Field Therapy

When I was a teenager, we lived in a small college town. Even the college was small; it was a junior college division of Emory. It was the kind of town where our parents felt comfortable letting us roam free. We walked to school, to each other's houses, rode our bikes all over town and were perfectly safe. They thought nothing of us meeting a friend to go for a walk at 9 or 10 pm during the summer.

The college had a beautiful, old campus (it's been there since the early 1840's), with adjacent tennis courts and a soccer field. A soccer field without lights, and not many street lights nearby. PFS lived about halfway between my house and the soccer field, and we would frequently make plans to meet there for what he called "field therapy". I would grab an apple and he would sneak a piece of aluminum foil, and we would both head out after dark, meeting at the stop sign at the end of his street before heading on the the field. We would then take our seats on the bleachers, which you couldn't really see from the road, and he would fashion a device with the apple, foil, and his pocket knife. We would then partake and have a disposable, innocent looking apple we could toss into the woods if need be. Although there was little risk; there was only one police officer in town, and he lived one block away, it was easy to tell if he was at home or on patrol.

We would lie back on the bleachers or on the grass and look up at the sky. We could and did talk about anything and everything, and my god, did we laugh. There is still no one in the world who can make me laugh like he does, and vice versa. He's always said we should have our own radio show, we're that damn funny. He's been my best friend since I was 14 and I don't know what I would do without him. But I still won't let him read my blog. ; )

I miss field therapy. I miss feeling safe enough to go for a walk after dark. I miss being able to just lie back, relax, and talk and laugh, just enjoying the moment for what it is. I think I miss my youth. I need to find a way to feel like that again, and I wonder if it's even possible.

Daffodils

When my sister and I were children, our parents would load us into the car every Sunday afternoon to visit our grandparents. We couldn't get to all of them every weekend, so we took turns. Our very favorite visits were to our maternal great-grandparents, who lived on a farm that was, in retrospect, kind of run down, but we didn't care at all; to us it was like Disneyland. There were horses, cows, chickens, goats, even peacocks!

Those poor peacocks. They got to where they would run when they saw us coming. We couldn't resist chasing the males and trying to get their feathers. : )

Granddaddy Jack used to take us out in the barn with him to collect eggs and feed the chickens, which we loved. It made us feel so grown up and helpful, although I'm sure we were in his way more than anything, but I don't think he minded. I remember him laughing a lot. He always wore a straw hat and overalls, and kept hard butterscotch candies in his pockets for us. He was something else. He had been a blacksmith and horse trainer back in the day, though by the time we came along he was pretty much retired. He ran for sheriff once, way before I was born. He didn't win, but even when I was a kid in the 70's, his campaign was legendary for being so entertaining. He would show up at events with his horse and perform majic tricks. The kids loved him.

Grandmama Ruby was the sweetest little woman. She had the longest hair I've ever seen. It was steel grey, and she wore it in two long braids that she wrapped around her head and secured into place. Even braided, her hair reached nearly to her waist. She used to have me read to her, and she would sit there smiling, rocking in her chair and knitting as I sat on the ottoman at her feet. She was so proud, there was never anything she picked out that I couldn't read. She used to tell me that my mom was the same way. She kept her pantry full of canned foods. Seriously, I've never seen so many canned goods outside of a grocery store. I wonder if it had anything to do with living through the Depression and being afraid of running out of food?

Our favorite time to visit was springtime. There was a field on the western side of the farm that wasn't used for anything anymore, and we could play freely there. Our parents had a rule about going barefoot; we weren't allowed until the evening temperatures had been above 65 degrees every night for a week. So we would watch the weather and keep track, and on the first day we were allowed, off came the shoes! We couldn't wait to run in that field. And every spring, it would explode seemingly overnight into what seemed like acres of gold. We would run around, picking daffodils until our arms were full. Then we would run back to the house where Grandmama Ruby would put them in water for us, and go back for more. It was our very favorite springtime ritual.

