I don't know if you can spread the truism to all women, but a bunch of my female relatives do want paradise. Paradise here on earth, starting with blue dishes. Moving on to new curtains, which eventually become window treatments, new kitchen counters, pull-out racks in their kitchen cabinets, the side-by-side with the ice dispenser. They have a picture in their heads of their ideal home, and they have been ameliorating the premises continually, repainting the dining room, putting a door where the window used to be, glassing in the screen porch. A house to them is Play-doh waiting for the hand of the Master Decorator.
Hotel rooms, too, need their furniture rearranged, that table over by the window instead, one chair facing the other so you can sit with your feet up. Nature must be tamed as well and forced into this aesthetic, beautiful to look at from the windows, but you mustn't touch it. Green lawns, trimmed trees, groomed beaches, sunsets admired from deck chairs along same. It's not that this vision is not beautiful: it is. But it is also sterilized, requires someone's maintenance (not mine, I won't do it!), and somehow still needs airbrushing in the photographs. In fact, it needs photographs. Its beauty must be framed and mounted, taken out of context and repositioned over the sofa. Scrimmed, screened, cut down, managed.
Bird-watching is the perfect sport for these paradise seekers. If you put out feeders, the birds come to you and display themselves right in front of your picture window. No need to clomp around in the muck looking for them. The only drawback is the greedy squirrels come to gobble up the seed. A bit like the hungry 12-year-old boy who cuts a hunk out of their cake before they've had a chance to frost it. So the women who desire paradise bang on that window to chase the squirrels away, although it sorely grieves them to have to do so, and shoo those boys away from their lovely cakes: "Here now! Get away out of there! That's not for you!" When, of course, it is.
They want paradise. They want someone to make paradise for. They want that someone to appreciate the paradise made for them. They want that someone to deny and alter and reverse his very nature--his testosterone-produced aggression, his hormonal competition, his desire to take a hunk and bite into it. The very desire that brought him to the woman in the first place.
This tension--women who want to be desired, but also want to remake the boudoir into a place that must never get dirty; men who want the soft compliant nature of woman, but want her to resist other men with tooth and claw--is human culture. This border between competing desires which must be continually renegotiated results in culture. It will never be resolved, solved. If it could be, we would reach stasis and die.
Next up--what many men want. They have their own idea of paradise.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Thursday, October 7, 2010
The Slippery Slope
Okay, this is kind of gross, but I have crotch problems. Nobody, but nobody, wants to hear about this, so here goes.
Patterns of fat deposition after the age of 50 and my genetic truckload of pear-shaped inevitability make all my extra blobs collect below my waist. First this meant that my callipygian form pouffed out in back, a bustle of extra flesh. Deep ass crack became deep ass crevice became deep ass crevasse. Now I can not keep that flesh apart for enough time in the day and night, naked or clothed, so the flesh is not let to dry and that leads to chafing and itchy red splotches. Yuck, right?
Next, in my efforts to deal with this moisture problem, I began the habit of ass-spreading. Sit down, separate ass cheeks. Stand up, press knees together to separate ass cheeks. It seems to work most of the time except when it's hot or when it doesn't. Not enough to bother a doctor with, and besides, what would a doctor say? Try this cream. Lose weight. Get normal. Be a man. Suck it up, cupcake.
Yeah, so. In fighting this running battle--which is what we are all doing on this side of 50, at the top of the slippery slope, hoping to hold on for a little while longer before the accident or catastrophe befalls us that makes it not a running battle any longer, but a last ditch defense until the death--I am holding my hoo-hoo closed up tight like a sphincter and the ass crack wins while the hoo-hoo loses. A warm moist closed environment that is no longer being flushed out periodically by my periods. That's right. Two months gap now. Of course, my first thought was: yeast infection. So I went to the drug store, bought the suppositories (what an ugly word for a yucky thing) and used the hermetically sealed plunger deal to stick a little bullet up my vajayjay. And then slowly it softened and melted out and stained my underwear even though I put a pantyliner on and then it didn't even help. So what is it?
I looked online (mayoclinic.com) and found out it might be sexually transmitted (no.), or bacterial (maybe), or atrophic vaginitis or some non-infectious source of irritation like scented pads or douches or sprays or creams (no.). So maybe it's just the poorly aired plastic bag of a middle-aged woman's coochie that has some low level bacterial thing going on--or we have to consider atrophy. It's old and dry and thin and fragile and subject to opportunistic infections, but what can be done about that? Is it time for estrogen rings and HRT patches? So soon?
