my inner loup*garou

For those of you unfamiliar with this sweet word, a loup garou is a fancy-pants frenchie word for “werewolf.” (Check out the pronunciation on dictionary.com.) This semester, the loup garou has made numerous and fortuitous appearances in my daily life. I’ve read two novels featuring this creature: Liar (Justine Labalastier) and Sharp Teeth (Toby Barlow). In both, the females rule the pack. The Reader’s Digest version? Don’t fuck with the girlie garou.

Although admittedly a bit freaked out by even the hint of a fang, I’m still attracted to the mythology. I’ve learned that the full-moon theory is bullshit. Some wolves change with their “monthly visitor.” (Seriously? Doesn’t that explain a lot?) Some change on a dime–totally at will. Some are full-fledged wolves, some more like wild dogs. No matter what physical form the creatures take, the emotional and spiritual implications are the same. These girls are ruled by id. When they’ve changed they do whatever they damn well please. They take what they want and no prisoners.

What I mean is, these bitches play to win.

I’ve been watching for signs of my own little wolf, a bit bedraggled and out-of-shape since she’s been fed a steady diet of work, house-cleaning, and errands, and more work. 

Here’s to the wolf in me and in you.

My inner loup-garou likes to howl at the sun. She eats strawberry shortcake for breakfast  and often doesn’t wash her hands after going to the bathroom. Forgoing deoderant for a more bestial scent, my inner garou doesn’t shower every day. She likes to close her eyes while driving and run her finger through candle flames.

My inner garou is embodied in the chunky little blonde on the beach the other day who when beckoned by her dad, dropped on the ground and busted out some seriously legit sand angels, all giggly and pug-nosed, covering herself from head to toe in sand. Right before her car ride home.

My inner loup garou HATES vampires. But loves cats. She’s enigmatic like that. Caviar and peanut butter. Tattoos and lace.

Speaking of tattoos, my inner wolf loves the burn of the needle as it sears something permanent and lovely into her pink skin. Well, permanent until she’s covered with soft, downy fur with graphite highlights. 

She has been known to play naughty in a mosh pit and likes the feel of skin between her teeth.

My garou sleeps during the day and waits. And waits.

who's your wolf?