Some people ‘save’ sex for marriage.
Some people save money for a rainy day.
Me, I’m saving Jane Austen novels. I’ve read a couple and found them delicious from beginning to end. Therefore, I’m saving the rest. After all, I can never read them For The First Time again, and it’s not like she’ll be writing any more. I’m waiting until I have plenty of time, an extremely comfortable chair, and enough top-notch snacks to see me through. Basically, I’m waiting for the stars to align.
What are you saving?
(Image via Wikimedia Commons)
“The only man who behaved sensibly was my tailor; he took my measurement anew every time he saw me, while all the rest went on with their old measurements and expected them to fit me.”
-George Bernard Shaw
Man and Superman, 1903
(Image source)
In conversation, I refer to Ian as my “boyfriend,” despite the fact that he’s well past boyhood and our relationship is more than friendly. Manfriend? “Lover” might be more accurate (if soppy), but I’d be afraid to say it in most social settings. Should we resurrect POSSLQ? “Partner” is succinct, though vague— business partner, sex partner, life partner, some combination of the three? Male or female? Is that anyone’s beeswax but ours?
Sometimes even married folk seek new titles: one of my sisters refers to her spouse as “husbadude.”
What do you call your…. your whatever-you-call-them?
(At the end of a long day, it’s nice to throw off your clothes, drop your scythe, and lounge on a mountaintop alter with your peacock. Image source.)
The very best thing about blogging is getting to know fantastic people. On November 11, 2006, I posted the following words to Myspace. Somehow, Jen happened upon them. We started a correspondence, and soon became NHB friends and two of the world’s most prolific email composers. Soon we branched into phone calls snail mail, too, discussing everything from children to sex to ‘what to do when you lose your religion.’
Here’s the post that introduced me to Jen. It’s not great writing, but it launched a truly great friendship:
I’ve been thinking a lot about Beauty lately. For years, if you want the truth, I seldom last an hour without stopping to ponder something vapid and pointless. I collect books about hair, makeup, clothing, charm and style… I hate to admit to it.
I crave beauty in all things. Once, as I was rambling about how pretty giraffes are, Gregory interrupted to say, “With you, everything has to be pretty.” It stung a little, but I couldn’t argue. I want beauty in everything. Friends, pets, dishes, makeup compacts, writing implements, fruits and veggies…
When people don’t find me attractive, it hurts my feelings to be written off and ignored because of my face. I hate to wonder who could learn to love me if I were prettier, more polished, more graceful. I wonder who could mistake a fancy face for a good heart.
When people DO find me attractive, it hurts my feelings to be praised and envied because of my genes. It scares me to think of who’s imagined they loved me, when really I just suited their image, their ideals. I wonder who wouldn’t want to be seen with me if I went bald, put on weight, dressed differently, etc..
Compliments don’t make me feel more secure, they make me more sure that I’ll disappoint people, that one day they’ll all look at me and say, “Yeesh, what did I see in her?!”
Occasionally, friends or strangers stop me on the street to tell me how much they admire my looks. In a way, it surprises me. I seldom feel appealing, let alone beautiful; I’m scruffy, acne-ridden, poorly dressed, and rarely make much effort to look better. I eat too much. My hair hates me. I can name at least twenty things about my face and body that shame me and make me uncomfortable in public settings.
But in a way, I’ve come to expect the praise. I’ve been getting these weird compliments for so long, I’m beginning to accept the idea that other humans see something in me, heaven knows what.
Spending my days on campus makes the problem better and worse: there are literally thousands of prettier women on campus, which keeps me grounded in reality and grateful for the friends who love my soul. But… being surrounded by thousands of pretty women all day makes me even less secure, I always want to look like them, with their sleek, shining hair, amazing bodies and glorious clothes. I feel frumpy, unkempt. Unlovable.
