Today I saw a guy with an enormous zit on his face. I literally had to fight the urge to reach out and pop it. Call me crazy, but I love popping zits – even lancing and squeezing the puss out of cystic acne. Something about it just fascinates me. It didn’t help that the boy was absolutely adorable. I have a soft spot for hot men with minor acne problems. So naturally the urge to pop his glorious zit was also combined with the urge to make out with him. I could see us – in the throes of passion – our hands exploring each other’s bodies – mine discovering great mounds of acne – waiting to be excavated, waiting to be purged.
This activity, unfortunately, is frowned upon in public, and it is especially frowned upon when the other person is a total stranger. Thanks a lot Puritans... I, therefore, decided to keep my distance and quickly burst my romantic fantasy bubble. Maybe someday I’ll be able to pop my boyfriend’s zits. That is to say, maybe I’ll be able to pop another boyfriend’s zits.
An ex of mine (he’d die if I used his real name, so we’ll call him Brandon) had the worst bacne I had ever seen. If you have never heard the term bacne, it is a contraction of the words back and acne, a catch-all for all those gross lumbar zits that so many people seem to be afflicted with. When I saw him naked, he apologized for his acne, his infected pores, and I could tell he had struggled with what he saw as a burden. I told Brandon not to worry, that I actually was fascinated by acne. He gave me a look that I’m sure most of you are giving your computers at this very moment. It was a mixture of intrigue, disbelief, and the creeps. After a few minutes of convincing, he let me attempt to pop his zits and clear his blackheads.
After gathering my accoutrements (that’s a fancy word for tweezers and a straight pin), I began to inspect my canvas. Then I found it. There before me, slightly to the left of center and between his shoulder blades, shown a large carbuncle with several deep-pocked black heads staring back at me. It rose out of his back like a marble under a sheet. I read the puss filled knot like sick giant Braille; the message: “pop me.” I was in Paradise.
Despite the message, the carbuncle proved a difficult opponent. At first I attempted standard squeezing. One would expect that a giant engorged carbuncle with three angry black eyes would burst with any amount of pressure applied, but not this one. This one had been there a while; it was comfortable; it was settled; it required extreme measures. Brandon winced in pain, and I promised to be more careful. I braced my hands further apart in order to gain more force focused on the deep-set knot. The flesh rippled toward me, and with that forced smooching sound that accompanies the breaking of every zit’s seal – the contents began to spill forth.
The puss was yellow, waxy, sticky, thick, and felt like tar. It was the strangest puss I have ever encountered. It didn’t burst out like most zits; it was like giving birth. The pores dilated with each push – lurching forth the crowning puss to the surface. After I had milked the now flattened carbuncle, I grabbed my straight pin. My mother taught me long ago that if you carefully use a straight pin, you can gently scrape clean the insides of an engorged pore. So off I ventured into the three caverns that once contained the contents of the carbuncle. Gently I probed the pores, bringing to the surface the final remnants of yellow sticky tar. Brandon thanked me. The carbuncle had been bothering him for a long time. Now it was gone, and we could get on with business. Or so he thought…
Several days later (maybe it was a week – the memory is a little hazy with the timeline), Brandon and I were making out. Soon our clothes came off, and it became clear that more intimate adult behaviors were just around the corner. As he began kissing my neck, I got a clear view of his back. There, where the carbuncle had been, was another deep-set blackhead. It was a carbuncle in the making, and it was going to be mine. His lips met my mouth again, and my hand began to search his back for the prize. When my hand found the blackhead, my fingers began to squeeze. At first, Brandon mistook that for me massaging his back, but soon – he pushed me back breaking our embrace.
“Are you trying to pop my zit?” he asked in disbelief.
“Yes,” I answered sheepishly.
“Could you not do that while we’re making out?”
“I’ll try,” I answered, “but it’s there and it wants to be popped.”
Of course I failed. The temptation of the zit proved too strong. We were making out again, and once he began kissing my neck, I could see the blackhead. It was calling to me. Subconsciously my hand crept back up his back. He was not amused. Eventually, after several weeks, he became accustomed to my unusual habits (that one at least; we won’t discuss my singing to him while he was on the toilet; he wasn’t too amused with that one either).
Over the course of our relationship, I would clear his back zits often, as well as acne in other locales. But alas, the love of acne is not strong enough to keep people together. We really weren’t compatible in many ways. It would be nice to find a guy though, who wasn’t totally creeped out by my urge to pop zits. It’s one of my many eccentricities. It’s too bad, however, that amazing zits are not points of flirtation. If they were, I totally would have hit on the cute guy with the magnificent specimen.
