This was initially part of the random quotes section of my first day 44 post, but it snowballed. Besides, it is worthy of its own post. A disclaimer. Sex and the City--the HBO Zeitgeist television series--is sacred to me in the way that Star Wars is sacred to men who came of age in the late 70s and 80s.* When HBO cancelled the series, I actually cried. It was a loss. It was my Sunday night treat enjoyed with Peanut Butter and Chocolate ice cream from 31 Flavors. Don't judge. At least, I don't have any action figures or kitchenware based on the series.
La Douleur Exquise is from Season 2. My fevered mind sought succor and insight based the following quotes and then it snowballed: Inspired by my own Mr. Big, whom/who I keep trying to untie myself from because he is unavailable in oh, so many ways. But I cannot let go. Not really, not for very long because *something* won't let me. Because, my stupid, deluded heart continues to think that, at some level, it's meant to be, and that letting go, really letting go is a mistake on par with Luke's initial attraction to Leia, who as we all know was his sister. Fuck-a-doodle-do.
BESIDES, it is just a fucking great episode. I urge my sexually adventurous friends who closet their fetishes to watch this episode. You know who you are!
So, these initial quotes are from the middle and end of the episode but fuck it, my head hurts and I have to pick up my sunshine girl soon:
“Why do I keep doing this to myself? I must be a masochist or something. That's when I first realized it. I was in an S & M relationship with Mr. Big. In love relationships, there is a fine line between pleasure and pain. In fact, it's a common belief that a relationship without pain......is a relationship not worth having. To some, pain implies growth. But how do we know when the growing pains stop......and the “pain-pains” take over? Are we masochists or optimists, if we continue to walk that fine line? When it comes to relationships.....how do you know when enough is enough?"
“There were no words left. We'd said them all. After we made love, I knew it was over. Did I ever really love Big or was I addicted to the pain? The exquisite pain of wanting someone so unattainable.....I wanted to go to him, but I felt like I was tied to the chair. Some part of me was holding me back, knowing I had gone too far. Reached my limit. And just like that, I had untied myself from Mr. Big. I was free. But there was nothing exquisite about it.”
And the fact that this episode is all about fetishes. It opens in a S&M restaurant, and the "girls" including Sanford talk about fetishes. Carrie's voice-over opening:
"New York City restaurants are always looking for the next new angle.....to grab that elusive and somewhat jaded Manhattan palate. Last year, it was”Fusion-Cajun.”Last month, it was”Mussels from Brussels.”
And tonight, it's “S & M.” Samantha's PR firm was hired to do the opening party for La Douleur Exquise.
Translation: The Exquisite Pain. Of course, we were all invited. This is what happens when the Mayor shuts down the sex shops. It pops up in your cuisine."
Samantha explains: "Don't be so judgmental. This is just a sexual expression. All these people have jobs and pay their bills. They're just having fun with fetishes...We all have a fetish. The difference between us and them is: They're putting it out there where everyone can see. I think it's healthy and fabulous."
Carrie leaves to see Big, with a riding crop, and reminds her friends that: "Whipping on the first date is considered forward."
Charlotte has a shoe fetish and meets her Prince Charming in Buster, a shoe salesman with a foot fetish. He first gives Charlotte a big discount and then free shoes when she lets him handle her feet. Charlotte returns to the shoe store and Buster literally cums in his pants as he puts new shoes on her feet "Charlotte looked down at the exquisite shoes. The smell of leather was intoxicating. Charlotte felt like Cinderella. Cinderella in a dirty, kinky, freaked out, storybook, parallel universe."
Miranda gets picked up by Jack while shopping for books on the street. Jack likes to have sex in places where he could get caught. In public (outside the house where Twain wrote a Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court), in his bedroom with his visiting parents in the next room.
Sanford has an underwear fetish and goes to a gay club where the fellows have to strip down to their skivvies...Funk's your brother is playing, which might be one of the best songs ever...