Once, I had a crush on a very, very striking Italian named Allessandro. He wasn’t classically handsome, but he was so striking… I was always nervous around him, I could hardly breathe. It made my heart ache to realize that he’d never even notice a clunky, messy thing like me. But maybe Allessandro felt the way I have, afraid of people only loving his face and form. Who knows? I’d have asked him, but I couldn’t breathe.
Friends have been hounding me for months to put up new Myspace pictures, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Posting pictures invites more scrutiny, more room to be hit on or written off entirely.
I wish beauty didn’t matter. I wish we didn’t spend zillions of dollars trying to change ourselves. I wish eating disorders didn’t exist, that women weren’t judged so harshly for the way they/we look.
I wish I could take each of my friends aside for ten minutes and tell them how beautiful they are to me, every little detail that makes them gorgeous. I know so many people who can’t see how priceless they are, can’t see the way they sparkle when they laugh, all their adorable expressions and mannerisms, the way their eyes light up and their cheeks flush when they’re talking passionately. I wish they could see themselves the way I see them. But then, that would be placing too much importance on beauty again. Sigh.
Blah, blah blahhh….. Please note that this isn’t a plea for flattery. I don’t want people writing to me and saying, “Guurl, dont you worry any about bein pretty, your beautful! ttyl!” The point is… … I just wish no one cared about my face or form, and that I didn’t care about theirs.
IMPORTANT EDITOR’S NOTE: The instant after I posted this blog, I got a message from a stranger. Here are his exact words: “Hi how are you doing day? Sorry to bother you but i was amazed at your beauty!!!! Would you care to chat a little bit?” His comedic timing is flawless.
(Happy January, Jen! I’d hoped to publish this on your birthday. Close enough for horseshoes?)
(Source of these delightful images)
Back in November, I started doing something I’ve meant to do for a long, long time.
Changing my underwear.
No, that’s ridiculous; the underwear has to want to change.
What I REALLY started: self-defense classes. Specifically, a combination of Krav Maga and FAST Defense. I wanted to take one as a college freshman, but a Religious Authority Figure talked me out of it. He claimed that self-defense classes were full of evil men who only attended to learn their female classmates’ weaknesses. But then, he also believed every email forward he read, and that some people with STDs deliberately perforate condoms to spread their diseases, then wait until after sex to give their victims a tiny note in a coffin-shaped box explaining their nefarious deed. (He explained this to me and Crumble, whom I’d brought home to meet the folks. All very embarrassing.) When, as an insolent youth, I told this Religious Authority Figure that the word ‘gullible’ was being removed from the English dictionary, he said “Why? Perhaps some people find it offensive?” before he got the joke. He’s a good man, but perhaps not my top-pick for important life advice.
It’s also interesting to note that this man carries a concealed weapon, but thinks self-defense classes aren’t safe for women. Fascinating.
When I first started taking this course, I could barely defend myself— not even verbally. During scripted scenarios in which our instructor pretended to be a threatening stranger, I was terrified: not that she would hurt me, but that I would have to say or do something rude to protect myself. Historically, I’ve often chosen to be a doormat or an easy target rather than risk seeming unkind and hurting someone’s feelings. Dude, all that “sugar and spice” conditioning is toxic. But I truly, deeply care about this particular young lady. If I have to punch someone out in her defense, so be it.
THE POINT: Consider taking a self-defense class of some kind. You will emerge braver, stronger, and better prepared to protect yourself from icky people.
(A flashback to May 9, 2007)
 (Image source)
Those who know me well know that I am deeply, fervently, profoundly paranoid. When life doesn’t present me enough worries, I create my own.
Recently, I was struck by a sobering realization; I have hogged more than my share of the world’s romance.
It’s true! I’m almost 22, and already I’ve had four boyfriends, all well-behaved, clever, handsome, outstanding men who treated me beautifully. (Okay, Crumble, maybe not you.)