I’m not sure where my unusual fascination comes from. I really enjoy the sound acne makes when it bursts, and the puss is well – so disgusting that it is utterly enthralling. I’ve done a touch of research, and it seems that the fascination is normal. It’s normal to want to purge the foreign from the body. I’m not sure if it’s normal to want to make out with men that need a little purging, but to each his own. So stop judging. I’m sure you’re weird too.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Memories of Yarn
Today was an unusual day at work. I built a sling-shot from a bra, a thong, two coat hangers, and some ribbon (I call it the bra-apult). I fired a gun, broke a gun, (two different guns mind you), and went shopping for yarn. All of these things are rather unusual for most jobs, but at mine – they somehow all seem to work. It’s weird, however, that they all occurred on the same day. Most days one of those would be an event, so having all of these at once was almost too much to take. Properties masters and designers are basically toy-makers. We build things for pretend time. So it helps to have an active imagination, a slightly deranged inner-child, design sense, and a functional knowledge of power tools.
Today, however, I was not only able to indulge my adult inner-child (by building the bra-apult), but I was also able to relive a piece of my childhood – oddly while shopping for yarn. When I was small – say about three years – I used to love to go to the store with my mom and look at yarn. The feeling of the yarn against my skin, so soft, fascinated me – as did all the colors. It was literally a rainbow of pigment and texture. I always wanted to go and touch the yarn.
So today, I found myself back as a three year old – in the yarn aisle. The yarn, so soft, stood before me – all the colors on parade – and a memory came rushing back. My mom and I were in Wal-Mart (the craft section to be specific). This was in the days before the invention of the Supercenter, so Wal-Mart was more intimate. This was also the 1980s, when parents were more relaxed with their children in public places, and my home town had not yet succumb to the huge building boom and suburban sprawl brought on in the 90s. As usual, upon our visit, I wanted to visit the yarn aisle.
I told my mom where I was headed, and off I ran to see the yarn. (Don’t fret – she wasn’t far – just an aisle over.) I began to touch the yarn, so soft, and marvel at the textures, the colors, and the interesting way that it was bundled and packaged. Something about the yarn was comforting, familiar, yet still utterly fascinating. That’s when a Wal-Mart employee approached me. She didn’t like an unattended child perusing the yarn-aisle.
This is where the story gets hazy. I would like to know what she said to me. It was only words – just words – and words that have long been forgotten. I would like to remember it in detail, but I don’t. All I am left with is a shard – a fragment of a memory – that as an adult I don’t understand. I remember looking up – at the massive wall of yarn – it seemed endless, and then looking to my left to see a blue-smocked lady with dark curly hair approaching me. Then I remember being embarrassed, upset, and somehow ashamed. I was cornered by this lady (literally the craft-section was in the back right hand corner of Wal-Mart, and the yarn aisle was on the back wall of the store), and as a child I didn’t know how to process that.
The next thing I remember is crying, and my mother telling me that I could look at the yarn if I wanted to. Oddly, I don’t think the woman yelled at me, and I don’t think my mother berated anyone (chances are she would have if there had been yelling), but then again – why did I feel ashamed? Why was I upset? What happened that disturbed the balance? One moment I was a child fascinated with a wall of yarn, and the next I was a child ashamed, upset, and seeking solace from his mother. That was the day yarn lost its luster; I don’t think I ever went to marvel at the colors and textures again.
So today, as I gazed at the seemingly endless rainbow before me, I became that small child again. The yarn, so soft, felt so good beneath my fingers, and for a moment I lost myself in the rapture and mystery of the wools and acrylics before me. It didn’t last long; a new blue be-smocked employee named “Adult Responsibilities” brought me back to reality. This time, however, I was not ashamed, not upset, and did not need solace from my mother. Yarn regained some of its mystery.
Today, however, I was not only able to indulge my adult inner-child (by building the bra-apult), but I was also able to relive a piece of my childhood – oddly while shopping for yarn. When I was small – say about three years – I used to love to go to the store with my mom and look at yarn. The feeling of the yarn against my skin, so soft, fascinated me – as did all the colors. It was literally a rainbow of pigment and texture. I always wanted to go and touch the yarn.