*The HBO series is sacred. The movies are mainly just to feed the withdrawal and the aching, gaping whole left by the series absence. The first movie was decent. And the second movie was an elaborate, extended commercial for high-end clothing and other consumer goods.
**Here is a website that has the scripts from the show. In addition to text, it contains the actual audio from the episodes: http://www.satctranscripts.com/2008/08/sex-and-city-season-2-episode-12.html
***And wisdom from Samantha from the next episode "Games People Play": "The only place you can control a man is in bed. If we perpetually gave men blow jobs, we could run the world." And Carrie observes that "at least our hands would be free to greet dignitaries and stuff."
Friday, August 12, 2011
Day 44: Back in the saddle again...sort of
Sometimes, we have to measure our progress in small steps. Baby steps as Dr. Leo Marvin suggested, and his patient Bob brilliantly implemented. Today, I have been upright for several hours. At work. Today, I have not watched a single episode of Dexter. Today, I am wearing make-up. Today, I managed to drink an entire medium coffee and consume an entire bowl of chicken noodle soup without hurling. Baby steps, baby steps, baby steps.
I am blithely ignoring the gnawing headache, general wonkiness, and dizziness. Ignoring the fuzzy hair and pale, sickly look that can only be procured from lying curled on the couch for four days and consuming only white toast and ginger ale. Ignoring the twin piles of work on my desk. (See descriptive photo).
Listening to this woman [who] "was singin' my song."* Not Lisa Loeb but Florence and the Machine singing about the ghost filling up her lungs, sighing in her sleep, entwined in her tongue as she falls at his feet...one of my 2011 functional equivalents of Lisa Loeb's "Stay" who set the bar for being the woman "singin' my song."** Am perhaps a handful of people who know that she once dated Ethan Hawke. And that he memorialized her and their relationship in his first novel.*** His soulmate, who he ditched for his should.
This could be why I am so very fucked up. Layer upon layer upon layer of "tangled, rusted, dented, Goddamned misery"**** from childhood and beyond. I should have been a relationship archaeologist or something.
Quotes of the day inspired by randomness ranging from my own personal obsessions and stray comments made on my friends' facebook posts and the butterfly effect in general:
"You're the reason that cavemen chiseled on walls." As Good as it Gets (From a friend's status update about caving in and finally getting cable and her friend's comment, wondering if she lives in a cave).
"I might be the only person on the face of the earth that knows you're the greatest woman on earth. I might be the only one who appreciates how amazing you are in every single thing that you do, and how you are with Spencer, "Spence," and in every single thought that you have, and how you say what you mean, and how you almost always mean something that's all about being straight and good. I think most people miss that about you, and I watch them, wondering how they can watch you bring their food, and clear their tables and never get that they just met the greatest woman alive. And the fact that I get it makes me feel good, about me." (Inspired by looking up the cavemen quote to quote it accurately. As Good as it Gets might be one of the best movies ever.)
"I gotta pee." Forrest Gump (Inspired by the fact that I've got to pee).
*Lisa Loeb, Stay. "So I turned the radio on, I turned the radio up, and this woman was singing my song:
lover's in love, and the other's run away, lover is crying 'cause the other won't stay. Some of us hover when we weep for the other who was dying since the day they were born. Well, well, this is not that; I think that I'm throwing, but I'm thrown. And I thought I'd live forever, but now I'm not so sure. You try to tell me that I'm clever, but that won't take me anyhow, or anywhere with you. You said that I was naive, and I thought that I was strong. I thought, "hey, I can leave, I can leave." Oh, but now I know that I was wrong, 'cause I missed you. Yeah, I miss you."
