Apparently, I confuse people.
More specifically, I confuse people who presume I have a long and storied romantic history – I do not; or people who previously thought that I was all hardcore, bitch-on-wheels, single-by-choice-and-for-a-reason-RARGH! – I am not.
The older I get, the more people ask about this. And upon discovering that I’m in the camp of mid-late twenty-something laydee persons who generally find BOGO restaurant coupons useless; and that no, I’m not just getting out of a relationship, I’ve actually been this way for quite a while and – wait for it - still managed to remain largely happy and fulfilled; and no, I’m not a lesbian; and no, I don’t have Daddy Issues…
It confuses people.
And I get it, kind of.
I’m hardly model/singer/actress/LA trifecta – or probably even reality TV – gorgeous. I’m also perfectly OK with that, and not in a, “le sigh, I’ve made peace with it” way; in a “I Can Math! … and um? almost nobody is that pretty, period, and even the ones who are naturally still work really hard to stay that way? and I don’t want to to work that hard at that? so… why am I supposed to be sad again?” way. (Are you annoyed already? That you’re actually hearing? A really annoying voice? That makes statements in the form of a question? When you’re just reading words on a page? You’re welcome. Just be grateful I cannot yet visually impart vocal fry; guilty. as. charged.)
However, I’m not so explicitly, strikingly ugly that I catch your eye and pity; I’m not so great at (or comfortable with) that reductionist “scale of 1-10” thing, but I can confidently say that on the bell curve of human attractiveness (with exceptionally long tails on both sides) I’m comfortably on the right-hand side.
I’m also at least one standard deviation to the right from center on the intellectual capabilities scale (again, remembering that the “I CAN TYPING” guy is creeping pretty close to the center, as he can read…ish, and type…ish); I’m funny enough; I’m even wifey-domestic enough that I’ve actually been a little self-conscious about it, as if Naomi Wolf is going to swipe my feminist card and tear it to a bajillion bits if she finds out that I like to cook and host and decorate and organize things.
Word on the street is that I’m funny enough.
I may have in another life, and I still might yet, but I don’t have a big-time, hardcore, 100-hr/week, climbing-the-ladder and married-to-the-job career that is another last resort explanation when people encounter my kind in the wild. And while I have a very large, intense, and occasionally ball-busty personality – which I understand is more than enough explanation for people who think “obey” still belongs in wedding vows, and “submit” is more than a button in an online shopping cart – there are, unfortunately for our little investigation here, many, many, many other happily hitched women next to whom I’d look demure. I only bust balls figuratively, you guys. And apparently, my small in stature and high in vocal register makes my doing so considerably more palatable, and even somewhat amusing – provided your testicles are not the ones squarely centered under my proverbial mallet.
In short, there’s no easy, “Oooooohhh, OOhhhh-kay” answer – outside looking in – as to why I’m not just chronically ill, I’m chronically single. Even the CF thing doesn’t explain it; more of my CF friends – rockstars of humanity and normal folks like me alike – are coupled up or married than not, and most at least have a pretty “normal”, ebb-and-flowing dating history, all things considered.
According to a long list of varyingly reasonable social norms and cultural standards, I “should” have such a history, such a partnership, too. And I don’t.
I’m not upset about it, or even particularly preoccupied, but given the common impulse to reflect, and assess, and plan, at the turn of a new year, I had been thinking a lot about how if I do want to choose to spend my life with another person (because it is a choice, and I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the decision to not to do so, or the people who make it), then I probably need to start paying a little more attention to that choice, and giving it the intentionality and work it needs and deserves, like anything else I want for myself.
Full disclosure – deciding to adopt a puppy was considerably more straightforward.
And in so doing (reflecting, not adopting) – I’ve zeroed in on the two things I’m pretty sure is the answer to the befuddlement I often encounter.
Vulnerability and strength.
Painfully inept in one, and discomfitingly over-equipped in the other.
