29 years ago my roommate and I drove from Lansing to Birmingham to see the play "Do Black Patent Leather Shoes Really Reflect Up?" It was a musical, parody that poked fun at growing up going to Catholic schools. I went to public school. Mary was Episcopalian but apparently that was close enough for her to relate to the show.
I've not thought of that show in decades, literally. Frankly, the fact that I can say I've not thought of the show in decades is frightening in and of itself.
Recently from deep within the grey matter came roaring a song title from the show. I can't remember all the lyrics. I can remember the character. Standing in her pleated skirt with her ankle socks and plain leather Mary Janes. The little girl was often shunned by her classmates. Her solo song - "Does God love little fat girls too?"
I was scanning old family photos this weekend. I scanned my favorite photo of myself. It was taken when I was twelve. I looked older. Not to be egotistical, but it's a very beautiful photo. I was a very beautiful girl. Yet, like so many tweens and teen girls, I thought of myself as hideous and extremely fat. Looking at that picture I can't understand how I could've possibly perceived of myself as fat.
Then I realize it wasn't originally my obsession. It came from my parents. My mom had gone through a phase as a young girl where she was chubby. I did too. In the second and third grade I stopped growing tall and grew round. And, I started developing just before the fourth grade. I also shot up about 4 inches and the chubby parts migrated to my chest and hips. I was no longer chubby. I was certainly NOT fat. I was, however, curvy with breasts while the great majority of the girls my age were shorter, had no hips, and no breasts until well into Jr. High or High School. That, in my mind translated into me being fat. And my parents started obsessing. Putting me on this or that diet. Always monitoring what went on my plate and beyond.
Their obsession became my shame. Now that I'm an adult I can see this. I've seen and understood this for years. So, why is it that I can't conquer this. Why have I let it conquer me? Why is it that over the years I've become what has been projected upon me? Why is it that I can be some damned stubborn about so many things, focusing so hard and being so determined that I achieve more than I had ever thought possible yet, I still ride the roller coaster of weight loss that I've been riding since college?
Sometimes I wonder if God loves little fat girls too? Sometimes I wonder if I love the little fat girl that lives inside me?
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Allow me
"If he would wash it, or brush it, or use it during lovemaking, than it would have made more sense to keep it long."
The look in your eyes was...well, resignation I guess. Something distant and sad. Disappointment in those young idealistic expectations of what a relationship between a man and a woman would hold. Twenty two years later the reality still hurts, still makes you sad. You can see it, somewhere deep inside, if you are watching with a keen eye and a sensitivity to or affiliation with your feelings. It's obvious.
Most people probably don't see it. They too have resigned themselves to the won't happens, never, not in a million years. It just wasn't realistic. I mean we were young and naive. Our mothers never told us of this. But, their mothers didn't either.
It's as if wanting romance is foolish. Just a silly woman's thing. "That's not what marriage is about dear."
"You shouldn't expect things."
"The honeymoon can't last forever."
If you want someone to wash your hair, their fingers massaging your scalp as water cascades down both of your naked badies, warm, sensuous. Droplets on your eyelashes. Tasting the water that runs down the tip of your nose, mingles in your kiss... it should be.
If you want to stand on the cold tile floor, lost in the misty, steamy air, a big thirsty towel drinking the moisture from your skin, your hair. Looking into each other's eyes, wrapped in each other's arms, touching, caressing, breathing in the clean, musky, smell of soap, shampoo and damp, warm, flesh...it should be.
If you want to feel the scratchy tips of a brush run across your scalp, down through your honey, amber hair tousled and tangled by lovemaking while you sit between your lover's knees, legs entwined, sleepy satisfaction closing your eyes, stroke, stroke, stroke, slowly falling asleep, bodies falling into one another...it should be.
Allow me.
The look in your eyes was...well, resignation I guess. Something distant and sad. Disappointment in those young idealistic expectations of what a relationship between a man and a woman would hold. Twenty two years later the reality still hurts, still makes you sad. You can see it, somewhere deep inside, if you are watching with a keen eye and a sensitivity to or affiliation with your feelings. It's obvious.
