What are men to rocks and mountains?
People who boast “God’s looking out for me” whenever a bad situation rights itself are inherently untrustworthy. I say this because if they sincerely mean what they say (and they do), then the inverse of what they say must also be true, which is that people deserve the bad things that happen to them; that God could have spared them but purposefully chose not to do so. I mean, really…. Can you imagine thinking that God’s looking out for your flu symptoms or your fender bender or your football game while Boko Haram kidnaps girls somewhere else in the world? Could you even muster the shamelessness? When I hear someone say they have a guardian angel, my eyes cannot roll back farther in my head.
When you nicely (?) ask your team to stop making copies of documents with little dates and initials at the end in an effort to stop version control problems, but then years later they still do it and we still have constant version control problems.
My emotions, on the occasion they exist, have their own unit of measurement in the manner of Brontes, Austen, and Gaskell. At the bottom of the scale, notched at soulfully dispossessed and tragically nostalgic, is what I call the BBC depression. I take off work, stay up all night, and watch British female-led period dramas until I have to re-enter the world or work my way through it by some other means. The period drama roster expanded over the years as new options came out (Outlander, Poldark, recent Bronte remakes), but for the most part remains the same and waits for me to get sad so that I may escape into its grace and manners. Someone wants to build a mill, someone misheard a rumor, so-and-so glanced sideways at a woman at the ball. Yet, somehow these [mostly] idle characters (no one would accuse Ross Poldark or Jamie Fraser of idleness) with low stakes narratives hold so much weight with me when I’m feeling at my most vulnerable, and I return to them in earnest every time.
Maybe it’s the way they come at feminism by telling stories marked by its absence. Characters acknowledge an understanding of women even when the environment of the story pretends not to. In most tales, the greatest threat to the status quo is a headstrong girl who knows her own mind–a timeless premise. The witty societal commentary both thrills and burdens me, as so much of it still applies in some fashion today.
Nothing provokes speculation more than the sight of a woman enjoying herself. (Little Women)
“A man who has nothing to do with his own time has no conscience in his intrusion on that of others.” (Sense and Sensibility… mansplaining has ALWAYS been a thing)
And then there’s the ferocity and beauty of the moors… from the cliffs of Cornwall all the way to the Scottish highlands, the rainy, rocky natural world is never more exquisite to me than in the British Isles (in movies and photographs, because I’ve never actually been there). Perhaps I’ve grown up with leftover pangs of colonialism, but I simply prefer the windy, gray skies aesthetic of the mossy moors to just about anything.
I love these moors. They’re like survivors of another time. Climb Roughtor before sunrise and listen to the wind crying through the stones and you will feel God. (Jamaica Inn)
(+requisite Poldark pug)
And, I think, here is the zinger. When the topic of my sad stupor is a failed romance–as it is this week–watching purer, nonphysical expressions of passion somehow help to excise those demons (or repress? Who knows). Breaking down romance into such childlike depictions–all awkward gazes and fumbling over words and touching fingers while passing teacups–makes the concepts easier to digest. When people in the real world can spend years and years together and still break up over minute compatibility issues or down-the-road intimacy questions or some fight about hobbies half a decade in…. isn’t it heartwarming to think one can simply choose a candidate for happily ever after with some furtive glances, a few pride and prejudice style misunderstandings, a good deed, and a swoon-y declaration? Sure, it’s hapless fantasy, but that’s leaps and bounds better than my nihilism, knowing from experience that “love” is actually just two people agreeing to hang out together until the day one of them changes their mind. There is no such thing as commitment, because no commitment needs to be final. Some weeks that’s too fucking sad for me to think about, and I suppose I vouch for the quivering teacup pass and wholesome eyebrow flirting of North & South because it ironically feels more truthful than the truth I know.
Another Monday, another exciting evening ahead of me driving for Lyft. Important mysteries with which man hath toiled since the dawn of time await me on my starry night behind the wheel… mysteries like
Aside from the plague of bodily functions, other exciting queries might cross my mind, such as
I’m so over people feeling the need to wedge in “kinky” as a definitive part of their identity. When did kinky become a synonym for simply enjoying sex? Has our already pseudo-puritanical American culture backslid into complete Mormon nightgown territory when it comes to sexual exploration? And, why is it such a strain on the human psyche to consider one’s self to be sexually adequate and ordinary? Do we really need to start vanilla support groups so that ordinary people stop co-opting the lifestyle terms of other groups just to feel desirable? Why are there only two stops on the spectrum now: prude and likes-the-taste-of-rubber. People accept normalcy in so many other ways, but as soon as genitals enter the picture, people must be seen as members of some exclusive speakeasy of proverbial intercourse. Drop in those four letters (“BDSM”), and watch them cream in the glow of their sexual uniqueness (although when prompted to explain, they won’t be able to pinpoint a particular inclination for anything that might fall under those four categories.)
two biggest shocks of adult life:
1. everyone does cocaine
2. cheese is fucking expensive
— Claire Zoe (@totallyclairezo) October 9, 2017
It’s true what I noticed of my mother when I was a child: adults want services for Christmas more than things. Things are transitory… services are indulgences that stick with you emotionally.
I’m not actually intending to do anything for myself for Christmas this year, but as an exercise I was trying to think of anything I might possibly want for Christmas, and the list ended up looking like this:
If this isn’t the spitting image of adulthood, I don’t know what is.
Saying “it’s my choice” does not make that choice yours, although it does help you cope with it better.
Men won’t go out of their way to help you, but they will go out of their way to correct you.
People who trumpet their ‘honesty’ are just announcing that they are actually rude and obnoxious.
Transitioning from life as a unit to life alone was emotionally trying. I never denied it. But there is so much more to a life apart from someone than just emotions. Even after emotions settle and lives go back to normal, the ghosts of partnered life take many forms: being unable to share the burden of errands, the deafening silence of sleeping alone, the uneven meal preps, the loss of human interaction on weeknights, the discomfort of sharing each other’s friends and not going on the same outtings anymore.
But most aggressive of them all is what I’ve spent a year running from; the reality I ignored for as long as I could until all my debts, habits, and loans came crashing in with thunderous fury.
Living well was just simpler with two incomes.
After reading numerous press release comment threads for the What Happened book tour, I find myself appalled all over again at the fractured support systems across the two major parties. I keep reliving the horrific epiphanies from last November:
Republicans ignore critical, game-changing differences in order to pool resources at whatever cost, ….thus giving us Trump. Anything it takes to win, even being wrong.
Liberals hyper-focus on every difference to a critical, game-changing effect, ….thus giving us Trump. Anything it takes to be right, even losing.
And now, everyone’s doubling down on their formulas. As a Democrat I’m not convinced I’ll ever be part of a winning campaign again in my lifetime.
Dating in your 20s
Men: I don’t want anything serious.
Dating in your 30s
Men: I’m married.
General PSA: If you don’t want the tenets of your faith explained to you, perhaps you should espouse them correctly in the first place.