Can I touch you to see if you're real?
'Cause in nothing there's something I feel
Can my heart take the strain
Or will it break down again
In your lips I sense a danger
You've got the eyes of a stranger
(The Payolas)
***
Okay. So. I watered birds/goats, hiked, came home, watered birds/goats, showered, and here I am.
I spent most of my hike thinking about my academic major, sex, my medication, money, Larry, and turtles. Not necessarily in that order. (Or that order of importance.)
First, I think, that like the friends of Bill W., I should get a chip or something for every month that goes by in which I resist picking up a turtle. Because it's not easy. Not easy at all. Seeing all these turtles. Everywhere I go, turtles, turtles, turtles, and knowing I should just hike or drive on by without stopping to pick them up and briefly imagine a life of enturtled happiness. What I'm saying, is that is is very, very hard for me to not see a turtle and pick it up. Because I want to pick it up. I want to, so very very badly. Cute little round-shelled turtles, huge flat-shelled angrily hissing turtles... it doesn't matter; I want them all.
But I've been so good. I've been so strong. I haven't touched a single turtle all year. Even though at times I seriously believe that the turtles are knowingly tempting me. Throwing themselves at me, as far as that is possible. It's like they're just messing with me with their sly come-hither reptile eyes and curiously compelling stubby scaled legs.
But I've resisted. And I think I should get some kind of acknowledgment, like the AA folks. Something I can carry around, hold in my hand when the turtle temptation overtakes me (those dark, dark lonely nights in which it seems that all I do is think of turtles).
But segueing from chips for not touching turtles... Am I the only one who thinks I should get some kind of chip for celibacy? Because I've been sex-free for very close to four years now and I'm thinking I should have some kind of chip or at least a key tag like the NA people use. Seriously. FOUR years. That's four YEARS.
FOUR.
YEARS.
Wow. Just... wow.
***
So I was thinking of turtles on my hike and I was thinking about my academic major and I was again-again-again wondering if I should switch from Women's Studies to English. And I was all, in my head to myself, as I stoically passed a particularly appealing turtle, 'And you're wondering this again why? Because you've got a pseudo-crush on your English professor, right? Right? Admit it! Right? Eyes off the turtle! Admit it! Because he's smart and interesting and you had that dumb dream about him and he gives good online lectures and he has that very, very amazing voice and when you hear him say "third person omniscient narrative" what you imagine him saying is "open your legs for me" and because of this silliness you're reconsidering an M.A. in English? SERIOUSLY? Are you out.of.your.mind???'
(Geez! Can't I stop scolding myself? Harshing my mellow! And can't I let myself just maybe touch a turtle a little bit?)
So I thought of this for a while. And then I thought of my medication. The thyroid stuff. And I wondered, now that I'm actually taking the stuff I got last year from India, if I'll start feeling, you know, more energetic. If I'll lose some weight. And when this will happen. If it's going to.
And I thought about money. Worried about money. Because my mother was all angry with me on the phone yesterday, saying that I better be able to start paying my car payment again soon and pay her back the money she's lent me to make the payments since January. And my not having child support isn't her problem and I need to figure out how to get the money and blah blah I shouldn't even have car in the first place because I can't afford it and she wishes she'd never co-signed for it, never let me drag her into my mess and blah blah. And so I was hiking and worrying about money. because I'm going to have to instantly find a job come this January when I have my Bachelor's. A job making me, like, four times what I made last year. More, actually, to make up for losing food stamps and the kids' Medicaid, and to make up for losing my Pell grant.
