What a better way to initiate my first ever real blog (does MySpace count, because then I must be a wee bloggin' hoor) than to begin with a quote from a cool psychologist discussing the nature of love?
"We all fall in love with people who will heal us or at least with whom we think our nastiness will be avoided," says Terrence Real. "And we all wind up with someone exquisitely designed to stick the burning spear right into our eyeballs."
(http://www.psychologytoday.com/rss/pto-20070209-000001.html)
Well, thanks for clearing things up. So now I won't have to explain to anyone anymore why I always wanted to be a Paul (1 Corinthians 7:1,8-9) and not... most people. Like most drivers who shouldn't drive, most people shouldn't be in relationships (and spawn) unless they're... well-matched and well-adjusted. I guess there's that whole pro-creation thing, but seriously... There are far too many messed up people on this planet in families of very messed up people. "STOP BREEDING," screams The Hypocrite.
That said, however, now that I am maddeningly too well aware of my own carnal knowledge and appreciation (dammit), I guess I can be a Paul no longer. Well, that, plus marrying someone far too good and wonderful for me and spawning three sprogs too sweet and smart. Much as I hate to admit it, my dad was creepily right when he smirked knowingly and told me I could never be a Paul because I'd love sex too much (like I said, creepy). I fought and denied it for years, quite possibly because I was afraid he was right and subconsciously sensed I might like sex far more than most, and that might be my as-yet-untested Achilles heel. And as I saw sex and love take its toll on too many various friends and leave them broken and bitter for days, weeks, months, and even years, I knew it left one vulnerable and open to way too much... of everything. (You only need to hold so many crying friends' hands in free clinics to swear off pulling down another person's pants... for a good amount of time, anyway.)
Thus, there were certain philosophies I adopted ~ and perhaps even invented ~ which helped me to excel at my various occupations, yet still kept me open to the many pleasures of life; my imposition of self-control kept myself safe from losing my independence, heart, and mind. Friends could often not understand that my celibacy and singleness allowed for freedoms that relationships and accountability to others could not; I loved that self-hate and uncomfortable morning-afters were absolute non-entities in my free and creative lifestyle. I loved never finding an uncomfortable rash, experiencing a strange itch, or having a really late period and freaking out. I liked the fact that I could be a part of the lives of the people around me, but not become hurt or effectively hurt others, if that makes any sense; I couldn't mess up anyone's life, and no one could mess up mine. It was lovely to be as extroverted and introverted as my needs dictated, to go hither and tither whenever I felt like it, and to seek noise and quiet all at my own leisure... all at my own speed. And when you're an airline brat in university with a terminal case of wanderlust and people-love, that left a lot of doors open for exploration, a lot of new faces to meet, a lot of mindshifting stories to contemplate.
However... sometimes, ya gotta live.
In Douglas Coupland's "City of Glass," which I'm currently reading and absolutely loving, he writes:
"Time ticks by; we grow older. Before we know it, too much time has passed and we've missed the chance to have had other people hurt us. To a younger me, this sounded like luck; to an older me, this sounds like a quiet tragedy."
So why is it that it's never when you're looking? Eventually, at the ripe old age of twenty-one, I met someone I couldn't deny myself, despite all my hard-fought efforts to turn myself off of him. And when neighbours in two different countries over the span of almost twelve years holler at your window to keep it down, you know it's gotta be a good sign. Thus, the Pandora's Box has been flung open, the ravens have flown the pie, and the fruit has been eaten. The proverbial shit has hit the fan of reality. And now, more than ever, the hormones are raging. Oh, how they are raging.
There is a name given to this phenomenon, the kick in the gut that hits you even when your body has already done its job of spawning: Girl Friday recently informed me that this cataclysmic period of perpetual horniness is euphemistically referred to as "The Dirty Thirties." Honestly, I had *no* idea it would hit me this hard, although intellectually I knew that women hit their sexual peaks in their thirties. Suffice it to say, if this is what being a boy feels like, you all now *utterly* and *completely* have my sympathies. I used to be somewhat scornful of how the males of most species seemed to be ruled by their nutsack peninsulas, but now... I think I understand a bit better. I have much softened my stance.
"All that rubbish about penis envy ~~ personally I always thought the male organ the most singularly unattractive of God's creations. Looks like the neck thing they give you with the turkey giblets to boil up for gravy." ~
Great-Aunt Beatrice, from E. Young's "A Promising Man"
Well, that may be true, Great-Aunt Beatrice, but still... But still...
Franchement, however, I would not like to grow the turkey neck, goolies, and squirty cream on my person, as fascinating as they may be. With my characteristic clumsiness, there'd be too many chances for incapacitating accidents, especially with the kind of play I like: I'd constantly be getting nadded, with no one else to blame but myself.
Speaking of twigs, berries, and being up for it... There was an article I once read as a teenager about people and their unusual elective surgeries: One particular man had some ribs removed (as well as some teeth, if I remember correctly) so he could just bend over and give himself a blowjob whenever he felt like it. You gotta give the guy credit; that's some initiative. He ain't waitin' around fo' no one, and that's... kinda cool.
Anyway. Wow. So this is my blog. I have a blog. I have a blog. So weird; I fought it for so long. Well, screw it, here goes. I wasn't even sure how to begin such a massive endeavour as this (I thought I wanted to start this with quality, but... obviously I'd never get started, then). So.
Life is good. Life is sweet. I love love love love LOVE Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu. I absolutely love everything about it. I love getting worked and bruised and slightly hurt when I'm in class. I love flipping big boys onto their backs with a catch and a bump. I love learning new stuff that enables me to pant and sweat and think and twist and throw. I love giggling like a girl and cracking filthy jokes like a boy. I love being a girl, and I love the smallness of my own body in comparison to the thugs I play with. I love feeling vital, and I love feeling my bones melt in repose.
I love the strength of my fingers, and the beautiful, intricate network of tendons and ligaments that make them move. I love the beauty I can create with them on my piano (and hopefully one day on my lovely acoustic guitar and the Renaissance bass viol da gamba I dream of having access to). I love thinking without thinking, and creating without time constraints. I love my incredible Boy and three little Piggies, all of whom push me and pull me and challenge me in love. I love the boys and girls in my classes because they're funny and kind and smart and strong and laugh at my stupid jokes. I love Pig Thursdays with my Girl Friday after my BJJ classes. I love ~ and am so dang-proud of ~ my far-flung friends who are out there doing wonderful stuff that I would also so love to do.I love my travel-laden daydreams, and I love most of my realities ~ even the awful ones ~ because they make great stories, are often kind of sickly funny in retrospect, and provide fodder for future work. I love that I learned how to skillfully use power tools and solder when I was downwards of seven (even though I'd be getting the beats 'cuz I might've been complaining about having to do it at one or two in the morning) because I was helping to build speaker systems and control switches for concert halls, churches, and seniors' homes ~ so I could help put food on the table and pay for our then-agonizing array of now-appreciated lessons. I love that I have been learning how to stand up for myself, even though I still find it far easier to stand up for someone else. And I love how I'm still learning. I'm still learning.
I love that I'm writing like a sixteen-year-old because I'm probably one of the most emotionally-retarded people I know (Irishmen don't have that monopoly, sorry!). I don't say "eighteen-year-old" because that's probably when I was my most confident and outspoken, and either maturity or fear, and some modicum of renewed insecurity, has shut me up some since then. So, sixteen. At least, for today.
(photo credit for the study of hand tendons goes to my lovely friend, matthieu.)
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