hike, charge people extra to see up close once they’re already in the park.

Let’s say, a Bengal Tiger.

Everybody LOVES to come and stare at, and admire, the Bengal Tiger. They have whole side conversations about how strong she is; how if you think about it, it’s really a feat of nature they way she’s survived this long. They speak in hushed, revered voices – or they squeal with delight. “Look at her play! She’s so fun to watch!”

But as much as people admire the tiger, go out of their way to come look at the tiger, on balance, they’re terrified of her. Watching her play her tiger games, and live her tiger life, and do the big-strong-tiger-feats-of-strength things she does, and that to her are called “Tuesday”, is a completely different appreciation for the tiger than the really rare few who stand there and think, “You know? I really wish I knew what it was like to actually interact with that tiger.”

And understandably. Very few people want to jump that fence, especially if it means interacting with the tiger on her terms, not theirs – which, in regards to her tiger-ness, literally by nature of her tiger-ness, it has to be. Compared to the much more commonly available, culturally accepted and easy to understand kitten, learning to play with a tiger is hard work. And it’s dangerous. She can’t help it, and you know that, but it doesn’t change the fact that you’re A LOT more likely to get hurt – and hurt badly – playing the exact same innocent games – fetch, and life, and love, and risk, – as you would with a kitten. And even the elements within her control – the “trainability” if you will – takes a lot more effort to get to a place where you can just hop the fence every day and everybody feels safe and has a good time.

In a way, the tiger gets it. You can tell by the way she comes up to the windows carefully and deliberately; by the way her whole body caves inward with retreat when she exuberantly bounds up to the glass and make someone scared instead of happy. It’s not that she wants to require so much effort – god, what she’d give to be one of those small, stupid, easily pacified meerkats everybody loves, over in the Safari exhibit – they don’t even get how simple their little meerkat lives are! - but that’s not how the cookie crumbled. She’s the big, strong, high-maintenance, exciting, and complicated Tiger, and most people simply aren’t going to want to jump the fence.

Sometimes, the tiger feels guilty *for her very tigery-ness* – as she sees that the poor people who have chosen to train as her handlers (and without whom the throngs of admirers would either have no Tiger to ogle, or who would have been mauled long ago), are now almost as misunderstood and “stuck behind the glass” as she is. The most confusing part is that the same people who keep coming to stare, wearing their Save the Tiger T-shirts and waving their zoo membership passes, not so quietly cluck their tongues, and mutter about how crazy the handlers are for actually getting that close to the tiger. “Don’t they get it? You can stand out here, safe and sound, and get all the same warm fuzzies without actually having to risk getting hurt in the process…they’re so strange, these ‘tiger people’.”

If you stand and watch long enough – not just to watch the tiger do her tricks, but to watch the people come and go – you’ll start to notice the tiger differently. Sometimes, she’ll sulk towards the back of the exhibit, even when the crowds come; once in a while, she’ll refuse to come out for a few busy, sunny days at a time. She isn’t proud of it, but she’s a little jaded, and a little resentful now. She’s tired. She doesn’t know how to balance being an inspiration and a worst nightmare all in one, and she doesn’t trust herself not to pounce, and show them what that much power, and that much strength, really can do, unchecked. When she does come out, between groups, you’ll see a weariness about her.

But in spite of it all, she still loves the people – and she knows that her handlers, whom she loves SO much, love the people even more, and need the people – so when they come around, she’ll rouse from her rest and come to the glass; she’ll be strong, and she’ll be playful, but she’ll do it from afar. She’s learned her lesson, and while it may be a little quiet and lonely sometimes, stalking at the back, it stings much worse to gently come to the glass and offer a paw, and in return, a confused and nervous gasp as the people scurry away – “Save The Bengal Tigers” written across their backs.

But you know what? Because she gets it, those few who do take the time? Who do the research, and move slowly and deliberately, but jump the fence, and hang in there through the accidental swipe of a claw, and keep coming back? The love, and loyalty, and intentionality for that handful of people is an intensity not found in many other exhibits. (Especially not those dumbassed meerkats, who will LUV U 4EVR if you toss them a compliment or a Coach bag grub or a lizard). Sometimes she can go a little overboard, and make her handlers a little uncomfortable, but it’s just because she wants them to know how much she gets it – that it’s work to love her – and really know that they know she appreciates it and loves them back. And most of the time, on the days they haven’t been pawed in the head or run out of steak, her handlers will tell you that living with her, loving her, it’s simply something you can’t understand until you’ve experienced it, but it’s purposeful, and intense, and exciting and adventurous and renewing in a way that – for the right kind of handler – the meerkats’ “watch me pop out of my hole! watch me wrestle! Aren’t I just so cute you can’t stand it?” gig kind of can’t compete with.

It’s Monday, folks. Roll up them sleeves, we’ve got work to do.

I’ll be on the road today, but in the meantime, here’s a friendly reminder that “We can cry about it, or we can dance about it.”

Who encourages you? And what’s gonna be your “Space Jam”?