Our hearts, the treacherous bastards that they are, lead us on wild goose chases that more often than not bring us nothing but pain and heartache; the beauty, however, lies in the ability to make our way out of the dizzying and maddening love maze, with at least a little bit of dignity still clinging precariously to the remnants of our pride, and to try again and again, without guile and deceit, to face every new prospect with honesty, truth and genuinity.
Thus, gather up the scattered and tattered pieces of your broken heart, whether it has been ripped apart by love lost or other tragic life experiences, patiently and carefully sew the splintered fractures back together and secure the embroidered mass back into your chest, but not too tightly, so that it may be given once again when the right opportunity arises.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
F*** Cupid Day Celebrations and Chocolate Orgasms at Juliette and Chocolat
I have arrived a little earlier than my girls with whom I am celebrating the death of the diaper wearing fiend, who plays with all of our mortal hearts like the child he is depicted as would amuse himself with mere toys; Sharon, my beautiful roommate and friend, should be here relatively soon while Manisha, my soul sister, should make her entrance at 7:30 given that she goes by Manish Time, which is a special time zone only she occupies and for which I have begun to lovingly tease her. I am asked to wait near the door by the friendly and cheerful waitress while she finds me a spot in the rather empty restaurant, considering what time of year it is; I had been expecting a line up outside and the tables to be filled with barf-worthy couples canoodling and whispering together over coffee and chocolate goodies. I sigh inwardly in relief because at least Cupid's dirty work will not be on display.
I take the opportunity to look around me since it is my first time at this place about which I have heard so many positive comments. The open and airy space and the elevated cream ceilings make me feel even smaller than I really am while the exposed brown brick of the wall in front of me gives the restaurant a rustic aspect. When the waitress comes to collect me in order to show me to my seat, I glance down at the floor and notice that the tiles resemble milk chocolate squares so that I have the impression that I am walking on chocolate; I cannot help but smile at the thought.
She seats me at a table attached to an extended length of banquette that resembles an extra long Hershey's milk chocolate bar... more chocolate imagery. The varnished wooden table on which my left arm and right elbow now rest and onto which the manicured nails of my left hand drum unconsciously is also the color of milk chocolate... hmm, I sense a theme here as I decide to sit on the Hershey's milk chocolate bar. The walls are the same shade as silky smooth white chocolate and the old fashioned wooden cabinets and counters are a slightly whiter and less creamy tint; the counters are covered by pale wooden butcher blocks on which red-aproned and hatted employees busily assemble and put the finishing touches on the various desserts that have been ordered by the hungry patrons. Right above me, on top of the imposing half wall that separates the restaurant in two, are large bulbous vases filled with lengthy decorative spiraling ivory branches that fill the space between this wooden ledge and the imposing and high ceiling.
As I am gazing around me, letting my mind wander not unpleasantly, Sharon appears before me, dark brown hair glistening with melting snowflakes that are falling in abundance outside, her turquoise scarf a beautiful contrast between her pale face and her black tweed coat; she is smiling, her cheeks rosy from having just come from outside and her glasses are de-fogging slowly. I greet her with two kisses on her slightly damp and cold cheeks, even though we saw each other just this morning at home, and I wish her a very Happy Fuck Cupid Day. She sits in front of me on the wooden chair and we make small talk while devouring the menu with our hungry eyes, trying to choose one of the many delicious sounding salads that shall make up our late dinner and shall hopefully compensate for all of the heavier calories we shall ingest afterwards.
The menu mostly consists of chocolate inspired dishes and its mammoth list of brownies, pastries and other desserts to choose from makes my mouth water - an actual cornucopia of chocolate decadence and flavored coffees to perpetuate a sweet and delicious fall from grace for anyone attempting to remain on a diet... thankfully, that is not my case any longer and so I shall enjoy every single bite from whatever it is that I do decide upon... though the decision might be extremely difficult to make... can I take two desserts? Why just have one? Isn't there a saying that good things only come in twos? And at the moment I cannot think of anything else that could be better in twos than a double dose of brownies... maybe with some melting ice cream on top and a huge coffee...
We both decide on our respective salads and we talk about various subjects, including Sharon's new paramedic boyfriend, while we are waiting for our meals to arrive. I take a few minutes to jot down my impressions of the restaurant in my writing journal; we joke around that I should pretend to be writing a review for a newspaper so that I might perhaps get a discount or a free meal. Our immense salads arrive shortly and both plates literally take up the whole tiny table. The king-size bed of lettuce adorning my huge white square plate is topped with pieces of hard-boiled eggs, strips of deli ham, and the best part, topped with roughly grated cheese. My salad is garnished how I think all dishes should be: with copious amounts of cheese! I believe, like the Cheese Whiz slogan, that cheese adds personality! We quickly dig in, both of us being famished; I make appreciative "MMMs" with every bite, which I unsuccessfully try to stifle because it tends to annoy people, unless the person sitting in front of me is my mother, in which case she does the same thing.
Halfway through our salads, I see my bundled-up better half walking towards our table. I quickly get up and embrace her, giving her tons of kisses on her chilly cheeks to which she giggles and kisses me back just as fervently. Her long black hair peaking out from underneath her tuque is slightly damp from being exposed to the snowy elements and her dark brown eyes are laughing as she looks at me. She takes off her coat and displays a cute red shirt she has worn on account of Single Awareness Day, takes a seat on the banquette next to me and begins to look at the menu while Sharon and I finish our salads; she exclaims over all of the desserts, expressing her desire to try each and every one of the decadent brownies.
Once we are finished our salads and before the waiter has come and taken our order, I decide to get up and investigate the intriguing glass case to my left; it is every diabetic's worst nightmare and every model's private and personal Hell. The glass shelves are filled to capacity with goodies beyond anyone's wild imagination; peanut butter and chocolate brownies, white chocolate brownies, unctuous looking chocolate brownies and countless other sorts all piled high on top of immense square porcelain plates with hand-written labels next to them indicating their savory identities.
The other side of the display case is full of special and presumably hand-crafted chocolates, either decorated with different colored icing or plain and made in all sorts of shapes, like squares, ovals and circles. The chocolates are all neatly lined up on the same white dishes used to keep the sumptuous brownies and there are layers of them in each plate separated by parchment paper - to be that parchment paper, I secretly think for an instant! Moreover, I can just imagine the sweet and flavorful smell that must escape from this dessert paradise every time an employee has to reach in and take an incredible morsel of chocolate or brownie.
