April 2, 2011 Swimming in my clothes

The gloom seems to have been a phase.  Since that day, I seem to be well sorted and strangely more attractive.  Perhaps not sexually so, but sentimentally, which is fine.  Even my dance has shifted a bit.  I was using mostly Arab music, but now I’m getting more into goth and soukous.

I’m also more at peace with my defects.  I still don’t buy the “empowered” denial.  It’s just reached a point when I look around at other women my age and am just happy to be alive and to have had women in my family who taught me how to take care of myself.  I am also grateful to Chef Kathleen Daelemans and the late, great Weston A. Price and a whole lot of other folks who helped me recover from industrial phood.  I’m even thankful to Roissy for giving me many good social reasons to never look back or be remotely tempted to re-enter the calorie counting and yo-yo dieting hell that has uglified far too many American women.

So now, I look in the mirror and smile, and look at other people and smile not giving a flying fart about how they’ll react to it…just spreading some joy.  I don’t feel the need to protect them from me anymore.

It has given me the “balls” to talk to male persons I was attracted to, but would previously avoid or pretend to be some sort of foliage in the background around.   I’ve lost a kind of irrational fear of rejection.

Now that was a weird part of my behavior that needed killing because it made absolutely no sense.  I’ve long been okay with the idea that I could be attracted to or have a crush on someone, and they might hate my gutts.  Most reasonable women reach that stage around puberty or so.  I did.  Thing is, for some reason, if I was attracted to someone, it became important for me to be cool about it and save face.  I think that reason was feminist, but it might be a Black thing too.

In the vast majority of cases, I wasn’t really looking to get with these guys.  I wanted to befriend them because I liked them as people, and their attractiveness was a kind of an aside.  The way I behaved around them could probably be summed up in the words, “No homo.”  I don’t quite understand why, but I didn’t want them to even think there was a remote chance of me obsessing or getting ideas.  In some cases, I knew I didn’t have a chance, or at least a chance of being more than a shag, and it was important to me that they knew that I knew that I’m either not in their league or that my interest in them was purely platonic regardless of any attraction.

Any time I said something nice to them, there was an either implied or reworded, “No homo,” after it.  I couldn’t just say, “You look sexy today,” or, “Wow, that was amazing (about something they did that just freakin’ rocked),” without some behavior that made it clear that I was NOT fawning.

Now though, I fawn freely.  Once I broke through and actually started complimenting guys without a, “No homo,” and they didn’t run away screaming or insult me or something, I realized just how irrational that fear was.  I was such a doofus.  Ah well.

There’s just one thing in my changes over the past couple of years that I’m finding just wrong.  I gave up lifting heavy objects, but now I’m getting back into it.  I’m sorry, it just can’t be helped.  Though i’m okay with myself when I look in the mirror, I will admit to getting some kind of bizarre, perhaps narcissistic thrill at the sensation of firm muscles under my skin.  Since there is less fat under my skin, I notice my musculature more not just visually but tactilely.

I….am a warpig.  I am graceful and sweet natured for a warpig, but this is physically who I am.  I like being strong.  I accept and understand that the vast majority of men do not find pleasure in it.  At my age though, what men like is about 10 years past what ought to be my priority in fitness or aesthetics.

By now, sexually, there will probably not be another man in my life since I require more than a sperm depositor.  I understand that my desires are totally unrealistic and unreasonable in this, so I have put them aside like many people’s dream of being a rockstar has to go when they were not gifted with talent and a high powered agent.  It can happen.  It’s just unlikely.

So the rest of my years are about what makes me okay with me.  It was a nice excursion into gameville.  I’ve learned a lot about the mistakes I’ve made in time to help my daughter and other young women navigate the chaos that has become dating in the western world.  As for me though, my time is past, and it’s about making money and enjoying myself, and hopefully steering more young women away from the cock carousel, and more men away from the mangina hive.

The Enforcer quest is back online.  So here I go.

My former bitches fell and shattered like figurines falling from the hands of Kali, testing my stoicism.  Since it seems I’ve now lost just enough weight and gained just enough perspective as a result, to start listening to Daddy again, the fires have started.

…but unlike the movie character, there will be no sequel of relapse into do-gooding.  FTW.  I’ve seen what happens when slaves become kings in every way but mentality.  My hand is only held laterally to grasp those who have shown the will to survive and fight as I have.

Last night, I met and drank with an old friend I used to have a crush on.  As I looked into his eyes, objectively rather beautiful, I enjoyed him as I would looking at a pretty rose.  He was fun to look at, and fun to talk to, but I saw the punk in him.  I don’t know what I ever saw in him romantically.

So despite his ardor, he didn’t get what he wanted from me.  All of my orifices remain unviolated.  He told me that I’m different…than now I bullshit more, and have gone soft and romantic.  I told him, “Oh no dear…I was soft and romantic before.  Now I’m just unwilling to tolerate your bullshit.”

Then, as if that Dark Blood Goddess wanted to drive the point home, one of my ex boyfriends showed up in the afternoon, as I was cooking the traditional hangover late breakfast.  Now this one is even more beautiful than last night’s visitor, and becoming moreso as he ages.  Alas, he’s still far too young.

When he began his pursuit, I told him flatly that I’m not the same woman he knew.  He could see that, and wanted me more, but I still had to decline.  I handled him less coldly because he is at least warmer in personality than the other.   I looked in his eyes, and told him that he’s a beautiful, sexy young man, and deserves a good woman closer to his age.

I don’t know if it helped.  He is chronologically young, but he’s seen horror that would have driven most guys insane, or incapable of living a remotely civil life thereafter, both here and in Ethiopia.  Still, at some point he’s going to look in the mirror and realize that he’s a fit young Black man who is freakin’ gorgeous, macho without being too beastly, and can have his pick of young, nubile women…and he’ll pick one (or two or three).

So it is flattering to be his MISWY, but I’ll never be his bitch again.  I know what I saw in him.  There isn’t the same disconnect as with the others.  I just don’t want that kind of arrangement.  Why would I waste some of my last years of youth on a kid who doesn’t even value me enough to keep in touch regularly?

Speaking of kids who don’t value me, I haven’t heard from Protoge since the “not your business anymore” conversation.  I hope he’s alright.  I know another guy who’s doing the same job he’s supposed to in the Army.  It’s a tough one, but he’s responsible enough for it.  I don’t hate him or think badly of him.  It’s just one of those things that happens, that you just get over.

So as things come full circle as far as my love life, I’m throwing the ashes of the old un-me into the wind.  I learned alot from being her, but she is someone I now understand was toxic.  I’ve killed her because well…there can be only one (me).  Any competing selves have to die, not because of hate, but because my self ownership is a singular prize.  To own myself, I must be myself…and from this self will come the true value that she is to her world.

I was a coddler teaching people a very bad lesson…that it was okay for them to push me down.

Now, I am teaching them that if they’re going to push me, they’d better be tough enough to take it when I push back.