I’m happy to be me this morning. I could be making more money. I could be having more sex. I could have a bigger closet full of more fashionable clothing. I could have a more exciting social life, with parties, dancing, and weekend luncheons. But several times on my walk today, I stopped. Sure I was a little late getting out for my stroll, but when the trees started dumping their colorful bounty on me, I had to stop anyway, and take in the moment. And when I got to the “river” I had to stop for a while there as well, and marvel at the foamy, sparkly goodness of the water. And wonder to myself, “when did the word ‘diamond’ come into existence? and before then, how did we ever describe the breath taking beauty of the sun shimmering off the water?” (this is a dunder, which i’ve talked about in another blog) The water this morning looked like a glitter factory had exploded onto it, and I just had to giggle like a kid in a candy store. There was also a patchwork quilt of leaves at my feet, that made me feel like a fairy princess on her wedding day, picking her way through ribbons of color, eager to greet her groom at the end of the path. And while I didn’t have a groom on my path today (ok, at least so far…it’s only ten a.m., and you never really know what a day will bring in my life!) I did feel as giddy. I’m happy to be me. Happy that I have a life that allows me to stop for a moment and smell the flowers. (or wet earth, since it’s fall and most the flowers have faded ‘round here) Happy to have an eye for the magical and whimsical. Happy to be on a path in life that supports my heart’s desires. And while I wouldn’t mind having more money, or more sex (especially more sex) and more clothes, I wouldn’t want to switch places with anyone in the world. I’m happy with the place I’ve chosen, and happy with the me I am.
tonight i took a walk to my park; too late, for sure. probably not a good idea to do that all the time, but i really needed an extra fix. i’ve gotten addicted to my walks, and especially to the river. and tonight as i walked in the no-longer-hot air, i had much on my mind. i had a heavy heart, and a worried mind. i was longing for love, and worried about the path it was taking to arrive, at long last, in my life. but i am not in control of a good many things in life, and if i were there would be more sex, alcohol and football or futball involved.
my path through park number one was quiet, with fireflies lighting my way. they sparkled in the dusk like twinkle lights on a tree, and flashed their message to me: all is well; all is well. at park number two i was calmed even more. the water at the falls was full and frothy, like a good mug of hard cider in October. ducks were about, and calm and collected, discussing the day’s events, or possibly exchanging information about timeshares. i sat on the park bench and fell into a lull. overhead lights shone on the water, in silver, gold and purple. the shimmer of the lights reflected in the water looked like a firework display, with every ripple on the river giving off a spark of light. it was truly amazing, and a treasured moment.
i am not in charge of LOVE. i cannot guarantee its safe arrival to me. i have no promise of a tomorrow, with someone or without. i don’t know what the future holds. but i do know that i can love others. i can give love, whether or not it comes back to me. i can do my part, and give my love, and that much i CAN know. seeing the beauty of the water, and nature’s little buzzing flashlights reminded me: there is so much love out there in the world, even if it doesn’t come to me directly, i figure i can still catch a second hand buzz one way or another.
The World Cup started this week, which is always enjoyable. My sister (I’ll call her Bodie on here, one of my nicknames for her) and I always love to watch sports. We love to get involved in the game, and cheer our voices gone, and jump up and down if we get so excited, or curse like sailors when our people suck and mess up the whole thing. We aren’t terribly picky about what we watch, though we certainly have favorites.
Over the years we’ve watched more football than anything, my favorite sport and one of her favorites. But we enjoy watching all sorts of games: the XGames is a definite favorite, beach volleyball, soccer, tennis. I almost had a meltdown when I discovered rugby – my other favorite sport – because not only are the outfits adorable, the men are supersized, with big meaty thighs, burly physiques, and round juicy bottoms. These men are warriors out on the field, sporting bloody facial expressions within minutes of play. Rugby is a sport a horny girl can get into. But I also enjoy curling. And watching billiards. And water polo, the Olympics, motocross, and martial arts competitions.
