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21 more things = 42

The last post was the 21 things I KNOW at 42. At the end I said I'd consider writing 21 more things to make it 42 in total & then ...


Flamenco Stomps & Boleros

Last night I watched my Pretty Little Cousin do the same dumb shit that every chick I know has done at least once in her life: she let Him back in.

I don't know what it is about being born with a vagina that just makes us soft but...dayumb. Maybe it's built-in so that we don't have to be left to consider how to love someone who pushed his/her way out of a hole clearly only made for the thing that planted it there in the first place. If that's not it, maybe we were built soft [& strong] to be able to still love the mini-mes that gnaw at our breasts, & not for pleasure. This is all conjecture, & it's going in the wrong direction, so I'll regroup.

Chicks are chumps.

We want so desperately to be smiled at, to be touched with care, to be appreciated, to be stroked with tenderness, made weak with laughter, have someone to wipe our tears not cause us to cry, to be looked at like no one else in the world exists. To get these things, we often stumble & fall on bullshit landmines that take our sanity clean out.

Pretty Little Cousin listened to me, just Friday night, rant about how The X finds ways to passive aggressively insert himself into my world. It's so freaking passive that I don't always realize what's just happened until his hook is already deep in my back. He who walked away periodically checks in to let me know that he effed up. & then seconds or minutes later he'll jump back in to let me know he's fully committed where he is. The hell. If he were, he wouldn't be checkin my temperature every 3-6 months. I'm not worried about what road he's walking or whose hand he's holding on his stroll. My concern is how freaking rude it is to assume that you can just veer into other peoples' lanes & block their traffic. Some of it is my bad though. See, I mess around & break everytime he swerves instead of plowing into him & moving him out of the way. I need to start channeling bulldozers & doze this bull out of the way ASAPtually.

I worked through that before the night was over & got into my Winter Wonderland getaway. I put it down & didn't pick it up again. Two days later Pretty Little Cousin informs me that she & her Ex are in the “What are we now?” holding pattern. She didn't describe it as such because she doesn't know it yet... Anyway, I had to resist the urge to call out the similarities to some of my own experiences, feeling like I was re-reading a bad script. I'll get to that soon enough but it didn't happen then so I won't pretend like I did here. Pretty Little Cousin described the space they're in as “not friends” but she doesn't hate him, or some such ambiguous nonsense. I know it all too well. It's that place you wind up in with someone who was once a good friend turned the keeper of your secrets & your bodily fluids until suddenly shit changes on you. Then you have to figure out what's what & what while He acts like none of it phases him, except when it feels convenient to see if YOU are still feelin' him. See, it's necessary for you to ALWAYS be feelin' him.

This is par for the course, again, if you have a vagina. For some reason, that doesn't make me feel any better about the fact that Pretty Little Cousin is about to embark on a ridiculous journey into Lame Assville. I can only hope she doesn't buy any property & will do my very best to encourage her not to even rent. Those of us with vaginas are also very stubborn so even when we know better we don't always do better. Sigh... Because of this, I know that Pretty Little Cousin is going to do what we've all done & allow space that no longer should belong to her Him. Before I remind her of this, I need to follow some advice I too was given.

Simply put: I ain't got to feel disrespected no more. The X can only put his foot in a door with a crack. Now, my crack is based on being confused about not being able to be friends with someone who, like I said, shared my secrets & my bodily fluids. I love him. I always will. No need in playing games with my self, him, or anyone else. Loving him & wanting to be with him are NOT the same thing. I just have to accept now that "friends" & "cool" aren't the same thing either. We can be cool, but we can't be friends. & even as I'm thinking & typing at the same time...I hesitated on putting an “ever” in there. It just feels so final. The damn problem is that there's been no finality. I'm not talking about closure either. I'm saying, no matter where people are or aren't, having an understanding that each wo/man rides for her/his emotions. I have no rights to drop what I'm feelin' on his doorstep & he has no rights to drop his steamin' piles on mine. It's time to set the example for Pretty Little Cousin & do what Auburn Ave said. I got to pop my bolero collar, stomp like I'm a Flamenco dancer, & wave OLE at this bullshit. Hopefully she'll see the red waving in the wind & cram to understand sooner rather than later.

I hope that Pretty Little Cousin gets the message. More than that, I'm on the hunt for my red flag to make sure I get with this lesson myself. I'm tired of feeling shat on every time I get too comfortable & forget what The X's M.O. is. At some point 1 lesson's got to move over to make room for others. I'll save this most unfortunate holding pattern for the young 1's coming up behind me. They've got to learn this 1 too.

Watch me move.

1 comment:

  1. That inability to put that "ever" in the end of the "we can't be friends" has been the downfall of many a woman. Males (never to be confused with men) know this, and take advantage of it. Repeatedly.

    I was just having a talk yesterday with a friend who has been stuck in some male's gravity field for five years. They can't be together, but he sure won't let her be anywhere else.

    Any statement like this is fraught with exceptions and exceptions to the exception, but the most dangerous word for a woman is the word "maybe."

    Maybe this time, he'll commit.
    Maybe this time, he won't hit me.
    Maybe this time, he'll give me the ring.
    Maybe this time... will be different.