** Florence and the Machine, I am not calling you a liar. "There's a ghost in my lungs and it sighs in my sleep. Wraps itself around my tongue as it softly speak. Then it walks, then it walks with my legs. To fall, to fall, to fall at your feet. There but for the grace of God go I. And when you kiss me, I am happy enough to die...There's a ghost in my mouth and it talks in my sleep wraps itself around my tongue as it softly speaks
Then it walks, then it walks, then it walks with my legs. To fall, to fall, to fall, to fall, to fall, to fall
To fall, to fall, to fall, to fall...To fall, to fall at your feet"
***The Hottest State was Ehtan Hawke's first novel. Yes, that Ethan Hawke, and I did say first novel. His second was Ash Wednesday, which I did not read but will look for at Borders, which is soon to be closed. Forever. And also interrelated to my layers. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
****Jann Arden, Good Mother
My desk:
I am blithely ignoring the gnawing headache, general wonkiness, and dizziness. Ignoring the fuzzy hair and pale, sickly look that can only be procured from lying curled on the couch for four days and consuming only white toast and ginger ale. Ignoring the twin piles of work on my desk. (See descriptive photo).
Listening to this woman [who] "was singin' my song."* Not Lisa Loeb but Florence and the Machine singing about the ghost filling up her lungs, sighing in her sleep, entwined in her tongue as she falls at his feet...one of my 2011 functional equivalents of Lisa Loeb's "Stay" who set the bar for being the woman "singin' my song."** Am perhaps a handful of people who know that she once dated Ethan Hawke. And that he memorialized her and their relationship in his first novel.*** His soulmate, who he ditched for his should.
This could be why I am so very fucked up. Layer upon layer upon layer of "tangled, rusted, dented, Goddamned misery"**** from childhood and beyond. I should have been a relationship archaeologist or something.
Quotes of the day inspired by randomness ranging from my own personal obsessions and stray comments made on my friends' facebook posts and the butterfly effect in general:
"You're the reason that cavemen chiseled on walls." As Good as it Gets (From a friend's status update about caving in and finally getting cable and her friend's comment, wondering if she lives in a cave).
"I might be the only person on the face of the earth that knows you're the greatest woman on earth. I might be the only one who appreciates how amazing you are in every single thing that you do, and how you are with Spencer, "Spence," and in every single thought that you have, and how you say what you mean, and how you almost always mean something that's all about being straight and good. I think most people miss that about you, and I watch them, wondering how they can watch you bring their food, and clear their tables and never get that they just met the greatest woman alive. And the fact that I get it makes me feel good, about me." (Inspired by looking up the cavemen quote to quote it accurately. As Good as it Gets might be one of the best movies ever.)
"I gotta pee." Forrest Gump (Inspired by the fact that I've got to pee).
*Lisa Loeb, Stay. "So I turned the radio on, I turned the radio up, and this woman was singing my song:
lover's in love, and the other's run away, lover is crying 'cause the other won't stay. Some of us hover when we weep for the other who was dying since the day they were born. Well, well, this is not that; I think that I'm throwing, but I'm thrown. And I thought I'd live forever, but now I'm not so sure. You try to tell me that I'm clever, but that won't take me anyhow, or anywhere with you. You said that I was naive, and I thought that I was strong. I thought, "hey, I can leave, I can leave." Oh, but now I know that I was wrong, 'cause I missed you. Yeah, I miss you."
** Florence and the Machine, I am not calling you a liar. "There's a ghost in my lungs and it sighs in my sleep. Wraps itself around my tongue as it softly speak. Then it walks, then it walks with my legs. To fall, to fall, to fall at your feet. There but for the grace of God go I. And when you kiss me, I am happy enough to die...There's a ghost in my mouth and it talks in my sleep wraps itself around my tongue as it softly speaks
Then it walks, then it walks, then it walks with my legs. To fall, to fall, to fall, to fall, to fall, to fall
To fall, to fall, to fall, to fall...To fall, to fall at your feet"
***The Hottest State was Ehtan Hawke's first novel. Yes, that Ethan Hawke, and I did say first novel. His second was Ash Wednesday, which I did not read but will look for at Borders, which is soon to be closed. Forever. And also interrelated to my layers. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
****Jann Arden, Good Mother
My desk:
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Day 43: Strange currencies or the ramblings of a fevered mind
Day 43 of this blog and this failed experiment to see if blondes have more fun. Day 4 of a strange, painful stomach virus. Like I have been repeatedly (and literally) kicked in the abdomen, nausea (think first tri-mester morning sickness), and burning, stabbing back pains. The doctor diagnosed a bladder infection but was puzzled at the severity of the symptoms and the way my abdomen felt, so blood tests and an abdominal ultrasound next week. (And no, I am not pregnant unless somehow I am the Virgin (re-virginized?) Mary of the 21st Century).