I don’t know for sure what it is about sports that we both love so much. When we got Dish Network, the guy installing it told us we had too much testosterone. He was telling us about all the cool channels we would be getting, now that we had the Dish, and I said, “Yeah, but we get Football Network, right?” The channel was brand new at the time, and he didn’t seem to understand why we weren’t as excited about the Home Shopping Network.
I think my sister and I have always been this way. At eight or nine, I watched football at home by myself, or on Sundays with my uncle, who taught me the game. I knew early on to hate the Cowboys for the sheer principle of it (my uncle’s conviction, and we DID live in Los Angeles), to honor the Steelers and cheer the Rams, and on my own I selected the Chicago Bears and the Saints as early favorites, whom I am still loyal to today. Although I’ve also added the Seahawks, Ravens and several other teams to my roster of favorites. I also watched roller derby as a kid, and had a yellow legal pad full of the names of my team’s players, and their arch rivals. I sat in front of the television set every Saturday morning and berated the opposing team, calling them doodie pants and weenie heads.
And while I started off with a healthy interest in sports, my appreciation may have increased when I finally started dating some athletes. There is something about athletes….
I’ve dated artists and musicians, architects and money moguls, mechanics, fire fighters, gamblers and sommeliers. And I don’t think I’ve dated any professional athletes, at least they weren’t at the time I dated them, but I have gone out with basketball players, football players, tennis players, baseball players, swimmers, and I had a great chance to date a foreign exchange water polo player, from France, I think, and I completely blew that one. Oh well. That wouldn’t have lasted long anyway, because I was virginal at the time, or thought I was, so was maintaining a strict “No Go” philosophy on all things sex.
Still, with all my appreciation of the sport and the sporter, I’m always surprised that when I do find someone to date, I am often the one that is more interested in competition. Maybe I didn’t realize early enough that I was into athletes, and spent all that time dithering away on the architects and poets and dramatic thinky types. Maybe when I have dated athletically minded men, I haven’t been in a place where I’m paying much attention to anything, and didn’t notice them cheering on a good tennis match, or placing bets on a football game. (oh, wait a minute, that sounds familiar)
I do remember lots of nights spent with my fabulous sister, on the couch screaming, cheering, and getting drunk. I do remember fun nights out at the pub with my sis, wearing colored wigs, gaudy ‘mardi gras’ necklaces, face tattoos and getting drunk. Attending games with my sis, where we stand in the bleachers, asses in pain because those seats are so uncomfortable, cursing at the coach, or the team, or the lousy season ahead, and getting drunk.
So World Cup is another bonding time with my sis. One of these days I hope to find a man I can love for my very own, who also happens to like sports. I’m hoping he will go to some roller derby games with me, and stop at a park and watch random games of softball and soccer, even if we don’t know anyone on the teams. This is something I enjoyed doing when I lived on my own, and had nothing better to do on a random day. I’m hoping I’ll find a guy who will play volleyball with me, or maybe try to get me to take up golf, which I can’t really imagine liking, unless my job is just driving the cute cart and getting us more beers. And I will probably always be watching sports with my sis…but I’m also hoping I’ll find a guy that can finally see the light. A unique man that will finally appreciate all the things that I love, like pizza and beer and sex and sports. A man that won’t constantly nag me to clean the house or take out the cat litter. A man that can sit down and play video games with me once in a while, or sit on the porch and smoke my hookah with me. A man who will finally see the truth that no other man has ever grasped; I am the perfect woman.
I sit here and think of the love we made, and the times we shared, and all the amazing aspects of our past relationship. How much we loved each other. How important he was to my life, both as a friend and a lover. The way his face looked as he created one piece of art or another. The gentle look of concentration as he made me dinner. The peace and calm I found when I was around him. This beautiful person contributed so much to my life, and made me a better, more soulful person.
Love is amazing. It is not always happy and spring green, and full of fragrance and growth. Sometimes it causes friction, and pain, and an aching hole in the heart. Sometimes it makes us crazy, and we want to pull our hair out, or get into fights at the bar.