So I trudged around in the growing oppression of heat, and when I worry about money I can't think of turtles much less sex , so it was pretty grim for nearly a mile. And then I thought about my car. Because I'd called Larry the other day to talk about my car situation. The VW sitch. Because I still don't quite understand it. See, I'm "upside down" with it in that I owe much more than it's worth. But see, I see cars advertised at dealerships, older preowned cars, like a 2004 Passat at my VW dealership for seven thousand, and the Passat is a four-door automatic and this is what I need (not necessarily the Passat, just something a little bigger, four-door, and automatic). And I don't understand why I can't trade in my VW and come out with a monthly payment similar to the $379.00 I have now. I mean, I owe close to seventeen on the VW, the trade-in value is eleven, and so, to my apparently flawed reasoning, can't I trade in the VW taking eleven thousand off the seventeen I owe, add that to the Passat's seven and still come out okay? Since I [over] paid twenty-four for the damned VW almost two years ago.
But eh. Apparently it doesn't work this way. And then I was thinking of Larry again, trying to figure out that whole thing. I was trying to get it figured out in my head, remembering to how it all started. I think it reflects poorly upon me that back when I met Larry J his family's poverty and his Texas accent made him seem exotic. It's also ironic, because I'm currently surrounded by zillions of people with the same accent, the same poverty, and the same world view. But back then, being some silly girl from Danville, Larry J seemed exotic and the first time he called me "ma'am" I was delighted. (And I also recall, once when we were making out and he said, "You're fixin' to get it now real' soon," all East Texas twang, I was thrilled, like, heh, this was the hottest thing I'd heard in a while.)
But see, there were problems. Though I guess neither he nor I saw them (or wanted to see them) at the time. He wanted to tell me what to do and while for a long time and particularly in the time I knew him, being told what to do was exactly what I wanted, I also sensed on some level that I was destined to grow out of this.
I also think I made him crazy. As in, he thought I was an idiot and yet was driven to somehow save me from my idiocy. And sure, in many ways, a whole lot of ways, I was an idiot. My life was out of control. I carreened from bad situation to worse situation. I think I was sending out constant own me/control me messages even as I was constantly defying that ownership/control. I remember once Larry said, "I've never hit a girl before in my life but I really want to hit you." I think I was bad luck, I think I was some kind of carrier for crazy in that people who had previously seemed perfectly normal got involved with me and became psycho.
There was a lot of drama. Drama that embarrasses me now.
Larry was tall, handsome and worked on cars. I was tall, pretty, and I can't remember what I was working on. (I think I mainly just worked on being pretty.) I had returned to the Mormon church after years of inactivity. Where was the Nevada guy? I think he was living with some girl. I think we had briefly gotten back in touch and it had gotten briefly intense but then his girlfriend found out and called me and threatened to turn me into the church for immorality. Or something like that. (Not that she was Mormon. Not that Nevada guy was Mormon. Just, sigh, me.)
I'd moved to a cruddy but huge apartment in Pacheco with a Danville guy and then gotten rid of him, retaining the apartment. I was still working at that place in Danville, the liquor store/deli. But not for much longer. When I went back to church, I went to a ward (congregation) of all single young adults. The church's idea of course was to marry us all off. I think I went back to church to force some order and stability in my life. My life seemed so crazy, I couldn't seem to get my proverbial act together. I thought that the church would make me get it together.
I got a lot of attention when I returned to church. The first person to make, heh, contact, was the son of a Mormon bishop. He was an accountant, a bit older, a returned missionary, very active in church, very proper and prim and righteous and... You know, I can't write about the church. Or the members. They'll know. They'll find out. And they'll get me. (I'm almost totally serious!)
Anyway. I was dating in the church, dating a series of Mormon guys, telling myself that I was all pure and moral and sin-free, whee! I think my hobby was seeing how far I could tempt these guys to go. I wanted very badly to "be good," to live a clean, chaste life, but there was something amazingly hot about pushing the boundaries. I think this time in my life left an indelible impression on me, because sex is never so tempting to me as when it is somehow "forbidden," wrong, agaist some kind of social rule/s.
I met Larry because I was dating his best friend. Larry had a, heh, bad reputation in church because people suspected that in the process of making out (bad enough!), he would touch his girlfriend of the time's breasts. (I know! The horror! But you have to remember, we were Mormon and this was a very big deal.) So I'm sure in my mind, I was all, Hmmmm...
