does the body rule the mind or does the mind rule the body? i dunno.
well, it was my anniversary yesterday. nowhere near as nice as i planned of course. less paeans, fewer bells, etc. though it was oddly appropriate that the bar was doing an event with the record store—i didn’t know what was going to happen with that. what happened was that Meyer Lemon got a friend to come in for him. sensible. but a little dull, i have to admit. i did see Anderson briefly—which reminded me that i should tell him my news because i honestly don’t remember whether we used protection or not. and a group of regulars whose friend i had a one-night stand with. i’m not tearing my hair out about all this—trying not to be overly scrupulous—but.
in any case there were plenty of reminders that i should be a maybe just a little more cautious. a chastening holiday.
there were also two pregnant women. which made me feel sad and stupid broken lamenting my lost hypothetically happy youth, etc.
then i went over to Dolor’s house for a bit while he sat on the couch scraping adhesive off a pile of tiny little tiles. part of a very ambitious countertop renovation project. and he complained about how he can’t find a good job and until he finds a good job he doesn’t feel like he can find a woman, etc. ‘but i liked you! i thought the planetarium job was incredibly cool.’ grunts. i told him i intended my new year to be the Year of Maturity and Discretion. ‘and you’re starting that year by texting a guy you’re still in love with who said he doesn’t want to be with you, trying to set up a date.’ ‘well. kind of. it’s just pleasant chitchat right now. i just didn’t want the first thing i said to him, after i hadn’t talked to him in so long, to be the chlamydia thing.’ ‘so your plan is to take him out and then tell him?’ ‘i just want to establish that we’re friends first.’ ‘yeah, this doesn’t sound like a good start to a Year of Maturity and Discretion.’
he speaks the truth. but i’m embarrassed. embarrassed about the letter and the STD. it all seems so adolescent. the whole Year of Wild Oats seems adolescent. and adolescence, well, it is pretty embarrassing. no way around that. but i’m not condemning myself or anything…or trying not to. just trying to move myself forward. remind myself that i’m not actually an adolescent. of course adults too write love-letters (i guess) (and probably regret it) and get diseases (obviously, because somebody gave one to me.)*
i also have to remind myself that the embarrassment and the regret, they’re still a hundred thousand times better than the shame and confusion that defined my whole life pre-procedure. i was going to say my ‘sexual life’ or my ‘love life’ but really it was my whole life that changed. it made such a difference to me—i was unprepared for that. i had been right all along! it was a simple physical matter. i wasn’t sick or hysterical or recalcitrant or spiritually defective or blah blah blah; i’d just needed a minor adjustment. i think the day after my doctor even said something like: ‘it’s like night and day with you!’ and it felt like night and day. i’m sure it doesn’t make such a profound difference for every woman, but for me—on some level i always believed that whatever it was that was going on with me was my fault. it was my fault and it was beyond my control. and then, suddenly, bam, i’m like everyone else!
absolutely the happiest day of my life. nothing remotely compares. Tread-Lightly and i had the ‘what was the happiest day of your life?’ conversation. he said the happiest day of his life was the day he was adopted—though he was adopted when he was about a week old, and he doesn’t know who his birth parents are—so i found that a pretty unsatisfying answer. that’s the kind of thing where you want to pick up the board, throw the pieces on the floor, and have a little tantrum. ‘you’re not playing the game right!’
sometimes i feel like i should be an advocate for ismus ladies—like i should be out there in a public forum, making my story known, etc. i guess i feel like there are so many women out there who have this horrible problem like i did—but they’re not solving it because they can’t bring themselves to talk about it [anymore]. they feel ashamed. because it’s a shameful hysterical lady problem. but i can talk about it til the cows come home—shamelessly. and i don’t get too bogged down in self-pity. (i hope!) (i’ve been told that i don’t.) so in some ways i feel like i would be the ideal spokesperson. but in other ways, not so ideal—of course i know my writing can be a little idiosyncratic. and it’s not like i’m a successful businesswoman with a husband and a couple of kids. (not sure if that matters so much, though.) in any case. it’s a thought that never fully leaves my head. (already thought of the best title for a memoir. impenetrable.)
* and yes they listen to the smiths too. and title their blog posts with smiths lyrics. they’re not embarrassed about that.