Tonight I bought sourdough bread bowls and warmed up canned soup to serve in them. It was the cheapo alternative to taking the family to Panera for dinner. Mind you, Panera isn't all that expensive, but eating out with a family of 5 really adds up, especially in this economy.
All was fine and well until I was taking a bowl of soup out of the microwave and it sloshed over the side and burned my finger. Even now, 3 hours later, my finger burns as if it just happened seconds ago and all the ice and cold water in the world doesn't seem to be helping. I hate to be a baby, but this HURTS.
Burns ache. They scald and singe and have an intensity that just doesn't seem to ever go away. I keep trying to imagine my finger, tomorrow, further along the road to healing, with this horrible pain gone.
It strikes me that I burned A badly this past year. Instead of being a mesmerizing,beautiful, intoxicating flame, I leapt out of bounds and struck him when he least expected it. I can picture his recoil, the contortion of anguish on his face, the shock, the utter and complete pain.
I recognize it because I allowed it to happen to him and then witnessed it again as it happened to me, later in the year, at the hand's of S. Like A, I was also burned. Terribly. In my case, I completely forgot all I had learned about being on fire. I couldn't think to stop, drop, and roll. I ran for dear life, screaming and crying and fighting the tragedy that was my existence.
For both of us, the scars seared straight to our hearts. Outward appearances, for the most part, belie the pain we've suffered, the mangled, charred flesh that now envelopes our beings. We are the walking wounded and yet, most people would never even know.
Tonight I've been icing my finger and still it hurts. It's funny, because when I think of my burned heart, I realize I've let ice start to build up around it as well. Surrounding my fragile being is now a wall of frost, growing thicker and stronger each day. I'm a stronger person these days, but also a bit colder as well. Ironically, ice can burn too and that distinction isn't lost on me.
Fire and ice. Ice and fire. Both are amazing elements, but in the wrong hands or used for purposes other than their true intentions, they become painful weapons.
I've lived it and live it still.
Burning,
K
In 2010, I turned 40 and spent a great part of that year figuring out some serious stuff in my life. Newly 42, I'm still on the path of discovery but feel I've come quite far. This tiny space is my save haven, one of the only places I can come to work through my worries, fears, exaltations, and endeavors. Thank you to those who've helped me along the way and those of you who stop by to read my crazy thoughts. Enjoy!
Monday, June 7, 2010
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Finding Forty, Day 11; Portrait of PMS
I'm writing earlier today than I usually do. The past two nights, I've resisted writing and only at A's insistence have I sat down and knocked something out.
Today I'm here because I'm in the middle of fat girl in the closet meltdown and had to step away before I did something dangerous and drastic.
We are getting ready to go out for errands and I'm attempting to get dressed. What should be a 3 to 5 minute routine endeavor just took me close to 15 minutes.
First I grabbed my "go to" white shorts. Fresh from the laundry, they are my comfortable, but sassy friends. Not today. Slowly, I zipped the zipper but the button was resisting meeting the button hole. It was like magnets repelling one another. Finally, I forced the button through the hole. Instantly, my muffin top oozed over the sides of the shorts. My panties peeked over the waistline and rolled down in an annoyingly submissive move, most likely at the insistence of my belly fat. My only saving grace was that the fabric around my ample thighs didn't feel squeezy or tight. Gee, there's a silver lining!
I mentally ran through the list of all the blousy tops I had in my closet that I could wear to hide the atrocity and realized, no matter how big the tent, the circus act underneath would be too annoying to deal with all day long, especially in this heat.
Plan B...I resorted to my old lady shorts. They're the longer style shorts that I can wear to work and truly despise having to bust out on the weekend. Even they were a bit snug, but I really have no other option today. After three different shirt attempt and aborts, I've finally decided on a white tank top with an A line knit top over it. I feel ok. Not great, not even all that good, just ok. Whatever.
This is purely PMS. Well, okay, it's PMS and two margaritas at lunch yesterday.