Once I have finished inspecting all of the immoral treats, I go back to my Hershey bar seat and start dissecting the menu with Manisha; we go through all of the choices and list all of the ones we could make, which are seemingly endless! Should I have the chocolate and peanut butter or the white chocolate brownie? Or, should I have a sundae, satisfying my chocolate and ice cream fix at the same time? Finally, I decide upon the trifle: chocolate mousse layered with pieces of brownies and filled with caramel goodness, complete with melted chocolate to pour on top... OMIGOD. But then, the coffee selection makes me hesitate a little... what should I have since every kind is so tempting? I, after consulting the woman who introduced me to my drug in the first place, choose a simple latte so that it will not compete with the richness of my dessert... though I still have a little bit of a difficult time sticking to my decision... and Sharon insists I have a DECAF latte... I wonder why? When I do mention the latte, conveniently omitting the DECAF part, she immediately looks at our waiter and says "Decaf for HER please." To which I respond by sticking out my tongue at her.
The desserts soon arrive with a flourish: the brownie trifle for me, the brownie a la mode for Manisha and a sundae for Sharon. The three of us sink our spoons into our respective chocolate dishes and then are silent... the chocolatey goodness has rendered us mute, which is hard to do, especially to Manisha and I when we are together. The only sounds coming from our table for a few seconds are "MMMMs" of praise and appreciation... and I can only begin to describe my dessert as being an orgasm in chocolate mousse form. The creaminess of the dense chocolate mousse lends itself perfectly to the slight saltiness of the thick caramel sauce, all of which is punctuated by the small pieces of soft brownie morsels, and the melted chocolate sauce which I have poured on top adds another layer to the orgasmic melange pervading my mouth. Add to that the taste of the latte that I am slowly sipping, which is mingling and intertwining itself with the rest of the flavors I have just mentioned... and you can see why I have chosen to describe this utter bliss as an orgasm.
My two girls and I have a great time, eating, laughing, smiling and calling Cupid all sorts of dirty and inappropriate names... ok, ok, it is mostly me badmouthing Cupid... and then we vow to come back and share at least five desserts between the three of us! All in all, this Fuck Cupid Day has not been so bad because I have the best girlfriends to share it with... now, if only Cupid could take some archery classes from his cousin and step father Ares, the Greek Gods are very incestuous as you all know, so that he could aim for an AVAILABLE man to add to my already amazing life, despite all of my recent ranting and grumbling, then I might not want to hurt him so badly...
I take the opportunity to look around me since it is my first time at this place about which I have heard so many positive comments. The open and airy space and the elevated cream ceilings make me feel even smaller than I really am while the exposed brown brick of the wall in front of me gives the restaurant a rustic aspect. When the waitress comes to collect me in order to show me to my seat, I glance down at the floor and notice that the tiles resemble milk chocolate squares so that I have the impression that I am walking on chocolate; I cannot help but smile at the thought.
She seats me at a table attached to an extended length of banquette that resembles an extra long Hershey's milk chocolate bar... more chocolate imagery. The varnished wooden table on which my left arm and right elbow now rest and onto which the manicured nails of my left hand drum unconsciously is also the color of milk chocolate... hmm, I sense a theme here as I decide to sit on the Hershey's milk chocolate bar. The walls are the same shade as silky smooth white chocolate and the old fashioned wooden cabinets and counters are a slightly whiter and less creamy tint; the counters are covered by pale wooden butcher blocks on which red-aproned and hatted employees busily assemble and put the finishing touches on the various desserts that have been ordered by the hungry patrons. Right above me, on top of the imposing half wall that separates the restaurant in two, are large bulbous vases filled with lengthy decorative spiraling ivory branches that fill the space between this wooden ledge and the imposing and high ceiling.
As I am gazing around me, letting my mind wander not unpleasantly, Sharon appears before me, dark brown hair glistening with melting snowflakes that are falling in abundance outside, her turquoise scarf a beautiful contrast between her pale face and her black tweed coat; she is smiling, her cheeks rosy from having just come from outside and her glasses are de-fogging slowly. I greet her with two kisses on her slightly damp and cold cheeks, even though we saw each other just this morning at home, and I wish her a very Happy Fuck Cupid Day. She sits in front of me on the wooden chair and we make small talk while devouring the menu with our hungry eyes, trying to choose one of the many delicious sounding salads that shall make up our late dinner and shall hopefully compensate for all of the heavier calories we shall ingest afterwards.
The menu mostly consists of chocolate inspired dishes and its mammoth list of brownies, pastries and other desserts to choose from makes my mouth water - an actual cornucopia of chocolate decadence and flavored coffees to perpetuate a sweet and delicious fall from grace for anyone attempting to remain on a diet... thankfully, that is not my case any longer and so I shall enjoy every single bite from whatever it is that I do decide upon... though the decision might be extremely difficult to make... can I take two desserts? Why just have one? Isn't there a saying that good things only come in twos? And at the moment I cannot think of anything else that could be better in twos than a double dose of brownies... maybe with some melting ice cream on top and a huge coffee...
We both decide on our respective salads and we talk about various subjects, including Sharon's new paramedic boyfriend, while we are waiting for our meals to arrive. I take a few minutes to jot down my impressions of the restaurant in my writing journal; we joke around that I should pretend to be writing a review for a newspaper so that I might perhaps get a discount or a free meal. Our immense salads arrive shortly and both plates literally take up the whole tiny table. The king-size bed of lettuce adorning my huge white square plate is topped with pieces of hard-boiled eggs, strips of deli ham, and the best part, topped with roughly grated cheese. My salad is garnished how I think all dishes should be: with copious amounts of cheese! I believe, like the Cheese Whiz slogan, that cheese adds personality! We quickly dig in, both of us being famished; I make appreciative "MMMs" with every bite, which I unsuccessfully try to stifle because it tends to annoy people, unless the person sitting in front of me is my mother, in which case she does the same thing.