Day 4 of my convalescence. Too dizzy and weak to read. Too nauseated to drink coffee. So, I am halfway into season 4 of Dexter. Finding all sorts of parallels between myself, a Robin-hood-esq Vigilante serial killer, and his sister, who recently earned her detective shield. Like Dexter, said serial killer, all my life, I have donned a series of masks, been an outsider, a stranger in a strange land. Like Dexter's sister, Deb, the attraction to the unavailable men, opening our hearts to men who turn out to be serial killers or sociopaths (Deb--Ice truck killer--season 1; me--Toxic circa late 80s, early 90s; the Oregonian Asshat--this season) or men who leave to follow their own ghosts (Deb and Special Agent Lundy--seasons 2 and 4; Me and Jesse--circa 1995) and then come back to us, seeming heaven-sent, destiny, kismet, all that ridiculous horseshit from too many books, movies, love songs, poems, grand theories before breaking our hearts all over again and again and again (Deb and Special Agent Lundy--season 4; Me and Jesse--circa 2009, 2010, 2011. Really, only 6 months in 2009, a stolen few hours on May 15, 2010, a handful of emails in 2011. Now, silence. Again.).
Season 4 with (retired) Special Agent Lundy's return has really resonated, even though his return was to track his ultimate ghost--a serial killer whose existence that he was never able to prove to anyone in the F-B-I (ala Hannibal Lecter). There are no serial killers in my life, fortunately, just living ghosts, one ghost that continues to haunt me. Anyway, Detective Debra Morgan ("Deb") was involved in a great relationship with the victim of a serial killer (The Skinner, Season 3) and had just received her detective's shield, when Lundy walked in. ("Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, []he walks into mine."). Her response: "Mother fuckity fuck." Indeed. I probably talk more like Lundy but I have resolved to talk more like Deb and probably get my hair cut and return to my dark-haired girl roots. His response: Destiny. Or some shit like that--(see already channeling my inner Debra Morgan). And the push and pull, resistance for a couple of episodes after he has turned her world upside down. Again. Turned her heart inside and outside. Again.
And this exchange in the cafe between Lundy and Deb.
Deb: "Look, don't make me come up with thought bubbles to put over those silent looks of yours. Just say what you're thinking.
Lundy: All right. I, I though that I could keep my feelings for you as background noise to this investigation. But in working with you, that noise has gotten...
Deb: Loud?
Lundy: Deafening."
Then, Deb winds up at his hotel room. Kisses him when he starts to talk, silencing all the words. All the stupid, white noise. Tells him to shut up. And then he is killed after the spend the night together; she is shot. She has to survive, go on living without him. Again.
