This afternoon, on my way home from work, the musical "Wonderful Town" came on the classical radio station. The first song was about Greenwich Village, and one of those less sonorous talk-sing kind of tunes. But I didn't bother changing the station. Then my ears perked up to the second number, with its catchy rhymes about Ohio:
"why, oh why, oh why, oh --
why did i ever leave Ohio?
why did i wander to find what lies yonder
when life was so cozy at home?
Read more: Wonderful Town - Ohio Lyrics | MetroLyrics "
A couple of songs later, 100 Easy Ways to Lose a Man got my full attention, and I began to scream with laughter....tinged with agony. It explains way too much! When I got home, I giggled as I forwarded a link to some of my girlfriends so they might laugh too.
Then, reflectively, as I thought about more than a couple of guys I have known--wonderful, well-mannered, gentle, smart men, with whom I supposed at one time or another, was developing a lovely friendship with romantic possibilities. A terribly wistful sigh escaped me. I can replay all too many scenes in my head where I, like a tail-wagging puppy, jumped into a conversation where a guy was trying to impress me, and came back with challenging questions and my own opinions. After all, I thought that's what adults in conversations were supposed to do. (That's what they taught us in college.........isn't it.....? Not quite...? So disappointed here.....) It was also me saying "Yes! You are smart and fun, as you can obviously see I think because I am opening up and really attempting to engage your intellect, which is me saying I am open to the idea of cooking and cleaning for you if you get my nuptual drift!" And over the years, increasingly, I have found the common denominator in suddenly-evaporating-chemistry to be... knowing things. Knowing too much. And not knowing the things I should know. And being too clever the rest of the time. It's supposed to be the guys who trouble-shoot problems around the house, solve logistical problems, and so-on.
(Ironically, there have been occasions when I tried to be a very boring conversation partner, and those were the conversations that went on and on and seemed to fuel a guy's attraction for me that was unwanted.
(Ironically, there have been occasions when I tried to be a very boring conversation partner, and those were the conversations that went on and on and seemed to fuel a guy's attraction for me that was unwanted.
Well, I was always trying to get attention from my brother years ago, by being more like a brother than a sister--declaring I loathed dolls (which was partly true and partly imitation of a tomboy I'd read about)--and at church gatherings (all the social events I participated in as a kid) I did always prefer hovering near groups of guys, at church, and training my brain to think like them...because they were the interesting ones; I didn't see it as emulating masculine behavior, but as emulating interesting behavior. Nobody stopped me and said "No, no, you as a woman are suppose to be uninteresting because that is what godly men find interesting."
Being a middle child and not very servant-hearted, I generally got away with consistently crossing that social boundary while meals were being prepared and served by the ladies. I had no concept that because I was female, I belonged in the role of preparing the meals. The way I saw it, the world was full of interesting and non-interesting options. Cooking? Extremely easy and boring, a thing you do, not talk about and which I would be happy to do when I had my own family to feed. (It didn't occur to me for a moment that the women, contentedly chattering to each other about all that cooking and sewing, might be choosing contentment while they cooked that millionth meal, while the men had all the laughs about the news, weather, and tall tales.) What did occur to me was that I found the men's conversations highly entertaining, and the womens', almost always boring.
Here, see what I mean:
The women would talk about babies (Um, I don't have any, and I had five younger sisters...been there, done that, will gladly do it again when it's my own kid....in the mean time, it's deeply depressing to entertain the notion of having babies when I'm suppose to keep a pure mind and the first step, after all, is to get to know a man, and the men are... over there...)
They would talk about sewing.... Great! I am proud of my ability to stitch things. I have no doubt that in a homesteading situation I could keep my family clothed and warm given the right raw materials (and creatively living off the land). I would gladly stitch a fine warm quilt.... but what is there to talk about it? What STORY is there to sewing or cooking? I mean, you can tell a story about anything.... but merely listing off facts, like where you bought, what you bought, how much it cost and so on, well, boring! (do you think I wonder why I don't have many friends?) As I know more about storytelling, I say again: you can tell a story about anything. But you have to tell it as a story.
I might have stayed and hung around with the women if they just had something a little more dramatic to talk about. But being always totally appropriate, there was no hilarity--no belly laughter over a messy situation with the toddlers, much less any bedroomy-conversations (which, in the right doses, could have been healthfully education for the younger ladies, given that the stable and good men were providing the same education for their sons)....