Halfway through our salads, I see my bundled-up better half walking towards our table. I quickly get up and embrace her, giving her tons of kisses on her chilly cheeks to which she giggles and kisses me back just as fervently. Her long black hair peaking out from underneath her tuque is slightly damp from being exposed to the snowy elements and her dark brown eyes are laughing as she looks at me. She takes off her coat and displays a cute red shirt she has worn on account of Single Awareness Day, takes a seat on the banquette next to me and begins to look at the menu while Sharon and I finish our salads; she exclaims over all of the desserts, expressing her desire to try each and every one of the decadent brownies.
Once we are finished our salads and before the waiter has come and taken our order, I decide to get up and investigate the intriguing glass case to my left; it is every diabetic's worst nightmare and every model's private and personal Hell. The glass shelves are filled to capacity with goodies beyond anyone's wild imagination; peanut butter and chocolate brownies, white chocolate brownies, unctuous looking chocolate brownies and countless other sorts all piled high on top of immense square porcelain plates with hand-written labels next to them indicating their savory identities.
The other side of the display case is full of special and presumably hand-crafted chocolates, either decorated with different colored icing or plain and made in all sorts of shapes, like squares, ovals and circles. The chocolates are all neatly lined up on the same white dishes used to keep the sumptuous brownies and there are layers of them in each plate separated by parchment paper - to be that parchment paper, I secretly think for an instant! Moreover, I can just imagine the sweet and flavorful smell that must escape from this dessert paradise every time an employee has to reach in and take an incredible morsel of chocolate or brownie.
Once I have finished inspecting all of the immoral treats, I go back to my Hershey bar seat and start dissecting the menu with Manisha; we go through all of the choices and list all of the ones we could make, which are seemingly endless! Should I have the chocolate and peanut butter or the white chocolate brownie? Or, should I have a sundae, satisfying my chocolate and ice cream fix at the same time? Finally, I decide upon the trifle: chocolate mousse layered with pieces of brownies and filled with caramel goodness, complete with melted chocolate to pour on top... OMIGOD. But then, the coffee selection makes me hesitate a little... what should I have since every kind is so tempting? I, after consulting the woman who introduced me to my drug in the first place, choose a simple latte so that it will not compete with the richness of my dessert... though I still have a little bit of a difficult time sticking to my decision... and Sharon insists I have a DECAF latte... I wonder why? When I do mention the latte, conveniently omitting the DECAF part, she immediately looks at our waiter and says "Decaf for HER please." To which I respond by sticking out my tongue at her.
The desserts soon arrive with a flourish: the brownie trifle for me, the brownie a la mode for Manisha and a sundae for Sharon. The three of us sink our spoons into our respective chocolate dishes and then are silent... the chocolatey goodness has rendered us mute, which is hard to do, especially to Manisha and I when we are together. The only sounds coming from our table for a few seconds are "MMMMs" of praise and appreciation... and I can only begin to describe my dessert as being an orgasm in chocolate mousse form. The creaminess of the dense chocolate mousse lends itself perfectly to the slight saltiness of the thick caramel sauce, all of which is punctuated by the small pieces of soft brownie morsels, and the melted chocolate sauce which I have poured on top adds another layer to the orgasmic melange pervading my mouth. Add to that the taste of the latte that I am slowly sipping, which is mingling and intertwining itself with the rest of the flavors I have just mentioned... and you can see why I have chosen to describe this utter bliss as an orgasm.
My two girls and I have a great time, eating, laughing, smiling and calling Cupid all sorts of dirty and inappropriate names... ok, ok, it is mostly me badmouthing Cupid... and then we vow to come back and share at least five desserts between the three of us! All in all, this Fuck Cupid Day has not been so bad because I have the best girlfriends to share it with... now, if only Cupid could take some archery classes from his cousin and step father Ares, the Greek Gods are very incestuous as you all know, so that he could aim for an AVAILABLE man to add to my already amazing life, despite all of my recent ranting and grumbling, then I might not want to hurt him so badly...
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Dancing: a Powerful Outlet
I had been anticipating going to dance somewhere, anywhere, all week, but a last minute change of plans meant that I was going to Row's birthday celebrations at Milsa's instead of Salsateque where I have my weekly Latin dance marathon. So, I am pleasantly surprised when Row and the gang agree to come with Steph and I to PJ O'Hara's earlier than I had originally thought we might... let the dancing begin is what I immediately think when we cross the bar's threshold and hand over our coats, scarves and other paraphernalia to the evening's jacket guardians. My feet are already itching to move and my hips are aching to follow the beat of any song the DJ will play.
After greeting and chatting with a few people I either know or have recognized from previous parties, my own smaller and more intimate party makes its way to the dance floor at the back of the bar. The dancing area is rather barren, but it doesn't matter to me as I drag my rather reluctant revelers onto the dance floor in order to get the groove going as early as possible. I climb onto the elevated platform and begin to ham it up for the benefit of my friends, my motto being: fake it till you feel it. I wiggle my booty suggestively at Row, making her laugh, and serenade her with my loud and obnoxious renditions of "DJ's Got Us Falling In Love Again," "I Like it," and "Who's that Chick" while exaggerating my mouth and arm gestures. For Steph, my spooning companion for the evening, I reserve the shaking of my disappearing breasts by moving my shoulders rapidly and spreading out my arms; she dances near me and sings her heart out to all of the songs she recognizes while laughing at the theatrics I am putting on for their benefit, and mine, truth be told. Abdie, one of our gorgeous male friends, disappears and reappears at sporadic moments, dancing with me zealously for short intervals of time.
Clearly, I am and feel in my element while the others are not feeling it so much; thus, it is decided that the others shall go to another bar close-by while I stay in order to dance and ogle the male chocolate wrestlers that are supposed to be the main attraction for us ladies tonight. I feel a little hard pressed to not be going with Steph and Row to the other bar, partly because I do not want to lose Steph since we are spending the night together and secondly because I had not wanted to spend another night alone at a club... though I do inevitably end up dancing with other people somehow... but we assure each other that we shall meet at our designated spot.