And here I thought that finally being freed from the seemingly endless round of menstruation would be a liberation. More like one step forward, three steps back. Get ready for the anxious scanning of the slippery slope for handholds, little scruffy bushes to cling on to.
Patterns of fat deposition after the age of 50 and my genetic truckload of pear-shaped inevitability make all my extra blobs collect below my waist. First this meant that my callipygian form pouffed out in back, a bustle of extra flesh. Deep ass crack became deep ass crevice became deep ass crevasse. Now I can not keep that flesh apart for enough time in the day and night, naked or clothed, so the flesh is not let to dry and that leads to chafing and itchy red splotches. Yuck, right?
Next, in my efforts to deal with this moisture problem, I began the habit of ass-spreading. Sit down, separate ass cheeks. Stand up, press knees together to separate ass cheeks. It seems to work most of the time except when it's hot or when it doesn't. Not enough to bother a doctor with, and besides, what would a doctor say? Try this cream. Lose weight. Get normal. Be a man. Suck it up, cupcake.
Yeah, so. In fighting this running battle--which is what we are all doing on this side of 50, at the top of the slippery slope, hoping to hold on for a little while longer before the accident or catastrophe befalls us that makes it not a running battle any longer, but a last ditch defense until the death--I am holding my hoo-hoo closed up tight like a sphincter and the ass crack wins while the hoo-hoo loses. A warm moist closed environment that is no longer being flushed out periodically by my periods. That's right. Two months gap now. Of course, my first thought was: yeast infection. So I went to the drug store, bought the suppositories (what an ugly word for a yucky thing) and used the hermetically sealed plunger deal to stick a little bullet up my vajayjay. And then slowly it softened and melted out and stained my underwear even though I put a pantyliner on and then it didn't even help. So what is it?
I looked online (mayoclinic.com) and found out it might be sexually transmitted (no.), or bacterial (maybe), or atrophic vaginitis or some non-infectious source of irritation like scented pads or douches or sprays or creams (no.). So maybe it's just the poorly aired plastic bag of a middle-aged woman's coochie that has some low level bacterial thing going on--or we have to consider atrophy. It's old and dry and thin and fragile and subject to opportunistic infections, but what can be done about that? Is it time for estrogen rings and HRT patches? So soon?
And here I thought that finally being freed from the seemingly endless round of menstruation would be a liberation. More like one step forward, three steps back. Get ready for the anxious scanning of the slippery slope for handholds, little scruffy bushes to cling on to.
Monday, August 23, 2010
What I See
One day on the bus I saw a big, milky-skinned beauty, strawberry blonde hair in a piled-up coiffe, clutching her purse into her soft round belly, her v-neck revealing a generous cleavage, her one big toe poking from the peep hole in her worn black patent leather flats, the nail badly polished in the first place, chipped now.
We are all, first and forever, bodies.
Within this description, only these few words, one can see whole worlds of hope and aspiration, desperation and almost certain defeat. She is a beautiful girl. About twenty. Her skill in putting up her hair is not matched by a corresponding taste in clothes or accessories, and nail polish is beyond her. Her hopes for her beauty are not supported by any strong interest in her own beauty. Her body is the house she lives in; it is invisible to her now. Despite her own lack of interest, there is a way in which she is counting on her body to solve the problem of what she is to do with herself, her life, her future. Because she doesn't want to trust to her mental capacity, to her ability to come up with an idea that will take her to the next step in her life. It will be a great relief to her to be chosen, claimed, married. Then she will know what to do, who to do it for. Later, when the river into which she will throw herself (her husband, his ambitions, his priorities) changes course and leaves her high and dry on a sandbank, she will explain to all who will listen that she had no choice in anything that came her way and hijacked her life and left her where she has ended up. That was just the way it was at that time. How could she swim against the current?
She is 5' 9"--taller than a girl needs to be, so she feels aggrieved. She gently curses her genetic load. She wishes she were shorter, more muscular, like those spunky little cheerleaders who seem like guy magnets. Her creamy skin--her best feature--she would trade in a heartbeat for taut abs and a killer tan. She has no idea how to gracefully inhabit what she does have, only how to uselessly covet what she will never have. She believes if only she had that tan, those abs, she'd be happy. Because some guy would be intoxicated by her form, her beauty, and then she could love herself if he loved her.
