A Little Something Called Paradigmatic Inflexibility
I don't know where to start. It's common when writing. No one knows where to start. I usually tell prospective and confused writers to start with the word "The." It's a great word. One can veritably springboard to absolutely anything...well, after a noun, of course. The dog. The lion. The closet. The coffee shop. The broken heart. Check that out. Another good place to start is with "I," especially when attempting a story from the first person perspective. Or a blog. Like this one. Notice what I started with. I. But I digress... Ugh...Ok. Let me try again.
Something in me changed last week. Or maybe it was earlier this week. The days seriously blur when you do largely the same thing every day. Ok, I'm pretty sure part of it happened last week. It's Friday today and I know for sure it wasn't this week. The rest... That had to be this week....at least I think. I suppose I could surf back through some text messages and figure it out but I really don't feel like doing that. The date and time don't matter. The change, that's the important thing.
So, last week I met an actual lesbian I thought was cute. Oh, she was far too young and far too militantly lesbian for my taste, but I can admit she was cute. And had my dog liked her (We met while hiking at Red Rock Canyon), I might have carried the conversation further than a polite "Hey, enjoy your day." I think she was visiting from out of town (She was hiking with her father) which may have made her more attractive. It seems that's how I prefer my women these days.
Ok, ok. Generally, it's how I've preferred the majority of women in my life for the majority of my life. Distance - emotional, geographical, intellectual, figurative, literal - is the way to go. Granted, my absolute favorite over the years has been paradigmatic inflexibility (i.e. straight women who insist upon actually being straight). A woman who happens to be a lesbian will always be far less attractive than one who happens to be straight. It's just the way I am, my own paradigmatic inflexibility.
And look, I've tried, like seriously tried, to change and avoid straight girl crushes. For example, four months ago while driving across the smoking hot desert with nothing to focus on except cacti and my car's heat gauge, I decided (like consciously decided) to NOT start another rodeo (That's old fashioned Stacee-speak for a straight girl crush, "Give me eight seconds I'll let you keep forever..."), even though every sign (each and every damn last one) pointed in the opposite direction. I call that willpower. Because at that juncture - moving more than a thousand miles from everything I knew - I was going to need something to cling to, someone to cling to, even if just figuratively. I knew I would and, still, I beat it back; I refused to give in.
Sort of.
Being strange isn't easy when you find yourself in a new place and you actually speak the language (Add that to the list of why I love traveling outside the U.S.). No matter how well you steel yourself against loneliness, it's going to happen. So, I backslid a little. I wanted to feel a little normal. Well, as normal as a straight girl crush on someone living more than a thousand miles away - who may or may not have realized I moved - can be. Sue me.
Considering f***ing habits are hard to break and I have this imagination I can't seem to corral for any length of time, I did my best. Which I can honestly say wasn't that great for quite some time. I needed something outside myself to focus on. Someone to think might actually - I dunno - love me back. Figuratively and at a far enough geographical distance so as not interfere with my comfort zone.
Because I've got one. A comfort zone. Traditionally, I don't like emotional entanglement. The Jeopardy question to that answer is "Why does Stacee not like lesbians and prefer straight women?" I'm well aware of my own psychological bullshit so save the analysis for someone far less self-aware. I spend 99.9% of my time away from the retail rat race alone; have for a long time. Believe me, I talk to me constantly and as a result I know me. I can tell you all the whys, hows and what fors also, but that's a discussion for a different day.
Suffice it to say that getting close to people makes me feel oogy. Like cooked carrots and peas, but with a little more PTSD involved. The mere suggestion of any kind of togetherness has me looking for a foxhole to jump into. I'm just not good at or with connection. It's so much safer out here on my own.
But then my statement above about carrots and peas reminds about beans. I used to despise ALL beans. Then one day I found that I could tolerate refried beans, especially the non-vegetarian kind with a wisp of bacon flavor. Kidney beans, navy beans, black beans, and every other kind of bean still make me shake, always have. It's the consistency - the sandy feeling on my tongue - that I can't stand. But refried beans and certain bean dips (The warm dip they serve at my fave Las Vegas Mexican restaurant topping the list) are ok. I mean I still order my entree with all rice and no beans, but I'm far less upset about the beans than I used to be.
Damn it... I still haven't gotten to this week yet. So yeah...a friend said something to me the other day and after I got done laughing out loud (Seriously out loud with no one but my dog and cats to hear), I teared up a little. Because just for that moment - that instant really - she made me believe. In what? Myself, I guess. That maybe I'm not as lost as I thought was; that maybe there is reason to hope; that maybe one day I'll be a little closer to normal; that maybe one day I'll walk on the water that has been crashing over my head; that maybe one day the thought of closeness won't make me feel oogy or look for a foxhole.