"I needs to dance..." I smile sadly and tell my unwarrantably worried and concerned friends while I shrug my shoulders as an offering of further explanation. I glance at Steph and our eyes meet. She nods slightly, tilts her head to one side and offers a small enigmatic smile - I do not need to tell her what it is that I truly desire, which is to forget myself and my thoughts for the ever so brief moments of peace and solace that the music will bring me. She squeezes my arm and makes sure that I do not mind that she is going and I of course reassure her that everything is fine and that she needs to enjoy her night as much as I will attempt to love mine.
They soon leave, allowing me to slip back into the anonymity and darkness I find on the now crowded dance floor. I let the beat of each song decide what my hips, feet and arms will do, letting the tension that constantly dwells in my shoulders and neck disappear and dissipate slowly. I dance at the fringe of all the tightly formed groups of swaying and sweating bodies, letting my own uncoil and relax from the small and mundane stresses it has experienced and absorbed during the week; I sing along to every song, not caring how loudly I am or am not singing.
I decide at a certain moment to go and check out the chocolate wrestling, but after a brief hiatus I return to the dance floor in the same manner that an alcoholic is drawn to a bottle of Bourbon or JD - it is an instinctual and irresistible pull that I cannot and will not deny. The elevated platform I was occupying before is now too crowded with gyrating young female students and a couple, or a potential one at least, grinding against one another as though they are the only two people here. I therefore make my into the middle of all these individuals, close my eyes for a moment and let the beat of the music wash over me like a soothing ocean wave.
The rhythm of the songs dictate how my body decides to move and I let myself get carried away, no thoughts clouding my mind, no foolish feelings choking my throat and making my light blue eyes well up with silly tears. I am right now simply a moving body and I smile despite myself because it just feels so damn good to be moving along to melodies rather than to my thoughts and emotions. How to describe the welcoming blank space filling the area between my two ears rather than the images and scenes that play like a slideshow behind my eyelids whenever I close them, these moving pictures blinding me from seeing and appreciating what is in my life rather than what is lacking from it.
Dancing, what a powerful and effective eraser of anything that is not belonging to my immediate physical state of being and for the duration of my time spent on the dance floor, I am, for the most part, blissfully happy; my sadness, apprehensions, questions and doubts leak out of me with the beads of sweat forming and collecting on the small of my back, the space between my breasts, the crevices underneath my arms, the top of my forehead and the sensitive area that is my neck while my hair is soaked and tied back so as to be out of my way.
At some point, however, a song I both love and abhor begins to play and I smile ruefully as the images that I unwillingly allow to play in my mind bombard and bother me like pesky mosquitoes. Two separate scenes play out in my head in which I danced with the same individual to the same bloody song but at two different locations.
The first occurred at a club when we were the two of us enjoying the night together as though it would not end. We had been dancing for a short while before the song in question had come on and I had recognized it right away - we had been playing a game all night where I would call out the names of the songs before they had fully begun to play... well, at least I was playing! After I had yelped in excitement because I had heard the first beginning notes, he had pulled me towards him and we had started to dance closer together; I took the opportunity to kiss his salty cheek and grinning lips while our hips had continued to move intimately.
The second time was when I had pulled some of his lady friends onto the dance floor with me at a local bar - I had no idea where he had gone and though I was feeling insecure and a little uncomfortable, I was determined to enjoy myself nevertheless. So, we were dancing, the four of us ladies, when the song had come on and I had let out an appreciative 'woohoo!' while allowing my hips and arms to take control of the rest of my body as I mumbled along to the words. I do not know how, but I felt him watching me and so I looked into the direction where I thought he might be, and sure enough, there he was leaning against a table, smirking at me as though he had been looking at me all along. I had smiled back and then looked away so as to continue to dance.
I let the scenes settle in my mind like sediment in a glass of water; I take refuge in the rhythm, lyrics and melodies and focus on what my body is doing. I look around me and see the female chocolate wrestler I had befriended earlier and an ASFA Exec, so I go over and start dancing with them, grateful for the mask of happiness I must now wear partly for their benefit, but mostly for mine. I would dance well into the next morning if I was allowed to, but unfortunately the bar must close and the morning must be faced and dealt with. My sole solace is knowing that I am meeting my dear female friend again at the end of the night to talk and laugh with and with whom I can platonically spoon and hug fiercely if I need to.
After greeting and chatting with a few people I either know or have recognized from previous parties, my own smaller and more intimate party makes its way to the dance floor at the back of the bar. The dancing area is rather barren, but it doesn't matter to me as I drag my rather reluctant revelers onto the dance floor in order to get the groove going as early as possible. I climb onto the elevated platform and begin to ham it up for the benefit of my friends, my motto being: fake it till you feel it. I wiggle my booty suggestively at Row, making her laugh, and serenade her with my loud and obnoxious renditions of "DJ's Got Us Falling In Love Again," "I Like it," and "Who's that Chick" while exaggerating my mouth and arm gestures. For Steph, my spooning companion for the evening, I reserve the shaking of my disappearing breasts by moving my shoulders rapidly and spreading out my arms; she dances near me and sings her heart out to all of the songs she recognizes while laughing at the theatrics I am putting on for their benefit, and mine, truth be told. Abdie, one of our gorgeous male friends, disappears and reappears at sporadic moments, dancing with me zealously for short intervals of time.
Clearly, I am and feel in my element while the others are not feeling it so much; thus, it is decided that the others shall go to another bar close-by while I stay in order to dance and ogle the male chocolate wrestlers that are supposed to be the main attraction for us ladies tonight. I feel a little hard pressed to not be going with Steph and Row to the other bar, partly because I do not want to lose Steph since we are spending the night together and secondly because I had not wanted to spend another night alone at a club... though I do inevitably end up dancing with other people somehow... but we assure each other that we shall meet at our designated spot.
"I needs to dance..." I smile sadly and tell my unwarrantably worried and concerned friends while I shrug my shoulders as an offering of further explanation. I glance at Steph and our eyes meet. She nods slightly, tilts her head to one side and offers a small enigmatic smile - I do not need to tell her what it is that I truly desire, which is to forget myself and my thoughts for the ever so brief moments of peace and solace that the music will bring me. She squeezes my arm and makes sure that I do not mind that she is going and I of course reassure her that everything is fine and that she needs to enjoy her night as much as I will attempt to love mine.