We are all, first and forever, bodies.
Within this description, only these few words, one can see whole worlds of hope and aspiration, desperation and almost certain defeat. She is a beautiful girl. About twenty. Her skill in putting up her hair is not matched by a corresponding taste in clothes or accessories, and nail polish is beyond her. Her hopes for her beauty are not supported by any strong interest in her own beauty. Her body is the house she lives in; it is invisible to her now. Despite her own lack of interest, there is a way in which she is counting on her body to solve the problem of what she is to do with herself, her life, her future. Because she doesn't want to trust to her mental capacity, to her ability to come up with an idea that will take her to the next step in her life. It will be a great relief to her to be chosen, claimed, married. Then she will know what to do, who to do it for. Later, when the river into which she will throw herself (her husband, his ambitions, his priorities) changes course and leaves her high and dry on a sandbank, she will explain to all who will listen that she had no choice in anything that came her way and hijacked her life and left her where she has ended up. That was just the way it was at that time. How could she swim against the current?
She is 5' 9"--taller than a girl needs to be, so she feels aggrieved. She gently curses her genetic load. She wishes she were shorter, more muscular, like those spunky little cheerleaders who seem like guy magnets. Her creamy skin--her best feature--she would trade in a heartbeat for taut abs and a killer tan. She has no idea how to gracefully inhabit what she does have, only how to uselessly covet what she will never have. She believes if only she had that tan, those abs, she'd be happy. Because some guy would be intoxicated by her form, her beauty, and then she could love herself if he loved her.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Happy Pants
I was walking along my normal exercise route, the street of stately homes in our fair city, when I heard the jingle of dog tags behind me. A young woman between 20 and 25 was jogging her little gray whippet behind me and closing fast. I stepped to the edge of the sidewalk because somehow dogs adore my ankles and even more the crotch of my pants, so I try to give them wide berth. She passed me, moving the dog to her other side, keeping herself between me and the dog. She said as she passed, "I love your pants. They're so happy!"
These are my anomalous pants. They are stretch capris made by Bandolino, and they are splashed with giant flowers in red, orange and fuchsia, green ferns in the background. I own nothing else like them. The rest of my wardrobe is fuscous. (Yes! Go look it up! I found it in the dictionary myself while checking the spelling of fuchsia, which somehow I wanted to be: fuschia.) But here's the story--there's always a story--I found them at a consignment store near one of my favorite coffee shops and I grabbed them along with a pile of other summer-weight pants in my usual fuscous color palette because they looked like they might fit me.
I hate shopping. I hate shopping so much I almost wish I lived in a nudist camp. Almost. When I had tried them all on, the only ones that fit me even halfway decently were the Bandolinos, these loud size 10s with a wide, flared waistband that not only fit me, but, I flattered myself, actually flattered my natural shape. I can't wear drawstrings, elastic waists, drop waists, or low-rise jeans (way too much muffin-top). I hate shopping, but I loathe shopping for pants--so disheartening. So when I found these way-too-colorful capris and then saw the price tag said $11.00, I went for it.
There's a way in which they do not represent my personality to the world. They are not in my usual taste. My usual taste is darker and more subdued and makes me look like a schoolmarm--according to my mother-in-law, and I don't disagree. These Bandolinos give the impression I'm about to hijack a pontoon boat on Lake Minnetonka with an ice chest, a pitcher of margaritas and a bag of limes, muttering under my breath: "J. Caldwell Littleton the Third, if you and those goddamned boys ever get off the golf course, you can go to McDonald's again tonight, for all I care!"
They are happy pants. They make me chuckle when I see them hanging in my closet, when I look down and see the outsized petals conforming to my legs. It hardly matters if they do not convey the essence of my personality to the world at large. But maybe they do. I'm happy; they're happy; we're both happy together.
These are my anomalous pants. They are stretch capris made by Bandolino, and they are splashed with giant flowers in red, orange and fuchsia, green ferns in the background. I own nothing else like them. The rest of my wardrobe is fuscous. (Yes! Go look it up! I found it in the dictionary myself while checking the spelling of fuchsia, which somehow I wanted to be: fuschia.) But here's the story--there's always a story--I found them at a consignment store near one of my favorite coffee shops and I grabbed them along with a pile of other summer-weight pants in my usual fuscous color palette because they looked like they might fit me.
