I emailed Megan today: You know what sucks about friends with benefits? When he’s in the mood for friends, and your in the mood for benefits.
We didn’t kiss last night. We didn’t do much of anything. We hung out watching Kings of Queens and Jimi Hendrix’s appearances on the Dick Cavett Show and at Woodstock. He was tired, not in the mood. He tries to reassure in little ways that it’s not me. He said we could of met anywhere, and still have been able to connect and “just be us.” He came up behind me on the couch smoothed my hair back with the palm of his hand and said “You’re a pretty girl Susie.”
He’s called me sexy, but never pretty. I’d rather have pretty. I melted inside as he returned to the chair and we returned to our previous conversation as if he had said nothing, but it’s something I’ve been waiting to hear.
I don’t always feel pretty. I’m what they call voluptuous. Curvy. Okay, I’m downright fat. At least 80 pounds overweight. I’m not exaggerating. It’s what I am, and it’s difficult to write and difficult to admit. Even my therapist said it took me almost 8 months to bring it up. I try to manage, I go the gym a few times a week, try to eat healthy, if I only didn’t love bread and cheese so much. If only I had more willpower. I blame myself too much for things that are in my control, yet are so hard to control.
Which is where the power of He comes in. He likes my body. He likes that I am myself around him. He likes hanging out with me. He called me pretty. And this is why, even though I know it’s wrong, even though I am betraying myself, my eventual wants, he calls and I go like Pavlov’s dog because at this point, shamefully, I need the attention.
My friend Megan has an interesting theory about friends with benefits (that is to say, when that is how he defines it, and the woman inevitability wants more). She says it’s when a man feels like having girlfriend moments but then takes off until the next time he feels like seducing you with wine and dinner. Weeks can go by until he feels like calling you again. Meanwhile us woman cherish those hours we have with the man because we don’t know when we’re going to have it next. We wait by the phone. We send what we think is a cute e-mail. We try to be patient–and maybe we are for a few days–but inside we’re crumbling. Analyzing. Self-esteem plummets–tearing ourselves to pieces because we know we deserve better, but nobody has come along yet. We remember those few tender moments with him and we feel better, at least for the night we’re together.
I never thought I’d be one of those women. I judged my friends who were. I suddenly am her, accepting this bull shit from someone I know would be a terrible boyfriend. Someone whose personal goals are polar opposite from mine. Someone who has been vocal from the beginning about wanting to remain bachelor. Someone who owns two knives, two forks, and rewashes a plastic spoon from Wendy’s.
Who am I? Why am I doing this to myself?
These are the questions I really need to ponder and explore. The thing is, I’m afraid of the answers.
Sunday night I was flying high solo and starting writing down my thoughts. I was interrupted by a phone call so that’s why the last piece is unfinished…
Why does a botox commercial have a sing-song-y “express yourself!” theme?
Conversation with The Voice:
Me: Wait your writing a book? What’s it about?
The Voice: It’s semi-autobographical, semi-fiction…I haven’t got down on paper yet–
Me: Oh, well in that case I’ve written 20 books and like 5 screenplays!
The Voice: Smart ass.
I Heart Master Piece Theater
It feels like fall. It’s cold and windy and damp. I’m on the couch with my zippered hoodie resting on my head. I have a (now luke warm) cup a tea beside me. The apartment in clean with flowers all around. Flowers really warm up a place. I made a resolution to spend $5 a week buying myself flowers. I know $5 isn’t much…I’d maybe stretch to $7 if I saw a beautiful boquet of tulips. Farmers market season is approaching, even though it feels more like butternut squash and pear season. I look forward to fresh cut sunflowers and crap–I’m blanking on the name–they’re long–gladiolas?
Sometimes I wish I lived in simplier times–like England in the 18th or 19th century where empire waist dresses were all the rage and family and friends retired to the parlor after dinner and read aloud or some guest entertained on the piano. A fire would be glowing and the women would be staring into the fire thinking about love. The man she met earlier in the day while picking berries when their eyes met just as she dropped her basket and he ran over to help her. The simplicity of how they knew it was meant to be with just that one look.