They soon leave, allowing me to slip back into the anonymity and darkness I find on the now crowded dance floor. I let the beat of each song decide what my hips, feet and arms will do, letting the tension that constantly dwells in my shoulders and neck disappear and dissipate slowly. I dance at the fringe of all the tightly formed groups of swaying and sweating bodies, letting my own uncoil and relax from the small and mundane stresses it has experienced and absorbed during the week; I sing along to every song, not caring how loudly I am or am not singing.
I decide at a certain moment to go and check out the chocolate wrestling, but after a brief hiatus I return to the dance floor in the same manner that an alcoholic is drawn to a bottle of Bourbon or JD - it is an instinctual and irresistible pull that I cannot and will not deny. The elevated platform I was occupying before is now too crowded with gyrating young female students and a couple, or a potential one at least, grinding against one another as though they are the only two people here. I therefore make my into the middle of all these individuals, close my eyes for a moment and let the beat of the music wash over me like a soothing ocean wave.
The rhythm of the songs dictate how my body decides to move and I let myself get carried away, no thoughts clouding my mind, no foolish feelings choking my throat and making my light blue eyes well up with silly tears. I am right now simply a moving body and I smile despite myself because it just feels so damn good to be moving along to melodies rather than to my thoughts and emotions. How to describe the welcoming blank space filling the area between my two ears rather than the images and scenes that play like a slideshow behind my eyelids whenever I close them, these moving pictures blinding me from seeing and appreciating what is in my life rather than what is lacking from it.
Dancing, what a powerful and effective eraser of anything that is not belonging to my immediate physical state of being and for the duration of my time spent on the dance floor, I am, for the most part, blissfully happy; my sadness, apprehensions, questions and doubts leak out of me with the beads of sweat forming and collecting on the small of my back, the space between my breasts, the crevices underneath my arms, the top of my forehead and the sensitive area that is my neck while my hair is soaked and tied back so as to be out of my way.
At some point, however, a song I both love and abhor begins to play and I smile ruefully as the images that I unwillingly allow to play in my mind bombard and bother me like pesky mosquitoes. Two separate scenes play out in my head in which I danced with the same individual to the same bloody song but at two different locations.
The first occurred at a club when we were the two of us enjoying the night together as though it would not end. We had been dancing for a short while before the song in question had come on and I had recognized it right away - we had been playing a game all night where I would call out the names of the songs before they had fully begun to play... well, at least I was playing! After I had yelped in excitement because I had heard the first beginning notes, he had pulled me towards him and we had started to dance closer together; I took the opportunity to kiss his salty cheek and grinning lips while our hips had continued to move intimately.
The second time was when I had pulled some of his lady friends onto the dance floor with me at a local bar - I had no idea where he had gone and though I was feeling insecure and a little uncomfortable, I was determined to enjoy myself nevertheless. So, we were dancing, the four of us ladies, when the song had come on and I had let out an appreciative 'woohoo!' while allowing my hips and arms to take control of the rest of my body as I mumbled along to the words. I do not know how, but I felt him watching me and so I looked into the direction where I thought he might be, and sure enough, there he was leaning against a table, smirking at me as though he had been looking at me all along. I had smiled back and then looked away so as to continue to dance.
I let the scenes settle in my mind like sediment in a glass of water; I take refuge in the rhythm, lyrics and melodies and focus on what my body is doing. I look around me and see the female chocolate wrestler I had befriended earlier and an ASFA Exec, so I go over and start dancing with them, grateful for the mask of happiness I must now wear partly for their benefit, but mostly for mine. I would dance well into the next morning if I was allowed to, but unfortunately the bar must close and the morning must be faced and dealt with. My sole solace is knowing that I am meeting my dear female friend again at the end of the night to talk and laugh with and with whom I can platonically spoon and hug fiercely if I need to.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
A Whole New Meaning to Wrestling
The two male opponents kneel down into the liquid chocolate and, I have been told by a reliable source, lube mixture that only covers the very bottom of the inflated basin. The tiled floor directly underneath it is covered in plastic, but the immediate area surrounding it is extremely slick and slippery - one wrong move around the tiny pool and you will find yourself in it! The Concordia students attending this event have left their previously occupied bar stools and counters and have gathered around the upcoming entertainment; we are all crowded together in a rather tight space, especially considering the excitement such an activity will potentially generate.
My attention is drawn to the young men in the small makeshift ring; the challenger to my right is a muscular blond with shoulder length hair and well-defined abs who is wearing a headband and two rather revealing Speedo-like shorts. The gentleman to my left is a taller and even stockier light brown haired guy wearing nothing but tight jean cut-offs; I decide that I will cheer for my fellow Concordian further away from me, to my left - why, just because he is damn hot!
They face each other and perform a few theatrics for the benefit of the still growing crowd, who voices its appreciation when the blond beats his chest like King Kong and then flicks chocolate into his nemesis' face. In order to start the match, the two men must be covered in chocolate and so two gorgeous ladies perform that duty; they each take a plastic bucket with chocolate sloshing at the bottom and then respectively tip their pails onto the awaiting wrestlers' bodies... and both boys are now unctuously gleaming and glistening with melted milk chocolate so that their muscular physiques are highlighted and more defined... ladies, if you loved chocolate before, let me tell you that you would at this very moment adore it even more after witnessing such a marvelous and yummy spectacle.
The battle is now ready to begin and the tension between the two testosterone driven male bodies has elevated slightly as neither wishes to lose face while smeared with chocolate. The ref blows his plastic whistle and the two primed males spring towards one another, both reaching for the kerchief tucked into their respective chocolate drenched belts worn for that specific purpose. Their beautiful bodies slide and slip against the walls of the inflated basin and chocolate raindrops splash the cheering audience - I am tempted to lick my arm when some chocolate lands there, but then I remember what has been done in that chocolate and so I restrain myself!
The first round is over with pretty quickly with the jean shorts toting man winning it; he pumps his arms into the air yielding the rag as his prize and the spectators respond accordingly with screams and hoots as though we are witnessing a gladiator having triumphed over a roaring lion. The imposing and young looking student slightly behind and to the left of me yells the champion's name and I turn towards him to make sure I have heard correctly before I scream, "Go Jessie!" Jessie, whom I have never met in my life, looks away from the rest of his adoring fans, flashes his teeth in a smile, thereby creating a striking contrast against the darkness of his chocolate covered face, and then points his finger in my direction while he winks at me provocatively - I can only respond with an enthusiastic "WOOHOO!" as the next round is about to begin. The next two rounds determine the smaller of the two men as the winner, yet it seems as though Jessie is a crowd favorite. Once the match has officially ended, the two wrestlers respectfully shake hands to a series of whoops and hollers before exiting the rubber pool and making their way upstairs to clean up and change.