For those of you fortunate enough to not get to experience PMS first hand, I'd like to paint a brief portrait. I realize you get to live it vicariously through the lovely ladies in your life, but I have to put a voice to what 40 year old PMS feels like today.
I want to rip my face off. It feels greasy and itchy, despite me washing it last night and this morning. My skin goes insane when I PMS. Let's not leave out the lovely zits that pop up, literally, overnight when I am PMSing. At 40, for the first time in my life, I have an acne problem. Lovely.
My moods swing more than a five year old at the park or bored, suburban couples who drink too much on the weekends. One minute I'm calm, even keeled, dare I say...happy? The next, I'm pissed and angry or weepy and sad. I never know which mood will emerge and how long it will last. It's annoying, even to me. I feel sorry for those in my path.
PMS is awesome for my weight too! I have probably gained 5 pounds in two days, although you couldn't pay me any amount of money to get on the scale today. It's most likely water weight. I've already torn the medicine cabinet upside down looking for a water pill to take, in hopes that I can piss much of this bloat away today, but came up empty handed. Next, I downed two full glasses of water in a healthier effort to push it out. When I am like this, I tell myself..."Ok, you ate a normal breakfast but eat light the rest of the day to help alleviate this", all the while knowing that by lunch time I'll be ravenous again. It really disgusts me.
Sex is a blast when you're PMSing. It's like your vagina goes on vacation and forgets to tell your head. You think you're in the mood, but then realize what you've got to offer is the Sahara freaking desert. You proceed, because you know how great sex can be, despite not wanting to be kissed, caressed, or actually even looked at, lights on and/or off. Instead of enjoying the moment, you're fixated on how many fat rolls your stomach creates, even while on your back! Fun, fun times, I assure you.
What else can I say about PMS? For me, it seems that the older I get, the sooner these symptoms start creeping into my day. What once happened the few days before I started now seems to be present for a week or more before the big event. What a great gift, thanks. Also, as D day creeps closer, the symptoms intensify, as if a volcano is about to erupt.
People can discount PMS all they want, but I know it to be true. My life, my routine, does not change enough throughout the course of the month to instigate the changes I experience as my body adjusts to the hormonal shifts it's experiencing.
In a word... crazy!
My apologies to all of you who have to be in my presence as this metamorphosis takes place.
It's always my fervent hope that the person who emerges on the other side is at the very least, tolerable and sane.
Wish me (and those all around me) luck!
K
Today I'm here because I'm in the middle of fat girl in the closet meltdown and had to step away before I did something dangerous and drastic.
We are getting ready to go out for errands and I'm attempting to get dressed. What should be a 3 to 5 minute routine endeavor just took me close to 15 minutes.
First I grabbed my "go to" white shorts. Fresh from the laundry, they are my comfortable, but sassy friends. Not today. Slowly, I zipped the zipper but the button was resisting meeting the button hole. It was like magnets repelling one another. Finally, I forced the button through the hole. Instantly, my muffin top oozed over the sides of the shorts. My panties peeked over the waistline and rolled down in an annoyingly submissive move, most likely at the insistence of my belly fat. My only saving grace was that the fabric around my ample thighs didn't feel squeezy or tight. Gee, there's a silver lining!
I mentally ran through the list of all the blousy tops I had in my closet that I could wear to hide the atrocity and realized, no matter how big the tent, the circus act underneath would be too annoying to deal with all day long, especially in this heat.
Plan B...I resorted to my old lady shorts. They're the longer style shorts that I can wear to work and truly despise having to bust out on the weekend. Even they were a bit snug, but I really have no other option today. After three different shirt attempt and aborts, I've finally decided on a white tank top with an A line knit top over it. I feel ok. Not great, not even all that good, just ok. Whatever.
This is purely PMS. Well, okay, it's PMS and two margaritas at lunch yesterday.
For those of you fortunate enough to not get to experience PMS first hand, I'd like to paint a brief portrait. I realize you get to live it vicariously through the lovely ladies in your life, but I have to put a voice to what 40 year old PMS feels like today.