But sometimes, a rare person comes along and breathes life into us, making us feel more passionately, more deeply than we have ever felt before. And at a time in my life when I least expected it, perhaps I have found this kind of love again. Someone that takes my breath away. Someone who makes me curious about life, when I thought I was familiar with its paths and turns. Someone who has lit a spark in my heart, and makes me feel like I am once again a twelve year old girl, looking into the face of a full life, ready for a beautiful adventure to unfold. And that twelve year old is hopeful, and bright, and full of expectation, like I haven’t known in decades. It’s like an archaeological dig has uncovered some precious hidden treasure that has been unknown and undiscovered for all these years; and that treasure is my heart.
So I take another swig of my beer, and reflect on my past love, and – hopefully – my future one.
I have the sight. I have to admit it.
And I love it, quite honestly. I love knowing things spontaneously and without prompting. Like the fact that I should pick up a pack of mustard flavored pretzels at the store, because my sister will be trying some at work in about an hour and will want some for her own. I love knowing that one of my sisters is pregnant before she even finds out. I love talking on the phone to people and knowing what they are wearing and whether they have their hair in ponytails or straight. And I love telling people that someone they know called Anna needs to get ahold of them, or someone they know that has just painted their living room yellow wants to talk to them.
I also love more important information, like that a friend will be dating someone soon, or will succeed in getting the job that they want. I love knowing that someone will successfully receive a hard earned scholarship for the school they want to go to.
Often this information comes to me because I am doing a psychic reading on someone. I’m actively seeking information on the querent, and so pick these bits up out of the stratosphere somehow. Other times I’m just sitting in a Taco Bell minding my own business, when I suddenly am prompted to tell a complete stranger that something wonderful is coming into her life.
And usually my information is greeted with thanks. People are almost unanimously grateful for the input that my quirky psychic bones get to them. Still, there are those times that my information is awkward, if not off putting.
Like the time I had to tell a friend of mine that she should give in to her husband about something in the bedroom. Well ok, I didn’t really tell her she SHOULD, I just mentioned that the topic was coming up in the reading. Turns out her husband had been badgering her about a particular position to try every since they’d gotten married. He finally got his way. However, they divorced a short time later. Ooops.
My little gift jumps out of my mouth from time to time. I wish it were predictable, like some of the shows on TV make you believe. Where the world around you goes all fuzzy or cloudy, or you start getting a headache, or colors change and shift. Then I would know I was having a psychic meltdown, or moment, and I would know how to behave accordingly. But that’s not the case. True, sometimes I can see the information inside my head, like it’s on a billboard or a marquis. But often I just blurt something out, before the thought has even solidified itself in my brain. One minute information is not there, and the next it just is. Which is great.
Except for when I accidentally blurt out something that is a true statement, when I think I’m only being funny. Like, “oh that guy likes to wear women’s underwear”, and it turns out to be true. Ooops. He probably didn’t want everyone finding out quite like that.
Well, I guess you can’t look a gift horse in the mouth, what with the nasty horse breath and all. So I will just have to take the knocks that come along with all the fun psychic information. It wouldn’t hurt if I could find a way to slow down my big mouth before it starts spewing out information that could get me into trouble.
But then, that just wouldn’t be me.
So today I’m out driving, heading toward my doctor’s office. I’m in a pretty good mood, because the sun is actually out, and I live in Michigan, for God’s sake. The sun shining on you is like finding a hundred dollar bill in your underwear drawer. Wait, that’s part of my Stripper Blog, disregard that.
I see this girl out jogging and thought to myself (because really, who else are you going to be thinking to?) “Wow, she’s got great legs”
And it must be that the guy in the car next to me thought this for a second as well, because he turned and looked at her. Now if you’ve been reading any of my blogs, you know that I’ve been dealing with body issues. Several years back I managed to “Super Size” myself, and since I’ve had the larger ‘goddess’ sized body, I’ve had issue with skinny young thangs. Although, to be perfectly honest, even when I was a skinny young thang myself, I still had body issues.
I’ve always believed I had to have the perfect body to be loved. Which sucks, because no one really has the perfect body. And while I have terrifically amazing boobs, and my legs are pretty damn great, I have the squishy belly and the eensy weensy ass. So for years and decades and forever, I’ve striven (is that really a word even?) to be perfect, or beautiful, or at least as skinny as a curvy girl like me can be. There are many and diverse reasons for why I have believed these things. Suffice it to say; it’s exhausting to try to measure up to a standard that you are clearly not built for.