Up next are two beautiful Amazonian brunettes tastefully covered in a way that makes me pleasantly surprised - for some reason I had thought the women would be more scantily clad than the men, but the male variety, especially a dude who goes by the name of Mighty, have been less dressed than the ladies and have therefore given us much more to look at! While we are waiting for the match to begin, I befriend the female wrestler to my right and we dance to a couple of songs together, creating our own dance floor smack in the middle of the bar, and we share a few laughs and many smiles. Finally, the fight is about to start and one of the organizers of the event, the gorgeous, bubbly, sweet as pie and newly converted to the blond side ASFA Exec, asks me to pour the chocolate over my new acquaintance; I accept and tell my pumped wresting warrior the duty I must perform by her.
The two focused chicks climb into the rubber enclosure, kneel down and already try to psych each other out with a few cutthroat looks - man do women ever play dirty against one another! And why is that? Perhaps that might be the subject of another blog! For now, let me take you back around the chocolate pool while the ASFA Exec and I tip our buckets over the heads of our respective contenders. We then carefully, because the floor is as slick as newly formed ice, but quickly, so as not to get drenched in flying chocolate, back away from the ensuing fight.
The ref signals the start of the round and both girls immediately lunge at each other, flinging chocolate in every direction. The first two rounds are pretty definite with my betting horse aggressively winning the kerchief both times; the final part finishes with my chocolate warrior coming out of it on top - literally - she has grabbed her opponent, flipped her over, straddled her and seized the chocolate soaked rag. The match is over with my challenger having won hands down. The two women then amicably hug each other, smile and laugh together, presumably at the fact that they are covered in chocolate and are at this moment beyond recognizable.
My novel acquaintance steps out of the pool with a triumphant grin barely visible underneath all of the chocolate smeared on her pretty face. She high fives me, leaving chocolate dripping down my upraised palms and pumps her arms into the air to signal her achievement. We the audience cheer for her uproariously having shared in her victory accomplished in a basin of chocolate. We then slowly make our way back to whatever short-lived and yet oh-so-necessary comforts we had been engaging in before the wrestling matches had taken precedence; we turn back to all of the other sorts of activities the night life has to offer and the chocolate wrestling soon becomes a dim and faint memory while the fog of alcohol or the hypnotic effect of dancing takes over.
My attention is drawn to the young men in the small makeshift ring; the challenger to my right is a muscular blond with shoulder length hair and well-defined abs who is wearing a headband and two rather revealing Speedo-like shorts. The gentleman to my left is a taller and even stockier light brown haired guy wearing nothing but tight jean cut-offs; I decide that I will cheer for my fellow Concordian further away from me, to my left - why, just because he is damn hot!
They face each other and perform a few theatrics for the benefit of the still growing crowd, who voices its appreciation when the blond beats his chest like King Kong and then flicks chocolate into his nemesis' face. In order to start the match, the two men must be covered in chocolate and so two gorgeous ladies perform that duty; they each take a plastic bucket with chocolate sloshing at the bottom and then respectively tip their pails onto the awaiting wrestlers' bodies... and both boys are now unctuously gleaming and glistening with melted milk chocolate so that their muscular physiques are highlighted and more defined... ladies, if you loved chocolate before, let me tell you that you would at this very moment adore it even more after witnessing such a marvelous and yummy spectacle.
The battle is now ready to begin and the tension between the two testosterone driven male bodies has elevated slightly as neither wishes to lose face while smeared with chocolate. The ref blows his plastic whistle and the two primed males spring towards one another, both reaching for the kerchief tucked into their respective chocolate drenched belts worn for that specific purpose. Their beautiful bodies slide and slip against the walls of the inflated basin and chocolate raindrops splash the cheering audience - I am tempted to lick my arm when some chocolate lands there, but then I remember what has been done in that chocolate and so I restrain myself!
The first round is over with pretty quickly with the jean shorts toting man winning it; he pumps his arms into the air yielding the rag as his prize and the spectators respond accordingly with screams and hoots as though we are witnessing a gladiator having triumphed over a roaring lion. The imposing and young looking student slightly behind and to the left of me yells the champion's name and I turn towards him to make sure I have heard correctly before I scream, "Go Jessie!" Jessie, whom I have never met in my life, looks away from the rest of his adoring fans, flashes his teeth in a smile, thereby creating a striking contrast against the darkness of his chocolate covered face, and then points his finger in my direction while he winks at me provocatively - I can only respond with an enthusiastic "WOOHOO!" as the next round is about to begin. The next two rounds determine the smaller of the two men as the winner, yet it seems as though Jessie is a crowd favorite. Once the match has officially ended, the two wrestlers respectfully shake hands to a series of whoops and hollers before exiting the rubber pool and making their way upstairs to clean up and change.
Up next are two beautiful Amazonian brunettes tastefully covered in a way that makes me pleasantly surprised - for some reason I had thought the women would be more scantily clad than the men, but the male variety, especially a dude who goes by the name of Mighty, have been less dressed than the ladies and have therefore given us much more to look at! While we are waiting for the match to begin, I befriend the female wrestler to my right and we dance to a couple of songs together, creating our own dance floor smack in the middle of the bar, and we share a few laughs and many smiles. Finally, the fight is about to start and one of the organizers of the event, the gorgeous, bubbly, sweet as pie and newly converted to the blond side ASFA Exec, asks me to pour the chocolate over my new acquaintance; I accept and tell my pumped wresting warrior the duty I must perform by her.
The two focused chicks climb into the rubber enclosure, kneel down and already try to psych each other out with a few cutthroat looks - man do women ever play dirty against one another! And why is that? Perhaps that might be the subject of another blog! For now, let me take you back around the chocolate pool while the ASFA Exec and I tip our buckets over the heads of our respective contenders. We then carefully, because the floor is as slick as newly formed ice, but quickly, so as not to get drenched in flying chocolate, back away from the ensuing fight.
