Have you ever done something you new was going to get you in trouble? Not law-abiding trouble or physical-harm trouble, but emotional trouble? (I’m sure the answer is yes; you’re human, it’s our nature–but if it’s no, call me, we’ll do lunch; I’ll take notes.) I’m not sure why, but it seems I’m going there again.)
I think, somehow, I can handle whatever I’m getting into and that includes men–which is actually my worst subject. If Men were a class, I’d get an F for understanding, an F for for naivete, foolishness and the big sucker award. I have this inane habit of believing men at that very moment they are saying something lovely to you, when they are floating in flirt mode, completely enthralled with the sheer act of flirting, like drunkenness. They are often, it seems, oblivious and simultaneously sincere–for example, “do I look like the kind of man who wouldn’t call you?”–and I hand him my number. “If you could be doing anything in the world,” I asked–really, i did, just today–, “what would it be?” A serious, yet intimate, getting-to-know-someone question, that I asked like a school girl and in return saw a blush cross over his face that left me wanting to smack MY own self. Duh, honey? WHAT DO YOU THINK HE WANTS TO DO BE DOING?
When did I get so stupid at the point of impact? When I am alone, over coffee, with gals, I think men are dogs. Truly, not in a horrible mean way, but factually–eat, sleep, play, pee, fuck everything available, begin again. It’s biology, right? If I can’t control being an interminable dupe, then I can hardly expect men to be all pious w/self control–for WANTING, not acting, w/o consent–that’s a whole other hive of bees I would NEVER defend.
Is it nature, biology, they really can’t help? I can’t hear through your laughter and jeering? Am I a MORON? (retorical question.)
You surely all know that classic moment when Lucy, from Peanuts, holds the football for Charlie and this time, YES, THIS TIME, he believes, she is going to hold the ball and let him kick it. And we want her to, we route for Charlie, we wish Lucy would behave, we want him to get to kick the ball, yet he never, ever does.
Simultaneously, we hate Lucy, pity Charles, want desperately to make it right for him, but also we think he’s a dupe and why can’t he SEE that Lucy is never going to change. She is always going to yank away that damn football.
I am Charlie Brown.
What is it, besides masochistic idiocy, that makes me think this one, or that one, or the last one I’m re-circling will ever act differently? Hope? Belief? Optimism? Or determination that I will not sucker-up to whatever wooing, or even innocent flirting is going on? Maybe, it’s a case of “if I just keep pouring salt into this wound it won’t hurt anymore, it will become numb, oblivious, ouch-less.” I will become IMMUNE. . . OOh, I like that last one. Power struggle to attain detachment. It sounds very Zen, in a not-Zen like kind of way. Hm?
I’ll leave you with that, a mountain of theraputic neccessity, yes? And by the way, I’m going with hope and optimism. Somewhere, I have faith, call me foolish (why not, I have) but I HAVE to believe and for the pesimist I tend to be, honestly, if you knew me . . . this is a good thing, I think.