I hate shopping. I hate shopping so much I almost wish I lived in a nudist camp. Almost. When I had tried them all on, the only ones that fit me even halfway decently were the Bandolinos, these loud size 10s with a wide, flared waistband that not only fit me, but, I flattered myself, actually flattered my natural shape. I can't wear drawstrings, elastic waists, drop waists, or low-rise jeans (way too much muffin-top). I hate shopping, but I loathe shopping for pants--so disheartening. So when I found these way-too-colorful capris and then saw the price tag said $11.00, I went for it.
There's a way in which they do not represent my personality to the world. They are not in my usual taste. My usual taste is darker and more subdued and makes me look like a schoolmarm--according to my mother-in-law, and I don't disagree. These Bandolinos give the impression I'm about to hijack a pontoon boat on Lake Minnetonka with an ice chest, a pitcher of margaritas and a bag of limes, muttering under my breath: "J. Caldwell Littleton the Third, if you and those goddamned boys ever get off the golf course, you can go to McDonald's again tonight, for all I care!"
They are happy pants. They make me chuckle when I see them hanging in my closet, when I look down and see the outsized petals conforming to my legs. It hardly matters if they do not convey the essence of my personality to the world at large. But maybe they do. I'm happy; they're happy; we're both happy together.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Who's Listening?
You see, I assume people are telling the truth. But the world in general assumes--almost has to assume--that everybody everywhere always lies.
I'm 53. I weigh 146 pounds. I love my husband. My son is intelligent, but since he is 15, he has the social graces of an 8-year-old. And now since I am asserting these various "facts" in a non-fiction piece, which one (or ones) will you begin to doubt? "146--who is she kidding? And when a 53-year-old woman says straight out that she loves her husband, in my experience, that means she has successfully hen-pecked him into some minimally acceptable format and she's proud of her handiwork . . . "
When I was a young woman, I noticed that no one listened, actually listened, to what I said and I wondered if it was just me they weren't listening to. But it wasn't. Men don't really listen to women, they are too distracted by the amazing way their lips move--"Ooh! look at that! Look how when she says the letter 'O'--shit--what's she saying? Do I need to listen to this part? Has she gotten to the part where we spar about where she'll consent to do the dirty deed? No? I'll check back later, shall I?" And that's if they're looking at you at all.
Women don't really listen to other women because they know that at least 75% of what they themselves say is just a litany of social anxiety and all you need to do is contradict whatever comes out of their mouths, just to reassure them--"Does my ass look too big in these pants? I thought the pink ones went better with the lipstick I was wearing at the time. What do you think? Oh, you agree? Oh, goody, I thought they went better, but I wasn't sure. Are you sure? Really? Are you sure sure? Or are you just agreeing to make me feel better? No, I really want to know, because I'd love it if you agreed, and of course I'd feel better if you truly agreed, and I'd be absolutely devastated if you didn't agree, because I already spent the $79.99, but what do you really think? Now truly . . . " It sends you mad, that. And I don't really like doing it, and yet I have done it, from time to time. Agreed, that is, when she looked like a big pink rubber eraser.
But it wasn't just me the men weren't listening to. Or the women. They weren't listening to anybody. Men can't listen to beautiful women because the beauty is like a stun gun. They can't listen to ugly women because--why? In-between women--there are no in-between women. Men don't like to listen to other men either, unless forced to by the hierarchy they find themselves trapped in and then they only pretend to listen to those higher than they are, while plotting to use this boring info being passed to jump over their heads. Anyone higher up in the hierarchy who can force them to stand there and listen is someone they already hate and are planning to circumvent. Anyone else is just yammering on about the statistics of choice and who gives a shit about boring stuff like baseball or rockets or horse racing? That's way boring. Now golf ball trajectories--that's fascinating stuff. Let me explain it to you. Depending on the force of your swing and the wind speed . . .
And women can't listen to men because--now, do I really have to explain this to you? You don't know this yourself? You're kidding, right? Okay, okay, okay, you asked for it. Golf is BORING. Baseball is BORING. Cloud chambers are BORING. Investments, real estate, wine, pork bellies, the length of your penis, the fact that at the age of 47 you are STILL obsessed about the length of your penis--all BORING! And for exactly one reason. You're kidding, right? You really don't know this? Because it's not about ME. Or someone I know personally, or a celebrity I like. Or about how to lose weight quickly and effectively without any effort on my part. Oh, don't tell me about the exercise. I'm not going to do that. Or the part where you change the way you eat. I can't do that. It's just mean of you to even suggest...