I want to rip my face off. It feels greasy and itchy, despite me washing it last night and this morning. My skin goes insane when I PMS. Let's not leave out the lovely zits that pop up, literally, overnight when I am PMSing. At 40, for the first time in my life, I have an acne problem. Lovely.
My moods swing more than a five year old at the park or bored, suburban couples who drink too much on the weekends. One minute I'm calm, even keeled, dare I say...happy? The next, I'm pissed and angry or weepy and sad. I never know which mood will emerge and how long it will last. It's annoying, even to me. I feel sorry for those in my path.
PMS is awesome for my weight too! I have probably gained 5 pounds in two days, although you couldn't pay me any amount of money to get on the scale today. It's most likely water weight. I've already torn the medicine cabinet upside down looking for a water pill to take, in hopes that I can piss much of this bloat away today, but came up empty handed. Next, I downed two full glasses of water in a healthier effort to push it out. When I am like this, I tell myself..."Ok, you ate a normal breakfast but eat light the rest of the day to help alleviate this", all the while knowing that by lunch time I'll be ravenous again. It really disgusts me.
Sex is a blast when you're PMSing. It's like your vagina goes on vacation and forgets to tell your head. You think you're in the mood, but then realize what you've got to offer is the Sahara freaking desert. You proceed, because you know how great sex can be, despite not wanting to be kissed, caressed, or actually even looked at, lights on and/or off. Instead of enjoying the moment, you're fixated on how many fat rolls your stomach creates, even while on your back! Fun, fun times, I assure you.
What else can I say about PMS? For me, it seems that the older I get, the sooner these symptoms start creeping into my day. What once happened the few days before I started now seems to be present for a week or more before the big event. What a great gift, thanks. Also, as D day creeps closer, the symptoms intensify, as if a volcano is about to erupt.
People can discount PMS all they want, but I know it to be true. My life, my routine, does not change enough throughout the course of the month to instigate the changes I experience as my body adjusts to the hormonal shifts it's experiencing.
In a word... crazy!
My apologies to all of you who have to be in my presence as this metamorphosis takes place.
It's always my fervent hope that the person who emerges on the other side is at the very least, tolerable and sane.
Wish me (and those all around me) luck!
K
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Finding Forty, Day 10; Snapshots
It's after 10 and I'm tired. I want to crawl into bed, pull the covers up to my chin and sleep soundly until morning. The likelihood of that happening is slim to none. But I'm exhausted to my bones. Never underestimate the draining powers of emotional stress.
Tonight A and I watched "It's Complicated" which is mostly a romantic comedy about a divorced couple, but naturally had enough tender moments about love and relationships and parenting to make me cry. And those who know me know that once I let the first tears slip past the floodgates that are my eyes, I have a hard time stopping.
Mind you, I'm not sobbing. I just fall into this funk, where my mind wanders to all of the moments of my life. They fade in and out of my memory like snapshots in a slide show. S calls it "wallerin' and he's probably right, but for me it's always been cathartic and I usually feel better if I get it all out rather than hold back.
Tonight I'm running through some of the more poignant times in my life...trying to conjure memories of my own parents in moments of happiness together, as well as happiness apart. For the most part, I can reach that. Once, in college, after my parents had already divorced, they ended up in Austin at the same time. Maybe it was when I graduated. A and I took them bowling and we all four had the best time. My mom was spunky and cute and had the most beautiful smile ever. My dad, so cheeky and funny, was the ham. But they laughed and joked and really, truly had a good time. A and I still talk about their connection that night. It should have made me happy and it did, but it was also tinged with sadness.
I also have snapshots of angry, tense moments with my parents arguing. My sister used to run into the middle of things and try to make peace. From around the corner, out of sight, but not out of hearing distance, I would stand alone in the darkness and cry.
