Chelsia Durkee, copywriter & creative

Ever since the epic–aka soul-crushing Breakup of 2022–I’ve been on a personal development kick. You could say that I’ve been in this era for as long as I can remember. You thought this story was going to be about self-love, finding myself, and drinking an inordinate amount of green smoothies, right? Well, we’ll get there, but first let me paint the picture of my latest social engagement. 

Let’s rewind to Friday, May 26, 2023. I’m feeling self-conscious as I nervously fidget my canary yellow sweater. I feel like I’ve been transported back to 2nd grade circle time, minus the music and dancing. I waved at my new friend Sabina, who I met a few weeks ago at a creative writing group. She’s into public policy and poetry, and positivity spills out of her pores as she tells me, “Come to the roundtable discussion group! We each go around and talk about something we’ve read or something we’ve listened to.” Since I have nothing else going on this Friday night, I agree, arming myself with mantras like, “Yes, I can talk to people.” 

That’s why I find myself sitting at Cafe Strada, sipping lattes across from UC Berkeley. I joined the discussion just as I heard the words “polarization of politics” and felt my heart thumping as everyone looked up from the intense conversation. 

“Did you prepare something?” the organizer asked me, peering through her wind-swept bob and horn-rimmed glasses. “Yes!” I replied, feeling like a sheepish schoolgirl being asked to recite her homework. “I’m reading The Therapist, a twisty murder mystery about a woman who gets trapped into a toxic relationship.” I apparently missed the irony of the parallels from my own life.

As I explained the synopsis from the book, the organizer let me know that I still have 5 minutes remaining. I briefly mentioned a podcast episode on the importance of social connection. A man probably in his mid-30s, dressed in the San Francisco uniform of a graphic t-shirt and Northface vest, interrupted me. “I’m only here because I didn’t want to be on Clubhouse.” 

The conversion then veered into the various amorphous hipster men debating about the merits of social media. Clubhouse took the liberty of letting us know he keeps getting recruited by the FBI. Is that an accomplishment, I wondered, and does it make it more of an accomplishment if others know about it? Strike 1 and 2 against the first tech bro poser. 

A few people talked about social justice. After all, this is the bay area. How could we talk about books without mentioning that social construction and capitalism is at the root of all personal and professional failures? 

And then there was Fake Woke, adorned in an open blue plaid shirt. Similar to the other participants, he sported large hipster chic glasses. I expected him to continue our dialogue on poverty and the future of this country. Instead, he eagerly said, “I’ve come prepared. I read a book called What is Sex?”  He elaborated, “What is Sex? is a great philosophy book, and you basically need a PhD to understand it. “You don’t need to have sex to experience pleasure.” He paused and nodded authoritatively so we could soak up this revelation. “So are you saying everything is sexual?” amorphous curly-haired man asked. “Or maybe nothing is sexual!” someone else quipped.

As Fake Woke continued to articulate how smoking a cigar is akin to Freudian psychoanalysis, I noticed a spotlight from one of the outdoor lamps shined on a particular spot on his receding hairline. My gaze remained involuntarily transfixed on his glistening forehead, now blinding me into a mild stupor. Booming omnipotent voices entered my head. Three women wearing fluffy pink robes and hair curlers sang in unison, waving their hands to the beat of a rhythmic drum and soulful saxophone. Their jazz hands revealed perfectly sharp red nails. As they shimmed their hips, the choir ushered “Only in the Bay Area. Only in the Bay Area.” 

“So what is the point of this?” one of the pseudo social activists asked, looking irritated and awakening me from my mild stupor. “So what if everything is sexual? How will that help us?” 

As I gathered my belongings and left the group with Sabina, I suddenly remembered how I felt safer during the pandemic, when the Fake Wokes had to keep up their public image of being dutiful, obliging citizens. 

Since the Breakup, I had been putting myself out there. I started participating in virtual and in-person writing groups, and was enjoying developing my voice. Though you could just call the cringy book report a social dud, it represented something larger than that to me. That I can keep putting myself out there, even with anxiety. That I can say yes to things that feel good.

And most importantly, that I can say no–or a big fat hell no–to things that drain my time, energy, or peace of mind. 

Fake Woke said pleasure isn’t necessarily sexual. Well, consent isn’t always about sex. Consent is about saying yes to things that make you scream a full-bodied “Fuck yes.” A full-bodied, orgasmic inducing yes. That means being in touch with my body, and my own internal compass. 

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been looking to others to validate if I’m okay. Should I go here? Should I wear this? Should I try this? But when I inevitably don’t get the response from others that I want, I get discouraged and start questioning my own intuition. 

But who says other imperfect human beings know what’s best for me? Hell, most people don’t even know what’s best for themselves. 

Maybe Fake Woke did teach me something after all. No, I won’t give him that much credit.

Today, I’m reclaiming my time. And stay away from guys who wear too much plaid.