And of course, by the time anyone is 53, they have gone through several phases of self-selling and have had to reorganize themselves and all their component parts so many times that whatever tenuous hold they used to have on who they are, or were, and what they want, even what would be minimally acceptable at this point, has gone through some serious slippage by now. Self-selling. That's right. To get into college, those personal essays. To get a job, several jobs, the resume. To convince some baboon to out with you. To lure him over from some troop of baboons clustered around the bar. To convince him not to leave you. To explain to him how sorry he'll be if he does. To convince a totally different baboon that you are in fact the perfect one for him--the only one--see? Look at my mouth when it makes the letter 'O.' Yes. That's what it will look like wrapped around your . . .
Anyway, strangely enough, when I was younger I still believed that one major reason people didn't listen to me was that I was too young to actually know anything worth listening to. But no. I have found that as time slipped past, faster and ever faster, that the more knowledge I accumulated, the more my opinion on things became worth seeking out, finally, the less time I was accorded to air it. In fact, when I was young and at least fresh-faced if not beautiful, people turned toward me and kept quiet for a short time while searching my face for the exact degree of beauty they could wring out of it. That pretending to listen was the price they were willing to pay to examine you thoroughly. And decide how to categorize you. Is she jolie? or maybe just jolie laid? I have to think about this some more. "Ah, yes, I see. Can you give me another example of . . . make that 3 examples of . . . Now, what are you talking about, again?"
Now, as a woman of 53, I can safely say that I am easily categorized in 10 seconds flat and as a result, am not allowed a second sentence before most people's eyes glaze over and shift to someone else's twinkling little ass cheeks over my right shoulder. And I suppose I should be angry about it and stomp my little no-longer-young feet and take this kind of treatment personally. But I can't. By now you've maybe noticed I require more than 10 seconds to get warmed up and rolling.
And, yeah, 146 is on a good day. Not today, of course. Never today.
I'm 53. I weigh 146 pounds. I love my husband. My son is intelligent, but since he is 15, he has the social graces of an 8-year-old. And now since I am asserting these various "facts" in a non-fiction piece, which one (or ones) will you begin to doubt? "146--who is she kidding? And when a 53-year-old woman says straight out that she loves her husband, in my experience, that means she has successfully hen-pecked him into some minimally acceptable format and she's proud of her handiwork . . . "
When I was a young woman, I noticed that no one listened, actually listened, to what I said and I wondered if it was just me they weren't listening to. But it wasn't. Men don't really listen to women, they are too distracted by the amazing way their lips move--"Ooh! look at that! Look how when she says the letter 'O'--shit--what's she saying? Do I need to listen to this part? Has she gotten to the part where we spar about where she'll consent to do the dirty deed? No? I'll check back later, shall I?" And that's if they're looking at you at all.
Women don't really listen to other women because they know that at least 75% of what they themselves say is just a litany of social anxiety and all you need to do is contradict whatever comes out of their mouths, just to reassure them--"Does my ass look too big in these pants? I thought the pink ones went better with the lipstick I was wearing at the time. What do you think? Oh, you agree? Oh, goody, I thought they went better, but I wasn't sure. Are you sure? Really? Are you sure sure? Or are you just agreeing to make me feel better? No, I really want to know, because I'd love it if you agreed, and of course I'd feel better if you truly agreed, and I'd be absolutely devastated if you didn't agree, because I already spent the $79.99, but what do you really think? Now truly . . . " It sends you mad, that. And I don't really like doing it, and yet I have done it, from time to time. Agreed, that is, when she looked like a big pink rubber eraser.
But it wasn't just me the men weren't listening to. Or the women. They weren't listening to anybody. Men can't listen to beautiful women because the beauty is like a stun gun. They can't listen to ugly women because--why? In-between women--there are no in-between women. Men don't like to listen to other men either, unless forced to by the hierarchy they find themselves trapped in and then they only pretend to listen to those higher than they are, while plotting to use this boring info being passed to jump over their heads. Anyone higher up in the hierarchy who can force them to stand there and listen is someone they already hate and are planning to circumvent. Anyone else is just yammering on about the statistics of choice and who gives a shit about boring stuff like baseball or rockets or horse racing? That's way boring. Now golf ball trajectories--that's fascinating stuff. Let me explain it to you. Depending on the force of your swing and the wind speed . . .