Hmmmm indeed. He was tall, 6' 4", German and American Indian, all tanned, thick dark hair, dark eyes, strong, lean muscles, rough hands. He had a great back. I remember once that we were at my apartment, lying on the floor, and he rolled on his stomach and I straddled his back, sitting on him, and I pulled his shirt off over his head and I was rubbing his bare back, his wide shoulders, touching the smooth dark planes of his flesh, admiring the touch, the sight of him, and I remember thinking, "This is really beautiful." He had a really, really great back. I'm reasonably sure that he had the best back and shoulders of any man I've ever touched.
But what was I saying? I was drawn to him by his handsomeness, his exotic, heh, Texas accent, intrigued by his, heh, bad reputation. He had a Mustang and I had my Camaro convertible that was always breaking down. He seemed different to me. Different because he was the eldest of eight children, his family was very poor (not as poor as I've become, heh), he had that funny way of talking, he looked at me like he didn't quite want to like me but couldn't quite help it. He yelled at me in the first hour of our meeting for sitting on the hood of his car and I was both annoyed and intrigued, because in my experience no boy had ever objected to me putting my miniskirted butt on their car.
I remember talking to him all night. Literally all night. Before we even started quote/unquote dating. It was after Seminary, a Mormon school thing on, I think, Wednesday nights. Seminary was across the street from my community college. I had to work the next day, be there at eight and I'm sure he had to work, too. But we talked and talked and talked. All night. All summer night outside by his car. It was as though I couldn't tear myself away and apparently neither could he, though I have no idea what we talked about.
I remember feeling elated at work the whole next day. Happy, giddy, not tired at all. All I could think about was him and all I wanted was to see him again.
I've got to go. I don't have time to blog any more right now. And it's making me sad, somehow. You know, I realize that I'll never feel this way again and it strikes me as, I don't know, terrible. Terrible and sad and it hurts for some reason.
Eh.
And it makes me sad that this is the same guy yelling at me on the phone yesterday. And it makes me sad because I don't know what happened. What happened to him, to me, to any of us.
'Cause in nothing there's something I feel
Can my heart take the strain
Or will it break down again
In your lips I sense a danger
You've got the eyes of a stranger
(The Payolas)
***
Okay. So. I watered birds/goats, hiked, came home, watered birds/goats, showered, and here I am.
I spent most of my hike thinking about my academic major, sex, my medication, money, Larry, and turtles. Not necessarily in that order. (Or that order of importance.)
First, I think, that like the friends of Bill W., I should get a chip or something for every month that goes by in which I resist picking up a turtle. Because it's not easy. Not easy at all. Seeing all these turtles. Everywhere I go, turtles, turtles, turtles, and knowing I should just hike or drive on by without stopping to pick them up and briefly imagine a life of enturtled happiness. What I'm saying, is that is is very, very hard for me to not see a turtle and pick it up. Because I want to pick it up. I want to, so very very badly. Cute little round-shelled turtles, huge flat-shelled angrily hissing turtles... it doesn't matter; I want them all.
But I've been so good. I've been so strong. I haven't touched a single turtle all year. Even though at times I seriously believe that the turtles are knowingly tempting me. Throwing themselves at me, as far as that is possible. It's like they're just messing with me with their sly come-hither reptile eyes and curiously compelling stubby scaled legs.
But I've resisted. And I think I should get some kind of acknowledgment, like the AA folks. Something I can carry around, hold in my hand when the turtle temptation overtakes me (those dark, dark lonely nights in which it seems that all I do is think of turtles).
But segueing from chips for not touching turtles... Am I the only one who thinks I should get some kind of chip for celibacy? Because I've been sex-free for very close to four years now and I'm thinking I should have some kind of chip or at least a key tag like the NA people use. Seriously. FOUR years. That's four YEARS.
FOUR.
YEARS.
Wow. Just... wow.