I will share, share, share, all day long. I’ll tell you stories; I’ll even seem and sound like I’m really going deep, and laying it out on the line. But if you know me well enough to contemplate taking my dad up on his offer of 50k and 3 cows, you’ll know me well enough to know that a lot of the “deep” stuff I offer up is pretty low-hanging fruit.
I don’t fail well. I don’t accept help well.
I don’t fear well. I don’t share my pain well.
I don’t risk my heart well.
I don’t trust well.
As with every painful admission, however, I can explain! And while still a bit navel-gazey, by definition, I swear my explanation goes beyond “So in high school? there was this guuyyy, right? and…” Heh, because there was no guy, I swear, not even then. LOTS of guy friends – great guy friends I adored and am thrilled for in their lives now. But no BoyFran.(Doo, dee, dooo doo….cue Wild Wild West saloon doors, blowing tumbleweeds, sepia tones).
It’s not this guy, this time…it’s this disease, all the time. Not the grossness, even though it is exceptionally gross, and in just about only and every way that girls specifically would rather not be involuntarily gross. Not the bait and switch, in which I look and sound like the boisterous, thinky, normal-looking girl your friend knew in high school, who then SURPRISE! is involuntarily gross, rather than the boisterous, thinky girl who wears a brace, or wheels rather than walks up to the bar. Not the chess clock ticking in the background, just loudly enough, though there’s that too. Those are all there, and they’re all factors, but they’re factors I find reasonable, and logical, and in the same pile as “so he likes blondes” and “so he doesn’t vote” as just neutral reasons that two individuals in a very large given population aren’t particularly compatible. Happy trails, and read a paper now and then.
You want to know the kicker? Lean in, come closer…
It’s the fact that that vulnerability I so desperately need to nurture and cultivate as a woman, and a partner, and a person, seems diabolically opposed to the stoicism I have so carefully cultivated and that has served me so well as a patient, and I don’t know how to – or if I even should? – learn to flip a switch between the two.
Figure THAT one out over a mere cocktail and pretzel, Watson.
Because, as we’ve learned today, I don’t do vulnerability, but I DO do words, I have here a little metaphor. A fable. An allegory, if you will.
Here’s the thing. I feel like a zoo animal. (Hang with me here). Not a freaky one, like those birds that pump their necks all weird when they walk, or a gross one, like those (awesome) little monkeys that have to stay enclosed behind glass instead of just a fence because they fling their poop at each other.
No, one of the “feature” zoo animals. The ones they print on posters, and advertise in commercials, and when the price of business takes an unexpected hike, charge people extra to see up close once they’re already in the park.
Let’s say, a Bengal Tiger.
Everybody LOVES to come and stare at, and admire, the Bengal Tiger. They have whole side conversations about how strong she is; how if you think about it, it’s really a feat of nature they way she’s survived this long. They speak in hushed, revered voices – or they squeal with delight. “Look at her play! She’s so fun to watch!”
But as much as people admire the tiger, go out of their way to come look at the tiger, on balance, they’re terrified of her. Watching her play her tiger games, and live her tiger life, and do the big-strong-tiger-feats-of-strength things she does, and that to her are called “Tuesday”, is a completely different appreciation for the tiger than the really rare few who stand there and think, “You know? I really wish I knew what it was like to actually interact with that tiger.”
And understandably. Very few people want to jump that fence, especially if it means interacting with the tiger on her terms, not theirs – which, in regards to her tiger-ness, literally by nature of her tiger-ness, it has to be. Compared to the much more commonly available, culturally accepted and easy to understand kitten, learning to play with a tiger is hard work. And it’s dangerous. She can’t help it, and you know that, but it doesn’t change the fact that you’re A LOT more likely to get hurt – and hurt badly – playing the exact same innocent games – fetch, and life, and love, and risk, – as you would with a kitten. And even the elements within her control – the “trainability” if you will – takes a lot more effort to get to a place where you can just hop the fence every day and everybody feels safe and has a good time.