Most people probably don't see it. They too have resigned themselves to the won't happens, never, not in a million years. It just wasn't realistic. I mean we were young and naive. Our mothers never told us of this. But, their mothers didn't either.
It's as if wanting romance is foolish. Just a silly woman's thing. "That's not what marriage is about dear."
"You shouldn't expect things."
"The honeymoon can't last forever."
If you want someone to wash your hair, their fingers massaging your scalp as water cascades down both of your naked badies, warm, sensuous. Droplets on your eyelashes. Tasting the water that runs down the tip of your nose, mingles in your kiss... it should be.
If you want to stand on the cold tile floor, lost in the misty, steamy air, a big thirsty towel drinking the moisture from your skin, your hair. Looking into each other's eyes, wrapped in each other's arms, touching, caressing, breathing in the clean, musky, smell of soap, shampoo and damp, warm, flesh...it should be.
If you want to feel the scratchy tips of a brush run across your scalp, down through your honey, amber hair tousled and tangled by lovemaking while you sit between your lover's knees, legs entwined, sleepy satisfaction closing your eyes, stroke, stroke, stroke, slowly falling asleep, bodies falling into one another...it should be.
Allow me.
Marionette
Like a marionette, I respond to the strings that you unknowingly control. My every move a result of you.
Unable to speak, a smile painted upon my face, I dance around for your pleasure.
My actions are awkward. My thoughts are concealed. Would the strings disappear if my thoughts were revealed?
Like a sorcerer you cast your spell. My reverie becomes fantasy. Visions consume me.
Enchanted by an apparition that takes it's shape like you, I'm fascinated by this mystery.
My actions still awkward. My thoughts still concealed. Would the magic disappear if my thoughts were revealed?
Unable to speak, a smile painted upon my face, I dance around for your pleasure.
My actions are awkward. My thoughts are concealed. Would the strings disappear if my thoughts were revealed?
Like a sorcerer you cast your spell. My reverie becomes fantasy. Visions consume me.
Enchanted by an apparition that takes it's shape like you, I'm fascinated by this mystery.
My actions still awkward. My thoughts still concealed. Would the magic disappear if my thoughts were revealed?
Sunday
I wonder if you know how drawn to you I am. Could you tell yesterday at breakfast?
I wanted everything to be perfect for you and then I kept burning the pancakes. Getting all flustered inside because I couldn't get my timing down or figure out how to regulate the heat on the gas burner.
It was nice watching you though. You moved around my kitchen preparing coffee as if you prepared coffee in my kitchen every day. Perhaps I kept burning the pancakes because I would get so distracted watching you. It felt nice to have someone there moving about me. Someone who felt comfortable opening the cupboards, the refrigerator, getting what you needed. No pretenses. No formality. It was easy to fantasize that we were an old couple doing our Sunday thing. Me cooking. You making coffee, heating the pancake syrup, leaning against the counter sharing small talk. How was the concert last night? What's on the agenda for today? It was easy to forget that we weren't alone and that I had two other guests for breakfast.
And when I finally finished burning most of the pancakes, I sat down at the table and picked up my coffee mug. It was the one you had given me. You had picked it out of the cupboard just for me. I noticed. It was such a little thing yet not. I looked over at you and smiled.
You smiled back.
Could we start every Sunday like this?
I wanted everything to be perfect for you and then I kept burning the pancakes. Getting all flustered inside because I couldn't get my timing down or figure out how to regulate the heat on the gas burner.
It was nice watching you though. You moved around my kitchen preparing coffee as if you prepared coffee in my kitchen every day. Perhaps I kept burning the pancakes because I would get so distracted watching you. It felt nice to have someone there moving about me. Someone who felt comfortable opening the cupboards, the refrigerator, getting what you needed. No pretenses. No formality. It was easy to fantasize that we were an old couple doing our Sunday thing. Me cooking. You making coffee, heating the pancake syrup, leaning against the counter sharing small talk. How was the concert last night? What's on the agenda for today? It was easy to forget that we weren't alone and that I had two other guests for breakfast.
