Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Friday, May 26, 2006 Then Again, Maybe I Won't So I'm off to Canada, going "overseas" (as my cranial wonder of a mayor calls it) which is alternately stressful and exciting.
No, I'm not immigrating. Yet. But. A flight and a couple of steps in that direction.
I love the ironic timing in my life.
You know how I'm all veggie and animal loving and violence hating? And you know how I'm all like, "that's it, I've had it, I'm immigrating to Canada where the people are friendly, the beer is strong, the immigration rules are fair and enforced and baby seals are violently clubbed at staggering rates?"
Scratch of record sound bite.
Yeah. I don't even drink beer. And I conveniently forgot about the baby seal clubbing.
Well. I didn't forget. I just sort of weighed the other factors which were more pertinent and relevant to me. Yes. It was all about me. Selfish of me to not think of the baby seals. On the other hand, it's none of my business what they do in Canada, per se. And can I sit here and say Americans treat the environment and animals any better? No. I cannot. Let he who is without environmental infractions club the first baby seal.
How would I like it if people from other countries tried to boss around George Bush because of his rape the land and strip the world of it's natural resources and beauty in the name of oil policy? Oh wait. Never mind. Never mined.
So yeah, a bit of an ironic twist in my immigration to Canada endeavor, as I packed my bags to visit Canada I received an email petition reminding me of the inhumane slaughter fest in Canada. I don't really believe in fate or divine intervention so I'm still packing to go to Canada. But. It does give me pause for thought about the nation I'm considering calling home. Here's information and a petition to Stephen Harper (the Prime Minister of Canada) asking for an end to the slaughter (Usually off season, by the way, and usually extremely violent. These are not mercy killings, the hunters are not "speeding up the process" and ending suffering by eliminating the sick and elderly of the herd.)
8:12 AM
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Remember how over the counter in-home beautification treatments have a way of backfiring on me? Well. Let’s score another point for the marketers of over the counter in-home beautification treatments.
Actually. That didn't go so awful. The White Stripping Incident of 2003 was bad, but the next year when Nite Effects hit the market the experience was better.
So yeah, I guess, reflecting on it a bit more, OTC beautification products haven't been so bad to me.
Maybe that's why I thought it would be safe to try...oh man...this is embarrassing...we're all friends here, right? Okay, I know we're not all friends. But. Okay. Fine. Be gentle with me.
I tried a self tanning product.
There. Okay?
But in my defense it came highly recommended by a friend who tried it and it's made by Dove and the package says, "SUBTLE Self Tanners." Energy Glow, it's called.
Subtle it says. "Gradually builds a beautiful Summery glow." It doesn't say anything about turning your flesh to a lovely shade of tangerine.
I was under the impression (via the person who recommended it and the package) that it's really more of a moisturizer which will just leave a trace of, well, Summery glow. Apparently I'm confused on the meaning of Summery glow. I was thinking a deep moisturizing treatment which leaves behind soft skin with just a little hint of color, enough to smooth out the not so glowy Wintery pasty white. You know, me but not so sickly and Wintery dry looking. But apparently Summery glow actually means: Chernoble core during meltdown glow.
One application left my legs looking like I've spent the past three months in a tanning bed. All I need is to bleach my hair yellow blonde, wear frosty shimmer lipstick and blue eye shadow, don some skin tight white jean cut-off shorts and scuffed up white pumps and I'm ready for an audition for the Donna Summer “Bad Girls” video or the bad part of the Las Vegas Strip.
I trusted Dove. I trusted them. I've used Dove products and found them to be exactly as they claim to be on their packaging. I had no reason not to trust Energy Glow.
Well.
Except.
I have a bad self tanning product experience in my past and I should have known better.
Wavy flashback screen…
It was the Summer of my 15th year.
I was 5'11". Flat as a board (yes, really). Full set of braces on my teeth (with headgear). Long hair frizzy from the Summer humidity and streaked with orangey red highlights thanks to my friend's brother's be-sunroofed Firebird which we'd been riding around in all Summer because she already had her license and her brother was backpacking across Europe. And I was white. Really, really, really white. So white you could see veins under my skin. A few freckles on my cheeks and a reddish nose from that Sun roof. Yeah. I was quite the teenaged temptress. The Lolita of the neighborhood. I think it's fair to say my trouble attracting men began sometime around the age of 12. My friend, who was older, blonder, prettier and in possession of a driver's license and the keys to her brother's Firebird, was invited to a party, a pool party and she had begged an invite for me, too. Cool kids were going to be there. College kids. Boys. Young men. Who went to other schools and college and didn't know us.
