In the spaciousness of everything, in all the time and all the things I've yet to know about the Cappo Comedy Writer, to say I didn't expect this was an understatement. I'd deliberately employed a careful cocktail of nonchalance, terribly low expectations and detachment to this endeavor. In fact, I'd even hesitate to call it that as if naming it would bring the Furies upon me. Is it ironic it gets the same treatment as Voldemort? Oh yeah, this whole thing is That Which Shall Not Be Named.
"Oh, boy, are you still mad at me?," he wrote again one day. I ignored it.
"Hi, really, are you ok?," he asked again the next day. I ignored it.
"Ok, so I really wasn't just saying hi back then," he admitted the day after that. I ignored it.
"I'm really sorry. Please stop being mad, please. I think about you all the time and I didn't know what I was doing. I don't think of you that way at all. Don't be mad anymore. Please?," he pleaded again. "And yeah, I get you're into someone else now," he finally added.
"I'm sorry," I practically choked in disbelief, "But are you actually ANGRY that I'm free? This, this is what you're mad about now?"
"Kind of, yeah. I won't be able to stop myself from pestering you," he sounded seriously miffed at this revelation while I gawped at how the conversation had turned.
I'd lied this far, I might as well stay consistent. "This really doesn't change anything. I'm IN LOVE with someone else, you are too, things could change with her, it could be a ploy you know that. Besides, it's been years. You've ignored me for YEARS."
"I kept all your messages," he said quietly. "Every one of them since 2009. Should I delete them?" I hated him instantly for telling me that, then realized this was precisely how he felt. "No," I sighed tiredly,"it's your history, I've no right to tell you what to do with it. Besides, I kept yours too. And I wrote you stupid messages I never sent." This was misery. I stared at my phone willing it to burst into flames.
This time around, I read his annual apology with unfettered irritation. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry for everything and how I behaved. Please don't feel like you should respond - I just hope you get this and know that I still think about you and feel awful for what I did," he wrote and after a few minutes of my silence, sent another message adding,"I wanted to say my behavior isn't because I'm this sort of person but other reasons. I'm sorry."
fifty shades of chicken: a parody in cookbook
Every year since 2010, he had returned with an apology. Normally it was a solitary email that never went anywhere. There are many ways to say sorry, but only a few to prove one means it. He never lingered after each one, never when I responded with kindness or some attempt at coaxing him beyond the minimum of contact he allowed himself. Never with an explanation.
I'd surmised after all this time that it was a lot like Lent and penance, all I had to do was watch him flog himself in guilt. Be silent like the wailing wall. Maybe this was really a conversation he was having with himself and I was nothing but a construct he could direct things to.
I waited to be amused, but there was something patently unfunny about it. In fact, I was angry. Terribly so. At myself for having even cared in the first place, though that couldn't be helped now could it? But mostly at him for disturbing my peace.
Beyond his "ghost-bolting" as the Golden Venus would term it, why after all this time, was I angry? I could feel the heat creeping up my cheeks, my hair curling at the flushed warmth. I believed as always that the mystique men inadvertently employ is something women undeservedly bestow them. There is no mystery. At all.
Here was a man who couldn't leave well enough alone, for every selfish reason I could think of. He had sent me the message 4 days before my birthday, right as I was resolutely planning the birthday dinner to end all birthday dinners, right when I all wanted to do was to celebrate pulling through certain even yet unfinished chapters in my life. And now this?
So yes, summer and yet again its creeping heat brings honeyed limbs, loosened hips and miles and miles of skin. The past few years of being single brought with it not only freedom, but the time, the space and yes, the Rotational of Lovers to amass my own Mating Almanac of sorts. Yes, you read that right - a Mating Almanac.
For our purposes, I'm going to forgo the word Dating since that seems to carry as much charge as a hastily put together IED. Whether it's Hanging Out, Dating, Seeing Each Other, FWBing, Booty-Calling, Being Exclusive or not - I don't give a flying sod anymore. It's Mating. Period. Penis meet Vagina, GO. Or pick your own configuration as you please.
Let me also be clear that if you're in the same room and you're relating to each other, yes regardless of where you think the lines are drawn, it is and will be considered a relationship. Maybe not THE relationship, but definitely A relationship. Boys and Girls, we're going to leave semantics at the door and show up for this one.