So today, I found myself back as a three year old – in the yarn aisle. The yarn, so soft, stood before me – all the colors on parade – and a memory came rushing back. My mom and I were in Wal-Mart (the craft section to be specific). This was in the days before the invention of the Supercenter, so Wal-Mart was more intimate. This was also the 1980s, when parents were more relaxed with their children in public places, and my home town had not yet succumb to the huge building boom and suburban sprawl brought on in the 90s. As usual, upon our visit, I wanted to visit the yarn aisle.
I told my mom where I was headed, and off I ran to see the yarn. (Don’t fret – she wasn’t far – just an aisle over.) I began to touch the yarn, so soft, and marvel at the textures, the colors, and the interesting way that it was bundled and packaged. Something about the yarn was comforting, familiar, yet still utterly fascinating. That’s when a Wal-Mart employee approached me. She didn’t like an unattended child perusing the yarn-aisle.
This is where the story gets hazy. I would like to know what she said to me. It was only words – just words – and words that have long been forgotten. I would like to remember it in detail, but I don’t. All I am left with is a shard – a fragment of a memory – that as an adult I don’t understand. I remember looking up – at the massive wall of yarn – it seemed endless, and then looking to my left to see a blue-smocked lady with dark curly hair approaching me. Then I remember being embarrassed, upset, and somehow ashamed. I was cornered by this lady (literally the craft-section was in the back right hand corner of Wal-Mart, and the yarn aisle was on the back wall of the store), and as a child I didn’t know how to process that.
The next thing I remember is crying, and my mother telling me that I could look at the yarn if I wanted to. Oddly, I don’t think the woman yelled at me, and I don’t think my mother berated anyone (chances are she would have if there had been yelling), but then again – why did I feel ashamed? Why was I upset? What happened that disturbed the balance? One moment I was a child fascinated with a wall of yarn, and the next I was a child ashamed, upset, and seeking solace from his mother. That was the day yarn lost its luster; I don’t think I ever went to marvel at the colors and textures again.
So today, as I gazed at the seemingly endless rainbow before me, I became that small child again. The yarn, so soft, felt so good beneath my fingers, and for a moment I lost myself in the rapture and mystery of the wools and acrylics before me. It didn’t last long; a new blue be-smocked employee named “Adult Responsibilities” brought me back to reality. This time, however, I was not ashamed, not upset, and did not need solace from my mother. Yarn regained some of its mystery.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Work and MLK Day
Today, I went to work. There is nothing altogether unusual about that. I tend to work a lot, and I feel lost when I go for long periods of time (read: more than a day) without work. I get anxious when I have nothing to do, and I feel guilty if I’m not constantly putting more and more time into my job. A therapist of mine once diagnosed me with workaholism, and it’s something I have been trying to work on. I’ve had to learn that it’s okay to not have anything to do, and that it is okay to have a personal life.
With that being said, today was Martin Luther King Jr’s birthday, and I had the day off. Yet, I went to work. I couldn’t really justify staying at home when I have many things to do at work, and a quickly dwindling timetable in which to complete them. I tried to tell myself that I would have taken the day off if I hadn’t had the snow day last week, and while that was a fun thought – it was more fanciful than factual.
Truthfully, I would have gone to work today even if we hadn’t had snow. It is partially my workaholism – yes – I choose to work, even when I don’t have to, but it goes deeper than that. I don’t see the point of sitting on my ass on MLK day. It’s not that I don’t have great respect for Dr. King; I have plenty of respect for him and all that he did for our country. People like him have shaped our culture – our collective consciousness – and allowed us the freedom to each have dreams of our own. Yet, to me, MLK day isn’t a holiday that should be celebrated. It should be observed. I’m not sure that taking time off work is what MLK would have wanted us to do.
I understand that many people use MLK day as a day of service, and I think that is a great idea. Maybe one day, I’ll feel comfortable taking time off work to volunteer on MLK day. But, if you aren’t engaged in service activities, how do you properly honor the legacy of Dr. King? It isn’t that hard of a question. We should simply look at his dream – that one day all people will be judged by the content of their character. A strong work ethic is part of my character, and work is something I believe very strongly in, so I felt the best way for me to honor him was to go to work. Anything that strengthens the content of one’s character, I feel, would be the appropriate way to observe Martin Luther King Jr’s birthday.