Much to my astounding amazement my parents agreed to let me attend this pool party with older boys and young men from college. Looking back on it I suppose they weren't worried about me because of the braces, height, lack of any discernible female body parts, frizzy hair and translucent skin. They may have even thought this to be my one chance at garnering a date - get a boy drunk enough on a hot Summer night and he might even be attracted to me.
Fortunately I was stupid enough to say something about swimming to my friend and she, aghast, explained that swimming would not be the focus of the pool party. I was a dork. I was the girl who, had I not been fortunate enough to have an older cool friend, would have shown up in her bathing suit and sneakers with a towel wrapped around me like a terry cloth sarong and swim goggles hanging around my neck. And pool toys. I was completely out of my fashion depth. A pool party with no swimming and boys from other schools and young men from college was not exactly something I was hip to at that stage of my life. I was nervous to say the least. I worried about this event. So worried my mother even sprang for a new "cool" outfit for the party. (Don't ask. Please. Do not ask. It was very cool which means it was very awful. It involved stripes, cheap jewelry and sandals. (Actually, I wish I had those sandals, they'd be kind of cool now.))
My friend and I spent the night before the night of the party in preparation for the party. She had a lot of make-up. I actually had a fair amount thanks to my older sister who was a model with trunks full of make-up, but I never wore much because I hadn't quite gotten the hang of achieving a look other than punk. Which I actually pulled off pretty well what with the translucent skin and an already sizable “alternative” record collection thanks to my older brother and college radio stations.
But punk was not really the right look for the pool party with boys from other schools and young men from college. And my friend wasn’t punk. She was more, um, I dunno really, cover of Seventeen magazine comes to mind. So we messed around with our looks for the party. Meaning: she deftly tried several different combinations which all looked good and then tried them on me. Without the same results.
Her: Pretty 17-year-old blonde cover of Seventeen girl.
Me: Awkward 15-year-old cover of a Slits album (with a lot of effort and minus the attitude).
I vividly remember her copies of Elle and Vogue and how we tried to emulate the models' make-up looks.
And Sun-in was involved. My already blonde friend streaked in some highlights and I followed suit because it actually “worked” in her hair, added a subtle sun kissed highlight to her natural blonde locks here and there. And she convinced me it would be just as subtle in mine. Even though my hair was dark brunette and naturally streaked with red highlights. (okay, she wasn’t the brains of the operation, but she was popular, or at least well liked, had a car and for some reason that Summer she chose to hang out with me so I was willing to try just about anything she suggested) Though, to my credit, I was smart enough to dilute the stuff and applied it to what I thought were just a few strands. I stood firm when my friend tried to convince me more would be better. Looking back on this I have to wonder if she was trying to sabotage me, if maybe she had some sort of Carrie homage in mind.
However, when she insisted that with my short, um, outfit and sandals my legs would be getting a lot of attention, particularly because they were so white, I agreed and worried.
She had just the remedy.
Everyone, on the count of three: 1 - 2 - 3: Ban de Soleil! Ah yes, self tanning at it's most unnatural orangey best.
I guess we all have to learn the hard way, right? Still. That stuff should be illegal. I mean, it's just cruel to lead on young girls with that stuff. Just absolutely cruel.
You know what happened. I don't need to go into an explanation of the tangerine colored base with the dark brown streaks do I? Or the dark brown map of creases between my toes and fingers? Or the stark contrast of white in all the places I missed when applying or when I washed my hands like the instructions said to do? Or the finger print shaped brown smudges on my cheek from where I apparently touched my face with the stuff and didn't realize it until it was too late, way too late?
The term unmitigated disaster comes to mind. I mean, there I was with my new cool outfit and I was completely orange with brown streaks and finger shaped marks on my face. And orange/yellow streaks in my hair. My mother tried to stifle her laughter when I came down the morning after the application. The day of the party. She tried really hard, you know, to be supportive and encouraging. But in the end she cracked under the pressure. I think it was when I showed her pasty white hands with brown streaks and an almost perfect "cuff" where the orange and brown streaks began at my wrists. It looked like I was wearing orange sleeves and white gloves.
I mean, I can't blame her, I would laugh if it were my kid. I'd totally crack up. So, you know, I don't fault her for laughing and she did try really hard to not laugh at first. But. Well. It was funny. My big pool party with no swimming and older boys from other schools and young men from college and a new cool outfit with sandals and there I was: Orange with brown streaks and white hands. And matching bright orange/yellow streaks in my hair.