Sound, noise. As the Bard wrote: "It is a tale. Told by an idiot. Full of sound and fury. Signifying nothing." My head, full of white noise and whirling noises and dizziness and heat.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Because my mind is beyond fucked up, the loss of Lundy makes me think of Grease 2 when Stephanie thinks that her cool rider is dead and sings this sappy, treacly song that makes me teary. Always. In the middle of the song, there is a little scene between her and her cool rider with some sung dialogue. I think that the term is recitative in opera. She tells him: "It all seems so unfair. Just when I found you, I lost you..."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kUIwhikyo6A
Day 4 of my convalescence. Too dizzy and weak to read. Too nauseated to drink coffee. So, I am halfway into season 4 of Dexter. Finding all sorts of parallels between myself, a Robin-hood-esq Vigilante serial killer, and his sister, who recently earned her detective shield. Like Dexter, said serial killer, all my life, I have donned a series of masks, been an outsider, a stranger in a strange land. Like Dexter's sister, Deb, the attraction to the unavailable men, opening our hearts to men who turn out to be serial killers or sociopaths (Deb--Ice truck killer--season 1; me--Toxic circa late 80s, early 90s; the Oregonian Asshat--this season) or men who leave to follow their own ghosts (Deb and Special Agent Lundy--seasons 2 and 4; Me and Jesse--circa 1995) and then come back to us, seeming heaven-sent, destiny, kismet, all that ridiculous horseshit from too many books, movies, love songs, poems, grand theories before breaking our hearts all over again and again and again (Deb and Special Agent Lundy--season 4; Me and Jesse--circa 2009, 2010, 2011. Really, only 6 months in 2009, a stolen few hours on May 15, 2010, a handful of emails in 2011. Now, silence. Again.).
Season 4 with (retired) Special Agent Lundy's return has really resonated, even though his return was to track his ultimate ghost--a serial killer whose existence that he was never able to prove to anyone in the F-B-I (ala Hannibal Lecter). There are no serial killers in my life, fortunately, just living ghosts, one ghost that continues to haunt me. Anyway, Detective Debra Morgan ("Deb") was involved in a great relationship with the victim of a serial killer (The Skinner, Season 3) and had just received her detective's shield, when Lundy walked in. ("Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, []he walks into mine."). Her response: "Mother fuckity fuck." Indeed. I probably talk more like Lundy but I have resolved to talk more like Deb and probably get my hair cut and return to my dark-haired girl roots. His response: Destiny. Or some shit like that--(see already channeling my inner Debra Morgan). And the push and pull, resistance for a couple of episodes after he has turned her world upside down. Again. Turned her heart inside and outside. Again.
And this exchange in the cafe between Lundy and Deb.
Deb: "Look, don't make me come up with thought bubbles to put over those silent looks of yours. Just say what you're thinking.
Lundy: All right. I, I though that I could keep my feelings for you as background noise to this investigation. But in working with you, that noise has gotten...
Deb: Loud?
Lundy: Deafening."
Then, Deb winds up at his hotel room. Kisses him when he starts to talk, silencing all the words. All the stupid, white noise. Tells him to shut up. And then he is killed after the spend the night together; she is shot. She has to survive, go on living without him. Again.
Sound, noise. As the Bard wrote: "It is a tale. Told by an idiot. Full of sound and fury. Signifying nothing." My head, full of white noise and whirling noises and dizziness and heat.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Because my mind is beyond fucked up, the loss of Lundy makes me think of Grease 2 when Stephanie thinks that her cool rider is dead and sings this sappy, treacly song that makes me teary. Always. In the middle of the song, there is a little scene between her and her cool rider with some sung dialogue. I think that the term is recitative in opera. She tells him: "It all seems so unfair. Just when I found you, I lost you..."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kUIwhikyo6A
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Day 42: Superwomen, Ms. Pac Man, and the perfect storm
I am blonder than ever but I am sure not having more fun. To start with, I am word-constipated, and it's even worse than the other kind of constipation. Except that it is my head and heart that feel bloated with words that need to come out, that are making me toxic.
I am not Superwoman. Not even close. Not even on my best days have I stopped a speeding bullet or flown faster than a speeding plane. I don't have a cape. Lately, most days have felt held together by scotch tape--the generic kind--and a prayer or what passes as prayer for a natural doubter who feels like a hypocrite.
But this week, it has taken super human strength just to get up, to brush my teeth, to breathe in and out.
I am falling apart yet I cannot fall apart. But I am. Falling apart. I am Ms. PacMan, out of power pellets with all four hungry, neon ghosts bearing down on me, and down to my last life. I can hear that sound--that awful sound where the ghosts eat her alive--that mechanical, robot-y sound that signals that the game is over. That terrible sound has begun to haunt my dreams.