***
So I was thinking of turtles on my hike and I was thinking about my academic major and I was again-again-again wondering if I should switch from Women's Studies to English. And I was all, in my head to myself, as I stoically passed a particularly appealing turtle, 'And you're wondering this again why? Because you've got a pseudo-crush on your English professor, right? Right? Admit it! Right? Eyes off the turtle! Admit it! Because he's smart and interesting and you had that dumb dream about him and he gives good online lectures and he has that very, very amazing voice and when you hear him say "third person omniscient narrative" what you imagine him saying is "open your legs for me" and because of this silliness you're reconsidering an M.A. in English? SERIOUSLY? Are you out.of.your.mind???'
(Geez! Can't I stop scolding myself? Harshing my mellow! And can't I let myself just maybe touch a turtle a little bit?)
So I thought of this for a while. And then I thought of my medication. The thyroid stuff. And I wondered, now that I'm actually taking the stuff I got last year from India, if I'll start feeling, you know, more energetic. If I'll lose some weight. And when this will happen. If it's going to.
And I thought about money. Worried about money. Because my mother was all angry with me on the phone yesterday, saying that I better be able to start paying my car payment again soon and pay her back the money she's lent me to make the payments since January. And my not having child support isn't her problem and I need to figure out how to get the money and blah blah I shouldn't even have car in the first place because I can't afford it and she wishes she'd never co-signed for it, never let me drag her into my mess and blah blah. And so I was hiking and worrying about money. because I'm going to have to instantly find a job come this January when I have my Bachelor's. A job making me, like, four times what I made last year. More, actually, to make up for losing food stamps and the kids' Medicaid, and to make up for losing my Pell grant.
So I trudged around in the growing oppression of heat, and when I worry about money I can't think of turtles much less sex , so it was pretty grim for nearly a mile. And then I thought about my car. Because I'd called Larry the other day to talk about my car situation. The VW sitch. Because I still don't quite understand it. See, I'm "upside down" with it in that I owe much more than it's worth. But see, I see cars advertised at dealerships, older preowned cars, like a 2004 Passat at my VW dealership for seven thousand, and the Passat is a four-door automatic and this is what I need (not necessarily the Passat, just something a little bigger, four-door, and automatic). And I don't understand why I can't trade in my VW and come out with a monthly payment similar to the $379.00 I have now. I mean, I owe close to seventeen on the VW, the trade-in value is eleven, and so, to my apparently flawed reasoning, can't I trade in the VW taking eleven thousand off the seventeen I owe, add that to the Passat's seven and still come out okay? Since I [over] paid twenty-four for the damned VW almost two years ago.
But eh. Apparently it doesn't work this way. And then I was thinking of Larry again, trying to figure out that whole thing. I was trying to get it figured out in my head, remembering to how it all started. I think it reflects poorly upon me that back when I met Larry J his family's poverty and his Texas accent made him seem exotic. It's also ironic, because I'm currently surrounded by zillions of people with the same accent, the same poverty, and the same world view. But back then, being some silly girl from Danville, Larry J seemed exotic and the first time he called me "ma'am" I was delighted. (And I also recall, once when we were making out and he said, "You're fixin' to get it now real' soon," all East Texas twang, I was thrilled, like, heh, this was the hottest thing I'd heard in a while.)
But see, there were problems. Though I guess neither he nor I saw them (or wanted to see them) at the time. He wanted to tell me what to do and while for a long time and particularly in the time I knew him, being told what to do was exactly what I wanted, I also sensed on some level that I was destined to grow out of this.
I also think I made him crazy. As in, he thought I was an idiot and yet was driven to somehow save me from my idiocy. And sure, in many ways, a whole lot of ways, I was an idiot. My life was out of control. I carreened from bad situation to worse situation. I think I was sending out constant own me/control me messages even as I was constantly defying that ownership/control. I remember once Larry said, "I've never hit a girl before in my life but I really want to hit you." I think I was bad luck, I think I was some kind of carrier for crazy in that people who had previously seemed perfectly normal got involved with me and became psycho.
There was a lot of drama. Drama that embarrasses me now.