They both passed away by the time I was 12. Recently I rode by the old farm and was amazed at how small that field really was. It always seemed so huge to us, but it was probably only half an acre or so. No matter. For a few weeks a year, it was like a fairyland to us.

Every spring, I put daffodils on their graves. And they're still my favorite flower.

Frustrated.

I've had plenty of time to write lately. I have written lately, a lot. I just can't use any of it, none of it makes any sense. I realize the reason for that is that I don't know what the hell it is I want to actually say, and that kind of pisses me off. What point am I trying to make? I was working on a post about flirting, and no lie, I took a break from it to do some heavy-duty flirting. Seriously.

I'm clearly not ready to talk about that.

So writing has been kind of a bust lately. I've jotted down a few ideas, but that's about it. How awful is it for me to feel this way so soon into it? You know, in school, if an exam was an essay, I had it made. Practically a guaranteed "A", they were really easy for me. But that was different in a way, because we were given a subject, and I knew what I was trying to say, to prove. That's not the case here. I have to come up with my own ideas. I have to figure out my own voice, what I'm want to say.

Trust me, it's harder than it looks. And I'm a little frustrated.

First Kiss

There really is nothing like one, is there? I vividly remember my very first kiss. I was 15 years old, and desperately in love with K. I don’t even know why; he wasn’t that good looking, and though he was fairly popular and talented, it’s not like he had girls falling all over him. But I had met him, locked in on him, and said to myself “He’s the one.” I couldn’t help myself, I was in a hopeless puddle whenever I was around him, and it soon became obvious.



Here’s the thing – when I was 15, I was hawt. And it was the first time I had been. I was a pudgy kid, but that summer, I lost weight, grew a few inches, spent my summer money on an expensive haircut…and really. I looked head-turning good, and I enjoyed it. I had one guy follow me out of the grocery store, get my tag #, and send me flowers a few hours later. Strangers used to stop me to tell me how pretty I was. It used to piss my friends off. I say this not to brag, but to establish my hotness at the time. Because K. refused to fall in love with me.



And did I mention how pretty I was? He didn’t deny that. He liked me. He was attracted to me, thought I was beautiful. But he didn’t love me.



He was my first kiss. It was during a football game my sophomore year in high school. I remember it was cold. We were holding hands, and we walked out to his parents’ car, borrowed for the night. We sat in the car, waiting for the heat to kick in and listening to the radio. It was on an AM country music station, because that’s where he worked after school as a DJ, but I hated the music. I didn’t say anything, though. I didn’t want to say anything bad, anything that might irritate him. It seemed like I was always irritating him. We had been holding hands as we walked, and I can still remember the smell of the cologne he must have splashed on earlier, clinging to my hands. I have no idea what the scent was, but to this day I think of him when I smell it.



We were quiet for a few minutes, and I could tell that was irritating him. So I think I nervously tried to make small talk, and I remember him asking me what I thought would happen when I got in the car with him. He reached out and pulled me to him, and I was trembling so hard he was startled, he thought something was wrong with me. I convinced him no, there wasn’t, I was just a little nervous, and he kissed me. Lips only at first, then adding his tongue.



I was lost.



I swear, I think my heart stopped beating. That, that feeling right there, at that instant, with that first kiss, with him….is the most aroused I’ve ever been. Ever. I loved him and wanted him with all my heart. With every fiber of my being. I would eventually give him my virginity. He was my first everything. My first kiss, my first lover, my first love. I was crazy in love with him. And my innocent, teenage, romance novel reading heart really thought he was just being stubborn, and would one day admit how much he loved me, and we would live happily ever after.



But he didn’t love me, and he never would. And though we would continue to stay in touch, and sleep together occasionally, and even joke about having a baby together, for the next 20 years, one day he called to tell me he was getting married, and we would no longer be friends. I hear he and his wife have a baby boy now, and I’m happy for him, but it still gives me a twinge, I can’t lie.



I wouldn’t trade any of it. The memory of that first kiss is priceless to me, and never fails to make me smile.Every first kiss I’ve had since then has been measured against it, and none have matched up. I keep hoping, though. I want that intensity, the rubbery feeling in my body, that heat, my heart beating through my chest, barely able to breathe…yeah. I want that first kiss feeling again, and I know it’s out there somewhere.

