Lately it seems I keep getting the question, Do you have a boyfriend? When I giggle and say No, they look at me as if I’m trying to sell them a bridge.
When my mom asked me and I said No, I don’t. She said, “Don’t lie to me Lani!”
I started to wonder if I was giving off vibes, you know, unbridled phantasms of orgasmic delights and honey cakes with wine. I mean, What is up with people? Then I started to wonder, Is it because I’m happy? Does a happy sober glow automatically mean I’m getting action packed thrillers?
My mom is at odds with my life here. I guess my style of living that doesn’t seem mundane enough? I don’t know. I’m just loving my life. I know my voice over Skype sounds bubbly and smells like teen spirit. I know when people meet me I’m sanguine and energetic. I know. And yet. . .
I’m not sure if Hollywood has created this Monster Love idea that only our misery can quell and conjure. The idea that someone can be happy and single seems like a contradictory sandwich. If you are young, young or old old then it’s okay. You are excused. But if you are say, in the 30s range, then why aren’t you tarnished and sour?
Like withholding my forgiveness from my ex- what would be the point? Sure, everyone would understand, but I need to understand myself too. Besides I do tire of all the baggage we seem to enjoy carrying around. I’d rather examine the contents for usefulness.
Many folks hovercraft over the past waiting to convieniently pick it up like some stone age tool wielding and swinging it with great power that keeps their thoughts alive. Like the Emperor’s New Clothes, why pretend to see something because you don’t want to be judged a fool?
Now if I were a guy, this single happy thing would be more acceptable. Biology. Religion. Politics. Society has a myrid of aftershaves for us to use. It’s just a matter of preferences. And anytime there is conventional thought like this, I think, how can I unbutton this idea?
Isn’t humanity’s task to overcome base desires like war and killing? So in my small selfish way I see it as my duty to make you wonder if there is truly anything amiss about a single happy woman of a certain age.
I’m mean seriously. We make excuses for the kind of music or books we like, apologizing by saying, It’s my guilty mindless read. Or I’m a closet Barry Manalow fan. If we care about something like this, we are sure as hellfire going to care about whether or not we’re perceived as normal, mainstream, and okay.
We’ve been culture shocked into seeking the approval of others.
This is not to say that I don’t want to be in a relationship or that I don’t feel the need to be in love. Quite the contrary Mary. Love is a cozy afterthought that makes me want to sit by the cook fire. I relish the heat. Its warmth makes me curl my toes and makes my hair sit so right. There is nothing wrong with love.
I guess all this means is I’m able to emulate being in love by being in love with my self, my life and my little world. Sounds queer, I know. Of course, you do realize that as soon as I post this I will quicksand into a goovy depression. Ha, ha, ha.