I am human. I have flaws. I’m now finding that it is far more enjoyable to actually LIVE my life, than to try to be perfect for someone else’s enjoyment or entertainment. I know, I know, it seems like such a given. But hey, some of us are slow learners.
And today, when I saw this girl, I didn’t resent her youth and my almost-but-not-quite-middle-agedness. I didn’t resent her trim physique and my slightly-pudgier-than-I’d-like-to-be size. I just thought she was great, and I was great too.
And that’s when it hit me.
My “Accidental Happiness” of the month. Or week. Or however often those things jump out at you. Those unexpected truths.
All of these years I’ve thought I needed to be perfect, and have the perfect body so I could be loved. But in reality, I already have the perfect body to love WITH. I have a gloriously curvy self, that wants to wrap around my man, keep him warm at night, and take care of him in every way imaginable. I have a healthy body that can celebrate sex and the divine and intimacy, and instead of believing my beautiful body will bring love TO me, I can use the beautiful body I already have to give love to someone else.
And if love between two people isn’t the most beautiful of beautiful things…well, it seems I already have the perfect body for that.
Anyway, this stupid book was NOT Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus, but it probably wishes it was. It seemed like it might try to run along those lines, though. But the cover description made me want to chuck the book across the room. It said something horrible like, ‘do men ever want anything more than just sex’? Or an equally bad, ‘women want intimacy and men want sex’. Something along these lines. And I found this horribly offensive and disturbing, for several reasons, which of course I will share.
First of all, men aren’t the only ones who want sex. Ok? Single women want sex too. Apparently something does happen to single women once they become married, and then they no longer desire sex, so sure, if this book is written for married women, then I understand the jacket a little better. But no, men aren’t the only ones that want sex.
In fact, in many of the relationships I’ve been in, (ok, there aren’t really that many, but it sounds better if I make it sound all “Sex and the City”) I have been the partner who wanted sex more than the other person. I’ve dated guys that weren’t terribly interested in sex at all, unless they’d had a nice bottle of scotch or two. And…
I dated a guy who didn’t need to have sex at all. Wait, let me clarify, I wasn’t having sex at the time, which meant HE wasn’t having sex at the time, but he was fine with that. He genuinely cared about me, seemed to LOVE me, and he wasn’t getting any from me. Ok, I guess he was getting a little something, but not the real thing. So it pisses me off that this book makes it sound like all men are pigs. Because, although this guy was a gambling, alcoholic, possessive bigot, he certainly was understanding about not having sex.
Studies show that having sex several times a week increases your life span by several years. Sex also helps combat depression, as there is some magical substance in men’s magical substance that brings the joy back into life. So I can’t understand for the life of me why so many married women complain that their men just want sex. Hello? Your man is offering to help you live a longer, happier life!
But I also am enraged about the ever pervasive assumption that men only want sex, and don’t want intimacy, bonding or companionship. Now I’ll admit, I’ve never been married. And as my married friend advised me today, once I’m married for a few years, then I can see what all the fuss is about, and why women complain about their spouses all day. Well, if I ever do get married, I’ll give her a call after a few years to update her on my potential discontentment. But for now, I have to admit that I’ve met a lot of men that are devoted and loving. I’ve met a lot of men that wanted to be kind to me, and protect me, and worried about my feelings. I’ve met a lot of men that wanted to talk to me about my opinions and ideas and experiences. Yes, they stare at my chest the whole time we talk about these things, but I can’t blame them for that, I have great knockers. And yes, I’ve met men that are juvenile, and selfish, and thoughtless and shallow. But I’ve known a lot of women like that too.
If women only see men as these sex hungry bone-heads, I have to wonder if they are looking out of their eyes correctly. Maybe these women are only seeing what they expect to see, or what they want to see. But hey, don’t change your vision because I said something about it. Go ahead and complain about your man. I’ll be busy getting it on, and living happily ’till I’m 150.