And women can't listen to men because--now, do I really have to explain this to you? You don't know this yourself? You're kidding, right? Okay, okay, okay, you asked for it. Golf is BORING. Baseball is BORING. Cloud chambers are BORING. Investments, real estate, wine, pork bellies, the length of your penis, the fact that at the age of 47 you are STILL obsessed about the length of your penis--all BORING! And for exactly one reason. You're kidding, right? You really don't know this? Because it's not about ME. Or someone I know personally, or a celebrity I like. Or about how to lose weight quickly and effectively without any effort on my part. Oh, don't tell me about the exercise. I'm not going to do that. Or the part where you change the way you eat. I can't do that. It's just mean of you to even suggest...
And of course, by the time anyone is 53, they have gone through several phases of self-selling and have had to reorganize themselves and all their component parts so many times that whatever tenuous hold they used to have on who they are, or were, and what they want, even what would be minimally acceptable at this point, has gone through some serious slippage by now. Self-selling. That's right. To get into college, those personal essays. To get a job, several jobs, the resume. To convince some baboon to out with you. To lure him over from some troop of baboons clustered around the bar. To convince him not to leave you. To explain to him how sorry he'll be if he does. To convince a totally different baboon that you are in fact the perfect one for him--the only one--see? Look at my mouth when it makes the letter 'O.' Yes. That's what it will look like wrapped around your . . .
Anyway, strangely enough, when I was younger I still believed that one major reason people didn't listen to me was that I was too young to actually know anything worth listening to. But no. I have found that as time slipped past, faster and ever faster, that the more knowledge I accumulated, the more my opinion on things became worth seeking out, finally, the less time I was accorded to air it. In fact, when I was young and at least fresh-faced if not beautiful, people turned toward me and kept quiet for a short time while searching my face for the exact degree of beauty they could wring out of it. That pretending to listen was the price they were willing to pay to examine you thoroughly. And decide how to categorize you. Is she jolie? or maybe just jolie laid? I have to think about this some more. "Ah, yes, I see. Can you give me another example of . . . make that 3 examples of . . . Now, what are you talking about, again?"
Now, as a woman of 53, I can safely say that I am easily categorized in 10 seconds flat and as a result, am not allowed a second sentence before most people's eyes glaze over and shift to someone else's twinkling little ass cheeks over my right shoulder. And I suppose I should be angry about it and stomp my little no-longer-young feet and take this kind of treatment personally. But I can't. By now you've maybe noticed I require more than 10 seconds to get warmed up and rolling.
And, yeah, 146 is on a good day. Not today, of course. Never today.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Advice
The reason I have no advice: the trick is to give of yourself without giving yourself completely away. But for each person that balance is so different. All of us must learn this balancing trick whether we are from Mars or Venus, childless or fecund. The problem arises in American society most poignantly when this gathering of libertarian individualists is saddled with offspring. Mothers are to learn a huge capacity for selflessness, and overnight, with no preparation and are allowed less leeway than fathers. Everyone believes that the balance they have found, or been deeded, is the only righteous one. By the numerous pursed lips around you, you will discover the parameters of allowed selfishness for mothers. It is a narrow path, and silently trodden in misery by many. You are just supposed to take it--on the head with a hammer, up the ass with a poker, whatever--and then at five p.m., you can have a drink. Mommy's Time Out is a brand of table wine I have seen in my local liquor store. The label shows a woman sitting in a rocking chair facing the corner of a room, a small table next to her with a glass of wine on it. This is available in both white and red.
Even if you are good at finding your own balance, there will be people hissing at you to find a different one, a better one, one that plays better to the chorus of other mothers, one that photographs better for Christmas cards. Even your nearest and dearest may blame you for doing it wrong--i.e. not as they would. All around me are older female relatives who continually instruct me that I am giving too little of myself in some ways: why am I not baking cookies, cakes, pies? That's what mothers do! That's what they did. You can't leave him alone like that! Or conversely, too much of myself in other ways: I shouldn't lift him up like that. Can't he play by himself for once? Why do you let him interrupt adults like that? (Oh, you mean, like you interrupted me just now?)
All in all, they want me to stop paying so much attention to that self-centered little id over there, or that big id over there (my husband) and come pay attention to them. Hey, don't I understand that romance and motherhood are fine and beautiful while they last, but that the greater part of a woman's life is actually more rewardingly spent with her women friends and relatives? What? You don't agree? But that is a truth universally acknowledged!
