It's not a news flash that women are supposed to peak sexually at 30, and by the look of things, that ain't no lie. As I draw closer (I turn 28 in a couple weeks), my inner hormonal troglodytes hunt with increasing ferocity ending in comical, heart wrenching results. I wish Dr. Drew would make a house call and explain it to me and then demonstrate. "Ms. Cheatham, it goes like this..." and then he takes off his glasses and tie and tells me insider Loveline fun facts naked...wait...what happened...?
The statistics that boast many women well into their thirties have yet to climax boggles my mind, and I wonder if they have similar urgings. I was five the first time I remember finding my own fantastical happy place, and haven't looked back, really. Men are a treasure in so many ways, it was only a matter of eight more years before I put the two together-partially-and then another five before it was full copulation time. Again, all systems go. My thirties will be like the Olympics to an already decorated Pole Vaulter. That's right, Pole Vaulter.
I rarely yearn for a man to complete my familial triumvirate though, that's the biggest puzzle. I've pictured a select few in that realm, not the general male population on the whole. I'm completely side-tracked by the glimpse of V-shaped torso putting groceries into the trunk of his car. I've always looked, but now it's a leer/linger, fantasies nattering. If this is a fraction like what men go through on a daily basis from puberty forth, I understand things a bit more than ever before. Those young bucks too, have made brief stints in steamy daydreams, however inappropriate or inconvenient (alas, my crotch belongs to the older ones). I blame my lady junk.
Being a mama compounds the immediacy for a dude as I get older, I feel it. I've already pro-created, so I'm not doing the cliched manhunt-for-offspring thing that thirty-something women get harangued for. I'm doing the manhunt for the sake of delicious man/potential father thing. It might be the same. In a previous post 'Homo Erectus Defectus', I examined the biology of sex appeal etc., (look in my archives and read-up if you haven't it's fascinating) and I maintain a similar scientific take on it.
As far as I'm concerned I'm A-OK on my own (staying just to "have someone" isn't in my vocab), and have an exceptional kid to prove it. I'm holding out for both of us. According to my nether regions however, I need to get down on some man meat ALL DAY EVERYDAY and keep him around for fringe father benefits. It's almost as if I've acquired a meddling Jewish mother who's in cahoots with my ovaries and they're plotting to get me hitched or mated or diddled...without my consent. ALL DAY EVERYDAY. And I still have 2 years to go.
As I notice good-looking men, I get lost. In the space of five seconds, I give not only intimate porno-graphic consideration, but fatherhood assessment in the after glow. I've almost hit other cars, walked into sedentary objects while looking directly at them, and subconsciously slid into the saucy hip waggle that every woman gives out of pure lust. The most ironic part, is when they look back, I'm embarrassed (that I've been ogling) or incensed (that some one's checking me out whilst with my child, nothing says "I'm together!" like biological bi-polarity). If I could wink and make it seem on purpose, maybe the title would be My Own Purveyor instead. But I don't, and it isn't. It's jank.
In this post-feminist place we reside-although we don't really get along anyway, I'd rather live along side it than preach it at people-still I catch bullshit from my very cellular make-up, my feminine wiles. What the hell is the point of being so singular for so long, if later I'd be rendered befuddled for it? Mutiny, I say. Inevitable and not personal, but still mutiny.
At the risk of being my own C-block (too late), I know this will dissipate. When she's in school and I have space to breathe, when we're financially stable (the new american dream?), when I have time/wherewithal to discreetly, anonymously prowl and pounce like the cougar I'm apparently posturing to become. When I have a social life again, and just being around other peers will take the edge off. I apologize to all those I've unjustly scoffed at all the way around (the women in my spot and beyond, the men I've mixed signaled). Getting older is a crap shoot of contradiction. I'm ready for a rousing game of sanity Slap jack. Who's game?
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Cue the Eurythmics
I'm on a film set. Chevy Chase is directing a stellar cast of comedy A-listers (even if I can't tell who they are exactly...they're all sporting dark sunglasses, and facial hair), it's understood this is a buzzed about project. They seem familiar and I'm excited to be a part of it all, so I wave. They wave back. Joy.
I'm in a church, and an integral past lover approaches me. He's vague about his life, and doesn't ask me any pertinent questions, so I'm disgruntled. He then proceeds to sit down in a row of creaky wooden pews and chat up a random chippy at top volume. I'm annoyed, and tell my close female comrades-that materialized out of nowhere-what a bastard he can be.
Not for long though, as now I'm in a large bed with Matt Damon, and we're laughing, snogging and rubbing up on one another, intimate playfulness. Milla Jovovich happens by with all the zeal of an overworked truck stop waitress and hands me a chocolate Dilly bar. I take a bite, and Milla (who really puts the full in full-service) switches the ice cream from my stick to Matt's. It's melting and creamy and odd.
Then I wake up, dash to pen and paper, and jot it all down.
My dreams have been vivid movie-esque romps ever since I can remember. Usually celebrities cameo, I'm on a quest to save/expose/make right. I've been interpreting them for a good thirteen years now, and I'm always excited to see what will pop out of my recesses. Ahem...moving on...
There's a theory that the happenstance in our dream state is the true reality of our souls, and waking life is the dream. The aforementioned scenario is quite tame in comparison to most of them, and it would be nice to wrangle dinosaurs (on more than one occasion to date) and get freaky-deaky with no consequence or meaning (all fun no drama). Doing dishes is blessedly never on the menu in my dreams. Well, once, but it ended in steamy celeb sex. Boy, would I have dishpan hands.
