Playground Games
Whenever I see monkey bars, I think of the two times I sprained my ankle jumping off the top of them onto the asphalt. Both times, I was hurrying at the sound of the school bell, afraid to be late, back when I was the girl who didn't break any rules. The second time it happened I was eleven years old, in fifth grade, old enough to start my period and old enough to choose death over crying in front of my friends. I remember limping into Mrs. Gardner's classroom trying to hold back the tears but feeling them spilling out against my will, full and hot. My teacher asked if I wanted to call my mom; my friends wondered if I was going to be okay. I said no, thank you, I didn't need my mommy, and my ankle? why, that was nothing. I convinced them all I was upset about something much more dignified and mature: I couldn't decide who I wanted to "go out" with--Matt Green or Mike Morris. Who knows what kind of a crazy eleven-year-old chemicals were in charge of my brain activity back in 1990, but it made sense that tears for boys were less embarrassing than tears for a body part that was rapidly swelling and already turning a peculiar shade of violet.
Today, in 2005, I'm twenty-five, still surprised that I'm old enough to have a period, and wishing I could trade [all this] for a size 18W purple foot. Today I found myself again in front of my friends trying to hold back tears that simply weren't staying in their ducts where they belonged, only this time I wasn't covering up a physical ailment with a pretend emotional one, but the other way around. I claimed the watery eyes were the result of a wicked bronchial tickle, and to prove it I coughed my throat raw today. My formerly pink, healthy, nothing-wrong-at-all throat that now burns and tastes like a Duracel.
The truth is, this time the tears are all about the boys. Not just one boy or another boy or even both boys put together, but all boys, even the ones I haven't met yet. Today I realized I'm the girl boys--and even sometimes men--fall in love with hard and deep and hopelessly and epically. I have had it really really good, believe me on this. But in the end, no matter how much they love me, they can't seem to love me enough. And the real kicker is that it's not me who's saying it isn't enough, it's them. "I don't love you enough," they say in so many words or actions or, more appropriately, inactions. What is this "enough"? It's bullshit, is what it is. (And while I'm on the subject, you know what else is bullshit? This whole "one more time" business. You had your chance, guys--and most of you more than once chance at that. I am not a piece of cake you can have and eat, so pay your bill and just get out already. /rant)
Back now to the monkey bars and the thought I had walking home from work this evening in the rain that made me think of those two sprained ankles fifteen years ago. Today I realized I am swinging between people like they're rungs of the monkey bars. Not wanting to fall and sprain something, I make sure I have a solid enough hold on one before I'll release another. I know well what happens if you loosen your grip or let go too soon. As a kid, it took me not once but twice to learn that falling from such great heights onto concrete and clay can hurt like hell and embarrass me in front of my friends and cause residual pain for weeks and weeks. It took two times for me to learn my lesson then, but learn the lesson I eventually did. Now, though, I'm wondering if I learned the wrong lesson by mistake, or at least took the lesson a step or five too far.
Now (today, yesterday, last week, last month, and probably tomorrow), I wish it was a sprained ankle. I wish it was an injury I could watch grow fat and hot and turn purple and then blue and then green and then yellow and sometimes all the colors at once, mottled like amateur tie-dye. I wish it was something I could wrap in bandages. I wish it was something my mom could fix. I wish I was eleven and still that girl who played by the rules but wasn't yet afraid to let go of the bars and jump.
Confidential to the one I'm letting go of, if you are reading this: You could have been this guy. And for a little while you were. I will miss you, but you are not the last rung and I still have two hands. Silly me, I'd almost forgotten.
It's hard being the smart one. Seriously. Men have this habit of deifying you, or putting you on a pedestal. Of course, it's awfully hard to have a conversation from up here on the pedestal, with them crouching down there, gaping up in awe. And so their love for you is never perfect enough, because they can't hear you shouting from up there, "I'd really like to get down now - I need to take a leak!" Some day, someone will be less impressed with you, and that will be a great day. They'll just expect that greatness from you, and revel in it, while they live in greateness themselves.
