It’s not like I have gotten frivolous over the course of the last few months, far from it. I have just gotten really tired of being so incredibly serious all the damn time. Like with most things in life I am a late bloomer to this profound, life changing realization. Oh well, better late than never some wise ass once said.
There is some serious, unadulterated joy involved in being lighthearted and headed, not having to act and be like I’m carrying the weight of the whole wide world upon my tender shoulders. It feels like nirvana, or at least the kind of temporary nirvana one attains from toe curling sex. I don’t know about anyone else, but the feeling of physical emptiness (like that of an empty vessel drifting towards horizon at a leisurely pace) one experiences immediately after those few seconds (or if you are lucky even a few minutes) of intense, blazing, tear inducing physical sensation is reason good enough to thank the lord almighty for this human existence. It’s definitely God’s way of compensating for all the misery, strife and crap one endures though most waking hours. Well almost, if you are lucky enough to experience it that is. Even here we are sometimes screwed over by the mysterious workings of the universe in someway.
I am certainly basking in all the glory that living one day at a time brings. This is something that is an entirely new territory for me and like it is with anything novel, I am having a truly wonderful time exploring all the facets and peering at every single nook and corner. Of course, the down side to all this is I do not feel any compelling need to blog, well at least not in the serious pseudo-intellectual kind of way that I previously did. Not that I am calling myself an intellectual or even a pseudo-intellectual, far from it. But thank God for epiphanies, however late in life they may occur that make you say “Hallelujah.”
I love the ladies, well in a totally heterosexual way. I have been blessed with a healthy share of purely platonic male friends. On second thought, it might not be that great of a blessing as I may make it out to be, but for better or worse, I happen to enjoy a decent, amicable, trustworthy friendship with quite a few men. The boys are lovely, some of them even make great friends, sometimes they even offer an interesting perspective when prodded enough for an opinion.
It’s different with the women; there is always that initial dislike and suspicion. Everyone is everyone else’s competition, whether we would like to admit it or not. But after the initial hesitation and distrust is overcome and each others intentions are clearly interpreted and understood, women become each others most trusted, cherished allies.
I spent Valentine’s Day with my two guy friend ‘R’ and ‘A’ having a few drinks at Banana Bar, a perfectly respectable way to spend Saturday evening; it was a matter of pure coincidence that it just happened to be Valentine’s Day. I am vain. My vanity coaxed me to look great, which I did. I am not going to interject with some false modesty here, I am humble in more ways than one, but I am also honest. My honesty compels me to acknowledge my own spiffiness. You know I can digest the fact that these two lovely but ignorant men failed to notice or acknowledge my fabulousness. I can almost live with that. But the sheer audacity to completely bypass me as a specimen of my specie is something that I find entirely unforgivable!
The conversation started innocently enough, we are all single and laidback, not hung up over the fact that we are here together instead of being with our respective significant others and totally keen on have a decent enough time. Sounds great on paper right? Well it was for the most, until the time the art of ‘wooing’ and ‘seduction’ became the topic of intense discussion.
I am modern, liberated woman with some strong antiquated beliefs. Chivalry to me is not dead and most men and women indulge in affairs of the heart with the purest and noblest of intentions, well at least in my head. I have wasted hours upon hours of my waking life indulging in some of the cheesiest romance novels know to man. This has only further strengthened my conviction in the epic romance. So excuse my complete and utter aghast at some of the ‘techniques’ and ‘psychological play’ men employ to bag that hottie standing alone by the bar.
It was then, right at that very moment when I missed all my girlfriends, dearly. On the day that occasions the celebration of ‘real’ love, these guys went on about how the sad, lonely chick was the perfect target to get into the sack that evening. At the zenith of their vulnerability, these fabulous women suffer for the worst bout of fragility and self-doubt on this day that makes singledom a matter of great shame. In short, a perfect target for ones salacious intentions. Right at the very moment, I clasped my eyes shut in frustration, wishing I was with someone else, someone of my own gender.
For all my cynicism and pragmatic thought, I can at least muster the courage to admit to my many, many flights of fantasy with my near and dear ones of the same sex, without being thought of as desperate, vulnerable or worse of all needy.
Nearly impossible to do that with the guys. Especially when you are ‘One of the Boys.’