A brave, provocative memoir that raises powerful questions about sex and relationships, The Wild. Oats Project is sure to spark eye-opening conversations. The project was simple: Robin Rinaldi, a successful magazine journalist, would move into a Like the most searing memoirs, The Wild Oats Project challenges our sensibilities, yielding truths that few would dare write down. . Download PDF. Read The Wild Oats Project PDF - One Woman's Midlife Quest for Passion at Any Cost by Robin Rinaldi Sarah Crichton Books | What if for just.
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Editorial Reviews. Review. "Did I read the hell out of this book? You bet I did Rinaldi is skilled at writing about sex—she is shameless and honest She is. Wild Oats Project: One Woman's Midlife Quest for Passion at Any Cost Guide to Weight Training for Triathlon download PDF, EPUB, Kindle. Forty pages into her new memoir, The Wild Oats Project, Robin Rinaldi has mined every modern female anxiety: fear of being alone; boredom.
Just on my couch watching TV. Can I come over?
Nothing for five minutes. In that span, I vacillated between anticipating the thrill of a yes and the relief of a no. Needing encouragement, I pulled Chris aside and showed him the text.
He was aware of my recent crush on Paul. He looked from the phone to me. You can stop anytime you want. I need to go.
A driver immediately flashed his headlights and pulled over. I opened the fogged window and looked up at the starless, heavy sky.
The pavement shone with moisture as we ascended Divisadero Street, the long hill that separates the eastern and western halves of the city. As the rooftops swished by, I mentally retraced my steps, taking one last chance to reconsider before I ruined my life. I was used to being called cute, sometimes pretty. No man had ever called me beautiful.
I quickened to it despite myself. And then, two months ago, as I was packing to leave Mexico after a vacation, Paul sprang to mind unexpectedly. I remembered the precise moment. I was folding my bikini into my suitcase and noting with sadness how rapidly my bikini-wearing days were coming to a close.
Even so, I told myself, Paul would kill to see me in this. Finally, there was another cab ride, just three weeks ago. Rather surprisingly, he agrees to the arrangement, and while the couple spends the weekdays together at their shared home near the Castro, Rinaldi gets a studio and begins a dizzying round of Nerve.
Luckily, in San Francisco, she notes wryly that "polyamory wasn't all that rare," and she gravitates toward the "urban commune" called OneTaste, which conducts hands-on orgasm meditation OM seminars for men and women, and where Rinaldi ultimately finds her most satisfying lovers also women. To her credit, Rinaldi does not hide the dark side to this odyssey her own jealousy at Scott's lover, her absolute self-absorption and mendacity but her ability to grasp its soul-driving necessity without insisting on winning over her readers renders this a notable work of self-knowledge.
Even if a person didn't care for the detailed descriptions of the sexual experimentation, or has some moral or religious objection to the wild oats project, and what Robin experienced, one has to give much credit to the author for being open, honest, and courageous enough to tell her story.
In her story are probably bits and pieces that we all can identify with. Feelings, emotions, desires, passions and drives that we somehow suppressed and ignored. Everyone dies Not everyone truly lives! Publisher Description. Tiny needles of panic jabbed the undersurface of my skin. I dialed Scott once, twice, three times. No answer. When I got home, his phone sat on the kitchen counter. By lunchtime, lack of sleep overtook me. I went home, dropped my things at the door, and slid onto the bed.
Cleo jumped up and settled herself in the crook of my arm and we lay there together, awaiting my fate.
Birds chirped all day long in the Chinese elm in the backyard. But holding myself up vertically made me cry harder. I did not get back to normal for four years. Most days my throat was sore.
Some days my arms ached too much to brush my hair. Sharp pains shot through my chest and I had to hold on to walls to walk straight. Wavy vertical lines jerked in my vision and my eyes burned. I lost twenty pounds and dreamed repeatedly of thick pus oozing from my body.
An occasional pressure around my neck made it feel as if someone were choking me. I was tested for Lyme Disease, thyroid trouble, multiple sclerosis, leukemia, and a dozen other conditions; I added bodywork, acupuncture, allergy testing, vitamin B12 shots, antidepressants, and Klonopin to my ongoing therapy appointments.
One told me to stop eating wheat and sugar. I became an expert. Eventually they settled on chronic fatigue syndrome, which added no information to the mix other than a label and a new list of support groups I could choose to attend. By the time I was thirty-one, three years into the illness, labels had ceased to matter anyway. The physical symptoms turned out to be mere landmarks on a path leading down to a dark, bottomless well.
To attempt an explanation, I wrote Scott a letter, telling how there was a terrible wound in me, something for which there were no words, and how his gentle patience would first assuage it, then open up an even deeper level of it. When Scott was little, his parents nicknamed him Sunshine because of his sanguine disposition. I explained how my gratitude for his strength alternated with shame at my own wretchedness. When he got home from his job at the software company at exactly 5: Sometimes he called me dovebar, or kitty, or noodles.
He told me about his day and I told him how I was faring, each word willed out of me through a gauntlet of self-hate. Then he turned onto his back and held me as I cried into his shoulder. This twenty-minute dose of simple contact gave me the strength to get out of bed, heat up some dinner, and maybe watch a movie with him on the couch before returning to the bedroom.
Looking back now, I can honor the mystery of it. I see it as my initial descent into the body, the bike accident a shock that yanked my awareness down below my neck for the first time, into my stomach, legs, arms, and sex.
As I swirled in a cauldron of long-repressed feeling, little by little I was forced to confront the present moment head-on. I learned to breathe into pain, exhaustion, vertigo, grief. In my worst moments I would try to muster just a drop of compassion for what I was going through. A split second of simple kindness in a sea of chaos and resistance and despair.
I watched Patricia Arquette playing a young widowed doctor who fights her way through the jungles of wartime Burma trying to get home. After the matinee, I walked outside to a little boardwalk that fronted the Sacramento River and looked down into its muddy water. As I traced the river upstream toward the bleached-out horizon of my asylum city, a tiny space opened inside me, a pinprick of light and air.
Within a few months I started working part- time again. The year after that I brushed up on some journalism courses so I could finally leave tech writing behind.