With the men, however, I was perfectly invisible, able to listen and laugh as they exchanged stories: local news, highway accidents, dumb coworker brushes with injury/death, personal brushes with injury/death, basically an endless, entertaining list of things not to do--in fixing things around the house, brushes with policemen, digging a hole in the yard... you name it... all the gritty, real kinds of things that have to do with vibrantly living. (Does this rude toward the women? Absolutely. I didn't know that, though. It didn't occur to me that being a woman was a cross to bear. I thought it was just a gender, the physical complement to a male, and everything else was ultimately a choice... I thought that women tended to prefer one thing and I happened to prefer another. I did not think, fifteen years down the road, I would begin to wonder if those choices to follow my heart have isolated me from a great number of people. Nobody told me I was being selfish. I did what I wanted, and had fun, and was lonely, but entertained. (Forget thinking I learned my conversation style in college... it developed in my adolescence from eavesdropping on working men: carpenters, plumbers, mechanics. College just taught me to boldly express my own opinions and enjoy debating ideas without fear of censure. But the real life is full of implicit censure...)
Then I find a song like 100 Ways to Lose a Guy. My blood ran a little cold as I realized the implicit solution: to bat my eyelashes and act as dumb as possible, so as not to detract/distract from any sexiness in my aura. And the bottom line of it is, it doesn't matter if I get all domesticatified and prettydollified... I won't play dumb! Ugh. I mean, I have a strong sense of who is better at fixing things and solving logistical problems, and who can more easily open the jar of salsa, than me:...him! but I grew up with a mom who quietly troubleshot her own problems, and was strong enough to open her own jars of salsa. And if you keep losing your grip, I learned, you put on one of those yellow dish washing gloves, and your grip increases tenfold.
I just can't get away from that Happy Hollisters ideal of idyllic, adventurous childhood. Be yourself--be a detective--that is right and proper child's play; growing up will happen naturally enough, and soon you'll be in Beverly Cleary's Fifteen, where the new boy in town is flawless and single, and after a bit of confusion and the girl sitting by the telephone, the two figure out they are a match... And however much Wendy falls in love with Peter Pan, she will eventually grow up and marry a sensible, bread-winning man and... be a mother with her own happy, perfect children. What sounds like a predestined fate is really a comforting promise, though not necessarily a true one.
I respect the men and women I knew growing up who were cheerful homemaking teams: husbands, wives, fathers, mothers (and in the face of all kinds of trials); I admire those I know who were kids when I was a kid, who are now succeeding in that same delicate biome of one+one=one (and then some). My foggy understanding is teaching me one thing: I am hardwired to never follow a recipe exactly: so why on earth would I think I can imitate someone's happiness by imitating their behavior? (Not because imitating good behavior is a bad idea, but because I will invariably come up with different results). Rather, rejoice at others' success and stop trying to make a dead formula out of what is living. I vicariously lived those 1950's adventures as a child, not realizing that the characters I admired so much did not themselves vicariously live through others. If I have anything to learn from fictional characters, it's to stop trying to be one.
I just can't get away from that Happy Hollisters ideal of idyllic, adventurous childhood. Be yourself--be a detective--that is right and proper child's play; growing up will happen naturally enough, and soon you'll be in Beverly Cleary's Fifteen, where the new boy in town is flawless and single, and after a bit of confusion and the girl sitting by the telephone, the two figure out they are a match... And however much Wendy falls in love with Peter Pan, she will eventually grow up and marry a sensible, bread-winning man and... be a mother with her own happy, perfect children. What sounds like a predestined fate is really a comforting promise, though not necessarily a true one.
I respect the men and women I knew growing up who were cheerful homemaking teams: husbands, wives, fathers, mothers (and in the face of all kinds of trials); I admire those I know who were kids when I was a kid, who are now succeeding in that same delicate biome of one+one=one (and then some). My foggy understanding is teaching me one thing: I am hardwired to never follow a recipe exactly: so why on earth would I think I can imitate someone's happiness by imitating their behavior? (Not because imitating good behavior is a bad idea, but because I will invariably come up with different results). Rather, rejoice at others' success and stop trying to make a dead formula out of what is living. I vicariously lived those 1950's adventures as a child, not realizing that the characters I admired so much did not themselves vicariously live through others. If I have anything to learn from fictional characters, it's to stop trying to be one.