I’ve been the subject of sonnets, songs, blogs, sketches, love letters, poetry. I’ve enjoyed kisses, flowers, chocolates, inside jokes, mix tapes, naps, movie nights, long walks (not on the beach, sadly), trips (if you can travel together, you’re solid), agonizing heartache, comfort and joy, stability, betrayal, sound advice, tons of best-friendliness, much of the legendary good stuff that comes from being in a happy relationship.
Have I…. exceeded my allowance? Have I used up all the romance that was allotted to me for this life, and perhaps that of some other poor girls? Does it work that way?!
No, of course it doesn’t work that way. It just FEELS that way.
The problem with having having been so loved is:
1. It’s hard to get used to NOT having it. I keep checking the mail for new sonnets, but they never come. I’m used to meaning the world to someone, and it’s startling when that someone moves on and forgets me.
2. I worry (paranoia again!) that these past relationships will interfere with the future, that the Love of my Life would be haunted by the idea of these old boyfriends— who, though outstanding, clever and handsome, were just real people, after all, flawed and non-threatening. And I imagine the Love of my Life would be a fairly secure guy, but hey, why shouldn’t he be as paranoid as I am? Heh! THAT would be a fun couple!
On that note, ladies and gentlemen, I will channel my paranoia into something useful; studying for tomorrow’s MUS 303 Final. Wish me luck. And jot me a love letter, if you’re not busy.
(Have you ever been in a doomed relationship? Have you ever been in a doomed relationship, yet convinced yourself things were peachy keen? This post from February 02, 2007 is a now-hilarious peek at top-notch denial and foreshadowing.)
 (Image source)
My boyfriend Shortcake and I are perfect for each other; look at all we have in common:
- We like food
- We’re both good Mormon kids
- We enjoy reading
Huh. That’s all I’ve got.
Differences:
- Shortcake likes heavy metal. Rebekah prefers moody, acoustic singer/songwriters, usually dead
- Shortcake likes splashing his earnings around, starting the trickle-down. Rebekah’s favorite book is The Tightwad Gazette
- Shortcake is shameless, and could probably strut across campus naked with no qualms. Rebekah would rather be shot—in the face
- Shortcake leaves his clothing strewn across the floor, somewhere under the trash. Rebekah organizes her shirts by sleeve-length and collar style
- Shortcake is 75% larger than Rebekah
- Shortcake knows no anxiety and performs beautifully under pressure. Rebekah panics, buckles, and falls
- Shortcake has the stone face of a hardened criminal. Rebekah could be Guy Smiley’s lovechild
- Shortcake was a boy genius. Rebekah was a fifth-grade drop-out
- Shortcake is Hispanic and bilingual. Rebekah is a chalky Euro-Am. who has yet to master English
- For all his rough talk, Shortcake is infinitely sweeter and more loving than Rebekah
- Shortcake enjoys hunting. Rebekah apologizes to every bug she kills
- Shortcake owns about fifteen pair of athletic shoes. Rebekah despises athletic shoes
And so on and so forth.
“Holy mackerel!” you may exclaim, “What do you see in each other? What made this even SOUND like a good idea? Were you drunk at the time?!”
Listen, I thought all that, too—it took me MONTHS to agree to entering this relationship. We are a most unlikely couple, but it works. Shortcake and I both have a sense of humor about life. We tease each other mercilessly, and in some bizarre way I enjoy it.
Shortcake is extremely tolerant and indulgent. That helps. I’ve joked that we’re the Lion and the Lamb— Shortcake being the lamb. It’s his patience that has kept us from strangling each other.
To find love in another human being is a beautiful, beautiful thing. It makes life feel richer and… less like being kicked in the stomach repeatedly. God willing, I predict that this odd couple will stay together for at least another three or four days.
UPDATED TO ADD: To newcomers, this looks like a list of superficial differences that any happy couple might have. The “denial” is only apparent to those who know Shortcake or remember his appearances in previous posts: this is the same guy who tried to forbid me from cutting my hair and claimed it was his right to shoot any dog that walked on his property or cat that jumped on his car. Big turn-offs to a hair-hacking animal-lover. More frustrating was his habit of starting sentences with “before you white people came,” which eventually escalated to “you white people make me sick.”