The ref signals the start of the round and both girls immediately lunge at each other, flinging chocolate in every direction. The first two rounds are pretty definite with my betting horse aggressively winning the kerchief both times; the final part finishes with my chocolate warrior coming out of it on top - literally - she has grabbed her opponent, flipped her over, straddled her and seized the chocolate soaked rag. The match is over with my challenger having won hands down. The two women then amicably hug each other, smile and laugh together, presumably at the fact that they are covered in chocolate and are at this moment beyond recognizable.
My novel acquaintance steps out of the pool with a triumphant grin barely visible underneath all of the chocolate smeared on her pretty face. She high fives me, leaving chocolate dripping down my upraised palms and pumps her arms into the air to signal her achievement. We the audience cheer for her uproariously having shared in her victory accomplished in a basin of chocolate. We then slowly make our way back to whatever short-lived and yet oh-so-necessary comforts we had been engaging in before the wrestling matches had taken precedence; we turn back to all of the other sorts of activities the night life has to offer and the chocolate wrestling soon becomes a dim and faint memory while the fog of alcohol or the hypnotic effect of dancing takes over.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Running into a Familiar Gentle Giant
“You should SO go wrestle!” I tell the exceptionally cute and lofty blond guy whom I am actually taller than at this particular moment, though he normally towers a good head and a half above me. I picture him half nude and covered in chocolate and need to make sure that I am not actually drooling!
He shrugs his broad shoulders and continues to dance, sipping at the beer he is holding in his large right hand. “You go!” He responds while tapping along to the beat with his mammoth sneaker-clad feet.
Leaning towards him I say rather flirtatiously and with a slight competitive edge coloring my voice, “I’ll go if I can take you on…” and I smirk while I jab him gently in the chest with my two index fingers.
“Phff!” Grinning, he then sneers and looks at me bluntly from head to foot. He cocks his head to the left, motions up and down with his hands to indicate his impressive height and then mimics carrying something over his shoulder. He leans his whole body towards me and declares, “I could take you with one arm.”
I smirk in response and challenge him loudly over the blaring music, “Dude, bring it!”
Before I can even react, he brazenly and deftly scoops me off of my feet and slings me over the shoulder he has just indicated a few seconds earlier; my torso hangs over his left shoulder and rests against his wide and muscular back as he spins me around and I squeeze my eyes tightly shut, kicking my bent legs in protestation, my arms glued to my sides while my talon like nails carve and dig into his solid shoulders. Despite my trepidation, I cannot help but giggle breathlessly and a little nervously. After he has spun me around a few more times than what can be considered a comfortable number after having eaten at Milsa, he softly sets me back down on my dancing spot. I quickly glance towards Steph and Row, who are looking at me with mouths wide open.
So, who is this scruffy and delicious blond individual who literally swept me off my feet for a total of perhaps five minutes tops? Well, it seems like we met AGES ago back at the beginning of September when I lost four hours of my life at a chalet somewhere close to Quebec City... CRAZY weekend that was and one that I would repeat EVERY week if I could, albeit to the detriment of my liver and overall health. This younger man was actually one of the many highlights of this trip and we had shared some ridiculous moments belting out songs, dancing along to others, drinking, playing Foosball and then having intermittent conversations on the bus trip back to Montreal.
Hilariously enough, I had not recognized him at first when he approached me while I was dancing, entranced as I was in my own little world on the elevated platform near the DJ. My three companions were dancing off to my right on the rather empty dance floor, being a little too conservative to be on display shaking and moving above everyone else.
A few minutes soon after our arrival, the really good looking man in question, wearing a close-fitting red t-shirt and faded, scuffed, torn and tastefully tight jeans, had approached my sacred dancing space and had smiled at me - I, being the innocent and friendly gal that I am, had smiled back just as sweetly. The roguish man had then proceeded to comment, while looking at me and drawing circles next to his ear and pretending to drink a few too many beers, to my new male acquaintance, whom I had only met earlier that evening at Milsa. Intrigued, I kept looking at him, a little confused and wondering what was going on. I like a good game of charades, but when you are the subject of the imitation and apparent ridicule, it gets tiring pretty quickly. So, after this now seemingly rude and clearly drunk guy had spoken to my new pal and had pointed at me a few too many times while doing so, I looked at him pointedly and stopped dancing. At this point, he had come closer and his beer-infused breath had tickled my ear while he had asked in a loud enough manner to be heard over the music, "You don't remember me, do you?"
I had stepped back, pretended to study him for a few seconds and then had to shrug my shoulders with a smile when the answer to his question was an unfortunate no; my mind was drawing a blank and I was unable to distinguish him from the many people I have been lucky enough to have met since last September. He mumbled something as he shook his head and began to walk away, and the only word I was able to catch was "ASFA"... and then my memory suddenly awoke and desperately shot out images into my mind of who this man was.
I screamed out his name excitedly, jumped off my platform and grabbed his shoulders as he continued to walk away towards the bar. He turned around and smiled to which I replied by stretching my body as tall as it could humanly go while taking his gorgeous face in my hands and bringing it to mine so as to kiss both of his stubbly and slightly scratchy cheeks. I grinned at him as I let go of his face and then grabbed his arm to pull him back onto the dance floor with me.
Funny how life is: it throws you a cute curve ball every once in a while to show you that they really still DO exist!
So, who is this scruffy and delicious blond individual who literally swept me off my feet for a total of perhaps five minutes tops? Well, it seems like we met AGES ago back at the beginning of September when I lost four hours of my life at a chalet somewhere close to Quebec City... CRAZY weekend that was and one that I would repeat EVERY week if I could, albeit to the detriment of my liver and overall health. This younger man was actually one of the many highlights of this trip and we had shared some ridiculous moments belting out songs, dancing along to others, drinking, playing Foosball and then having intermittent conversations on the bus trip back to Montreal.
Hilariously enough, I had not recognized him at first when he approached me while I was dancing, entranced as I was in my own little world on the elevated platform near the DJ. My three companions were dancing off to my right on the rather empty dance floor, being a little too conservative to be on display shaking and moving above everyone else.
