I may just be the Rodney Dangerfield of the “I get no’s” regarding love. It’s strange really. Because anytime I ever heard anyone complain about wanting to find love, I always seemed to have had it, at the time. Being a serial monogamist has well assisted the illusion of love being in perpetual motion for long stretches at a time. When in truth I was merely opening my legs prospecting for the hope of love. Now it seems irony is holding its belly in hysterical laughter and pointing at me. It’s cracking up, because I think it knows I really don’t care if I have it or not at this point. Actually I’m leaning toward the not wanting it part. The long hours I’ve spent at the knees of friends encouraging them away from their tears to believe and not give up hope on that special someone out there waiting to meet them, leaves me furiously mocked.
You see the problem is, something in my programming told me I was supposed to be Donna Reed. An apron, my swishy skirts and pointy vintage shoes are in the closet as proof. But nothing else in my life experience has ever supported it. But also No one ever told me I Didn't HAve to get married. A baby boomer, orphaned at 9, mesmerized by TV and mentored by characters like Bewitched and I Dream of Jeannie, only assisted my propensity toward delusional. Living my life in bubble thoughts in my head, saying words like darling, with flashes of Ziegfeld Follies kicking up can cans in response to traumatic events. I really didn’t stand a chance. I still have a pop out closet brimming with boas and opera gloves in almost every color, pretending in testimony.
All of my loving affairs were benefactors of this frivolity. Some knew me others had no clue who I was and are likely still scratching their heads in perplexity. One almost lover once told me I was "in every sense of the word female”, which I took as a compliment even though the implications may have had everything to do with my menstrual cycle. When I took to my fainting couch there wasn’t much anyone could do who wasn’t toting a heating pad.
With all my props, and passion, I don’t think I was really good at sex, although some of my lovers professed I was, most of them even declared undying love for me. I think I had that little thing called abandon which creates the element of surprise and spontaneity but also lends itself to fantasy. I was really good at that. No wonder they liked me. But fantasies move on into real life. I was never very good at that. I seem to still be the place people like to escape to, but not the girl anyone ever really wanted to take care of. There she is, did you see her? Pollyanna just popped up her coiffed head again. When I see her now, I yank on her pearl necklace and listen to the baubles clank as they bounce off the hardwood floor.
Most of my lovers were even illusions. What this really means is when I saw them for who they really were, the reality check left my nose print in the wall, where I slammed into it. You see, I have the uncanny gift of seeing a person as they are in their highest evolved self. Not what they truly are the moment I happened to crash the hell into them. Such evolvement would have taken many more years of other lovers besides me, to cultivate.
Oh falling in love was always fun. So many feelings, pulsing surges you think are going to burst the skin from the inside out and light up the world and inspire a hopeful forever from a lover. Oh yes I have been there, from the crooning to the pining.
I tried to take the Zena Princess Warrior approach to love, but she was after my generation. I’m not that girl, even though I do have a funny little whip hanging on my bedroom door. I never used it. I do have a slight temper and can be moody. But I’m not even good at being angry, wishing beyond my Jeannie blink, I was a hot blooded Italian woman flinging plates when I found a fiancé in my own bed making love to another woman. Or the time I was struck mute at the discovery of the husband leading a double life then later another fiancé having unprotected sex with men while we together. If ever there was a girl who had a right to break dishes it was me. Instead I left or forgave, cried and kicked them out, or all of the above, always a lady and one in dire need of a tantrum. I definitely got the E ticket when it came to experience and should be awarded the E in effort even though I was attracted to all the wrong people. Such is the plight of most women I know.
There was a song in a commercial from the seventies; the lyrics go something like; “I can bring home the bacon, fry it up in the pan, and never ever let you forget you’re a man, ‘cause I’m a woman, w o m a n.”, as she whipped her hair about along with the kitchen towel. Talk about your subliminal messages. Oh and I often heard this drill of the ideal woman; “A cook in the kitchen, a whore in the bedroom, a lady in public, a mother to the children”. Check them all off the evah loving list then darling, because I’m it! The most unselfish person I ever met was me and they still cheated. Hilarious! Because most men, LET me … without reservations bring home the bacon, but none of them let me be a woman, let alone stay long enough for me to heal the fractured little girl that lived inside me. I am doing that all on my own. Listen people I even wrote a handbook for the broken heart. Take that lemonade! I can’t just have a broken heart no I have to blaze a trail about it and write my own tool to get over it. No Donna Reed here.
From the idiot savant healer guy, some musician guys, to high powered executive guys, they all now have a place of honor in my walk of shame and I am their widow. Irony of all ironies none of them were “Daddy” which is what I was supposed to be attracted to according to textbook psychology. Unless of course I take into account the word “coward”, which is something they all had in common including my father.
Some of the men I’ve met would have made perfect companions in a retirement home when I’m 88. Then maybe I could have laughed with them over meds, as they regale their tawdry stories of debauchery and deceit. Oh please, I’m not bitter and I am certainly no cynic. No Pollyanna worth her salt ever could be unfortunately. No, I gathered all of my flowery essence and my apron and took it to the gay men. Becoming a Grace to a Will was the perfect answer to my woe-be-gone heart, which can be quite satisfying. It has the close proximity of a lover without the pitfalls of sex. The excitement of funny banter and tantalizing recipes makes good use of my apron strings as well as my boas, without Fred Flintstone yelling at me. I only wish I had done it sooner.
No, no love for me I think. It’s better this way, because most of the time I'm not lonely. I enjoy my own company and have much work to do. Besides my karmic ally may have traded in the possibility of so called love for myself so my children would get to have it for real. So far so good, three out four of them have found their soul mate it seems, which are pretty good odds. Shhhh… can’t say it to loud, knock on Formica, I don’t want to jinx it. Believe me I’m no martyr sacrificing my heart on the anvil of wishes. I’m too exhausted to be in love, let alone get married again. I want the universe to use the energy and continue to give it to them because they are going need every ounce they can get.
Truthfully it is liberating to decide no love. It is a purposeful decision. It is succinct and in perfect timing with my plans that were so often interrupted by my wildly clinging hope for love. Although as a song writer, my insatiable desire was often a catapult for my music. But it was also an appendage, an albatross, the monkey on my back. So all of my tears just ended up creating a spring of well water, which is a wealth of reference now for me to use, instead of abuse within myself. That’s ok, I’m ok. I’m lucky to be alive. I’m even more blessed to have grown children and a reason to have survived my demons for higher purpose stuff. What else is a girl to do? What would you do in my place? Would you counsel me at my knee and beg me not to give up? Please don’t. I know anything is possible. It wouldn’t surprise me if I did crash into someone again, it would just be my luck.
There are plenty of opportunities for mischief any time I let myself out of my Jeannie bottle bedroom and powder my bewitching nose. But being on this side of the wall has its perks. I have control of my time, my dinner, and my dvr, for as long as we both shall live. I buy my own flowers, take myself to the movies and still sing in the shower. What more could a person want? What ever passion once left under my pillow, was not lost on me, because it still can leave me wondering. Not enough to hold its hand again, but just enough to light candles with romantic notions and to keep my lipstick handy. I think that something about love must have at least liked me a little. Because when I am feeling quite myself, I can create the aura of it and most importantly dream a little. If you could be a fly on the wall of the doll house, at any point in time, you would find me still swooning to Puccini. Would I make someone a good wife? Anyone lucky enough to find out would likely say of course. The real question is; do I want to be? uhm .. Not so much. But then you never know …
Hope you had a Happy Valentines Day Lovers … have a saucy romp for me … *wink*