I also feel that children should be in school on MLK day. Our country is dragging behind other 1st world nations in terms of education. We don’t need to be taking kids out of school for every holiday. Also, MLK day would be a great day for young people to take in-depth looks at equality and diversity, and how these things strengthen our culture. Children, teenagers, and teachers could participate in dialogues on race, religion, history, and the future of this country. I haven’t yet given up hope for adults discussing these issues in depth, but I don’t see it happening anytime soon, at least in a healthy and healing manner.
Basically, I think we’re missing the mark on this holiday. I think work is important, and maybe there are ways to combine work with the observance. For instance, instead of companies giving their employees another holiday, maybe corporations could choose a service project? Those who wanted or felt they could give back would have the option of participating instead of their traditional 9-5 hours. Imagine what our nation could do – if while our children were in school – learning to live the legacy of MLK, adults were out with their colleagues cleaning up our streets, building houses for the poor, being kind to their neighbors, or working on the content of their own character by choosing to work.
Then, maybe, we could affect some positive change for this country, and I think Dr. King would approve.
With that being said, today was Martin Luther King Jr’s birthday, and I had the day off. Yet, I went to work. I couldn’t really justify staying at home when I have many things to do at work, and a quickly dwindling timetable in which to complete them. I tried to tell myself that I would have taken the day off if I hadn’t had the snow day last week, and while that was a fun thought – it was more fanciful than factual.
Truthfully, I would have gone to work today even if we hadn’t had snow. It is partially my workaholism – yes – I choose to work, even when I don’t have to, but it goes deeper than that. I don’t see the point of sitting on my ass on MLK day. It’s not that I don’t have great respect for Dr. King; I have plenty of respect for him and all that he did for our country. People like him have shaped our culture – our collective consciousness – and allowed us the freedom to each have dreams of our own. Yet, to me, MLK day isn’t a holiday that should be celebrated. It should be observed. I’m not sure that taking time off work is what MLK would have wanted us to do.
I understand that many people use MLK day as a day of service, and I think that is a great idea. Maybe one day, I’ll feel comfortable taking time off work to volunteer on MLK day. But, if you aren’t engaged in service activities, how do you properly honor the legacy of Dr. King? It isn’t that hard of a question. We should simply look at his dream – that one day all people will be judged by the content of their character. A strong work ethic is part of my character, and work is something I believe very strongly in, so I felt the best way for me to honor him was to go to work. Anything that strengthens the content of one’s character, I feel, would be the appropriate way to observe Martin Luther King Jr’s birthday.
I also feel that children should be in school on MLK day. Our country is dragging behind other 1st world nations in terms of education. We don’t need to be taking kids out of school for every holiday. Also, MLK day would be a great day for young people to take in-depth looks at equality and diversity, and how these things strengthen our culture. Children, teenagers, and teachers could participate in dialogues on race, religion, history, and the future of this country. I haven’t yet given up hope for adults discussing these issues in depth, but I don’t see it happening anytime soon, at least in a healthy and healing manner.
Basically, I think we’re missing the mark on this holiday. I think work is important, and maybe there are ways to combine work with the observance. For instance, instead of companies giving their employees another holiday, maybe corporations could choose a service project? Those who wanted or felt they could give back would have the option of participating instead of their traditional 9-5 hours. Imagine what our nation could do – if while our children were in school – learning to live the legacy of MLK, adults were out with their colleagues cleaning up our streets, building houses for the poor, being kind to their neighbors, or working on the content of their own character by choosing to work.
Then, maybe, we could affect some positive change for this country, and I think Dr. King would approve.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Snow Day
Today has been rather lazy. Work was cancelled; the university closed due to the ice and snow. It’s kind of irritating; I moved back South to get away from the cold weather . But, despite where I move, it seems to keep following me. Last year it snowed four or five times in Jackson, Mississippi. One of those was rather severe: 4” of snow. While in Detroit that level of accumulation would be laughable, that’s a HUGE deal for the Deep South. It also snowed on Christmas Day here in Birmingham, and while at home in Columbia – we celebrated a white 1st day of Kwanza.
The storm that started yesterday was far from severe. It was big for Alabama, but my years in Michigan and DC have changed my perspective on winter weather. This morning I awoke to ½” of snow outside my window, overtop of a layer of ice. The ice, obviously, being the most severe. My Northern friends will laugh at the fact that I didn’t have to go to work, but Alabamians are unaccustomed to any form of winter weather, so nothing had been salted, and the roads were rather treacherous for drivers not familiar with winter weather. And, truth be told, probably for those familiar with winter weather as well.