I'll probably never like all beans. I'll probably never like all people. But if I can change my mind (change my paradigm) about refried beans, I just might be able to change my mind about other things (never cooked carrots and peas, though). I don't know how or why but recent events make me slightly hopeful.
Slightly. Because at the end of the day, warm bean dip aside, I will always be me.
Something in me changed last week. Or maybe it was earlier this week. The days seriously blur when you do largely the same thing every day. Ok, I'm pretty sure part of it happened last week. It's Friday today and I know for sure it wasn't this week. The rest... That had to be this week....at least I think. I suppose I could surf back through some text messages and figure it out but I really don't feel like doing that. The date and time don't matter. The change, that's the important thing.
So, last week I met an actual lesbian I thought was cute. Oh, she was far too young and far too militantly lesbian for my taste, but I can admit she was cute. And had my dog liked her (We met while hiking at Red Rock Canyon), I might have carried the conversation further than a polite "Hey, enjoy your day." I think she was visiting from out of town (She was hiking with her father) which may have made her more attractive. It seems that's how I prefer my women these days.
Ok, ok. Generally, it's how I've preferred the majority of women in my life for the majority of my life. Distance - emotional, geographical, intellectual, figurative, literal - is the way to go. Granted, my absolute favorite over the years has been paradigmatic inflexibility (i.e. straight women who insist upon actually being straight). A woman who happens to be a lesbian will always be far less attractive than one who happens to be straight. It's just the way I am, my own paradigmatic inflexibility.
And look, I've tried, like seriously tried, to change and avoid straight girl crushes. For example, four months ago while driving across the smoking hot desert with nothing to focus on except cacti and my car's heat gauge, I decided (like consciously decided) to NOT start another rodeo (That's old fashioned Stacee-speak for a straight girl crush, "Give me eight seconds I'll let you keep forever..."), even though every sign (each and every damn last one) pointed in the opposite direction. I call that willpower. Because at that juncture - moving more than a thousand miles from everything I knew - I was going to need something to cling to, someone to cling to, even if just figuratively. I knew I would and, still, I beat it back; I refused to give in.
Sort of.
Being strange isn't easy when you find yourself in a new place and you actually speak the language (Add that to the list of why I love traveling outside the U.S.). No matter how well you steel yourself against loneliness, it's going to happen. So, I backslid a little. I wanted to feel a little normal. Well, as normal as a straight girl crush on someone living more than a thousand miles away - who may or may not have realized I moved - can be. Sue me.
Considering f***ing habits are hard to break and I have this imagination I can't seem to corral for any length of time, I did my best. Which I can honestly say wasn't that great for quite some time. I needed something outside myself to focus on. Someone to think might actually - I dunno - love me back. Figuratively and at a far enough geographical distance so as not interfere with my comfort zone.
Because I've got one. A comfort zone. Traditionally, I don't like emotional entanglement. The Jeopardy question to that answer is "Why does Stacee not like lesbians and prefer straight women?" I'm well aware of my own psychological bullshit so save the analysis for someone far less self-aware. I spend 99.9% of my time away from the retail rat race alone; have for a long time. Believe me, I talk to me constantly and as a result I know me. I can tell you all the whys, hows and what fors also, but that's a discussion for a different day.
Suffice it to say that getting close to people makes me feel oogy. Like cooked carrots and peas, but with a little more PTSD involved. The mere suggestion of any kind of togetherness has me looking for a foxhole to jump into. I'm just not good at or with connection. It's so much safer out here on my own.
But then my statement above about carrots and peas reminds about beans. I used to despise ALL beans. Then one day I found that I could tolerate refried beans, especially the non-vegetarian kind with a wisp of bacon flavor. Kidney beans, navy beans, black beans, and every other kind of bean still make me shake, always have. It's the consistency - the sandy feeling on my tongue - that I can't stand. But refried beans and certain bean dips (The warm dip they serve at my fave Las Vegas Mexican restaurant topping the list) are ok. I mean I still order my entree with all rice and no beans, but I'm far less upset about the beans than I used to be.
Damn it... I still haven't gotten to this week yet. So yeah...a friend said something to me the other day and after I got done laughing out loud (Seriously out loud with no one but my dog and cats to hear), I teared up a little. Because just for that moment - that instant really - she made me believe. In what? Myself, I guess. That maybe I'm not as lost as I thought was; that maybe there is reason to hope; that maybe one day I'll be a little closer to normal; that maybe one day I'll walk on the water that has been crashing over my head; that maybe one day the thought of closeness won't make me feel oogy or look for a foxhole.
I'll probably never like all beans. I'll probably never like all people. But if I can change my mind (change my paradigm) about refried beans, I just might be able to change my mind about other things (never cooked carrots and peas, though). I don't know how or why but recent events make me slightly hopeful.
Slightly. Because at the end of the day, warm bean dip aside, I will always be me.
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