In a way, the tiger gets it. You can tell by the way she comes up to the windows carefully and deliberately; by the way her whole body caves inward with retreat when she exuberantly bounds up to the glass and make someone scared instead of happy. It’s not that she wants to require so much effort – god, what she’d give to be one of those small, stupid, easily pacified meerkats everybody loves, over in the Safari exhibit – they don’t even get how simple their little meerkat lives are! - but that’s not how the cookie crumbled. She’s the big, strong, high-maintenance, exciting, and complicated Tiger, and most people simply aren’t going to want to jump the fence.
Sometimes, the tiger feels guilty *for her very tigery-ness* – as she sees that the poor people who have chosen to train as her handlers (and without whom the throngs of admirers would either have no Tiger to ogle, or who would have been mauled long ago), are now almost as misunderstood and “stuck behind the glass” as she is. The most confusing part is that the same people who keep coming to stare, wearing their Save the Tiger T-shirts and waving their zoo membership passes, not so quietly cluck their tongues, and mutter about how crazy the handlers are for actually getting that close to the tiger. “Don’t they get it? You can stand out here, safe and sound, and get all the same warm fuzzies without actually having to risk getting hurt in the process…they’re so strange, these ‘tiger people’.”
If you stand and watch long enough – not just to watch the tiger do her tricks, but to watch the people come and go – you’ll start to notice the tiger differently. Sometimes, she’ll sulk towards the back of the exhibit, even when the crowds come; once in a while, she’ll refuse to come out for a few busy, sunny days at a time. She isn’t proud of it, but she’s a little jaded, and a little resentful now. She’s tired. She doesn’t know how to balance being an inspiration and a worst nightmare all in one, and she doesn’t trust herself not to pounce, and show them what that much power, and that much strength, really can do, unchecked. When she does come out, between groups, you’ll see a weariness about her.
But in spite of it all, she still loves the people – and she knows that her handlers, whom she loves SO much, love the people even more, and need the people – so when they come around, she’ll rouse from her rest and come to the glass; she’ll be strong, and she’ll be playful, but she’ll do it from afar. She’s learned her lesson, and while it may be a little quiet and lonely sometimes, stalking at the back, it stings much worse to gently come to the glass and offer a paw, and in return, a confused and nervous gasp as the people scurry away – “Save The Bengal Tigers” written across their backs.
But you know what? Because she gets it, those few who do take the time? Who do the research, and move slowly and deliberately, but jump the fence, and hang in there through the accidental swipe of a claw, and keep coming back? The love, and loyalty, and intentionality for that handful of people is an intensity not found in many other exhibits. (Especially not those dumbassed meerkats, who will LUV U 4EVR if you toss them a compliment or a Coach bag grub or a lizard). Sometimes she can go a little overboard, and make her handlers a little uncomfortable, but it’s just because she wants them to know how much she gets it – that it’s work to love her – and really know that they know she appreciates it and loves them back. And most of the time, on the days they haven’t been pawed in the head or run out of steak, her handlers will tell you that living with her, loving her, it’s simply something you can’t understand until you’ve experienced it, but it’s purposeful, and intense, and exciting and adventurous and renewing in a way that – for the right kind of handler – the meerkats’ “watch me pop out of my hole! watch me wrestle! Aren’t I just so cute you can’t stand it?” gig kind of can’t compete with.
8. that I basically never order entree salads at restaurants, because while I sincerely love the flavors, textures, etc of most of them, I get really anxious and stressed out trying to eat them. Either I have a hard time cutting them up; or they’re cut up fine, but I can’t “assemble” a bite very easily; or it’s a GREAT BIG SALAD! in an *ittybittybowl* and a full third of my greens would end up on the table if I weren’t super-cautious about my leaf-stabbing; or I can’t get my dressing all mixed up and so when I try to just eat it dipped-bite-by-dipped-bite I either drop my poorly-anchored bite in the dressing entirely (and may or may not catch myself before I whimper) or fling little drops on the table and look like “Gretel Meets A Salad”.