Monday, June 28, 2010
Wish I was them. They spend nearly all their time together. She has a grown son now living there, a baggy-panted, ciggie smoking 20-something kid always with the ball cap; he's sweet and says hello, asks how I am and smiles. But the two of them are a duo. They take day and weekend and longer trips, packing up the Outback with coolers of sodas and snacks. They always bring me back a small gift, a thank you for watering the plants or bringing in the mail (once a basket of impossibly tiny and so sweet wild blueberries from Maine). In their little townhouse they have two chairs, a his and hers, pointed at the telly. They eat dinner together every night on TV trays there. On weekend mornings when the screen door is open I can peek in and see them sharing breakfast at the small two person table. Two place mats.
Wish I was them.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
After a couple weeks of kumbaya blog posts about happiness other than the kind found down ones pants (still warm and wiggling important stuff), we now return to our regularly scheduled debauchery. Good old fashioned chat about bumping uglies. Blogger Aileen posted last week regarding a question often directed to ladies of a certain age (never you randy bachelors, regardless of how low the ball sack is hanging):
"Soooooo, why is it that you've never been married?"
No big surprise (?) I think marriage is an antiquated idea, based upon property rights (whether cow, beans, land or genitals) but with a caveat; if one is absolutely intent on or desires to breed, marriage and/or partnership is optimal. Just don’t hit your kids or ignore them. Or fuck around (more on that later). Yet there are bits and pieces and baubles of marriage (not love, two different animals) I find engaging and sometimes wonder if I'm missing out on. Although I’m not known to wear jewelry other than large bangle-like silver hoops, a ring would be a lovely token, an “I choo-choo-choose you." Art deco or estate, nothing pave and solitaire and soldered together in a hot metal swirl. Or to pick a song for the first dance floor twirl as Mr. And Mrs. At one time I wanted to get married only because I’d decided between either The Association’s “Cherish” or “Oh My Love” by John Lennon, the latter total sap. And so awesome.
But this isn’t about the tulle and creamy filling.
Single is not a fail. And enough with the condescending idea that those never married (or who don't wish to be) can’t possibly comprehend what it’s like to be part of committed duo. Some things you just know, like chewing on a cat turd won’t taste anything like a Tootsie Roll. And I know that when you sign up for and agree to ever-after, you're true blue and stuck like glue. Meaning no wandering genitals. Sexuality is one thing, temptation another yet. And commitment the thorny side of the triangle. Explore and talk about sexuality within a marriage or any relationship. But when placing your parts into or around another parts includes less than full disclosure or lying or secrets that's a fail.
Single isn't a lifetime "Get Out Of Jail Free" pass, mind you.
Months into dating the manfriend, I broached the idea of keeping my 12-years-younger-Kennedyesque-physical-only fling. He didn't go for it, then or when I brought it up again later. We’re good, he’s a good man for stating it. The still occasional text from the fling is delightfully tempting, but it’s also merely penetration and copulation and I have good stuff over here. Doesn't mean the topic of flunging may not rear its head again (dirty). And we'll talk.
Success or fail? Truthful or hurtful?
Chicken or fish?
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
I'm just getting out from under the covers myself, thanks for asking. Can't wrap all the words around it, but I unzipped the me suit I was wearing and put on another, and with legs that work as they should. Renewal and change and forward movement and stuff like that there.
It takes a good deal to be brave in this life, doesn't it?
To believe and have hiiiiigh hopes. To not fold and give in under the weight of bad news streaming 24x7 (oil covered pelicans sink my belly, true that). To not take pleasure in someone else's pain. Or lies. To hear the "I love you" when pulled in tight. Because...
Those who love you are not fooled by mistakes you have made or dark images you hold about yourself. They remember your beauty when you feel ugly, your wholeness when you are broken, your innocence when you feel guilty and your purpose when you are confused.
And bonus, in this life we have buttered popcorn.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
You know that scene in Say Anything when Lloyd Dobbler declares, “The rain on my car is a baptism, the new me, Ice Man, Power Lloyd, my assault on the world begins now.”
I’m with you, Lloyd. Not breaking up with anyone, severing ties or painting a pink heart black, or turning to the ladies for fluffy muffin comfort but bringing it all back to me.
I will make time for the gym, back to five-days-a-week regularity and sometimes 15-20 minute steam after (I can hear the muffled piped in music through the roar of the steam and thick glass doors and count time by songs; I usually give myself 4-5 unless it’s an extended jam band or Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody). I need it, I want it and I owe it to my physical and mental self. I will demand it.
Spinning, kick boxing, strength training. I want it all and I want my body to be able to manage and push through it because (let’s face it) it’s hard work and not always (hell, not even often) enjoyable. Sometimes it hurts, sometimes you want to give in but you know when the lactic burns it’s changing you. I’m insurance-approved lucky to work with some of the best in sports medicine soon, courtesy of the boneyard that is my pelvis. What the MRI showed looks like the first 10 minutes of Saving Private Ryan; a small anterior lambrum tear, two old avulsion fractures, a large strain to the large rectus femoris tendon, a small sprinkling of tendinitis. My orthopedic doc, when sharing results and a plan of action, must have asked 8 times in a 15 minute call, “Are you sure you don’t have any pain? Nothing?” I happily reported, “I’m good! Even having sex all the way splayed out, just like I like it! Cowgirl even!! Yeee-haw!”
They say keep no secrets from your medical professionals. And sure it gets a little stiff, a little sore and I haven't pushed my limits in the gym. How embarrassing would that be, to crack in half while in a power squat?
I will treat my body like a temple, nourish it to be strong and stable. It’s not a dumping ground of emotion, a garbage disposal of boredom eating and stress drinking.
I will write and write and write. For me. And I will embrace new work challenges, test my mettle but keep faith enough in my talent and my passion to possibly walk away and towards something else. Because I can.
I will appreciate those who like me, who really like me and don’t let me run away too far from them.
I will take a good long look at and meditate on true happiness.
I will awake each morning with a full body stretch and reminder that every day is anything can happen day.
I will buy and send cards for no reason.
I will wash my make-up off every night.
I will drink more water.
I will listen to more music and view more art.
I will simply try.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
"I read your self indulgent blog on a regular basis for the humor value mostly, and also as a way to show my new friends how neurotic the extended family I left really is."
At least she finds me funny.
Now be gone before someone drops a house on you too.