Cynically Romantic

I suppose that sums up the way I feel about things right now. I've always been a romantic at heart, though I've tried to hide it. I've honestly never had a boyfriend who "romanced" me in any way. I've never gotten a Valentine's Day or birthday gift from anyone I was seeing. So I've pretended it didn't matter, that those things are silly.

But they do matter. They matter to me. The small, thoughtful gestures, the cute nicknames, the expressions of affection, adoration and lust....I want them. No, more than that. I need them. I hide that part of myself, because I don't believe that it will happen, that I will ever find someone who feels that way about me, who knows that I deserve to be treated that way. And I do deserve it. There have been times when it was so close I could almost touch it, it was just within reach, but it slipped away. And so I continue to pretend I'm not soft and romantic.

But baby....I am.

So I'll keep waiting for it, while keeping a healthy dose of cynicism at hand to keep me from wanting it too much. Maybe real romance and love don't exist. But I'm hopeful.

Ssshhhhh. Don't tell anyone. I do, after all, have my cynical reputation to uphold.

By the way, I have a blog.

Transcript from a text conversation with my best friend, S. From here on out known as "PFS", Platonic Friend S.

Me: By the way, I have a blog now.
PFS: No, you don't.
Me: Um, ok.
PFS: Why would you have a blog? What's it about?
Me: I have no idea.
PFS: Give me the link.
Me: No.
PFS: What?! WTF?! Why not? Am I in it? What did you say about me?
Me: Hehehehehe. Not telling you,'cause I'm all evil like that.
PFS: I love you when you're all sweet and stuff. So cuddly.
Me: Stop it! I am NOT sweet! Bite me, asshole!

Blogging. I don't know about this.

It seems like a strange concept to me, really. I read other blogs, of course. The first one I ever read was, naturally enough, Jefferson’s. I don’t even know how I found it, but I found it fascinating in a voyeuristic way. He and I have even corresponded from time to time, which is really strange when you think about it. Complete strangers, who will in all likelihood never meet, but who are sort of friends only because of the written word, and the amazing powers of the internet.

But I digress. I do that a lot, by the way. I ramble. My brain skips around from subject to subject, too quickly for even me to keep up. I should say, I’m not a writer. The written word does not come easily to me. I’m not poetic, I’m not profound, I’m not even terribly opinionated. To be perfectly honest, I’m boring as hell. I read other blogs, and these people are deep. Or funny and entertaining. And have interesting lives. Or their blogs at least have a point, or a theme. So who am I to have a blog? Who cares? I’ve hesitated to keep any kind of journal since I was 16 years old and my parents read mine, discovering that I was having an affair with a 28-year-old man.

It wasn’t pretty.

So I’m hesitant. Combine that with the fact that (probably due to that specific incident, now that I think about it), exhibitionist tendencies aside, I’m actually intensely private. I rarely share my real emotions, or even my real self. I keep people at a distance. I’m afraid that the better they get to know me, the less they’ll like me. And while I long for that kind of intimacy, I really doubt that I’m actually capable of it. I’m 41. I’m not likely to change at this point, so like many others, I’ll just continue to want what I can’t have. Not because it’s not possible, but because I just can’t seem to make it work, to let go enough, to trust someone enough to let them that close. So how likely is it that I’ll be able to have an “honest” blog? Or at least an open one?

I don’t know. We'll see, right now it's just a work in progress.

I don’t know what kind of blog it will be, what I’ll be talking about. I just need an outlet. I spend some time on a forum that has an “Isolated Blurt” thread, where you just blurt things out randomly. Maybe it’s something that’s bothering you, or something that makes you happy. Maybe it’s a favorite quote, or a song you like, or just a memory you want to share. That’s what I’m leaning toward here. Just random thoughts, memories, and blurts.

We’ll see.

Now, I’m off to grill some tequila lime chicken wings. Yum.