I am not Superwoman. Not even close. Not even on my best days have I stopped a speeding bullet or flown faster than a speeding plane. I don't have a cape. Lately, most days have felt held together by scotch tape--the generic kind--and a prayer or what passes as prayer for a natural doubter who feels like a hypocrite.
But this week, it has taken super human strength just to get up, to brush my teeth, to breathe in and out.
I am falling apart yet I cannot fall apart. But I am. Falling apart. I am Ms. PacMan, out of power pellets with all four hungry, neon ghosts bearing down on me, and down to my last life. I can hear that sound--that awful sound where the ghosts eat her alive--that mechanical, robot-y sound that signals that the game is over. That terrible sound has begun to haunt my dreams.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Day 41 still going:
Have cheered up a bit. The blonding not only lightened my hair; it also seems to have lightened my hair. And the thought of a margarita with one of my favourite women warriors from the gym, who has gone through a divorce and lived to tell about it.
Fingers crossed that they a pomegranate margarita. Or peach. Who am I kidding as long as it is slushy and has booze, I am gonna suck it down.
Fingers crossed that they a pomegranate margarita. Or peach. Who am I kidding as long as it is slushy and has booze, I am gonna suck it down.
Day 41 continued:
I am not this girl. How can I still be this girl? I am smart. And kind. And attractive. And funny and fun. And loyal. And I always try to make the people that I love feel loved and supported and secure in my love. Why isn't this enough? More than enough?
I am a lawyer. And a mom. And a friend. And a daughter. And a sister. I have an imagination. A sense of humour. I am passionate. I am soulful. Why isn't this enough? More than enough?
I have a roof over my head. And a job. And a car. And clothes. And central air. I have my (physical) health. Why isn't this enough? More than enough?
Why do I need the attention and affirmation and acceptance of a man? Why do I make such bad decisions that end in such pain and such angst and self doubt? Why do open my heart and give like this? When the ending is always the same, like a fucking Danielle Steele novel without the happy ending--me coming unglued.
And the un-gluing is always somewhere inappropriate. Never in the privacy of my bedroom or even a dark bar. And this time? I am crying in the middle of my fucking salon. That I have been frequenting for 20 years. On a Saturday afternoon. In broad daylight. In public. Big fat, stupid tears falling down my stupid cape and onto the wooden table. While my hair is covered in foils and I strongly resemble a troll that somebody has rubbed back and forth in his hands.
Why?
I am a lawyer. And a mom. And a friend. And a daughter. And a sister. I have an imagination. A sense of humour. I am passionate. I am soulful. Why isn't this enough? More than enough?
I have a roof over my head. And a job. And a car. And clothes. And central air. I have my (physical) health. Why isn't this enough? More than enough?
Why do I need the attention and affirmation and acceptance of a man? Why do I make such bad decisions that end in such pain and such angst and self doubt? Why do open my heart and give like this? When the ending is always the same, like a fucking Danielle Steele novel without the happy ending--me coming unglued.
And the un-gluing is always somewhere inappropriate. Never in the privacy of my bedroom or even a dark bar. And this time? I am crying in the middle of my fucking salon. That I have been frequenting for 20 years. On a Saturday afternoon. In broad daylight. In public. Big fat, stupid tears falling down my stupid cape and onto the wooden table. While my hair is covered in foils and I strongly resemble a troll that somebody has rubbed back and forth in his hands.
Why?
Day 41: The more things (seem) to change,
the more they stay the same. Yes, after an extended absence, I thought that I'd begin with a cliche. But cliches are words too and perhaps we refer to them so derisively is because the kernel of truth inherent in a cliche clutches at our hearts and our failure to recognize it, how it drives our actions makes us feel even more stupid for behaving in a way that is so very cliched.