While I have driven in snow and ice, I was still hesitant to leave. For one, I’m not sure where I put my ice scraper. For two, any other drivers on the road would probably not be used to snow. For three, any accumulation of ice on roadways can be dangerous – if not deadly.
I was reminded of a time back in undergrad. We had quite a heavy snowstorm, unusually heavy for that area of South Carolina. As usual, the county had no way to quickly plow streets and there wasn’t a budget for salting, so the roads – even major highways and Interstates – were covered and abandoned. There were several Northerners on campus, all of whom were smart enough to stay inside their dorms, drink cocoa, and later have a snowball fight on the quad with their friends. We were snowbound for a few days, however, and people were becoming restless.
One group of people became restless far before the masses, and they were determined to make it to a movie theatre about 45 minutes south in Columbia. Columbia didn’t have nearly as much snow as we did, and if they could make it out of our county, a world of trendy shopping districts, dining, and cinema awaited. It seemed to be their personal Emerald City at the end of the Yellow Brick Road. The only problem was the roads.
This is where their fearless leader stepped in. Her name was Anne (not her real name). She was from New Jersey (really this time), and assumed that because of her Northern upbringing – she could easily drive in the snow. So her and her friends packed into her car. They made it off campus and out of the city just fine, but then they hit the Interstate. The Interstate had not been plowed, and very few cars had gone before them, so all that lay in the miles ahead was mostly blanketed in brilliant white.
Anne plowed ahead, and they were making great time, and getting closer and closer to the county line. That’s when, according to her, a 35 mph gust of wind picked up her car and spun it into the wire barricade in the median. The cops had a slightly different view on the event, and said it was clear she had been driving too fast for conditions, and should have listened to the news anchors. No one was supposed to be on the roads – except in case of emergencies, and campus boredom was not an emergency. Everyone was fine, (except for her car – and her parents when they later learned she had tried to drive on an unplowed Interstate, and totaled her vehicle while risking not only her life, but the lives of her friends). Unfortunately, however, this crew was not too bright, and the car accident had not put to bed their restlessness.
Insisting that it had been the wind, and could not have possibly been her driving, Anne and her friends – once back on campus – acquired another vehicle and tried again. Again, they made it off campus and through the city, and once again they made it onto the Interstate. This time they were in a bulky minivan, because as everyone knows – in comparison to sports cars – minivans are less susceptible to wind gusts. Once again they were making great time, considering, until unexplainably ANOTHER 35mph gust of wind came out of nowhere and spun them into the ditch off the shoulder. Her friends gave up on the idea after that. There were others (namely Anne) who wanted to track down a third vehicle, but I think few were willing to sacrifice their cars in service to the wind gusts. Or maybe they realized even Northerners shouldn’t be driving long distances on unsalted ice and snow, but I digress.
Here it must be known that Anne often made fun of Southerners. She, like a lot of people, assumed that Northerners are more intelligent. However, Southerners weren’t the ones who tried to drive that day. A few Southerners were dumb enough to believe that a Northerner could take on the dangerous roads. That mistake, however, was never made again, and from that day on - every time she insisted she could drive in snow – eyes visibly rolled.
I also need to note that this Southerner kept his ass on campus until the roads were clear. I was not about to climb into any vehicle with those people. My Southern father didn’t raise no fool. Also, I found her to be a pretentious bitch, so there’s that…
So today, when I thought about possibly going out, I remembered Anne. I was not about to be the guy who had once lived in ice and snow, and therefore thought he was somehow magically able to traverse miles of unsalted and unplowed streets. I had seen where that gets you, and I didn’t have a back-up minivan. I parked my ass on the couch, watched trashy TV, stayed in my PJs, drank some cocoa, and played with Joey. Of course if I had gone out, and wrecked my car, I could have always blamed it on a 35 mph gust of wind. I mean these Alabamians would never know the difference, right?
The storm that started yesterday was far from severe. It was big for Alabama, but my years in Michigan and DC have changed my perspective on winter weather. This morning I awoke to ½” of snow outside my window, overtop of a layer of ice. The ice, obviously, being the most severe. My Northern friends will laugh at the fact that I didn’t have to go to work, but Alabamians are unaccustomed to any form of winter weather, so nothing had been salted, and the roads were rather treacherous for drivers not familiar with winter weather. And, truth be told, probably for those familiar with winter weather as well.