My mother took me to her salon and they dyed my hair a regular shade of brown to cover up the Sun-in. (You may recall this was not the first professional dye job I required due to a home beautifying experiment gone wrong, I already had a history of home beautifying experiments gone horribly wrong.) And we tried everything, everything to tone down the Ban de Soleil skin dye. We were moderately successful with a solution they use to correct a bad dye job, a bleaching agent of some sort. I sometimes wonder which will give me some rare form of cancer first: The Ban de Soleil or the bleaching agents we slathered on me to try to get rid of it.
In the end I wore cute slacks to the party and stacks of bracelets and my sister's cast-off super wide (and super out of style) watch to hide the line between my orange arms and white hands.
Yadda yadda yadda.
I left that party as chaste and unnoticed as I arrived. Well. The older boys from other schools and the young men from college did notice me. It's kind of hard to not notice a 5'11" tangerine wearing a striped top and lots and lots and lots of cheap jewelry and fingerprint shaped brown smudges on her face. Oh. And braces. But they weren't interested in anything from me other than pointing and laughing.
My friend met a young man from college that night and three weeks later she gave "it" up to him in her brother's Firebird. It was her Summer of love. It was my Summer of bad fake tan and striped top.
If my parents would have been Catholic everything would have been so much easier: I could have just become a nun. I mean, duh. It would have been the obvious calling from my earliest years. Oh sure, even then I had a lot of questions about the whole God concept, but I suppose once they whisk you away into the nunnery you're brainwashed into the married to God thing and just accept Him and get on with your life of duty to Him.
Right. So. Lesson learned: Tan from a bottle = very bad thing.
Never again.
Until last weekend when I was seduced by my friend's recommendation. (not the same friend, I have no idea what became of that Summer friend, she went to college and I heard she transferred to another college and I don't know after that, but, she did date that young man from college for a couple of years) My friend’s recommendation fueled by a remark made by a guy at a bar who told me I looked anemic.
I just love men. I really do. When they’re not interested in getting laid they’re so brutally honest. People say every straight woman needs a gay guy friend. I don’t know about that. I mean, I have gay guy friends and true, along with just being good friends, they’re also sometimes very helpful in terms of makeup tricks and style ideas because they happen to be in those industries. My gay guy friends are sensitive to my feelings regarding the flaws and focus on devising techniques for camouflaging them, but I think it has more to do with them being good friends than their sexual orientation.
For my money when it comes to honesty about your looks you cannot keep it more real than a random straight guy who does not want to have sex with you. He’ll tell you your butt looks huge in those jeans because your butt is huge. He’ll tell you your hair isn’t sexy. He’ll suggest a nose job or other plastic surgery. He’ll tell you you’re too tall, too short, too skinny, too fat, too chesty, not chesty enough or anemic looking. Basically, a man who has no sexual interest in you will confirm every flaw you see in the mirror.
On the other hand, a man who wants to have sex with you will lie. Or in some cases truly not see the flaws as flaws and in those cases, well, hang onto that man for dear life and never let him go.
I know I’m really white. Especially my legs. Pasty British legs. Strong and serviceable and very, very white. I know this. The anemic remark hit a little hard coming from a guy I’d just met, but, it was not without more than several bleached grains of truth.
My friend used the Dove Energy Glow moisturizer to good effect. I figured it was time to give it a try. I trusted Dove and my friend. I trusted them.
And they did me wrong.
Real wrong.
Tangerine orange glow wrong.
Okay. Part of it might be my fault. I did a little investigating and discovered there are two formulas: One for fair skin and one for medium skin. I unfortunately used the one for medium skin. Yes. I know I have fair skin and not medium skin, but they didn't have the fair skin formula. At the time I didn't know a fair skin formula existed. I thought it was medium fits all.
Besides, the shade chart on the bottle kind of matches my skin. Well okay, not so much. But it's a plastic bottle under fluorescent lights, it's difficult to match tones and predict results. Ever buy a lipstick or look at photos inside a pharmacy and think they're fine only to discover how bad and off color they are when you get outside in real light? Right. So I think we can cut me just a bit of slack over the shade chart matching.
At least this time there aren't white hands and a line of orange starting at my wrists. And the brown streaks are minimal. And there's no pool party with leg revealing outfit involved. But. Still.
There's work. And a big work thing. And skirts. I keep scrubbing and exfoliating and shaving and hoping the orange will just go away. But so far it hasn’t.