Yes, it is another angst-y Saturday (wonder why the Bangles did not sing about that besides the lack of alliteration, I mean). I went to kickboxing and am not hormonal. Or at least no more than normal. I am going to get more blonded. I have the evening free to do as I wish. Yes, I remain broke and about to get broke-r. Am still living with my ex, albeit in my own bedroom.
Yet, I continue to be tormented by my sweet maybes, my attraction to unavailable men who are obviously unavailable, i.e. married and thousands of miles away, and not so obviously unavailable, i.e. single but haunted by their own ghosts. What the fuck? After a kick-ass workout this morning that left me sweaty and panting but smiling and feeling strong, I drove home on another perfect summer day. Hot and blue-skied but with a breeze. A full afternoon of things that I generally enjoy--blonding, shopping, and getting ready to do something tonight.
OR
Then, a shower epiphany. Another one. One that has left me shaken and teary and on the verge of doing something that in my heart, I know that I need to do to move on. And have not been able to do because of the way that I have been haunted by, driven by the if-only-s, by the possibility of my sweet maybe. Such a deliciously sweet maybe. It hit me like a ton of bricks as the hot, soapy water washed away the sweat, revealing yet another pattern, a pattern within a pattern. A pattern disguised as something else that really is just another pattern. Me trying to change, to mold myself to some idea to match someone's ideal person even as it becomes clear that no matter what I do, no matter how much I change, no matter how patient I am, how much I compromise, how much I settle for, that I will never be that person's ideal. Which is really the same pattern that I, at last, recognized and broke free from with my soon-to-be-ex husband.
I have to let go. Don't I? To move on, I have to let go. What will be will be, right? Que sera sera and all that horseshit.
Fuck-a-doodle-do.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MXQTWCTc0aI (Que sera sera)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EDEEzS7OV2k&feature=related (Goodbye, my almost Lover)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zwtr19HHB4U (Falling for you)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rUhc8D7pQlQ&feature=related (Corner of my heart)
Yes, it is another angst-y Saturday (wonder why the Bangles did not sing about that besides the lack of alliteration, I mean). I went to kickboxing and am not hormonal. Or at least no more than normal. I am going to get more blonded. I have the evening free to do as I wish. Yes, I remain broke and about to get broke-r. Am still living with my ex, albeit in my own bedroom.
Yet, I continue to be tormented by my sweet maybes, my attraction to unavailable men who are obviously unavailable, i.e. married and thousands of miles away, and not so obviously unavailable, i.e. single but haunted by their own ghosts. What the fuck? After a kick-ass workout this morning that left me sweaty and panting but smiling and feeling strong, I drove home on another perfect summer day. Hot and blue-skied but with a breeze. A full afternoon of things that I generally enjoy--blonding, shopping, and getting ready to do something tonight.
OR
Then, a shower epiphany. Another one. One that has left me shaken and teary and on the verge of doing something that in my heart, I know that I need to do to move on. And have not been able to do because of the way that I have been haunted by, driven by the if-only-s, by the possibility of my sweet maybe. Such a deliciously sweet maybe. It hit me like a ton of bricks as the hot, soapy water washed away the sweat, revealing yet another pattern, a pattern within a pattern. A pattern disguised as something else that really is just another pattern. Me trying to change, to mold myself to some idea to match someone's ideal person even as it becomes clear that no matter what I do, no matter how much I change, no matter how patient I am, how much I compromise, how much I settle for, that I will never be that person's ideal. Which is really the same pattern that I, at last, recognized and broke free from with my soon-to-be-ex husband.
I have to let go. Don't I? To move on, I have to let go. What will be will be, right? Que sera sera and all that horseshit.
Fuck-a-doodle-do.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MXQTWCTc0aI (Que sera sera)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EDEEzS7OV2k&feature=related (Goodbye, my almost Lover)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zwtr19HHB4U (Falling for you)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rUhc8D7pQlQ&feature=related (Corner of my heart)
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