La Mulatta Tragique

"Very different beasts"

03:08, Thursday, February 22, 2007 .. 0 comments .. Link

I quit.

Not my job: that would leave me with an inordinate amount of free time. I can't even jokingly say I wouldn't know what to do with myself if that were the case, because that was the case this past summer, after graduation, pre-9 hour work day, and I really did not know what to do with myself. It numbed every version of myself: mental, physical, spiritual.

I quit doing what I've been doing since I...well, since I gave a shit about guys. The first true inkling of sexuality came at a middle school dance in the darkened cafeteria, shabbily decorated with school supplies. Warren Darricks, a nice boy with a yellowed cap in place of his front left tooth and unforgiving in his thorough dorkiness, asked me to dance. I was puzzled, I knew he didn't like me, not like like like me, ya know? But he was always nice to me and I didn't see it as a crime against humanity to take him up on his offer. So I did.

It was suprisingly simple. Stand there, sway a little, stand closer if you don't want to awkwardly look the other person in the eye. Even though I had no feelings for him, I was surprised to feel my body react to his hand on my waist. My mind fluttered through a series of Sex-Ed explanations, reasoning that the moistness between my legs was my body's preparation for intercourse and a signal I was ready to conceive. Physically, at least. Had I actually gotten pregnant at the ripe age of 13, no doubt my mother would have taken me out of my misery and I would not be writing this today :)

But it's all been downhill from there. Once my body was like, "Yo, what's up, here's the scoop: you're into guys. We're good to go," it left me know other clues as to what the hell I should do when it came to guys. My mother's emasculation of my father did not provide me with a great role model.* My brother was pretty stand-offish, and the discoveries I made into the world of men mostly came from strategicaly placing myself whenever his friends were around. Although I often ended up the target for their makeshift projectile weapons, which were sometimes just teenage, pizza-faced nastiness, I learned a thing or two about guys, and earned some tough skin in the meantime. I also picked up a relaxed attitude towards tonto hetero guys that has earned me an in as a "guy's girl" on more than one occassion, if I do say so myself.

I wouldn't put my tomboy skills into use until much later, however. Boys in high school were afraid of me, and I wanted it that way. I scared off my first potential suitor after I caught him talking to an ex in the library, stormed off, and didn't speak to him again until just before graduation when I was worried about a younger girl on the track team he was dating. He said he never understood why I got so mad, (of course he had never heard that I had heard from a good friend that he and his ex had hooked up again over the weekend), and was just too afraid to approach me afterwards. First indications of my inflammatory nature.

My first beau was a tall and thin chap from a neighboring school by the name of Mark. He was sweet and completely compliant to my volatile nature. Too compliant, in fact. He put up with far too much of my shit and came back with far too many bouquets of flowers. It was young love though, and perfect in its imperfections.

I dated a guy for 4 months my freshman year of college. That was when my borderline and bipolar tendencies had yet to be discovered in diagnoses but were raring to go. What can I say about Ross? He was a short, hairy scottish guy with a choad for a dick. I was trying to stay sober, he was trying to infiltrate himself in college life; i.e;, trying not to stay sober. I thought he was intellectual at first, I thought he was romantic, he thought he loved me, but didn't let me go with much of a fight.

After that I came home to a static summer which promptly turned into online dating. I met a guy name Phil from the town my college was in and somehow, soon after, I was driving back there to meet him. Note, this is the second time in this entry I could have ended up hacked to pieces in the back of a trunk. But the funny thing was, the online test we had taken had actually matched our personality types up pretty well. It had guess 83% compatibility. Mind you, that 83% was based on 100% personality...did not factor in lifestyle or goals. I guess that's where you could say where the remaining 17% began to factor in.
I loved him, but I found myself always pushing him. I pushed him into saying he loved me. I pushed him into saying he wanted to marry me someday. I pushed him into going back to extend upon his associates degree and get a bachelor's. It was a whole lot of pushing and not a whole lot of budging. When I finally stopped pushing I realized he hadn't budged. He loved me thoroughly and I loved him, but he deserved more than someone who wanted him to be different, and I deserved someone who shared my goals and lived up to my expectations.

That was my last good relationship. I've only been wallowing since then. Wallowing in failed attempts, close calls, one night stands, and relationships that just never should have come to fruition. There was the one who got away who I tried to lure back through emails despite a sea between us. There was the one whose venom words and stalking presence I couldn't get out of my system even with an ocean between us. There were countless nights of groping, sex, and heavy petting which I somehow all expected in their turn to magically blossom into long term relationships, or at least meaningful memories. The most I ever got out of any of them was half an orgasm, the other half deterred by my womanly intuition who kept her mouth shut but managed to say with only a shake of her head that I was being used, and would be thrown away promptly afterwards.

I'm pretty sure that's not what Carrie Bradshaw & Co. had in mind when they planned on having sex like men...

Sigh. So I'm throwing in the towel. But in a whole new way. I'm not going to fret and moan and lay sleepless in cold sweat...you know why? Because a guy would never do that! So why should I have to? Where in my DNA does it say I have to be pathetic just because I don't get what I wanted out of a coupling?

Why does it always seem that the woman has to come up with the short half of the wishbone, anyway? If you get the guy, he's never giving you EVERYTHING you want (a commitment, marriage, kids, a bigger rock), and if you don't, you're the world's biggest loser, drooling into the peanut butter you are eating from a jar while Adam Rodriguez flexes his jawbone on CSI: Miami. Hey man, fuck you: I happen to like all of the above. My wishbone isn't so flimsy afterall.

I miss him, I admit. Maybe I did slightly overdo it, begging him to come over. But hell, it was Valentine's day. I left him alone the past week to be with his friends who are in town. I texted him exactly six days after I last talked to him because he's going back to Minnesota tomorrow for a week: "Hey, have a good trip."

No response. Unusual for him, even at this time of night. His short, two-word texts last Friday were also unusual.

But COME ON. Why the fuck do I have to stress about this, and he gets off scott free? If he doesn't give a damn about me, I can act in kind. Surprising, but true, there are people who do give a fuck about me, and not all the time in the world to split between them.

I'M DONE caring what guys do who are going out of their way to NOT care about me.

Til death do us part is SO dead to me.

This is True Love.

True.

mUsIc:
"4 In the Morning" by Gwen Stefani, "Say it Right" by Nelly Furtado, "Get Gone" by Fiona Apple.

*Note: I realize I've made my mother out to be a harpy in this entry. She really isn't. Sure she has her hormonal issues like all other women, but the negative statements I've made about her are mostly in jest, though of course there is always a glint of truth under every joke. I love my mother dearly and have come to accept her humanness just as she has come to accept her own. I wouldn't trade her for any other mother in the world.
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