On Crushes and Sluts
I've found through many years of post child reflection, that I've always been drawn to two type of men. The type, which I've avoided like the plague (and yes, they are a plague) I've mentioned previously, the Broken Hearted Nice Guy. Fortunately, I now find this type as appealing as pea soup when you have the stomach flu.
The second type I've been thinking about lately. Things always tend to come up in threes, and if my threes seem a little contrived, well, when you believe a superstition, you can always find a way to make it true.
The first point was that I ran into a prior crush the other day. I'd had class with him, numerous classes with him, actually, and it hadden't occured to me that I had a crush on him until the last semester before he transferred. He was a self proclaimed slut, and had an immense ability to downplay any positive attributes he may actually possess. And he did it with a hell of a lot of humour. Anyway, things went nowhere between us, we flirted, we traded derogatory comments, and then the semester ended, and he was gone.
I saw him last week, we had a good talk, and again he went on his way. Funny thing is, whenever we run into each other, it's always assumed we'll see each other around the bend, despite the fact that that may not, in fact, be true.
When I was younger I used to hate seeing people that I had previously been emotionally invested in. (I don't go half way: when I say crush, I love everything about you, even though I realize it will be over in a week, a month, a year). I hated that loss of emotion. Knowing that I'd want to grab a beer, but forgetting to get your new number, then shrugging it off with little concern. It wasn't that I missed you, I missed what I felt for you. I've never been in love, but I love awaiting the possibility of love.
As I've gotten older, I've come to realize that there is a certain comfort in those you used to need, but no longer do. I don't know how to explain it, it's kind of like visiting your childhood home that you moved away from twenty years before. Little recollection, little emotion, just a piece of your past that's there for you. Coming home to a place that hasn't been home since before you knew what home was.
This is what brings up the second of my threes. Addicted to Love was on the other night. I adore that movie. Specifically because of the one scene, where, after having ruined the life of her ex, Maggie flops on the floor with him and scratches his rash covered head for him. It's that letting go, the appreciation of shared history, that comfort that can only come from someone you know you don't care what they think of you, the knowledge that this will go nowhere. That, and the complete and total acceptance that there is nothing here for you, that you are not wanted, and that that's okay.
Here's where I get back to my attraction for sluts. (I refuse to use the term player, which seems to be the only male label for sluts, so if anyone's confused, I am talking about men here.) Once again, in my younger days, I used to have a common theme with sluts. They would find me, find interest, and I was having none of it. I was to darn smart not to recognize that type, I'd done my time, knew the game, and hell, I had a boyfriend who was great (not really, see type one..) and I did not cheat. Well if there's anything to pique interest, it's a complete lack of reciprocation. So you can guess where things would lead from there. Flirtation, gradually building, getting closer, as I feel guiltier until the catalyst: I would realize that I do not like feeling guilty for something I'm technically not doing wrong. Then, the telling of both men (the slut and the boyfriend) to fuck off, on the grounds that this would alleviate my guilt, hence making me a happy girl. Thing about this is that fuck off is never taken literally, and after some haggling and shuffling, I'd be with the slut. Then, after all those months of build up, a short relationship, and everything would end.
Now here's the thing: almost unanomously, the slut would end up happily married to whomever they dated after me.
So therein lies my love of sluts. To me, the true offender is the man that hides their nature, commits themselves to a long term relationship, and cheats, lies and steals from one they supposedly love. The type of man easily recognized as a slut, the one I adore, does not do this. They know what they are, and are comfortable enough with this to let others in on the secret. Sluts are people who are not so terrified of being alone that they will commit to a malfunctioning relationship. They don't need to be with someone, against all logic, but still appreciate a warm body on a cold night. They are not relationship avoidant, they are merely waiting for the right thing to come along, and do not see the need to slap on a chastity belt for the duration. I honestly can't find anything wrong with someone who is willing to admit to themselves, and me, that I'm just not the one.
So here's to the last (although first in actual time) of my threes: The other day, The Kid said to me, "Mommy, I like being broken." Certainly a less than usual start to a conversation. She continued, "Yeah, I like to have my heart broken." Well, what can you say about that? I was so proud of her in that moment, and hope like hell it sticks for life. And I've realized that I'm begining to be able to live by that philosophy. Once again, as I get older, I no longer try to waylay my attraction to sluts. Even if I know that nothing will come of it. Heck, now that I'm a mother and babysitterless, I'm unlikely to even get those three golden months out of the deal. But what can you do? I don't dislike sluts. I'm not offended by them, I would not choose to not be one of them, if it weren't for my daughter. (Double negative, have fun with that one.) And I am to old to waste time trying to convince myself that I don't feel what I feel. That's a recipe for emotional sea sickness, this disparity between what the heart feels and the mind insists must not be true. But I'm just along for the ride. I don't beleive that just because I want something, it must be mine, but I do know that deep down, we're all optomists, so I might choose to see potential where there is none. I'm okay with that. At least at the end, I know that it's not your fault, and hell, I'm not gonna beat myself up for falling to hard, to fast. It seems pretty strange that one of the biggest problems people have with themselves is their desire to share themselves with others. I can think of worse things.
So what it comes down to is that we're all just killing time, waiting for the right moment to come along. Some might use that time to try to create what isn't there, some might sleep with other's and not care, and if I choose to fill that time getting my heart broken by those I know I am not the one for, well, that doesn't make me crazy. All I want is to be secure enough to be able to take that jump, that leap from the highest cliff at the falls back home, and love the feeling of glacier water hitting your body.