The “foreshadowing” of our breakup is only apparent to those who know me best: since when do I joke about strangling people or enjoy teasing of any kind? The line “Shortcake leaves his clothing strewn across the floor, somewhere under the trash” is a passive-aggressive dig at his lifestyle, a glaring contrast to the praise heaped upon him throughout the post. Even the claim that we were both “good Mormon kids” seems disingenuous now; we had VERY different ideas of what it meant to be a good Mormon, and I spent a lot of time harping on Shortcake for not living up to my standards. We were deeply incompatible. But at the time I wrote the original post, I was head over heels and telling myself all kinds of pretty lies. Ah, young love!
That’s my tale of deep-seated denial. Tell me yours!
In some parts of the country, ice cream trucks don’t run year-round. This means SOME ice cream wagons don’t play Christmas tunes. Have I blown any southwestern minds yet?
Here in NM, an ice cream van scoots down my street every afternoon. I never run out to greet it, due to:
1) veganism, yo
2) thrift
3) having seen Chitty Chitty Bang Bang too many times to trust a traveling sweets vendor.
 (image source)
If only our local ice cream dude were a brilliant ballet dancer sporting an Amazing Technicolor Dream Coat.
(An old Myspace post from June 9, 2006. I have few souvenirs from that era, but this evidence suggests I haven’t changed. Curses!)
I’m being brutally forced to write six things about myself:
1. I love order and organization: My books are organized by subject, my shirts by style and sleeve length. My sock/underwear drawer is a thing of beauty. I have a file cabinet right next to my bed.
2. I am a full-time daydreamer. I have a very active fantasy life, and a lot of big ideas. As a teenager, I spent ages planning my career as a rock star… I had songs, album names, chose gowns to wear to the Grammys, imagined giving interviews and the Behind the Music special about my work…
3. I am a tragically unmotivated person. I have wasted years of my life being too lazy, apathetic, or depressed to do anything. This is one reason that VH1 special never came to pass. I’ve been working hard to motivate myself lately.
4. I usually think of myself as being painfully homely. I was unwashed and unpopular for years, plus frequently mistaken for a boy. On the bright side, I always knew who my real friends were.
5. Where most people have hidden depths, I have hidden shallowness; I must have read a hundred books about hair, clothing, and makeup. Beauty is one of my favorite subjects in the world. Yet… I wear shabby clothes, have crazy hair, and seldom do much with makeup.
6. I love reading, and I love eating, but I NEVER want to do either one exclusively; if I cook, I have to track down a book to read before I can eat. If I want to read, I have to find food. This compulsion is stronger than you’d expect— it haunts me, even at church dinners and restaurants.
But enough about me! Let’s talk about you.
Tonight, I have been watching Monty Python: Almost the Truth while catching up on our mending.
As Ian wandered through the living room, I told him “this episode’s about The Meaning Of Life. Never saw that one, both of my sisters warned me it was too disgusting.”
Not half an hour later, I saw clips of the “Mr. Creosote” sketch. Follow that [now defunct and nonexistent] link at your own peril: the whole skit appears to be based on big time fat-shaming and the alleged hilarity of projectile vomiting. That’s all I can say for sure; I had to stop the show to throw up all over my mending.
“Suggestibility,” they call it.
Granted, I was felt ill even before the gross-out started, but I’ve long been haunted by a hair-trigger gag reflex. A puking-and-kissing scene from Gentlemen Broncos left me dry heaving helplessly. Sometimes it takes even less; during elementary school lunches, my classmates realized they could make me gag by merely squishing pats of butter between their fingers.
What about you? How much does it take to make you retch?
(Extra sensitive readers may wish to step away from their keyboards or other valuables before contemplating this question.)
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