A lot of things intrigue me:
How a man can put himself out there, in words that men I’ve known (well, boys, really) have never done. How he can admit and accept, negotiate with himself and present you a picture that seems too good for your eyes to gaze upon. How I can twist that into something testable and think ‘he passed‘ where so many others would fail. How I would even bother testing, in the first place.
How Isobel can look directly at me with the same look of defiance as I’ve served her father with for years, and then a moment later, come to me for love. And I can give it. Sometimes.
How some people are so predictable and others are so jaw-droppingly obscene in their self-importance.
How language and visualization can make a night without a couch that much more frustrating. Yet I will go for the words and visualization every single time.
How damned I feel sometimes. How looking in the mirror at my new cheaper-than-cheap jeans that actually make my everything look good can make me feel like shit about myself. What a harsh buzz kill having occasional bouts of self-appreciation is.
How I have this ability to check out a recipe online, decide it’s not good enough and change it, and then be pleased with the result every single time. Even though if you asked me a year ago? I would have told you that I hate food. How now, I have the ability to smile with each bite.
How nearly every woman I know is being taught the same lesson right now, in various ways. But we’re all in learning in unison. Kind of like how our periods all synched up.
How much I’ve already grown to like the gym. Even if there was some skeezebag alternating between staring at HCM’s ass and my boobs during our treadmill time this morning.
How the weekend could play out. Or not. But probably will.
How I could spend hours today cleaning my apartment and self and soul, and ended up doing the usual grocery run with Isobel, when this was meant to be an extraordinary day.
How the promise of a new notebook in my hands feels, though I know I will never fill it. What I could write and will never finish. The possibilities.
Why people yell on the street at 11pm. Even though everyone in the world should know that Isobel is sleeping. Must be nice, I think, sometimes, to not be so concerned with how negatively you might effect others. I miss that. I don’t know that I’ve ever truly had it.
How my girlfriend, HCM, having known me for a while now, passing off clothes to me that ultimately end up being too big everywhere but the boobs – where they’re too small – can see my weight on the scale and look at me with a tad of shock and say, “God, you’re tiny.”
How much dance parties in the living room have made me forget how I used to dance when I would go out every weekend. And the memory of my debaucerousness.
How a perfectly groomed set of eyebrows and fabulous(ly hidden) underwear can make me walk down the street differently, as if I don’t need to look at the ground. As if I’m worth something. How sad that first sentence was, since worth should have nothing to do with grooming or lingerie.
How he’s everything I want, everything I need, everything inside of me that I wish I could be, and he says all the right things at exactly the right time, but he means nothing to me and I don’t know why.
How a song can always capture it. Whatever it is. There’s always someone’s words and music to spell it out.
I have a wrinkle above my right eye from all of this intrigue.