While I have driven in snow and ice, I was still hesitant to leave. For one, I’m not sure where I put my ice scraper. For two, any other drivers on the road would probably not be used to snow. For three, any accumulation of ice on roadways can be dangerous – if not deadly.
I was reminded of a time back in undergrad. We had quite a heavy snowstorm, unusually heavy for that area of South Carolina. As usual, the county had no way to quickly plow streets and there wasn’t a budget for salting, so the roads – even major highways and Interstates – were covered and abandoned. There were several Northerners on campus, all of whom were smart enough to stay inside their dorms, drink cocoa, and later have a snowball fight on the quad with their friends. We were snowbound for a few days, however, and people were becoming restless.
One group of people became restless far before the masses, and they were determined to make it to a movie theatre about 45 minutes south in Columbia. Columbia didn’t have nearly as much snow as we did, and if they could make it out of our county, a world of trendy shopping districts, dining, and cinema awaited. It seemed to be their personal Emerald City at the end of the Yellow Brick Road. The only problem was the roads.
This is where their fearless leader stepped in. Her name was Anne (not her real name). She was from New Jersey (really this time), and assumed that because of her Northern upbringing – she could easily drive in the snow. So her and her friends packed into her car. They made it off campus and out of the city just fine, but then they hit the Interstate. The Interstate had not been plowed, and very few cars had gone before them, so all that lay in the miles ahead was mostly blanketed in brilliant white.
Anne plowed ahead, and they were making great time, and getting closer and closer to the county line. That’s when, according to her, a 35 mph gust of wind picked up her car and spun it into the wire barricade in the median. The cops had a slightly different view on the event, and said it was clear she had been driving too fast for conditions, and should have listened to the news anchors. No one was supposed to be on the roads – except in case of emergencies, and campus boredom was not an emergency. Everyone was fine, (except for her car – and her parents when they later learned she had tried to drive on an unplowed Interstate, and totaled her vehicle while risking not only her life, but the lives of her friends). Unfortunately, however, this crew was not too bright, and the car accident had not put to bed their restlessness.
Insisting that it had been the wind, and could not have possibly been her driving, Anne and her friends – once back on campus – acquired another vehicle and tried again. Again, they made it off campus and through the city, and once again they made it onto the Interstate. This time they were in a bulky minivan, because as everyone knows – in comparison to sports cars – minivans are less susceptible to wind gusts. Once again they were making great time, considering, until unexplainably ANOTHER 35mph gust of wind came out of nowhere and spun them into the ditch off the shoulder. Her friends gave up on the idea after that. There were others (namely Anne) who wanted to track down a third vehicle, but I think few were willing to sacrifice their cars in service to the wind gusts. Or maybe they realized even Northerners shouldn’t be driving long distances on unsalted ice and snow, but I digress.
Here it must be known that Anne often made fun of Southerners. She, like a lot of people, assumed that Northerners are more intelligent. However, Southerners weren’t the ones who tried to drive that day. A few Southerners were dumb enough to believe that a Northerner could take on the dangerous roads. That mistake, however, was never made again, and from that day on - every time she insisted she could drive in snow – eyes visibly rolled.
I also need to note that this Southerner kept his ass on campus until the roads were clear. I was not about to climb into any vehicle with those people. My Southern father didn’t raise no fool. Also, I found her to be a pretentious bitch, so there’s that…
So today, when I thought about possibly going out, I remembered Anne. I was not about to be the guy who had once lived in ice and snow, and therefore thought he was somehow magically able to traverse miles of unsalted and unplowed streets. I had seen where that gets you, and I didn’t have a back-up minivan. I parked my ass on the couch, watched trashy TV, stayed in my PJs, drank some cocoa, and played with Joey. Of course if I had gone out, and wrecked my car, I could have always blamed it on a 35 mph gust of wind. I mean these Alabamians would never know the difference, right?
Saturday, January 8, 2011
That Crazy Little Thing Called Love
Hello again. I know I haven’t written in a while, but that is because – being a card carrying cheapskate – I refuse to pay for Internet. Whenever I need the Internet, I use my computer at work, but honestly – who wants to sit at work after hours and do personal things? I don’t. I used to pirate off of other people’s Internet at home, but that trick hasn’t worked for a couple years now. Apparently the masses are getting smarter and actually placing passwords on their home wireless accounts.