I speculate:
1. He is in fact reading this.
2. He wants to be "this guy" more than you could know (maybe more than you want to be "that girl," but that is REALLY speculating).
3. He feels ill that he can't be "this guy."
4. His life will never be the same after you, for better or for worse, but probably for worse.
5. Sometimes he hates himself for fucking up so badly.
6. He pines and cries and aches.
7. You already know all of this.
Jeannie, why doesn't he get up off his ass and do something about it then?
Beautiful post....
Sometimes the biggest mistakes come after choosing the known over the unknown.
As for getting up off your ass and doing something, well...whoever said, "It's never too late," has never chosen to leave a good thing.
Sometimes it IS too late.
Captain know it all -
Consequences are like neurons. Neurons are not isolated. When one neuron fires, it activates all of the neurons around it, to varying degrees. I again speculate that whomever is the topic of this post is not so concerned with the losses he would suffer as a consequence of his actions, but is concerned about the effect his actions has on those around him. Who knows? There are so many details that swirl around when a major life decision is made, that it would be ridiculous to try to outline them all in a blog comment. You'd probably do better to ask Leah. I'm sure she knows his answer to your question, even if she has a tough time believing it.
So much shouting, so much laughter, so much speculation...
Who's laughing?
Jeannie your point is well, well taken however unlike neurons which fire because they are genetically programmed to do so, we can make choices. Sometimes those choices may hurt someone but is that reason enough to not make a decision?
Fear is a terrible motivation to do something.
Back when I was stil making porn and was known as Capt. Do It All, a producer asked me if I'd do gay for pay. It was a tough choice, my neurons didn't know what to do. The money was good but how would I tell my wife. Of course we needed the money. While my neurons didn't know which way to fire I sure did, all over those guys. Yeah there was some tough talks at home but I made it through just fine.
That is so fucked up.
SHOUTING? Check. Speculation? Check. Laughter?HAHAHAHAHAHAH! Check. Thanks to Cpt. Knowitall.
Oh, please. Perhaps if you weren't so needy, you'd still be in a relationship.
See http://store.yahoo.com/demotivators/dysfunction.html
Sorry, I know that's mean, but it smacks of Truth. It's my attempt to use humor to get you to consider that you might be an enabler; that your behavior is read as "you don't love me nearly enough," producing reactions of guilt/denial in boys/men. Maybe my problem is that I should be crying with you, not trying to get you to laugh with me about yourself, but that's where I'm at, and your collective neurons will have to rise to the occasion.
*sigh*
I can't say that I know exactly how you feel, since you've been down the relationship road in different ways than I have, but I can certainly identify with the emotions. But as a wise woman once said, "What keeps me going these days is the knowledge that when the time is right, Someone out there will need no convincing to move in with me, no coercion to ask me to marry him, and no small army to drag him to the altar and nod his head up and down when the vows are read." Keep on trucking, girl.
Sorry that it was a blue day for you, Leah. Crying is good...get out all that angst. But the right guy will love you enough and you will love him enough, and then you will start the hard stuff of being married (says the very happily married woman of 21 years...). Hope you feel cheerier soon...
It may just be the type of men you've been involved with who seem to go overboard. I learned pretty quickly that anyone – man or woman – should get the respect they deserve, no more or no less. Straying from that rule causes nothing but pain.
The monkey bars are a lot more fun if you have someone to catch you if you fall. Not necessarily someone who lifts you up or drags you down. Just there to provide loving support. It's possible for anyone to find this. How, where and when are a totally different matter, unfortunately.
That last paragraph should be read while a "girl power" song plays in the background. Something like Deborah Cox's song "Absolutely Not."
You rock.
Wow. If I weren't a freshman in high school when you were born, I'd volunteer myself :-)
Sometimes the comments make me wonder why my blog only gets smart assed remarks for comments. I don't know if it's the sweetness of your comments or the bitterness of mine that makes me want to sit in the garage with my car running.
People just like me better, Will. Get used to it.
They like you better than me? How come I have a girlfriend and you're alone on the monkeybars?
And THAT's why people don't like you, Will. You misbehave when you know better.
This is a downright dangerous thread. I'm heading over to the swings.