And these women, lovely all of them, are beset by bizarre consolatory habits that are now dragging their health down. They didn't find that wonderful a balance, but sought consolation in banana bread, chardonnay, or quilting. And if I do not save my brown bananas, or have a wine cellar, or own a sewing machine, it's clear that I am doomed. I have had it adamantly explained to me in no uncertain terms that knitting will ward off depression. Well, not if you knit like I do.
I don't actually believe that keeping my hands busy will prevent me from dwelling too deeply on my situation and despairing at its utter tragedy. Thought is not a problem for me. I like it. Consciousness is bliss, not ignorance. Ignorance is inevitable, but can be remedied. Once lost, it can never be regained, thankfully. And you still have to find your own balance.
Even if you are good at finding your own balance, there will be people hissing at you to find a different one, a better one, one that plays better to the chorus of other mothers, one that photographs better for Christmas cards. Even your nearest and dearest may blame you for doing it wrong--i.e. not as they would. All around me are older female relatives who continually instruct me that I am giving too little of myself in some ways: why am I not baking cookies, cakes, pies? That's what mothers do! That's what they did. You can't leave him alone like that! Or conversely, too much of myself in other ways: I shouldn't lift him up like that. Can't he play by himself for once? Why do you let him interrupt adults like that? (Oh, you mean, like you interrupted me just now?)
All in all, they want me to stop paying so much attention to that self-centered little id over there, or that big id over there (my husband) and come pay attention to them. Hey, don't I understand that romance and motherhood are fine and beautiful while they last, but that the greater part of a woman's life is actually more rewardingly spent with her women friends and relatives? What? You don't agree? But that is a truth universally acknowledged!
And these women, lovely all of them, are beset by bizarre consolatory habits that are now dragging their health down. They didn't find that wonderful a balance, but sought consolation in banana bread, chardonnay, or quilting. And if I do not save my brown bananas, or have a wine cellar, or own a sewing machine, it's clear that I am doomed. I have had it adamantly explained to me in no uncertain terms that knitting will ward off depression. Well, not if you knit like I do.
I don't actually believe that keeping my hands busy will prevent me from dwelling too deeply on my situation and despairing at its utter tragedy. Thought is not a problem for me. I like it. Consciousness is bliss, not ignorance. Ignorance is inevitable, but can be remedied. Once lost, it can never be regained, thankfully. And you still have to find your own balance.
Monday, July 12, 2010
The Big 5-3!
The morning after my fifty-third birthday, we were on the S-bahn coming in to the Zurich Hauptbahnhof when some graffiti caught my eye. It said, Hello Toxic Crone. I was happy the greeting was so positive. It could have read, Shut up Toxic Crone. Now I'm not usually one for waiting for synchronicitous bits of information from the universe to come along and make me veer from a calamitous rut of habit. I don't take random billboards viewed along the the side of the road stating, "Whoa! You've passed Pine Beach Road!" as clarion calls to action. I'll decide for myself, thank you. But it did get me thinking. I don't want to be toxic to anyone, and yet all around me I am faced with what my son calls "bad stares." Comments I have made just to get a laugh, or with a faint hint of sarcasm, have been taken at face value as direct and harsh criticism. And even when I follow with, "I'm kidding. I'm kidding!" it doesn't help. If you have to explain the joke, it's no longer funny, is it? They feel misunderstood and I feel misunderstood and no one's happy. I fail to remember they have no sense of humor and they fail to remember that everything I say must be taken with a handful of fleur de sel.
They don't get self-deprecating. Perhaps they feel such a poverty of self-esteem that they can't do anything else but peptalk to themselves? I don't know. I don't feel that. My feeling is that absurdities abound, and everywhere deserve comment and reaction, lest we fall prey to them. Lest we hunger for hamburgers when we see them on TV, for example. Lest we believe there is only one way to understand our actions, our words: the way they were meant. Unfortunately, it's not that simple.
Happy Birthday to me.
They don't get self-deprecating. Perhaps they feel such a poverty of self-esteem that they can't do anything else but peptalk to themselves? I don't know. I don't feel that. My feeling is that absurdities abound, and everywhere deserve comment and reaction, lest we fall prey to them. Lest we hunger for hamburgers when we see them on TV, for example. Lest we believe there is only one way to understand our actions, our words: the way they were meant. Unfortunately, it's not that simple.
Happy Birthday to me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)