As much as we complain about our aches and pains, ask the average 40 year old if they'd be 20 again and they'd tell you not for all the tea in China. Even though our culture worships airheaded beach bodies and underage celebrities, after you flip enough pages in the calendar and your realize that EVERYONE is an idiot in their youth, including you. We spend so much energy and time chasing fairy tales and following trends and find ourselves no better off for the ones we caught than the ones that got away.
But never fear. Most of us reach a certain age where we stop wanting what other people tell us to want and start understanding what we really want. Prince Charming and James Dean have nothing on a guy who will help carry the diaper bag. Fancy balls remind us more of aching feet and uncomfortable clothes than romance and magic. I imagine that even those who locked up their dream person while they were young learn to appreciate different things about them. I mean, nobody looks across the gym at a high school dance and thinks, I bet the blonde can really balance a checkbook, or I love that rounded personality.
But I am not in high school anymore and my dream person isn't either. And right now I am in the process of trying to turn him into my reality person. Reality, where Charming might have a child and a mortgage and the chariot has fold and go seating. (If the mice start talking someone please check the carbon monoxide detector). There are issues. There aren't a lot of fancy balls and banquets. Other women have been turned off by this.
Thing is, I've been wined and dined and bored to tears. I'm perfectly capable to taking myself to a movie. I don't want a sugar daddy or a dozen roses. After a tough day of work and charity meetings when I'm feeling in over my head and ready to drown, I want someone cuddle with on the couch for a few minutes before I have to turn around and do it all again. I want someone to sit next to me at funerals and weddings. I want someone to keep a stash of good dark chocolate just so they can slip me one when I've had a rough day. I want someone to roll their eyes at me when I try to choose between Nantucket Sky and Nordic Shore at the paint department. I want someone to touch me. I want to belong to someone who chose me.
And because love isn't about me, I want to be a helpmate. I want someone to know they can depend on me. I want to be the one he calls in pinch. I want to be the one who can stay with the princess so he can play music again. I want to be the one he comes back to when needs time to himself. I want to be the one he can share his crazy dreams with and sacrifice with him to make some of them come true. I know society tells us that happiness is about doing what we want when we want, but only snorkeling has ever made me feel as good as seeing someone I love being successful. And no, I can't explain the snorkeling thing.
But how do you tell someone who is trying to fit you in between drop offs and pick ups that you plan to be worth the hassle? How do you assure someone that your goal is to become part of the family they have, not to upset it or create conflict? How do you encourage someone to stick to it through the inevitable jealousy and insecurity? How do you make sure they understand you actually want the package they have and don't see it as baggage? I want to know these answers, too.
Monday, September 28, 2015
Monday, June 1, 2015
Touching
It wasn't even a very good massage. The massage therapist was trying just a little too hard to be holistic and hippie-dippy. He made me choose from cards with Indian characters to personalize my aroma therapy combination. He talked too much. His idea of medium pressure was pathetic and I found myself laying there, nearly naked, wondering if saying, "harder, harder," would be awkward, awkward.
On the other hand, it made me painfully aware of how little I am touched. It seems like such a simple thing, skin on skin, but I almost shuddered and I wanted to cry when this hands made contact with my back. In a moment I was aware of something akin to starvation or dehydration but without such obvious symptoms. I am touch deprived.
Scientists tell us that human contact is vital to our health-physical and mental. You can actually kill an infant just by depriving it of touch and eye contact. I recently watched a movie where someone was accidentally marooned for years and when he was rescued all I could think was, "someone, touch him." I was almost in pain until the female lead gave him a hug. We know we're supposed to touch each other. But we don't.
As we age, we put touch into specific categories - it's part of only a few specific relationships. We touch our boyfriends or girlfriends. We touch our spouses. We touch our family members. Very few of us touch our friends much, beyond a quick hug hello or goodbye. I suppose that maybe how it's supposed to be.
Except I don't have a boyfriend or husband. I don't have kids. I've never been all that comfortable with friend touching. It's just one of a dozens of things, I guess, that makes it worth putting up with having a member of the opposite sex all up in your life and stuff. One of those things I'm supposed to pretend I don't miss because it upsets the normals. But I do. And I know that every day that I don't go home to someone who is willing to let me lean on them for a while in front of the tv or put their arms around me in bed, I am damaged a little bit. Stress hormones build up in my system. I am a little more irritable that I should be and a lot less tolerant of other people.
It had been a while since I'd had a massage - professional or amatuer - and I have to say I'd almost forgotten that feeling like my demons were being rubbed away. I don't know if I'm better off for having been reminded that it was possible, though. Because it seems unlikely that I'll ever be able to afford enough massage to evict the demons permanently.
On the other hand, it made me painfully aware of how little I am touched. It seems like such a simple thing, skin on skin, but I almost shuddered and I wanted to cry when this hands made contact with my back. In a moment I was aware of something akin to starvation or dehydration but without such obvious symptoms. I am touch deprived.
Scientists tell us that human contact is vital to our health-physical and mental. You can actually kill an infant just by depriving it of touch and eye contact. I recently watched a movie where someone was accidentally marooned for years and when he was rescued all I could think was, "someone, touch him." I was almost in pain until the female lead gave him a hug. We know we're supposed to touch each other. But we don't.
As we age, we put touch into specific categories - it's part of only a few specific relationships. We touch our boyfriends or girlfriends. We touch our spouses. We touch our family members. Very few of us touch our friends much, beyond a quick hug hello or goodbye. I suppose that maybe how it's supposed to be.
Except I don't have a boyfriend or husband. I don't have kids. I've never been all that comfortable with friend touching. It's just one of a dozens of things, I guess, that makes it worth putting up with having a member of the opposite sex all up in your life and stuff. One of those things I'm supposed to pretend I don't miss because it upsets the normals. But I do. And I know that every day that I don't go home to someone who is willing to let me lean on them for a while in front of the tv or put their arms around me in bed, I am damaged a little bit. Stress hormones build up in my system. I am a little more irritable that I should be and a lot less tolerant of other people.
It had been a while since I'd had a massage - professional or amatuer - and I have to say I'd almost forgotten that feeling like my demons were being rubbed away. I don't know if I'm better off for having been reminded that it was possible, though. Because it seems unlikely that I'll ever be able to afford enough massage to evict the demons permanently.
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