A few minutes soon after our arrival, the really good looking man in question, wearing a close-fitting red t-shirt and faded, scuffed, torn and tastefully tight jeans, had approached my sacred dancing space and had smiled at me - I, being the innocent and friendly gal that I am, had smiled back just as sweetly. The roguish man had then proceeded to comment, while looking at me and drawing circles next to his ear and pretending to drink a few too many beers, to my new male acquaintance, whom I had only met earlier that evening at Milsa. Intrigued, I kept looking at him, a little confused and wondering what was going on. I like a good game of charades, but when you are the subject of the imitation and apparent ridicule, it gets tiring pretty quickly. So, after this now seemingly rude and clearly drunk guy had spoken to my new pal and had pointed at me a few too many times while doing so, I looked at him pointedly and stopped dancing. At this point, he had come closer and his beer-infused breath had tickled my ear while he had asked in a loud enough manner to be heard over the music, "You don't remember me, do you?"
I had stepped back, pretended to study him for a few seconds and then had to shrug my shoulders with a smile when the answer to his question was an unfortunate no; my mind was drawing a blank and I was unable to distinguish him from the many people I have been lucky enough to have met since last September. He mumbled something as he shook his head and began to walk away, and the only word I was able to catch was "ASFA"... and then my memory suddenly awoke and desperately shot out images into my mind of who this man was.
I screamed out his name excitedly, jumped off my platform and grabbed his shoulders as he continued to walk away towards the bar. He turned around and smiled to which I replied by stretching my body as tall as it could humanly go while taking his gorgeous face in my hands and bringing it to mine so as to kiss both of his stubbly and slightly scratchy cheeks. I grinned at him as I let go of his face and then grabbed his arm to pull him back onto the dance floor with me.
Funny how life is: it throws you a cute curve ball every once in a while to show you that they really still DO exist!
Friday, February 11, 2011
Where Art Thou Romeo? OR Superman does NOT Exist, But Superwoman Still Might
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.
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.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Reflections over Heavenly Coffee
I am perched atop a low backed black plastic stool with skinny metal legs at the high Formica counter that is desperately trying to imitate marble and yet failing considerably to do so; the wall of street level windows is directly in front of me and I glance at the individuals I presume to be students and professors scurrying along Mackay to and from their classes. The cool air hitting the windows or an invisible ventilation duct is causing fleshy goosebumps to form on my pale exposed arms. Meanwhile, the latte I am slowly sipping is competing with this passive aggressive cold front by gently and gradually warming up the inside of my belly while languidly spreading its heat throughout the rest of my body and into my extremities. The tall paper cup I am lovingly holding in my left hand while my right is busy composing nonsense already feels lukewarm and yet it nevertheless also feels quite comforting against the sensitive skin of my palm. The delicate raspberry flavor permeating my grandiose latte tickles and plays with my palate and tongue as I nurse this newly discovered gem, only setting it down when I check the time on my annoyingly silent cellphone. Drinking this deliciously mild mixture of mocha goodness makes me regret all of the years I have spent not being intimately acquainted with this divine liquid we mortals call coffee.
The conversations unfurl around me and mix with the sound of milk being foamed, cups and saucers being clinked and clanked against one another, the lone cash register's buttons being pressed and it beeping loudly in protestation, loose change being dropped onto the counter instead of into the awaiting cashier's hand and the low and almost inaudible humming of a working dishwasher. Snippets and bits of dialogues and discussions reach my ears, laughter shared over perhaps now tepid teas and coffees, exclamations over life's hilarity or someone's wit and the peculiar yet muted sound of a few dispersed laptop users either assuredly and fluidly typing away or hesitantly pecking at the threatening keys before them. The various noises blend into one another to create a coffee house symphony with its own ebb and flow; at times all of the instruments are playing at once so that there is a pleasant cacophony of sound while at other moments only certain ones take center-stage. Leona Lewis' song "Better in Time" significantly and eerily begins to play, but I am barely able to focus on the words because images of three particular men are crowding into my tired brain; I try in vain to reconnect with the distinctly separate and yet interconnected sounds, yet the thoughts and the feelings that are intertwined with them are too strong.
The disappearance of one of these men from my life has left me with a constant dull pain that never seems to go away because I miss his friendship and assuring presence so very much. Perhaps more so recently since I have taken the teaching contract at Pius and I now have to wait every night at the same bus stop he would often come and pick me up at. The recent absence of the other, although known and anticipated, has left me reeling in a way that I should have predicted and yet chose to ignore and his laughing eyes and irresistible smile are never far from my mind's eye. In fact, while walking to the Sushi Shop on the other side so as to grab a small bite to eat, I am obliged to pass by the table where we had sat and shared more than just hot drinks - the memory of that kiss causes a bittersweet smile to form on my nostalgic lips as I attempt to smother and suffocate the volcano of passionate scenes that are threatening to erupt within the private viewing chambers of my mind. The re-emergence in my surroundings of the last man I am musing over, despite or because of my best efforts to the contrary, has confused, befuddled and angered me; puzzled because of how I still feel about him, yet frustrated because I should and do know better.
However, as I sit here and people-watch, imagining the diverse yet assuredly complicated relations and connections between the different groupings of individuals that stroll by, I gently but firmly push the invasive and intrusive images of the aforementioned male sort back into the recesses of my mind from where I know they will continue to lurk and from which they will inevitably crawl back out of. The light brown and black splattered wannabe marble Formica surface comes back into focus; I let the clatter and noise seep back into my consciousness while I take a second to smile inwardly at myself because I have just enjoyed the most savory and delicious coffee since I fell in love at Second Cup about three weeks ago ... that creamy and sweet maple syrup concoction that is worth every freakin' ingested calorie and most be sipped extremely slowly so as to draw out every millisecond of pleasure and taste ... YUMMY!!
I take a moment to concentrate on the essentials that I have a direct impact upon: I have slept, albeit not that well; I have eaten, only enough to satisfy my daily nutritional demand, but there is food in my tummy; and yes, I am still breathing. The rest will come. And, if it is anything like the short-lived glimpse I was given for a month of what it can feel and be like, then I a can wait patiently because I know it will be wonderful ... and it will trump even the glorious maple syrup ambrosia I absolutely adore.
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