And when I finally finished burning most of the pancakes, I sat down at the table and picked up my coffee mug. It was the one you had given me. You had picked it out of the cupboard just for me. I noticed. It was such a little thing yet not. I looked over at you and smiled.
You smiled back.
Could we start every Sunday like this?
Cello
Black lace, elegant, alluring. Your dress, buttoned loosely shows the soft skin of your shoulders and back. A curl falls gently in your eyes as you concentrate, trying to stay focused on the music. Your ear is pressed against the scroll of your cello. Your bow glides gracefully across the strings. You close your eyes and sway just a bit, moved. The curve of your body becomes the curve of the wood, one into the other and out again. Elegant. Sensuous. The deep voice of your cello, your flesh through the lace, the light casting a warm glow around you and I'm being drawn toward you. Leaving my body in the audience surrounded by strangers I move down the aisle, climb the stairs, cross the stage and I am behind you. I place my hands on your shoulders and move them across your skin, down your arms. I bury my face in your hair drawing in your scent. I kiss the softness behind your ear, under your chin. I feel the vibrations of the bow across the strings and into my soul and I become a part of the music, low, resonant, crying out with passion and desire.
Still more...
The reflected light of the street lamps casts a subtle, bluish glow on your face drawing you out from the deeper blue, blackness of the unlit room. You were staring at nothing. Lost somewhere in your thoughts. The silence wasn't uncomfortable yet it was obviously silent. I fought an urge to ask you where you were, what you were thinking about. It would have sounded trite. My voice would have broken the silence like a hammer upon glass. So I sat and watched you.
Your head was tilted slightly downward, your hands clasped in your lap, elbows balancing on the arms of the chair. You rocked, ever so slightly, back and forth. A natural movement, a comforting one. Your hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail revealing the spot where your neck flows into your shoulder. The soft blue light crept around your back highlighting your shoulders, pooling in the place of soft, tender skin where my eyes stopped to rest.
I wanted to step over to you, kneel down beside you, lean in and breathe the smell of you. Perfume, soap and shampoo. I wanted to brush my lips against your neck and taste the salty surface. I wanted to travel down to your throat nibbling along the way. Kisses. Caresses. Eyelashes against your cheek. Lips to chin. Lips to nose. Lips to lips. I wanted to cradle your face in my hands as I explored your mouth with mine. I wanted to feel the smooth surface of your teeth, the warm softness of your tongue. I wanted my touches and caresses to speak my emotions and explain my love but I continued to sit and watch.
Eventually the cat walked by, breaking your concentration, drawing you back to the here and now. You rocked back in the chair, looked over at me and smiled. "May I kiss you," my mind was asking. I smiled back. We began to talk. A continued conversation, picking up where we had left off, leaving me to wonder where you had just been, what you had been thinking. Knowing where I had been and how I could only be there in the silent confines of my mind.
Your head was tilted slightly downward, your hands clasped in your lap, elbows balancing on the arms of the chair. You rocked, ever so slightly, back and forth. A natural movement, a comforting one. Your hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail revealing the spot where your neck flows into your shoulder. The soft blue light crept around your back highlighting your shoulders, pooling in the place of soft, tender skin where my eyes stopped to rest.
I wanted to step over to you, kneel down beside you, lean in and breathe the smell of you. Perfume, soap and shampoo. I wanted to brush my lips against your neck and taste the salty surface. I wanted to travel down to your throat nibbling along the way. Kisses. Caresses. Eyelashes against your cheek. Lips to chin. Lips to nose. Lips to lips. I wanted to cradle your face in my hands as I explored your mouth with mine. I wanted to feel the smooth surface of your teeth, the warm softness of your tongue. I wanted my touches and caresses to speak my emotions and explain my love but I continued to sit and watch.
Eventually the cat walked by, breaking your concentration, drawing you back to the here and now. You rocked back in the chair, looked over at me and smiled. "May I kiss you," my mind was asking. I smiled back. We began to talk. A continued conversation, picking up where we had left off, leaving me to wonder where you had just been, what you had been thinking. Knowing where I had been and how I could only be there in the silent confines of my mind.
Conversations in my head
Once more I find myself wanting to write. The subject, of course, being you.