What do my kids see and hear? What do they think? What snapshots are we making and leaving behind to be added to the scrapbook of their lives? A and I don't argue often. We are friendly and still share a love that is complex. We aren't divorcing, but staying together is proving harder than we ever thought or dreamed it would be when we first started out on this journey all those years ago. Every day is a new challenge, but I am proud of how hard we are working no matter what the final outcome may be. People are complicated, relationships even more so. Much like the movie tonight, although I know how dangerous Hollywood comparisons can be.
As I close this, I will turn the pages of my mind to the happy times. My face is salty from the dried tears and now all I have left is a bit of a runny nose.
Maybe the little cry I had tonight will help bring on the sleep I've been hoping for.
Sweet dreams,
K
Tonight A and I watched "It's Complicated" which is mostly a romantic comedy about a divorced couple, but naturally had enough tender moments about love and relationships and parenting to make me cry. And those who know me know that once I let the first tears slip past the floodgates that are my eyes, I have a hard time stopping.
Mind you, I'm not sobbing. I just fall into this funk, where my mind wanders to all of the moments of my life. They fade in and out of my memory like snapshots in a slide show. S calls it "wallerin' and he's probably right, but for me it's always been cathartic and I usually feel better if I get it all out rather than hold back.
Tonight I'm running through some of the more poignant times in my life...trying to conjure memories of my own parents in moments of happiness together, as well as happiness apart. For the most part, I can reach that. Once, in college, after my parents had already divorced, they ended up in Austin at the same time. Maybe it was when I graduated. A and I took them bowling and we all four had the best time. My mom was spunky and cute and had the most beautiful smile ever. My dad, so cheeky and funny, was the ham. But they laughed and joked and really, truly had a good time. A and I still talk about their connection that night. It should have made me happy and it did, but it was also tinged with sadness.
I also have snapshots of angry, tense moments with my parents arguing. My sister used to run into the middle of things and try to make peace. From around the corner, out of sight, but not out of hearing distance, I would stand alone in the darkness and cry.
What do my kids see and hear? What do they think? What snapshots are we making and leaving behind to be added to the scrapbook of their lives? A and I don't argue often. We are friendly and still share a love that is complex. We aren't divorcing, but staying together is proving harder than we ever thought or dreamed it would be when we first started out on this journey all those years ago. Every day is a new challenge, but I am proud of how hard we are working no matter what the final outcome may be. People are complicated, relationships even more so. Much like the movie tonight, although I know how dangerous Hollywood comparisons can be.
As I close this, I will turn the pages of my mind to the happy times. My face is salty from the dried tears and now all I have left is a bit of a runny nose.
Maybe the little cry I had tonight will help bring on the sleep I've been hoping for.
Sweet dreams,
K
Friday, June 4, 2010
Finding Forty, Day 9: Onward
Tonight I feel like I have nothing to say that is in any way focused or seamless. And for the record, I'm sober, tired, and completely pmsing.
We met A's sister downtown for drinks tonight and it was an interesting experience. She is newly (in the past year) divorced and in all honesty, when I sit across from her, I feel this tide of jealousy washing over me. I'm envious of her ability to just make a decision and move forward. I'm envious that the new love she found was single and stable and is ever present in her life. I'm envious that her turmoil, for the most part, is over and done with. And yet, as jealous as I am, I can't see myself in her shoes or anywhere near.
On the drive home, A started talking about something he'd heard or read about kids who lose a parent while growing up. Granted, I didn't lose my mom as a child, but in my heart, I still felt a child. When I visited her, I still let her mother me, with her cooking all of my meals, gathering all of my dirty clothes to wash before packing up to head home, kissing me goodnight with puckered lips before going to bed. While chronologically, I was 33 when she died, I still felt like an unsure, insecure 10 year old.
Having someone so close to you die...it really fucks you up. I know that sounds like I'm stating the obvious, but because life moves on (and it must), it really is hard to gauge all the subtle ways that losing someone so incredibly special to you affects you. Clearly, I am still dealing with the fall out from her death. I still look to her for guidance, seek her comfort and pray for her to visit me at night, while I dream, to help bring some clarity to this mess that is my life.
