Planning Like a Woman
While in high school, I made lots of plans for the future. Among others, to bring justice to a sclerotic social system; to find and marry my Prince Charming (supposed to help me with the justice job!); to found a family with him and live happily ever after. What did I know then?
While at the university, with the “make justice” plan already rolling, I said to myself that it’s time to cast a Prince Charming contest, putting into practice my second plan. But boys my age were so childish and more mature men so false and unimpressive.
In a summer boot camp I spotted my future groom, studied his nonsensical frenzy (he is two years younger than me) and tried to connect with his warped perspectives. He looked a bit crazy, especially when he promised me that he’s gonna take me to the stars. He meant it, in all honesty, no metaphor. Usually his poetry ends up on the barren fields of engineering conundrums.
One year later we founded our dream family. The next year fell the Berlin Wall and thus the Orwellian cage-of-thoughts broke apart. We could finally speak out and write down our dreams, and my plans!
Not many years later, reality strikes back with Huxley’s “Brave New World” upon us and I meekly follow my man’s “way to the stars,” leaving behind the broad highway of my brilliant career as a vigilante of social justice. All my initial plans have bitten the dust. All but one: my man and my four kids, our family! I never dreamed to become a “professional” housewife, a stay at home mom. But this is what eventually defined me. Call it unease and you will underestimate my emotional tempest. House chores are not just boring, uninteresting, taxing your nerves, depressing, disarming and sad. They are, above all, that kind of Chinese drop with the power to pierce through your mind like through granite. In a week you see nothing. In a year you see a spot. In a decade there’s a hole in the rock.
We befriended — in that romantic summer boot camp — by deducing and comparing trends and thinkers. It may be an exception or it may not, but friendship at first sight seems more truthful than love at first sight. You can’t have love without friendship. Or, better said, physical love alone will wear out, like the granite rock getting hit by the unforgiving Chinese drop. However, the love between two friends will endure to the stars.
Youth and romance are more about dreams, plans and flying to the stars. But romancing in midlife is much more about sex. As a mother and a housewife, I’m no longer on the center stage. Between kitchen and laundry, I have my gardening hobby to keep me sane. But this effects only on my sanity, not on his. My friend — former Prince Charming — and father of my children has other needs, other hobbies and lusts. While making love, he often asked me if I wish to be “his personal and exclusive slut.”
Should I give myself, unconditionally, into his midlife fantasies? Should I act offended and refuse to play the “slut” role? This is what I still ask myself in moments of lucidity. But then, intertwined in bed with my best friend, I always agree to be “his slut.” I almost agree to anything that he asks of me, even if knowing that some of these fantasies won’t happen, not because of me but because of him! It’s kind of quirky the comfort to trust your man beyond his warped fantasies.
Thus, from stars in the sky down to black holes, we’re making love all the time: when we say hello to each other in the morning, with every frugal kiss or gentle touch, when we criticize the kids like a clumsy choir on two voices, when we go shopping together and stare at other ladies in the mall, together!
Love is so much more than friendship, but it’s nothing without it.
Thinking Like a Man
Eventually, I realised, at my turn, that what I have planned and mostly what I have sacrificed for our marriage paid back on the long run: my man’s mind sits safe in my pocket…
…And what for a pocket! Would whisper the mischievous manly mind sequestered between my ears. Oh my, yes!, our complete communication and synergy of the souls had me tainted with the dirty mind of a man. Right beneath my dreams and desires, graciously aspiring to purity, I managed to cram a filthy smoking dragon of manly lustful manners and rude ramblings.
I conquered him but my prisoner contaminated me. Well, plainly put, we are one flesh and one mind, after all. Nonetheless, it’s sometimes odd to find yourself gazing at bums on the street or pointing out, to him, this or that pair of breasts, wondering out loud if they are natural or not. The woman in me is a bit wretched by a small breasts complex and this turns me catty at the thought that he might be lusting for bigger ones. Hence, knowing his naturist inclinations, I act preemptively.
Do I have grounds to worry? I don’t think so, or I don’t want to think so. See that tiny fold of doubt? It is there! As hard as I would iron the fabric of my soul and it won’t go away. This honey — speaks the manly voice in my head — is your darn woman uncertainty. You crave for immediate and permanent absolutes. Wishful thinking, chimeras and utopias. Nothing real. Walk awhile on your mind’s moving sands and doubt will grow into desperation, this will thirst for an explanation and shortly you’re gonna blame me for all your imagined worries.
He sounds right to me, especially when he gives me confidence. But human souls are like laundry: after every washing they come back stained by a newer (or older) cold fear. The Chinese drop again, say I. Entropy – points his voice.
Our escape: more sex daily.
And our solution: write the daemons down, blog them out into the light of the sun. Make sure you deal with them today because tomorrow these, or others, will come back, to stain again. These are (some of) the chores of a mother of four, housewife and “personal exclusive slut” for her best friend — former Prince Charming.