You see I walk around all day long having conversations in my head. I'm not sure that others do this, but continually from the moment I awake to long after I go to bed the voices are there, talking, confessing, expressing, saying things that aren't easy to say outside of the confines of my mind.
You're there, in my mind and I talk with you. You don't answer. Fuel for debate. What would she think if I really told her this? How would she respond? Would this change the way she is around me? Will she think I'm foolish, young, over the edge?
So I continue speaking with my mouth closed, in silence as I go about my daily routine; driving to work, doing the dishes, shopping, laundry.
And often when the words have become too many and my mind begins to feel burdened, I'll sit down and open the gates and let the words flow from my mind to paper. I clear the way for more conversations. I let it out. I write it down and I fold the papers and quietly file them away.
Sometimes when I'm feeling brave and not too vulnerable, I let others read them. I let them in on those private conversations between my selves and I sit nervously, silently, waiting. What do they think? How will they respond? Will they behave differently around me? Will they think I'm foolish, young, over the edge?
Many have asked if you know how I feel. "Of course not," I tell them. I wouldn't know where to begin. I think I'd open my mouth and nothing would happen. I speak best in my mind. Somehow the thoughts don't translate into words. A strange disorder that causes the meaning to change once out of thought and vocalized.
They tell me to share. You might appreciate knowing how much I care for you, how I hold you in such high regard and how much I'll miss you when you're gone. Of course I've thought about taking their advice. Actually I've had long discussions into the wee hours of the night, in my head, about this. Yet there we'll be lingering over a glass of wine and no words come out even though I'm saying so much. You can't hear me.
When I look at you I'm telling you how beautiful you are, how I enjoy your laughter, your smile. I tell you how comfortable I feel when I'm around you, how special you make me feel. I'm telling you how I'd do anything for you and that you can trust me, I'll always be around when you need me. I'm telling you how much I want to feel your arms around me, how much I want to hold your hand and kiss you. Can't you hear it in my smile? In my eyes?
You don't hear it in my silence but I hear it all, all the time, night and day, conversations in my head.
You see I walk around all day long having conversations in my head. I'm not sure that others do this, but continually from the moment I awake to long after I go to bed the voices are there, talking, confessing, expressing, saying things that aren't easy to say outside of the confines of my mind.
You're there, in my mind and I talk with you. You don't answer. Fuel for debate. What would she think if I really told her this? How would she respond? Would this change the way she is around me? Will she think I'm foolish, young, over the edge?
So I continue speaking with my mouth closed, in silence as I go about my daily routine; driving to work, doing the dishes, shopping, laundry.
And often when the words have become too many and my mind begins to feel burdened, I'll sit down and open the gates and let the words flow from my mind to paper. I clear the way for more conversations. I let it out. I write it down and I fold the papers and quietly file them away.
Sometimes when I'm feeling brave and not too vulnerable, I let others read them. I let them in on those private conversations between my selves and I sit nervously, silently, waiting. What do they think? How will they respond? Will they behave differently around me? Will they think I'm foolish, young, over the edge?
Many have asked if you know how I feel. "Of course not," I tell them. I wouldn't know where to begin. I think I'd open my mouth and nothing would happen. I speak best in my mind. Somehow the thoughts don't translate into words. A strange disorder that causes the meaning to change once out of thought and vocalized.
They tell me to share. You might appreciate knowing how much I care for you, how I hold you in such high regard and how much I'll miss you when you're gone. Of course I've thought about taking their advice. Actually I've had long discussions into the wee hours of the night, in my head, about this. Yet there we'll be lingering over a glass of wine and no words come out even though I'm saying so much. You can't hear me.
When I look at you I'm telling you how beautiful you are, how I enjoy your laughter, your smile. I tell you how comfortable I feel when I'm around you, how special you make me feel. I'm telling you how I'd do anything for you and that you can trust me, I'll always be around when you need me. I'm telling you how much I want to feel your arms around me, how much I want to hold your hand and kiss you. Can't you hear it in my smile? In my eyes?
You don't hear it in my silence but I hear it all, all the time, night and day, conversations in my head.
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