I’ve always felt a little behind for my age. A goulash of emotional immaturity, surprising physical awkwardness and the most distracting — my desire to do ‘immature’ things, like eat with my hands.

But — I think I found the antidote.

Last week, Kaiya and I were driving into Sedona for some outdoor activities.

“Can we get coffee?!”

The autism switched on hard. I was caught by surprise. I kicked in my conflict-avoidance system — stiffening my entire body to counteract the mild strength of the protective emotional flare. I felt desperate to please Kaiya and ashamed to not have thought she may want to stop in the first place. This reaction was not. going to be. allowed. to surface.

In, out. I took a breath, still in a state of suspended-motion. I felt my paws on the steering wheel and made them floppy on purpose. My eyes locked into forward position. Those little tattle-tales weren’t going to tattle today.

Although I tried to engage my “should” reaction to the best of my ability, I crumbled with dread when I saw the place just ahead.

“Aughhh this is the place I’m afraid of!”

“No, really? I thought it was the one in Jerome.”

“Nooooooo this one!”

I crunched into Igor-mode as if this would save me from anything. It was a last resort, but my cover had already been blown.

I was afraid because I overstayed my welcome once and the manager had asked me to leave in a non-threatening way. My nervous system went full-reptile mode and after yelling a quick ‘Sorry!’ I curled my orangutan arms around my belongings and knuckle-hopped to the car at Mach-speed.

He probably didn’t remember.

“Ok, I’ll face my fear. Let’s go.”

It was like midnight cookie time, as I carefully entered the building, hoping the manager was asleep. Everything went smoothly. He didn’t see me.

But it was more than smooth — I left with a giant, sugar-crusted, triple-berry muffin — the one thing that I had been so disappointed to have lost in the unavoidable divorce.

Back in the car, I gave the 30 second pause required by social standards, counting each second in my head, and exactly at 30 I plunged my paw straight into the top of the fragrant muffin.

“Do you want some?”

“Maybe.”

I paused. The train was well out of the station and there was no time for maybes.

“No, are you going to have some? I have to eat this differently if you are.”

I meant I had to be less of what my parents would have called a barbarian. Despite years of formal etiquette training, I never shook the animalistic tendency to want to shove food directly into my pie hole with my flippers. Dad used to say, “you look like an animal.” But I didn’t agree — animals usually ate straight with their mouths. I was a step up.

But for years I tortured myself for the sake of being considered a part of society with the instinct always there. I was always itching for something simpler.

Kaiya kindly gave me the go to enjoy the muffin. I gleefully gave up the social grace act and just ate it. What a fucking relief.

My whole body relaxed as I let my hand be covered with berry and the sticky cake of the muffin. For the first time, I wasn’t resisting being a barbarian, but embracing it.

“I kind of eat like a baby.”

There was no surprise on Kaiya’s face.

“Maybe I just should let myself to see what happens.”

Again, no surprise.

After a pouring water into our palms and dipping each other’s fingers into the others palms to clean the remnants off of both of our hands (nah, if I’m a Neanderthal, she’s a Sapien), we went out onto the trail.

Fast forward — after the hike we went back to the coffee shop, where I re-traumatized myself by backing into a sign on the property. I was not condemned and we left with cinnamon buns — Kaiya’s favorite.

Later in the day I found myself alone with my cinnamon bun, driving once again. I kept my hands on the wheel, while the air flicking through the cabin blew the scent of cream cheese frosting at me. I wanted that bun, but the risk of being a complete slopping mess and ‘ruining’ either my clothes or seats was unavoidable. It was goopy in the heat.

I sat, eyes shifting to the right, eyeing it, reaching for it, then retracting my arm. I looked down and saw a spoon — covered with cat hair and other debris. Oh fuck it. There was no way I was waiting.

I felt like I was slo-mo twirling through a field of flowers in Austria, away from the oppressive eyes of the head nuns.

Freeeeedommmm!

Without shame I plunged my tentacles through the thick cream cheese frosting and into the dough below. I ripped pieces off and globs of icing, crushing them in my palm and smushing cinnamon cream into every crack and crease of my hand.

Piece by piece. I smushed off chunks, smearing icing without care and poking them carelessly into my mouth. Smashing my fists and laying waste to a pink flowered single-serving cake was next.

I was sure I had never understood bliss until this moment. I think the colors of the scenery as I drove off of Mingus mountain even got brighter.

No one saw it — not even me. But I could feel that my nervous system understood it. Something was satisfied. I melted deeper into the seat and sucked each finger clean.

Last night I went out to eat. I picked up a fork and ate — no internal squirming, no protest, no pitch-forks. Finally, I was Sapien.