As for the moisturizer, well, it actually is a pretty good moisturizer. If the “glow” were less orange and more subtle it wouldn’t be a bad product. I can see why my friend likes it. So I gave her the bottle I bought. I won’t be using it. She’s eschewed tanning in the Sun but wants to look tan. She was surprised to see my results.
“Trill, you must have done something wrong,” she said, “it doesn’t do that to me, see?” She proffered lovely supple subtle even toned Sun kissed looking legs.
She stretched her leg next to mine. My orange and brown splotched leg.
We had a good laugh over the comparison. We looked like a commercial for good/bad self tanners: “My self tanner left my legs looking orange and brown splotched! Embarrassing! So I asked my friend how she achieved her lovely supple subtle even toned Sun kissed looking legs…” Yeah, us kooky advertising gals.
Some guys happened to walk by while we were having a laugh over my legs. They asked what happened to me. Just like that, they said, “What happened to your legs?” My friend, thinking she was doing me a favor, said, “We tried a self tanner and we’re comparing results,” she said.
“Yours look a lot better,” one of the guys said to my friend, “yours look weird,” he then said to me. Completely unsolicited. See what I mean about guys who have no interest in sex with you? They’ll just bluntly put it all out there.
The other guy said to my friend, “You’ve got great legs.” He might have been drooling. See what I mean about guys who want to have sex with you? They’ll say anything, seize any opportunity to lavish compliments and even lie if they think it will get them closer to the bedroom. (My friend has okay legs, kind of short but nice, you know, nice legs, regular legs, supple subtle even toned Sun kissed looking legs. I’m not sure they qualify as “great” but it’s all in the eye of the beholder or at least the guy who wants to have sex.)
When my friend picked up her drink and flashed her gazillion carat diamond wedding band the guys disappeared, vanished into thin air. Which is fine. Obviously I wasn’t interested in those guys. Stupid Dove Energy Glow for medium skintones. Summer's getting off to a great start.
10:38 AM
Sunday, May 21, 2006 Another Saturday night and I ain't got nobody...
I just got paid but of course that means nothing to me, at least in the, "hey! I just got paid! Let's go nuts!" sense because my money goes to paying the many bills which crowd my mailbox every month and feeding the cat.
But hey, another Saturday night and I ain't got nobody blah blah blah how I wish I had someone to talk to, I'm in an awful way.
And that's really the worst of it, not having someone to talk to on a Saturday night. Or Sunday morning. Or 3 AM on a Tuesday. Well. That and it occurred to me I'd like a really good kiss. You know, a really good, serious, real kiss. I don't think about that often, it's not allowed on the regime of no feelings. But. Sometimes I think about kisses I've had in the past and how good they felt and how nice it was to share that lip locked physicality with someone who wanted to share it with me. I used to really like kissing. A couple of former boyfriends even told me I was a good kisser. Rock Star wrote a really bad song about my "addictive kisses." Yeah, I know, who'd a thought that? That was a long time ago, seems like a different life, someone else's life. It startles me sometimes to remember I used to have a life like that. A life that included boyfriends and kisses (addictive and otherwise) and going out on Saturday night or staying in on Saturday night and talking until 3 in the morning.
Now I work. I go to work and I work a lot of hours. And I come home and I work until I think I can fall asleep for a few hours. Then I get up and go to work. Sometimes I go out, you know, out. Socially. Last week I went out three nights. I know, easy there, Trill, you might hurt yourself. I would go out more but I can't afford it. (see above, crowded mail box)
And I find when I go out coming home is worse than if I'd stayed in all evening. The loneliness, isolation and despair is more obvious after spending an evening out in a crowd or out with friends who are all going home to/with their partners. Sure, going out is fun, until someone gets hurt. And that someone is usually me. When I get in the cab or walk home alone. And go into my compartment and it's quiet (the Zydeco is dying down, someone else must have complained, it now seems to stop around 9 PM) and the compartment is empty and Furry Creature wants a bite to eat and I think about something someone said earlier in the evening or how great or awful the band was and turn to talk to someone about it and then, oh yeah, that's right, there's no one there. Furry Creature consequently knows a lot about bands and my friends and the people I meet when I go out. So I rattle around all in a post-going out buzz on my own. It's a waste. A horrible waste. A waste of a life, a waste of energy, a waste of time. Those few hours out are fun but when I go home they magnify the emptiness in my life. And then reality hits and I realize the money I spent going out, while not great sums to most people, cut into the monthly budget and the rest of the month is going to be spent eating Ramen and peanut butter and using laundry quarters as my emergency bus fair. Yes. Sometimes it comes down to either doing the laundry or saving quarters for the bus should I need to ride if I'm in a hurry to get to work.