That doesn't make me masochistic, it makes me alive. And I'm still learning.
The second type I've been thinking about lately. Things always tend to come up in threes, and if my threes seem a little contrived, well, when you believe a superstition, you can always find a way to make it true.
The first point was that I ran into a prior crush the other day. I'd had class with him, numerous classes with him, actually, and it hadden't occured to me that I had a crush on him until the last semester before he transferred. He was a self proclaimed slut, and had an immense ability to downplay any positive attributes he may actually possess. And he did it with a hell of a lot of humour. Anyway, things went nowhere between us, we flirted, we traded derogatory comments, and then the semester ended, and he was gone.
I saw him last week, we had a good talk, and again he went on his way. Funny thing is, whenever we run into each other, it's always assumed we'll see each other around the bend, despite the fact that that may not, in fact, be true.
When I was younger I used to hate seeing people that I had previously been emotionally invested in. (I don't go half way: when I say crush, I love everything about you, even though I realize it will be over in a week, a month, a year). I hated that loss of emotion. Knowing that I'd want to grab a beer, but forgetting to get your new number, then shrugging it off with little concern. It wasn't that I missed you, I missed what I felt for you. I've never been in love, but I love awaiting the possibility of love.
As I've gotten older, I've come to realize that there is a certain comfort in those you used to need, but no longer do. I don't know how to explain it, it's kind of like visiting your childhood home that you moved away from twenty years before. Little recollection, little emotion, just a piece of your past that's there for you. Coming home to a place that hasn't been home since before you knew what home was.
This is what brings up the second of my threes. Addicted to Love was on the other night. I adore that movie. Specifically because of the one scene, where, after having ruined the life of her ex, Maggie flops on the floor with him and scratches his rash covered head for him. It's that letting go, the appreciation of shared history, that comfort that can only come from someone you know you don't care what they think of you, the knowledge that this will go nowhere. That, and the complete and total acceptance that there is nothing here for you, that you are not wanted, and that that's okay.
Here's where I get back to my attraction for sluts. (I refuse to use the term player, which seems to be the only male label for sluts, so if anyone's confused, I am talking about men here.) Once again, in my younger days, I used to have a common theme with sluts. They would find me, find interest, and I was having none of it. I was to darn smart not to recognize that type, I'd done my time, knew the game, and hell, I had a boyfriend who was great (not really, see type one..) and I did not cheat. Well if there's anything to pique interest, it's a complete lack of reciprocation. So you can guess where things would lead from there. Flirtation, gradually building, getting closer, as I feel guiltier until the catalyst: I would realize that I do not like feeling guilty for something I'm technically not doing wrong. Then, the telling of both men (the slut and the boyfriend) to fuck off, on the grounds that this would alleviate my guilt, hence making me a happy girl. Thing about this is that fuck off is never taken literally, and after some haggling and shuffling, I'd be with the slut. Then, after all those months of build up, a short relationship, and everything would end.
Now here's the thing: almost unanomously, the slut would end up happily married to whomever they dated after me.
So therein lies my love of sluts. To me, the true offender is the man that hides their nature, commits themselves to a long term relationship, and cheats, lies and steals from one they supposedly love. The type of man easily recognized as a slut, the one I adore, does not do this. They know what they are, and are comfortable enough with this to let others in on the secret. Sluts are people who are not so terrified of being alone that they will commit to a malfunctioning relationship. They don't need to be with someone, against all logic, but still appreciate a warm body on a cold night. They are not relationship avoidant, they are merely waiting for the right thing to come along, and do not see the need to slap on a chastity belt for the duration. I honestly can't find anything wrong with someone who is willing to admit to themselves, and me, that I'm just not the one.
So here's to the last (although first in actual time) of my threes: The other day, The Kid said to me, "Mommy, I like being broken." Certainly a less than usual start to a conversation. She continued, "Yeah, I like to have my heart broken." Well, what can you say about that? I was so proud of her in that moment, and hope like hell it sticks for life. And I've realized that I'm begining to be able to live by that philosophy. Once again, as I get older, I no longer try to waylay my attraction to sluts. Even if I know that nothing will come of it. Heck, now that I'm a mother and babysitterless, I'm unlikely to even get those three golden months out of the deal. But what can you do? I don't dislike sluts. I'm not offended by them, I would not choose to not be one of them, if it weren't for my daughter. (Double negative, have fun with that one.) And I am to old to waste time trying to convince myself that I don't feel what I feel. That's a recipe for emotional sea sickness, this disparity between what the heart feels and the mind insists must not be true. But I'm just along for the ride. I don't beleive that just because I want something, it must be mine, but I do know that deep down, we're all optomists, so I might choose to see potential where there is none. I'm okay with that. At least at the end, I know that it's not your fault, and hell, I'm not gonna beat myself up for falling to hard, to fast. It seems pretty strange that one of the biggest problems people have with themselves is their desire to share themselves with others. I can think of worse things.
So what it comes down to is that we're all just killing time, waiting for the right moment to come along. Some might use that time to try to create what isn't there, some might sleep with other's and not care, and if I choose to fill that time getting my heart broken by those I know I am not the one for, well, that doesn't make me crazy. All I want is to be secure enough to be able to take that jump, that leap from the highest cliff at the falls back home, and love the feeling of glacier water hitting your body.
That doesn't make me masochistic, it makes me alive. And I'm still learning.
posted by Impulsivecompulsive | 7:26 PM
1 Comments:
An impressive bit of writing.
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