Because I know the piercing pain of loss, I constantly grapple with these questions. Should I be grasping onto every opportunity as if it were my last? Should I dance and live like tomorrow might be my last day? Or do I turn inward and give thanks for all of the blessings before me, never longing for more than what I've got?
Most likely, the answer lies somewhere in between, but that is so hard to see and believe when you're in the midst of the storm.
I'm melancholy tonight. I feel stupid and confused. If I could will myself to feel certain things, believe specific beliefs, orchestrate certain outcomes, I would.
I want to push through this impasse and start working on the next stage of this mess called life.
Moving onward,
K
We met A's sister downtown for drinks tonight and it was an interesting experience. She is newly (in the past year) divorced and in all honesty, when I sit across from her, I feel this tide of jealousy washing over me. I'm envious of her ability to just make a decision and move forward. I'm envious that the new love she found was single and stable and is ever present in her life. I'm envious that her turmoil, for the most part, is over and done with. And yet, as jealous as I am, I can't see myself in her shoes or anywhere near.
On the drive home, A started talking about something he'd heard or read about kids who lose a parent while growing up. Granted, I didn't lose my mom as a child, but in my heart, I still felt a child. When I visited her, I still let her mother me, with her cooking all of my meals, gathering all of my dirty clothes to wash before packing up to head home, kissing me goodnight with puckered lips before going to bed. While chronologically, I was 33 when she died, I still felt like an unsure, insecure 10 year old.
Having someone so close to you die...it really fucks you up. I know that sounds like I'm stating the obvious, but because life moves on (and it must), it really is hard to gauge all the subtle ways that losing someone so incredibly special to you affects you. Clearly, I am still dealing with the fall out from her death. I still look to her for guidance, seek her comfort and pray for her to visit me at night, while I dream, to help bring some clarity to this mess that is my life.
Because I know the piercing pain of loss, I constantly grapple with these questions. Should I be grasping onto every opportunity as if it were my last? Should I dance and live like tomorrow might be my last day? Or do I turn inward and give thanks for all of the blessings before me, never longing for more than what I've got?
Most likely, the answer lies somewhere in between, but that is so hard to see and believe when you're in the midst of the storm.
I'm melancholy tonight. I feel stupid and confused. If I could will myself to feel certain things, believe specific beliefs, orchestrate certain outcomes, I would.
I want to push through this impasse and start working on the next stage of this mess called life.
Moving onward,
K
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Finding Forty, Day 8: Confessions
Part of this blog is my attempt to "find" myself, whatever the hell that means. I never knew I was lost until one day I woke up and felt like a foreigner in my life. The scenery was the same, the people hadn't changed, but I couldn't recognize me.
Why, seemingly all of a sudden, did the things I once cherished and longed for not spark me or grasp me the way they always had?
I suppose I'm having a mid life crisis. I'm not looking for anyone's pity, although admittedly, I want no one's spite either. It just is what it is.
I can't force myself to be something I'm not. I can't pretend for any great length of time. And honestly, for me, doing that is just downright disrespectful to those around me. It's as if I'd be saying "I don't trust you to manage your feelings or emotions or thought processes enough for me to be honest with you. Let me try to pretend to be what I'm not so that you don't have to deal with anything bad or negative in the slightest bit".
Having said that, I don't want to be a selfish bitch either. And therein lies my problem. When you are a wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend, you have people who depend on you to be a certain way, a way that makes their life feel safe and warm and lovely. Problem is, I can't figure out how to be and do all those things while maintaining my sanity either.
You see, last year I had an affair. It wasn't a random, one off event. It evolved slowly over witty, open, flirtatious emails and then manifested itself into a passionate romance. Without cruel intentions, I allowed it to consume me and take on a life of it's own. For many months, my lover, S, and I talked daily on the phone or though texts or emails. He became my everything, filling every void I didn't even know existed in my heart and soul. He was my my missing piece, my missing peace. I would have abandoned my marriage for him, and did. Except once I freed myself up for him, he got cold feet and backed out.