Welcome to the fun swinging single life.
I was okay with times like this when I was younger. The times between boyfriends was sometimes a relief. A chance to regroup, grow as a person, spend time alone doing what I wanted to do, developing myself, working on projects, going to school, it was good. I was fine with it. And I knew I could go out and eventually going out would produce a boyfriend or at least some interesting prospects. But those days are long gone. Now when I go out I sit and watch other women get boyfriends or interesting prospects. All the smiles and coy hair flipping in the world doesn't bring men my way. Unless I happen to be out with some of my attractive female friends. Who happen to be married. Yet men don't seem to be bothered, daunted by that. They see a table of attractive women and apparently think they've got a chance with at least one of them.
They get disappointed and sometimes angry to learn that they're right, they do have a chance with at least one of them, but that one is me. When my friends all talk me up and try to steer these men in my direction the men who were attracted to my friends either leave or become rude. "Her? Uh, no, I don't think so. Not my, um, 'type.' You're my type. And her, the cute one with the nice ass, she's my type, too. But not her." Yes. Men have said that. Not just one man, men, on several nights out in several different types of places. Those types of remarks don't hurt me anymore. I'm used to it. I anticipate them and spend my time building up interior defenses to paste on the attitude and look that says "it doesn't matter, I wasn't interested in him anyway, his words don't hurt me" and "he's a jerk and whatever, laugh laugh laugh.' (sob sob sob)
I did get hit on by an older man. An older married man. A much older married man. His wife doesn't understand him. They have an open arrangement. You know, until the kids are in college. Then they'll get a divorce. But until then he's trapped in a marriage with a wife who doesn't understand him and he's bored.
Yep. I've hit the point in my life where that kind of man hits on me.
Well. I mean, I've been hit on by men like that in the past. They're everywhere, in every corner of the Universe, lounge lizards of a bygone era, those men with that tired cliché of a line will hit on any woman they think looks either dumb enough or lonely (and desperate) enough to buy into or excuse the cliché. They frequently work in sales or are "in real estate." They frequently wear a huge watch and/or a gold bracelet. They're frequently named Roger. So much so that I've come to assume "Roger" is an alias, a code name used by married men incapable of getting a divorce and yet also incapable of putting in the effort required to have a marriage which isn't a sham. They don't really want a divorce any more than they want the relationship they claim they're seeking there at the bar. What they want is sex and will stop at nothing, not even tried old clichés to get it.
Those guys, Rogers, are usually not into sarcasm. So they usually don't appreciate my responses to them. "Of course your wife doesn't understand you, clearly you're a complex and sensitive individual with very deep needs, so many needs that you need more than one woman to satisfy and fulfill you." Or, "Oh, how nice you're sticking together for the sake of the children. So are you out 'bowling' or 'working late' tonight? Which lie did you tell them? Because of course lying to them about where you are and what you're doing and about the state of your relationship with your wife is better than having them have to deal with a divorce," and they really hate it when I use my mother's line on them, "Only boring people get bored." Yes, as you can see, I have a few barriers to intimacy, at least when it comes to men like that. They hate it when their bluff is called. They slither away and look for fresh prey. They go for the dumb one instead of the lonely one next time.
I sat there looking at the Roger of the week thinking, "Ya know Trill, maybe this is it, maybe this is as good as it's ever going to get for you. Maybe deep down in there somewhere he's not really as bad as he seems. Maybe his wife really is a bitch and maybe he really does love his children." And then I snap out of my desperation and go to the "ladies room."
But back home, alone, I sit there thinking, "I could have at least kissed him, got that out of my system. One kiss every five years isn't asking too much or hardly playing with fire." And then I think, "Oh swut Trillian, is this what it's come down to? You, alone in a tiny compartment with a cat contemplating whether or not you should have at least kissed that Roger because lately you've been thinking a kiss would be nice?" And then I think, "I cannot live this way. I'm too alone and too empty. I'm sitting here having this conversation with myself and a cat."