Dear Goddess of Love,
You’ve had our differences you and I, and I have followed you through many a doorway and on to plenty a-winding path. Must it be like this?
I’m sun-touched feverish, and looking for relief. Will it come or won’t it?
As I'm sure it's been pondered, no, I have not lost the queue for the Rotational. Except now what I thought reserved as a Spring Phenomenon seems to have become an All Season occurrence. I had floundered a bit after realizing B was finally coupled, it was transitional floundering but floundering nonetheless. Sadness and happiness sitting side by side. I'd like to be unadorned about that, without nailing myself to the coffin of relationship ineptitude or casting the protective glow of feigned confidence around me.
This is what irritates me about type casting. The roles are limiting. You're either the girl brought home to mother i.e. Jennifer Garner, the perennially sad single girl i.e. Jennifer Aniston, the party babe i.e. Tara Reid, the hard core bitch-slut i.e. too many to mention, etc. - there are multitudes more convenient boxes we get slot into by either ourselves or others. As I'm sure most of our college pictures attest, as well as the hushed up stories we keep from way back when or horror, that loud friend we hope will never visit our current life, we can be all those things to different people at varying stages in our lives. There isn't even an arc of logic we can rely on.
Because life is messy, timelines get diverted and we're individuals who do what we will with what we're given. As women, however, we're exceptionally hyper-conscious about how we come across. We've all been at some point, over-ruled by impressions we anxiously anticipate we've made on others.
When I first read Slim Smith's post three years ago, I wasn't quite sure if it was real. The panic certainly seemed to be, but was this guy serious? I stopped when I realized how most people listen to my own story incredulously. Slightly altered for his own protection, this is what Slim Smith wrote on that fateful night:
"My wife and I are married 3 years - our sex life is "alright" i suppose. A few days ago, I was looking for a book I needed in our spare bedroom, and started looking in the closet only to find a box buried under some clothes that had a silky pouch...which had a large black sex toy in it. I was shocked!
Her ex-boyfriend was black, and even when we were dating I'd make fun about the "size" thing. Still she always said she was ok with how mine was. Usually after we're intimate, she'll hang out in the spare bedroom to watch tv, I just wasn't sure why - now I know!
Yeah, I'm a little hurt she's got it hidden there.. part of me is embarrassed she needs "more". The thing is HUGE. I can't sleep thinking about what I should do. Like, should I confront her about it? Or just forget it and play dumb? Where did she buy it from?? We share all our credit card statements, I think I'd have picked it up if she got it online. Sure, we'd kid around about her maybe seeing her ex if I allowed her to, am I supposed to be grateful it's just a toy instead of an affair? So my questions are:
Guys: what would you do if you were me?
Ladies:any thoughts on why you'd hide something like that from your boyfriend or spouse, instead of just being open about it? "
The week starts as most weeks do, work, gym, blog, routine. There are always moments of a clock work cadence to life when things tick by. Apparently, this particular week was the exception.
Consumed by the furor of our last wordplay, Kentucky decides it is better now than later. I don't actually think "never" was an option for him. He messages me furiously through the day and I admit, after that stunt with Dragan and Virginlandia's containment, I was willing to entertain the possibility of a more fitting champion. Besides, how much can one girl really run??
We are equidistant from my place, and by 6PM both of us are racing from different directions with one thing in mind. In case, anyone's wondering, yes, women CAN have sex without love. Especially under these circumstances, that is being unattached, unbeholden and well, just incredibly alive.
I wouldn't say horny even if technically, that colored things too. But somehow, between the Broken Vagina and Virginlandia's state of grace, I'd found a strange sense of liberation. I'll leave all the politics behind, after all I'm not selling this as a philosophy by any means.
FA on feathers, fangs, furies and all sorts of folly, yes, even the serious kind.
content copyright 2011
Yep, my life, my insanity, my copyright. If you like what you read, let me know :)
Did I use your image & attribute it incorrectly? Sorry! Let me know and I'll take it down. "Sssshhhh" image on blog header by Deborah Azzopardi. It's an amazing print now available thru Ikea.