Devastated and broken, I retreated back to my marriage (yes, A took me back) and we've limped along for months now trying to figure out our next move, all the while examining the workings of our hearts and minds.
Moving forward is so very hard.
S once told me that you can't unknow. And you can't. I can't unknow the love I feel for him, the way he made me feel in his arms, the way we spar when we talk, the way we laugh and laugh until tears slide from our eyes.
And yet, somehow over time, I "unknew" how A made me feel. I unknew the love we shared, the commitment I made to him, the promises, the shared life we built for over two decades now.
So you see, it's no wonder I'm searching for myself. Who the hell am I? How can this person who's lived the life I've lived this past year be the same one who started out as a bright eyed and hopeful 18 year old with A?
I feel so lost.
Can looking back help? Today I read my journal from when I was a teenager, so naive and so seriously introspective.
Are there answers there, in that emergent woman? Are there? I certainly can't find the answers here, in this mid life person I've become. In upcoming blogs, I plan to share the words I wrote so long ago to see if any glimmer of insight is offered there. At the very least, I'll get to revisit my thoughts from an earlier time in my life.
I know the answers are here, I'm here, I just have to keep looking.
Searching,
K
Why, seemingly all of a sudden, did the things I once cherished and longed for not spark me or grasp me the way they always had?
I suppose I'm having a mid life crisis. I'm not looking for anyone's pity, although admittedly, I want no one's spite either. It just is what it is.
I can't force myself to be something I'm not. I can't pretend for any great length of time. And honestly, for me, doing that is just downright disrespectful to those around me. It's as if I'd be saying "I don't trust you to manage your feelings or emotions or thought processes enough for me to be honest with you. Let me try to pretend to be what I'm not so that you don't have to deal with anything bad or negative in the slightest bit".
Having said that, I don't want to be a selfish bitch either. And therein lies my problem. When you are a wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend, you have people who depend on you to be a certain way, a way that makes their life feel safe and warm and lovely. Problem is, I can't figure out how to be and do all those things while maintaining my sanity either.
You see, last year I had an affair. It wasn't a random, one off event. It evolved slowly over witty, open, flirtatious emails and then manifested itself into a passionate romance. Without cruel intentions, I allowed it to consume me and take on a life of it's own. For many months, my lover, S, and I talked daily on the phone or though texts or emails. He became my everything, filling every void I didn't even know existed in my heart and soul. He was my my missing piece, my missing peace. I would have abandoned my marriage for him, and did. Except once I freed myself up for him, he got cold feet and backed out.
Devastated and broken, I retreated back to my marriage (yes, A took me back) and we've limped along for months now trying to figure out our next move, all the while examining the workings of our hearts and minds.
Moving forward is so very hard.
S once told me that you can't unknow. And you can't. I can't unknow the love I feel for him, the way he made me feel in his arms, the way we spar when we talk, the way we laugh and laugh until tears slide from our eyes.
And yet, somehow over time, I "unknew" how A made me feel. I unknew the love we shared, the commitment I made to him, the promises, the shared life we built for over two decades now.
So you see, it's no wonder I'm searching for myself. Who the hell am I? How can this person who's lived the life I've lived this past year be the same one who started out as a bright eyed and hopeful 18 year old with A?
I feel so lost.
Can looking back help? Today I read my journal from when I was a teenager, so naive and so seriously introspective.
Are there answers there, in that emergent woman? Are there? I certainly can't find the answers here, in this mid life person I've become. In upcoming blogs, I plan to share the words I wrote so long ago to see if any glimmer of insight is offered there. At the very least, I'll get to revisit my thoughts from an earlier time in my life.
I know the answers are here, I'm here, I just have to keep looking.
Searching,
K
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Finding Forty, Day 8: Sick and Tired
Apparrently all of the venom I spewed yesterday collected in the base of my throat where I now have a sore throat.