I fill my days and nights with as much activity as possible to avoid being alone. I work. I freelance. I volunteer. I have interests. I go places and do things. I have friends. I get "out there." I try, you know, I really try. And all of that is rewarding in a lot of ways. But. Then I'm alone. And ultimately that's the worst of it. I do have a fairly involved and "rewarding" life, but, what's the point if you don't have someone with whom you can share it, have a laugh, relax and enjoy the aftermoments, sit back and just have a good old snog?
People tell me I should embrace being single, that in many ways I'm lucky to be single, that I can go wherever I want and do whatever I want. Funny, I just never felt trapped in my past relationships, I never felt like I was being held back from doing what I wanted to do. People tell me divorce rates are high and a marriage is no guarantee of an end to loneliness. I mean, duh, of course not. But I've been pretty good at choosing men in the past, I mean, at least in terms of dating men who didn't trap me or isolate me or make me yearn for more. Even HWNMNBS with his special brand of self esteem bashing, even with him, even with the distance between us, I didn't feel trapped or lonely. He was always there for me and apart from my looks was extremely supportive and encouraging of me and my goals. And I loved kissing him. I've never allowed myself (or wanted to) get into a relationship which wouldn't be mutually satisfying or at least fun and rewarding on some level. I'm stupid but I'm not an idiot when it comes to relationships. Why do you think I've burned through almost 50 first dates and had very few second dates? It's not always them, it's more often a combination of us which just isn't right. I could have hung in there with a couple of those guys, the recent doofus, for instance, really liked me, but I would have ended up feeling alone or even trapped in relationships with them. I'm lonely now but I'm not too stupid or desperate enough to realize those relationships would make me even more lonelier. "Not everyone gets to be married," I'm told. Oh. Okay. Gee, really? Ya don't say. I realize this, too. And that's what's scary and depressing and makes the loneliness worse. I am all too aware that not everyone gets to be married, and that a lot of people spend their lives single and wishing they weren't.
But is it wrong to not want to be one of them? Is it wrong to feel lonely and empty and long for a relationship when you're the sort of person who wants that? Nature, biology, makes us to be paired up with a mate. And no, this isn't about my biological clock, though, I admit, that has been a factor in the past and I make no apologies. People are made to reproduce. It's normal to want children. Those of us who want them are not bad. We're normal. Survival of the species, all that? Ringing any bells from biology class? Reproduction is the most basic function any organism can master. A swutting gnat can reproduce for crying out loud. It's what organisms do. It's nature. I also happen to really like children and hoped I would have some with a man who also wanted to be a parent, with me. It's not working out that way. But don't tell me, "It wasn't meant to be" and expect me to think it's all okay because "it wasn't meant to be." I've got a uterus, desire and love to be a mother and it's oversimplifying, arrogant and stupid to tell me I either shouldn't want children or that "it wasn't meant to be." I realize that, okay? I'm not a complete idiot. I realize that. But it still hurts. I still yearn for children. I still feel sad every month when another egg goes to waste. On a very basic level it makes me feel like a failure as a human organism. On a deeper level it makes me feel sad and lonely. I accept what's happened to my life. But accepting my fate doesn't mean I don't feel bad about it. And for you guys out there who don't happen to have a uterus and like to make judgments or jokes about biological clocks: Shut up.
The point is that we're supposed to be paired up. That's the nature of things. Life is hard. We need help. Support. A partner. I realize that doesn't mean we all get to be married and/or have children. But for those of us outcast and alone, those of us who want a partner and a relationship, it's rough going sometimes. It hurts. It's scary. It's lonely. That's not to say we feel we're wasting our lives or that we're incomplete, just that we'd be better, less lonely and more well adjusted if we had someone to talk to (and kiss) now and then. This is basic stuff of life. Some people truly do not want that stuff, and that's great, fine for them, to each their own and good for them for realizing that about themselves. But for those of us who want it and don't have it and keep trying and still don't have it, it's rough going. Simply trying to accept it and become one of the people who doesn't want any of that isn't easy. You have to deny and squash all your most basic instincts, desires and feelings.
I need to find the guy who realizes I have issues and accepts them. I need to find a man who doesn't insult me or my intelligence. I need to find a man who needs a financial partner. I need to find a man who's wiling to kiss me from time to time. He doesn't have to love me and he doesn't have to want me to love him. Somewhere out there is a guy who's been bashed around by life and relationships, who's single and lonely and in need of a financial partner and someone to talk to at 3 AM. The problem is that, like me, he's probably busy with work and activities and his life. It's not until he goes home to his empty compartment that he thinks, "I could really use someone to talk to right now. A kiss would be nice, too. And a little help with the finances would be nice."
10:37 AM