Seeing as how I don’t want to sit at my office after hours, I had assumed blogging was something I wouldn’t get back to until I broke down and finally purchased home Internet coverage. That was when a friend and former professor of mine suggested I actually write the posts at home in word, and post them at work the next day I went into the office. GENIUS! I couldn’t believe that I hadn’t thought of that, but then again… I am atrociously handsome, not atrociously intelligent.
Today, I went to a store – I won’t mention which store – but it’s a HUGE international chain where it is possible to buy groceries, underwear, wine, get photos developed, and test a ride a bike – all while dodging falling prices. I don’t particularly care for this chain, but it serves its purpose, and I’m a poor person – beggars can’t be choosers. The store, however, is not what this post is about. While waiting in the checkout line, I came across one of those celebrity gossip magazines. I don’t remember, which one, but again – not important. A small close-up picture of Justin Bieber and Selena Gomez appeared in the top right hand corner of the cover with a large caption that read: “Selena and Justin, pictures that prove IT’S LOVE.”
Hmm. I stared at the cover and re-read the caption. I had a while to ponder this – for the store never has enough clerks to check people out in a timely fashion. Justin Bieber is what? 16? I don’t know, I don’t have Bieber Fever. (I do however see the irony in this since my last post also mentioned Justin, but to be fair, most of my posts do not…) And Selena Gomez must be around the same age. (I had always assumed she was older, but for better or worse again, I don’t keep up with tweenage heart-throbs.) My question , however, was can you really be in love at that age?
I’m not sure anyone really knows what love means when they’re that young. Love is idealized so often in our culture, and young teenagers are really susceptible to that idealization. I know when I was 16 I thought I was in love, and I thought that many of the attractions I had for people were “love.” By the time I was 18, however, I knew that at 16 I had no idea what real love was. I had only been going through the motions. I was repeating what every love song and teenage movie had taught me. I was doing what was expected. I didn’t begin following my bliss until I was 20, and by the time I turned 21, and actually fell in love, then my 18 year old concept of love no longer applied, and my 16 year old version seemed as backwards as the Dark Ages.
When I first fell in love, I fell hard, and I fell quickly. It was as if all of those prior teenage moments had built up to that point. Love made sense. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. Hindsight, however, is better than 20/20. Now at 27, I realize that at 21 I was still idealizing love. I had fallen in love with who I wanted him to be – not who he actually was. I had fallen in love with the idea of “us,” and not the daily reality of “us.” I’m glad now that that relationship ended. It ended almost as abruptly as it began, with a flurry of emotion, and left me rather love-bruised. If we had continued, one day we would have woken up and not recognized each other.
I understand love differently now. I get that it isn’t all powerful emotion, that fights don’t magically end like they do in movies and on TV, and that nothing is ever black and white, but varying shades of gray. The one thing our culture gets right, however, is that love is a beautiful thing. It is something worth having, worth pursuing, worth losing. Beauty, however, is not the same as pretty. I understand that love isn’t always pretty, sometimes it’s ugly, sometimes it’s dirty, love has scars, beauty marks, and wounds. It takes life experiences to teach us this part. Pretty things are not always beautiful, and beautiful things are not always pretty.
Please don’t think that I understand love. I still don’t. All I really know is that at 27 – I understand love a lot more clearly than I did at 16. My definition of love has grown, deepened, expanded, and changed radically. I know that at 37, I will look back and my definition of love will have evolved yet again. (Hopefully at that point I will have found someone I can share my life with, and we will be learning together.) I’m not sure humans can ever fully grasp love, but why not try? Isn’t part of the human condition to learn as much as possible? To grow and evolve? Hopefully one day, I will understand love as much as a human can. Until then I will keep searching for it.
If love is such an indefinable concept that evolves as we age, how am I supposed to believe that Justin Bieber and Selena Gomez have found it? And that photos somehow prove it? Pictures – while worth a thousand words – can often be deceiving. Needless to say, I didn’t buy the magazine; I didn’t even flip through it to look at the pictures. I didn’t need to, it’s just another magazine using “love,” to try and sell product. It would probably be too much to ask for the magazine to take a different angle – love sells, and so do tweenage heartthrobs. Why not capitalize on the commodity? Hopefully, Justin and Selena will look back on those photos someday, and laugh at the caption that so inaccurately describes their current relationship. Hopefully their concept of love will have evolved as well.
