My boundaries come in two styles: tissue paper and well-armed turrets overlooking the kill zone. The distance between tissue paper and turrets is about the width of a switch. A really tiny but very distinct switch. A uni-directional switch. To excuse what may seem to onlookers (say ex-husbands, ex-employers) as an arbitrary shift in relationship, I offer up the caveat that by the time the switch gets flipped on, all your strikes (and those from the next batter) have been used up. If the switch has flipped on for you, you deserved it long ago.

That doesn’t mean we can’t parent collaboratively (in the case of my ex) or that I can’t work for you as an independent contractor (on more mutual terms), but in terms of taking anymore bullshit: switch on.