Larry was tall, handsome and worked on cars. I was tall, pretty, and I can't remember what I was working on. (I think I mainly just worked on being pretty.) I had returned to the Mormon church after years of inactivity. Where was the Nevada guy? I think he was living with some girl. I think we had briefly gotten back in touch and it had gotten briefly intense but then his girlfriend found out and called me and threatened to turn me into the church for immorality. Or something like that. (Not that she was Mormon. Not that Nevada guy was Mormon. Just, sigh, me.)
I'd moved to a cruddy but huge apartment in Pacheco with a Danville guy and then gotten rid of him, retaining the apartment. I was still working at that place in Danville, the liquor store/deli. But not for much longer. When I went back to church, I went to a ward (congregation) of all single young adults. The church's idea of course was to marry us all off. I think I went back to church to force some order and stability in my life. My life seemed so crazy, I couldn't seem to get my proverbial act together. I thought that the church would make me get it together.
I got a lot of attention when I returned to church. The first person to make, heh, contact, was the son of a Mormon bishop. He was an accountant, a bit older, a returned missionary, very active in church, very proper and prim and righteous and... You know, I can't write about the church. Or the members. They'll know. They'll find out. And they'll get me. (I'm almost totally serious!)
Anyway. I was dating in the church, dating a series of Mormon guys, telling myself that I was all pure and moral and sin-free, whee! I think my hobby was seeing how far I could tempt these guys to go. I wanted very badly to "be good," to live a clean, chaste life, but there was something amazingly hot about pushing the boundaries. I think this time in my life left an indelible impression on me, because sex is never so tempting to me as when it is somehow "forbidden," wrong, agaist some kind of social rule/s.
I met Larry because I was dating his best friend. Larry had a, heh, bad reputation in church because people suspected that in the process of making out (bad enough!), he would touch his girlfriend of the time's breasts. (I know! The horror! But you have to remember, we were Mormon and this was a very big deal.) So I'm sure in my mind, I was all, Hmmmm...
Hmmmm indeed. He was tall, 6' 4", German and American Indian, all tanned, thick dark hair, dark eyes, strong, lean muscles, rough hands. He had a great back. I remember once that we were at my apartment, lying on the floor, and he rolled on his stomach and I straddled his back, sitting on him, and I pulled his shirt off over his head and I was rubbing his bare back, his wide shoulders, touching the smooth dark planes of his flesh, admiring the touch, the sight of him, and I remember thinking, "This is really beautiful." He had a really, really great back. I'm reasonably sure that he had the best back and shoulders of any man I've ever touched.
But what was I saying? I was drawn to him by his handsomeness, his exotic, heh, Texas accent, intrigued by his, heh, bad reputation. He had a Mustang and I had my Camaro convertible that was always breaking down. He seemed different to me. Different because he was the eldest of eight children, his family was very poor (not as poor as I've become, heh), he had that funny way of talking, he looked at me like he didn't quite want to like me but couldn't quite help it. He yelled at me in the first hour of our meeting for sitting on the hood of his car and I was both annoyed and intrigued, because in my experience no boy had ever objected to me putting my miniskirted butt on their car.
I remember talking to him all night. Literally all night. Before we even started quote/unquote dating. It was after Seminary, a Mormon school thing on, I think, Wednesday nights. Seminary was across the street from my community college. I had to work the next day, be there at eight and I'm sure he had to work, too. But we talked and talked and talked. All night. All summer night outside by his car. It was as though I couldn't tear myself away and apparently neither could he, though I have no idea what we talked about.
I remember feeling elated at work the whole next day. Happy, giddy, not tired at all. All I could think about was him and all I wanted was to see him again.
I've got to go. I don't have time to blog any more right now. And it's making me sad, somehow. You know, I realize that I'll never feel this way again and it strikes me as, I don't know, terrible. Terrible and sad and it hurts for some reason.
Eh.
And it makes me sad that this is the same guy yelling at me on the phone yesterday. And it makes me sad because I don't know what happened. What happened to him, to me, to any of us.
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