I would capital L love to research dreams. Being a rare blend of logic and spiritual intuition, it's hard to say which is more telling in this arena ( spoiler alert, it tends to be both). There's a definite line, and nary the twain shall meet. According to some scientific standpoints, your sleep state cannot be materialized by you yourself (which I personally know to be contrary, but for the newbie might be so), and can be influenced by outside stimuli, food you eat prior to sleep and any matter of events surrounding. Conclusive data can be hard to nail down under such vacillating conditions. Symbolic dream interpretation factors in all of those elements and combines the spiritual aspects, emotional influence and how in touch you are with symbols on the daily. Either way, it's fascinating input, and I remember all I write down, a crucial part of the process. How does a terrorizing dream of ghosts nagging you in a giant hotel equate to feelings of your own inadequacy and repressed thoughts? Have to do the research, intuit the findings.
Scrawled on the pages of many a composition notebook, in a language only understood by me, lies better understanding. Chronicling progression of my unconscious mind may be a roundabout path, but it's a thrifty and creative version of the ol' therapists couch. Not that I'm knocking therapy, just marveling-regularly-at a commonly trivialized avenue the mind travels frequently. There are so very many, it would be unfair not to check them all out.
The first few years after I graduated, I had regular dreams of me losing my teeth. Bleeding shards of molars and canines crumbled in chunks of my mouth, I could taste it and feel it. Always, I desperately tried to keep them in. Dreaming of your teeth falling out can mean you have fears of the future (or that you need to go to the dentist some are straight forward), which makes perfect sense for a youngster on the mean streets of career attainment. Now that I'm nearing my thirties, my teeth are staying put, as I've grown into more of a captain, not a cabin boy of this here ship. I could write a million entries on those types of changes. Personal Anthropology.
Cutting back on the rampant chemical fixes and neurotic distraction in some way ain't a bad thing . The phrase "common side effects" is starting to chafe. Before lights out say, "I will have vivid dreams that I will remember when I wake up" and see what happens...
Whether they rattle your cage, predict the future or turn you on...it's a direct reflection of your world, and how you're making it your own. All while you sleep. Can't argue with that.
I'm in a church, and an integral past lover approaches me. He's vague about his life, and doesn't ask me any pertinent questions, so I'm disgruntled. He then proceeds to sit down in a row of creaky wooden pews and chat up a random chippy at top volume. I'm annoyed, and tell my close female comrades-that materialized out of nowhere-what a bastard he can be.
Not for long though, as now I'm in a large bed with Matt Damon, and we're laughing, snogging and rubbing up on one another, intimate playfulness. Milla Jovovich happens by with all the zeal of an overworked truck stop waitress and hands me a chocolate Dilly bar. I take a bite, and Milla (who really puts the full in full-service) switches the ice cream from my stick to Matt's. It's melting and creamy and odd.
Then I wake up, dash to pen and paper, and jot it all down.
My dreams have been vivid movie-esque romps ever since I can remember. Usually celebrities cameo, I'm on a quest to save/expose/make right. I've been interpreting them for a good thirteen years now, and I'm always excited to see what will pop out of my recesses. Ahem...moving on...
There's a theory that the happenstance in our dream state is the true reality of our souls, and waking life is the dream. The aforementioned scenario is quite tame in comparison to most of them, and it would be nice to wrangle dinosaurs (on more than one occasion to date) and get freaky-deaky with no consequence or meaning (all fun no drama). Doing dishes is blessedly never on the menu in my dreams. Well, once, but it ended in steamy celeb sex. Boy, would I have dishpan hands.
I would capital L love to research dreams. Being a rare blend of logic and spiritual intuition, it's hard to say which is more telling in this arena ( spoiler alert, it tends to be both). There's a definite line, and nary the twain shall meet. According to some scientific standpoints, your sleep state cannot be materialized by you yourself (which I personally know to be contrary, but for the newbie might be so), and can be influenced by outside stimuli, food you eat prior to sleep and any matter of events surrounding. Conclusive data can be hard to nail down under such vacillating conditions. Symbolic dream interpretation factors in all of those elements and combines the spiritual aspects, emotional influence and how in touch you are with symbols on the daily. Either way, it's fascinating input, and I remember all I write down, a crucial part of the process. How does a terrorizing dream of ghosts nagging you in a giant hotel equate to feelings of your own inadequacy and repressed thoughts? Have to do the research, intuit the findings.
Scrawled on the pages of many a composition notebook, in a language only understood by me, lies better understanding. Chronicling progression of my unconscious mind may be a roundabout path, but it's a thrifty and creative version of the ol' therapists couch. Not that I'm knocking therapy, just marveling-regularly-at a commonly trivialized avenue the mind travels frequently. There are so very many, it would be unfair not to check them all out.
The first few years after I graduated, I had regular dreams of me losing my teeth. Bleeding shards of molars and canines crumbled in chunks of my mouth, I could taste it and feel it. Always, I desperately tried to keep them in. Dreaming of your teeth falling out can mean you have fears of the future (or that you need to go to the dentist some are straight forward), which makes perfect sense for a youngster on the mean streets of career attainment. Now that I'm nearing my thirties, my teeth are staying put, as I've grown into more of a captain, not a cabin boy of this here ship. I could write a million entries on those types of changes. Personal Anthropology.
Cutting back on the rampant chemical fixes and neurotic distraction in some way ain't a bad thing . The phrase "common side effects" is starting to chafe. Before lights out say, "I will have vivid dreams that I will remember when I wake up" and see what happens...
Whether they rattle your cage, predict the future or turn you on...it's a direct reflection of your world, and how you're making it your own. All while you sleep. Can't argue with that.
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