I am warning you, this blog is not for the faint hearted. I am rather disheartened as I write this and it is coming from an angry and bitter place ... but I will try to see the positive side of things even while giving sway to my ranting self. I wish to take one for the female team as I am aware that I am not the only one of my kind who feels the way I am about to describe ... so, ladies, this one is for you. If there are some men reading this one, do not judge this loca woman, and the rest of us, too harshly. Remember that we, women, are crazy and you, men, are stupid.
After at least twelve years of calling myself a feminist, I have succumbed to the sad realization that I may not have come that much further than my younger and more naive and innocent counterpart who devoured, on a daily basis, fairy tales with beautiful illustrations, watched transfixed as the same beloved tales came to life through the magic of Walt Disney and made Ken and Barbie fall blissfully and passionately in love with each other and get married over and over and over again... Except now that I am twenty seven years old and soon to be twenty eight, I am thankfully no longer playing with dolls or Barbies or projecting myself onto the television screen as Cinderella, Snow White or Ariel, I am actually doing something far worse and more pervasive: I am painfully aware that I am hoping, praying and wishing, albeit under bated and hushed breath, that the patterns I grew up with and imitated in various forms of play will somehow magically occur in my real adult life.
I may not have been screaming it out loud from any rooftops or galleries, what woman in her right mind would, until this very moment and through this electronic medium, but it appears as though I have been secretly wanting Prince Charming to come and rescue me... from what, I am not sure yet. And here's the question I have been asking myself despite my instinctual repugnance and aversion to it: where is the Ken to my Barbie, the Beast to my Belle, the Eric to my Ariel, the Romeo to my Juliet, the Tristan to my Isolde, the Gambit to my Rogue, the Spiderman to my Mary Jane, and the Superman to my Lois Lane? Well ladies, and perhaps a few gents, my Superman has so far been a no-show.
There have been a few potential candidates onto which I have unknowingly and mistakenly projected my ingrained childhood fantasy, but for various reasons not one of these men has turned out to be my knight in shining armor. And my God have I ever publicly sneered at such a notion my whole life... and yet here I am, alone, wondering: when will my turn come up? When will my number or name be called? When will I win the lottery in this game of love? I cannot be the only crazy woman who can see a wonderful and picturesque future unfold right before my eyes as soon as a man suits my fancy ... and is then shattered to bits when our story does not unfold the way I have imagined it would. Thus far it seems as though every time a door into the magical realm of love is slightly ajar and I find myself peeking inside hopefully, but not as cautiously as I should, it is unceremoniously slammed shut in my face.
And is it not so utterly pathetic that despite my more-than-amazing girlfriends, my four teaching contracts, my having just become the volunteer coordinator for the Metropolis Blue Literary Festival, my wonderful and supportive family, my good health and remaining sanity, it is the aforementioned questions that keep me awake at night; I toss and turn in my bed as though I am on a sinking ship in the middle of a desolate ocean while the questions and thoughts gnaw at my insides like an intangible and insatiable hunger.
There is this terrible empty feeling inside of me as though a balloon has been inflated within my rib cage and gut so that there is no room left for anything else while at the same time there is a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach. I feel like I am a hollow ivory statue waiting for Pygmalion's wish that I be awakened, or conversely, I am an empty and translucent vessel that cannot ever be filled regardless of the people I surround myself with and the activities with which I jam-pack my days. I do not want to sound overly dramatic and say that I always feel like this, but inevitably this sensation returns again and again when my mind and body are still for a few moments. I feel emotionally raw, bruised, chafed, vulnerable, exposed and naked and there is an immense part of me that despises these sensations, thoughts and emotions that are swirling around in me like a sorrowful vortex. My nose is hurting from slamming into so many walls and dead ends...
And as much as I hate myself for having these ideas that a man is going to suddenly appear in my life and make everything so much better, and believe me I so truly do, I cannot help but wonder how men feel when faced with this female desire for them to become their everything. Listening to Eminem's "Superman" song, as vulgar and disgusting as it is when you really stop and listen to the lyrics, makes a lot of since in an aggravating and unnerving manner. What are we expecting these men to be for us anyways? And how is that fair for us to be asking them to be that?
So, who can I blame for my perhaps insane and yet completely hopeless romantic streak? Who can I target for having made me wish that a prince will come riding into my life on a white horse or in a white limousine a la "Pretty Woman"? Who can I hold responsible for my wanting to find this elusive man who will make me the happiest woman in the world? Society? My parents, and especially perhaps my mother who bought me all of those Barbies? The media? Religion? The female chromosome? North American culture? Literature and the ridiculous authors that write the greatest love stories ever told? Movie directors? Singers? Composers? My friends? Myself?
Well... perhaps all of the above. We, more the female variety than the male, all seem to be caught up in this idea that love is the answer to everything... and maybe, it isn't?
So, since my name is not Lois Lane and my Superman is not coming ... perhaps I can be my own Superwoman and bury the knight in shining armor notion deep into the ground once and for all... it will be difficult because it has been inculcated in me since birth it seems... but I shall fight it with all of my imagined superhero strength and abilities. In the end, I can only rely on myself, even if I have the greatest girlfriends and family members on the planet, and so why not cultivate a loving relationship with myself first and then extend that love to the people in my life who really deserve it. Who is this man anyways who is going to come into MY life and change it? And why should MY life be transformed for him?
Life is so uncertain and the tides are always changing... I need to learn how to be the wind in my own sails so that the next time an immense gust blows, I will not be swept off course and almost smashed and splintered into smithereens on some jagged boulders that are lurking right underneath the surface of the stormy sea.
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