I'm achy, tired, and weary. Definitely having a pity party here. I'm calling it quits for tonight and will try again tomorrow. Night, K
I'm achy, tired, and weary. Definitely having a pity party here. I'm calling it quits for tonight and will try again tomorrow. Night, K
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Finding Forty, Day 7: Irritated
Tonight I had a fight with A. It was about the sex blog he reads daily, even more than daily. I'm completely and utterly pissed off that he feels compelled to read what another woman writes more than once a day.
I've only read her blog a few times, but I find her writing to be less than stellar. What draws him in, and he'll wholeheartedly admit this, is the sex in her blog.
I also find that to be completely off putting. Admittedly, her blogs are primarily about sex and yes, she garners a LOT of attention because of that, but I find it to be irritating and superficial and it bugs me that someone like A would become addicted to her.
Apparently, one of her major assets is that she is able to get off multiple times a day. While I find it completely annoying, I also find it ridiculous and unbelievable. I can understand once a day for a woman, but more than that and the person obviously has way too much time on her hands (no pun intended) and far too little on her brain.
An intelligent woman, ripe with dilemmas and the impetus to nurture and ponder life's greater meanings, doesn't have the mental free space to achieve many orgasms in one day. For me, the purest form of personal delight requires a dedication that only comes when my mind is free and clear of bigger and better things. In a word, I find her to be a simpleton. And yes, it completely pisses me off that he finds simpleton to be hot.
It's just the most basic of those stereotypes about men and women and here, in my own household, I have it unfolding before me.
For me, a woman who pleasures herself multiple times a day is akin to those youtube videos I've witnessed of bonobos fucking in the wild. It's pure self gratification, with no other purpose than to feel good. Which is all fine I suppose, but for some reason, I find it rubs me the wrong way (pun fully intended).
So, to A, I say...have at it! Have fun with your primate! The real women of the world will be able to get off, feel good, AND carry on a decent conversation that deals more than with thoughts of sex. Your lusty blogger might want to give that a try every once and a while.
Or then again, maybe she won't.
Either way, I don't care. I know how pleasure feels and I know how to take care of myself. I just don't need to blog about it each and every time it happens. Some things are far better left to the imagination.
Grrr,
K
I've only read her blog a few times, but I find her writing to be less than stellar. What draws him in, and he'll wholeheartedly admit this, is the sex in her blog.
I also find that to be completely off putting. Admittedly, her blogs are primarily about sex and yes, she garners a LOT of attention because of that, but I find it to be irritating and superficial and it bugs me that someone like A would become addicted to her.
Apparently, one of her major assets is that she is able to get off multiple times a day. While I find it completely annoying, I also find it ridiculous and unbelievable. I can understand once a day for a woman, but more than that and the person obviously has way too much time on her hands (no pun intended) and far too little on her brain.
An intelligent woman, ripe with dilemmas and the impetus to nurture and ponder life's greater meanings, doesn't have the mental free space to achieve many orgasms in one day. For me, the purest form of personal delight requires a dedication that only comes when my mind is free and clear of bigger and better things. In a word, I find her to be a simpleton. And yes, it completely pisses me off that he finds simpleton to be hot.
It's just the most basic of those stereotypes about men and women and here, in my own household, I have it unfolding before me.
For me, a woman who pleasures herself multiple times a day is akin to those youtube videos I've witnessed of bonobos fucking in the wild. It's pure self gratification, with no other purpose than to feel good. Which is all fine I suppose, but for some reason, I find it rubs me the wrong way (pun fully intended).
So, to A, I say...have at it! Have fun with your primate! The real women of the world will be able to get off, feel good, AND carry on a decent conversation that deals more than with thoughts of sex. Your lusty blogger might want to give that a try every once and a while.
Or then again, maybe she won't.
Either way, I don't care. I know how pleasure feels and I know how to take care of myself. I just don't need to blog about it each and every time it happens. Some things are far better left to the imagination.
Grrr,
K
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