Update: Right after I wrote this post, I actually broke down and purchased wifi. Still a card-carrying cheapskate, because I only bought the base package, but I can always upgrade…
Seeing as how I don’t want to sit at my office after hours, I had assumed blogging was something I wouldn’t get back to until I broke down and finally purchased home Internet coverage. That was when a friend and former professor of mine suggested I actually write the posts at home in word, and post them at work the next day I went into the office. GENIUS! I couldn’t believe that I hadn’t thought of that, but then again… I am atrociously handsome, not atrociously intelligent.
Today, I went to a store – I won’t mention which store – but it’s a HUGE international chain where it is possible to buy groceries, underwear, wine, get photos developed, and test a ride a bike – all while dodging falling prices. I don’t particularly care for this chain, but it serves its purpose, and I’m a poor person – beggars can’t be choosers. The store, however, is not what this post is about. While waiting in the checkout line, I came across one of those celebrity gossip magazines. I don’t remember, which one, but again – not important. A small close-up picture of Justin Bieber and Selena Gomez appeared in the top right hand corner of the cover with a large caption that read: “Selena and Justin, pictures that prove IT’S LOVE.”
Hmm. I stared at the cover and re-read the caption. I had a while to ponder this – for the store never has enough clerks to check people out in a timely fashion. Justin Bieber is what? 16? I don’t know, I don’t have Bieber Fever. (I do however see the irony in this since my last post also mentioned Justin, but to be fair, most of my posts do not…) And Selena Gomez must be around the same age. (I had always assumed she was older, but for better or worse again, I don’t keep up with tweenage heart-throbs.) My question , however, was can you really be in love at that age?
I’m not sure anyone really knows what love means when they’re that young. Love is idealized so often in our culture, and young teenagers are really susceptible to that idealization. I know when I was 16 I thought I was in love, and I thought that many of the attractions I had for people were “love.” By the time I was 18, however, I knew that at 16 I had no idea what real love was. I had only been going through the motions. I was repeating what every love song and teenage movie had taught me. I was doing what was expected. I didn’t begin following my bliss until I was 20, and by the time I turned 21, and actually fell in love, then my 18 year old concept of love no longer applied, and my 16 year old version seemed as backwards as the Dark Ages.
When I first fell in love, I fell hard, and I fell quickly. It was as if all of those prior teenage moments had built up to that point. Love made sense. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. Hindsight, however, is better than 20/20. Now at 27, I realize that at 21 I was still idealizing love. I had fallen in love with who I wanted him to be – not who he actually was. I had fallen in love with the idea of “us,” and not the daily reality of “us.” I’m glad now that that relationship ended. It ended almost as abruptly as it began, with a flurry of emotion, and left me rather love-bruised. If we had continued, one day we would have woken up and not recognized each other.
I understand love differently now. I get that it isn’t all powerful emotion, that fights don’t magically end like they do in movies and on TV, and that nothing is ever black and white, but varying shades of gray. The one thing our culture gets right, however, is that love is a beautiful thing. It is something worth having, worth pursuing, worth losing. Beauty, however, is not the same as pretty. I understand that love isn’t always pretty, sometimes it’s ugly, sometimes it’s dirty, love has scars, beauty marks, and wounds. It takes life experiences to teach us this part. Pretty things are not always beautiful, and beautiful things are not always pretty.
Please don’t think that I understand love. I still don’t. All I really know is that at 27 – I understand love a lot more clearly than I did at 16. My definition of love has grown, deepened, expanded, and changed radically. I know that at 37, I will look back and my definition of love will have evolved yet again. (Hopefully at that point I will have found someone I can share my life with, and we will be learning together.) I’m not sure humans can ever fully grasp love, but why not try? Isn’t part of the human condition to learn as much as possible? To grow and evolve? Hopefully one day, I will understand love as much as a human can. Until then I will keep searching for it.
If love is such an indefinable concept that evolves as we age, how am I supposed to believe that Justin Bieber and Selena Gomez have found it? And that photos somehow prove it? Pictures – while worth a thousand words – can often be deceiving. Needless to say, I didn’t buy the magazine; I didn’t even flip through it to look at the pictures. I didn’t need to, it’s just another magazine using “love,” to try and sell product. It would probably be too much to ask for the magazine to take a different angle – love sells, and so do tweenage heartthrobs. Why not capitalize on the commodity? Hopefully, Justin and Selena will look back on those photos someday, and laugh at the caption that so inaccurately describes their current relationship. Hopefully their concept of love will have evolved as well.
Update: Right after I wrote this post, I actually broke down and purchased wifi. Still a card-carrying cheapskate, because I only bought the base package, but I can always upgrade…
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