do not avert
your eyes
my wounds, fester,
centuries old
peel them away!
with indelicate hands
expose
smothered marrow, dying
swim in my blood
promise
and excise me
from this facade
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do not avert your eyes my wounds, fester, centuries old peel them away! with indelicate hands expose smothered marrow, dying swim in my blood promise and excise me from this facade
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Not too many people read my blog. And, of the people who read my blog only a certain percentage are female. Therefore, I feel quite safe laying out a hypothesis that on the surface is going to appear very sexist, but in total will probably only piss off about three people. So here goes: It is my belief that men are not meant to be monogamous. Tangentially, it is also my belief that we as women married to these men should show our gratitude. (I warned you!) Monogamy being unnatural to men is not that original of a concept, as there exists countless anthropological studies to support this. But my personal theory has zero to do with research. (That would require too much scientific reading on my part.) Instead, my hypothesis stems, literally, from the hair on my chin. Let me back up a little. Whenever a change occurs in my body, I try to figure out why. Sometimes I am able to tie things back to a recently-added medicine or supplement (hello, countless side effects) or to a change in diet (goodbye gluten, sugar, and dairy) or to a change in my behavior (forgoing exercise in exchange for countless hours of watching "Game of Thrones" in hopes of catching up to the current season). By tying things back, I am able to see that X happens (your ass gets really big) because Y has changed (you still have three seasons left before you are caught up to the current season). Wow, maybe I'm scientific after all! So it only made sense when two years ago I started the syptomatic descent into menopause that I read as much as I could about progesterone and estrogen. And while I quickly understood on a hormone-specific level why the various bodily changes were occuring, I didn't understand on a bigger, evolutionary level as to why Mother Nature would do this to her human sisters. Little did I know that the answer was staring me right in the face. One day, as I was plucking yet another thick, dark black hair from my chin I realized that menopause exists for one reason only: to make middle-aged women as unattractive and uninterested in sex as possible so our men will go off and procreate with younger women, leaving us hairy-chinned women to sororally collect berries and weave baskets together until we die. What an ephiphany! I now had a whole new appreciation for my husband, specifically for his (presumed) monogamy. Though that traitor Mother Nature wants my man out frolicking with smooth-chinned women filled with ripe eggs who don't sweat uncontrollably when watching a tense scene from "Game of Thrones," he chooses to be with me. And that's pretty cool. So how do I show my wifely appreciation (cue the feminist stone throwing)? By combating my hormone-depleted biological natural urge to do nothing else but sit around sweating with other hairy-chinned women doing the modern day equivalent of weaving baskets (read: drinking wine and sort-of-kind-of talking about books during our book-club meeting). Instead, I pluck my hairs, take my supplements (thank you, Oona), breathe to keep my emotions/hot flashes at bay, and try to always remain a sexy - albeit eggless and big-assed - mate. And then I happily run off to be with my book-club friends. Cheers!  "Don't worry, I didn't finish the book either!"  I don't like gambling.
Smoking is repulsive to me. I hate buffets, both for their excess and potential unsanitariness. Bright lights and loud music put me into sensory overload (as do scratchy tags, but that's for another blog post!). As soon as the thermometer moves its dial past 80 degrees, I run, desperately seeking shade. My idea of an idyllic holiday is somewhere remote where I can hike and swim in the ocean and read frayed, used paperbacks while entrenching myself into the local history and culture. In other words, Las Vegas is my nightmare vacation destination. Yet, when my husband asked me recently to join him there for three days, I jumped on the chance. I got on a plane (which requires an Ativan) and flew to where it was 103 degrees and walked through the smoky lobbies of noisy casinos because my husband inexplicably loves Las Vegas. I did it because I very explicably love my husband and, time after time, he has joined me on my beachy, island vacations which are not his cup of sandy tea. These past three days were like our relationship - not perfect, but through compromise pretty darn good. We laughed, drank (to the point I wound up with gum in my hair and don't remember it happening), ate some delicious non-buffet food, and had a great time together. This weekend also worked -- like our marriage -- because we did things both together and separately. While my husband was playing in poker tournaments, I walked around the Bellagio looking at their beautiful ocean display (how appropriate!) before heading to their fine art museum. There, I lingered over Picasso linotypes and oil paintings and photos from his life. Our time in Vegas, like the past 30 years together, was successful because we talked and talked, from the trivial (saffron does not belong in lobster pot pie) to the serious (how we are both in an emotional spiral over our son leaving). Marriage is a gamble. Sometimes you win a little and sometimes you lose it all. And just sometimes, when Lady Luck -- and the right partner -- are on your side, you hit the jackpot. |
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