Safe and Secure.

Last night, under a full moon in Capricorn, I kept waking up with fear.

Nothing was happening.

That was the stupid part.

I was in bed. I was under a roof. My husband was asleep beside me. The dogs were somewhere in the house, breathing their hot little dog breath into the dark. The moon was doing whatever moons do over women who are trying, God help us, to sleep.

And still, my brain was dragging furniture to the doors.

The kind of fear where I start thinking through all possible outcomes of my life. I start making contingency plans: if X happens, I will do Y. Worst case, best case. Mentally drafting Facebook Marketplace posts in the event I have to sell everything I own just to eat.

Not because that’s realistic. Because it is a fear I have, and my brain wants to solve it before it happens, like fear is a bill I could pay early.

Not that it probably even would happen.

But try telling that to the moon.

Recently, I listened to a podcast, and the researcher being interviewed said, “Safety and security are the two things women want most.”

It was an episode on the psychology of men’s and women’s drives and desires and needs. Fine. Okay. I’m listening.

But then the researcher continued, “Safety and security are relative, subjective, so the best advice for any woman is to choose to feel safe and secure.”

Excuse me, ma’am.

Mrs. Doctor Lady on a podcast.

What?

What do you mean just choose to feel safe and secure?

Like it’s a throw pillow? Like it’s an essential oil? Like I can just stand in my kitchen, snap my fingers twice, and announce to the cabinets, “Well, boys, we’ve done it. The nervous system is chill now.”

And I’m too lazy to quote quote quote quote some smart bitch, but it actually did make sense, which honestly pissed me off more.

Obviously, do your best to be safe, to be secure. Basic safety stuff like being alert in parking lots and sharing your location and not dating abusers. Basic security stuff like saving money and budgeting and whatnot.

But safety and security are relative.

Recently, my husband and I passed on a house because the neighbor had some aggressive dogs. We said no, no, no, this house is UNSAFE.

And I still think that was a fair thing to consider. I do. I am not trying to girlboss my way into a dog attack.

But I also think there are plenty of people who would be absolutely elated, relieved even, that just two dogs behind a fence were the biggest threat. At some point, someone should be shaking me and saying, “There are people dying, Caroline. There are bombs exploding in some neighborhoods.”

You’re right.

And still, my nervous system lives in its own country with its own war and it's own economy.

And security? My God. It’s not even that long ago that my current savings, bank account, assets, what have you, would have been unheard of in my own life. I remember a time when I received a $2,000 tax refund and felt fucking RICH.

And not in some flippant, hyperbolic way. I mean I really felt rich. So rich I went to the bars and bought drinks for everyone. Me. A benevolent queen in Forever 21 earrings, blessing the village with well vodka.

Me today, of course, thinks $2K would nice but doesn’t go THAT far—plus inflation will only get worse—all the more reason it should be saved. Saved, saved, saved, because I need to feel secure as a lil baby wrapped and swaddled in my dollar-bill blanky.

Which is funny until it isn’t.

Because that girl at the bar with her tax refund thought she had made it. And the woman in bed with more money than that still wakes up rehearsing disaster.

Yeah, I guess safety and security are subjective, and the best thing to do is just CHOOSE to be safe and secure. Like snap, snap, I’m now safe and secure, bitches. I don’t need to wake up worried or planning or thinking about what-ifs.

And what a cruel joke, that what women value most—safety, security—we honestly never REALLY get, because it’s subjective. Because there is no number in a bank account that can promise nothing bad will happen. No neighborhood so quiet. No husband sleeping so close. No moon so full it can fill the hole.

But don’t worry your pretty little head too much, because the guys have it rough too. They most crave productivity. Not just present productivity, but past and future productivity too. So theirs isn’t just subjective; it’s got a whole stupid time-contingency thing too.

God bless us, every one. The men are haunted by to-do lists. The women are haunted by the locked door.

So fine.

I choose it.

I choose safety. I choose security. I choose the roof over my head, the money in the bank, the dogs behind their fence, the husband asleep beside me, the moon hanging over the house like a silver coin nobody can spend.

I choose it.

And still, somewhere around 3 a.m., my brain opens Facebook Marketplace and starts pricing the furniture. 

I think I could get $409 for this bed if I got good photos.