"I hate it," he said.
"What do you hate?" I asked, looking over my shoulder at him, looking back at me solemnly. He doesn't appear to be angry.
"The fact that you are always right."
I bite back the many wise cracks that come to mind and choose instead to assure him that I'm not. ALWAYS right.
"Yeah," he nods with equal assurance, "you are. And I hate it. Or I should."
"Should?" I ask, interested now in what GND is pondering. Like Poo Bear beneath his honey tree.
"What do you hate?" I asked, looking over my shoulder at him, looking back at me solemnly. He doesn't appear to be angry.
"The fact that you are always right."
I bite back the many wise cracks that come to mind and choose instead to assure him that I'm not. ALWAYS right.
"Yeah," he nods with equal assurance, "you are. And I hate it. Or I should."
"Should?" I ask, interested now in what GND is pondering. Like Poo Bear beneath his honey tree.
"Well, yeah. Guys hate that. But, I think I'm sort of...impressed."
"Oh, stop!" I sneer. "For goodness sakes!" I add for good measure. How silly. Or is it?
It's true that we don't necessarily think
all that highly of the other sex, as a collective. I've read the books. Or, at
least a good share of them. You know the ones. The stacks about why it is women
and men struggle to communicate, how they're from another planet and how we
always knew there had to be good reason explaining all the nonsense. Those
books. Read them a plenty, back when I gave a damn.
I've spent a good portion of my life learning effective methods of communication. Although my relational track record wouldn't convince you, I am, in fact, professionally trained in behavior management and non violent crisis intervention and anger management--the whole nine yards. As a writer, I've worked and worked and worked at honing my craft. All useless. Except for the peace it's brought me personally, because regardless of how much effort we expend in learning or attempting to communicate, it only actually successfully occurs when both parties are bothering, are aiming for--if nothing else--mutual understanding.
Thinking back on our friendship, mine with this man who lives next door to my mother, I note he's gotten mad at me on occasion. I recall being shocked at the intensity of his agitation and at how he felt it acceptable to display aggression towards me when agitated. Thus, I am honestly intrigued by what he is perceiving to be some sort of revelation.
On second thought, I go Borg on him.
"OK--explain."
"For starters, you are really, really...smart," he tells me with not a small amount of hesitation. I smile hugely at him, holding back my laughter.
I know lots of brilliant women and know exactly how stupid I truly am, so ask, “How so?"
"Well," says this man of 60 with soon to be two divorces under his belt, "in ways that I'm not, and even about things that I am. You are always surprising me because though you come off as impassioned and...scatter brained sometimes, (no offense but you do), there is actually a steady practicality to your notions, to your...methods."
Here's where I let loose. I laugh so hard I'm left crying. Truly, in tears. Because I am so very often misunderstood and he's taken the time to attempt to understand who it is I am. As an individual, not just another woman.
Oh, he tried that clumping thing early on and I shot him right down. Yes, I did.
"Damn! Way to slap me down," he retorted looking shocked and slightly wounded. "But, I've got nothing to your logic; I concede. It is insensitive and irrational to think all women are alike, because I sure as hell know I'm not like HIM!" he ended with raised eyebrows.
Him, them, the men in my past. That's what he means.
"Yes, so you tell me," I smile. I'm gentle, but firm. Not my first rodeo and he's at the tender place in his marital separation where he's fearing life alone, fearing BEing alone. With...himself. Where he's totally enamored by the oh-so-legendary Greener Grass.
"I don't want to be alone. I need someone. Don't you? How can you do it year after year? Why would you want to live your life like this? It SUCKS!" he says.
"I suppose it does if that's what you believe."
He looks at me. I can see his pain. He is trying to readjust his perspective to see what it is I have to smile at him about. What it is I can so easily shrug off. I see him, as he sits there studying me as if an alien ambassador. He IS trying when he doesn't have to; when most wouldn't bother. That's because GND likes a challenge and I, apparently, present him with quite the quandary. We are from different worlds, after all. It's been two very different lives that we each have lived. Yet, here he is trying, for whatever reason, to make the breach. I can smell the smoke burning.
"It's what I call the Want Continuum," I explain. "There is a difference, is there not, between wanting something and needing it? To be in want of, or perhaps more precisely, to be in wont of, means simply that we feel a deficiency, an emptiness. A piece missing, even, if you are a romantic. All kinds of theories there, but let it suffice to say that we feel wont almost physically. Need isn't like that, is it? Much more cognitive. And, cognition can create delusions. Yet, as with most things, both serve a purpose in our spiritual and emotional evolution."
"Ya think?"
"Indeed, I do," I smirk. I've embraced my inner vixen and I'm not going back. "But, knowing, now that's relative, isn't it? There's tons I have no clue about."
"Is it? Is there?"
"Isn't it? And, OF COURSE!"
This is the way it is between us. Because, I don't give a damn anymore. There is no need in me to convince him otherwise. He asks; I answer, straight from the hip. I don't sugar coat or deflect or divert. I respond. Often a bit too Borgishly for his tastes, but that's because he's still attached to the Cinderella Complex. I'm not in distress nor awaiting my prince, so he's perplexed by me altogether. Oh--and, I don't kowtow.
"Not that kind of woman," I keep reminding him. Take it or leave it. I really don't care. That's where I'm "at". Finally.
Oddly, he's not repelled. Yet.
I've spent a good portion of my life learning effective methods of communication. Although my relational track record wouldn't convince you, I am, in fact, professionally trained in behavior management and non violent crisis intervention and anger management--the whole nine yards. As a writer, I've worked and worked and worked at honing my craft. All useless. Except for the peace it's brought me personally, because regardless of how much effort we expend in learning or attempting to communicate, it only actually successfully occurs when both parties are bothering, are aiming for--if nothing else--mutual understanding.
Thinking back on our friendship, mine with this man who lives next door to my mother, I note he's gotten mad at me on occasion. I recall being shocked at the intensity of his agitation and at how he felt it acceptable to display aggression towards me when agitated. Thus, I am honestly intrigued by what he is perceiving to be some sort of revelation.
On second thought, I go Borg on him.
"OK--explain."
"For starters, you are really, really...smart," he tells me with not a small amount of hesitation. I smile hugely at him, holding back my laughter.
I know lots of brilliant women and know exactly how stupid I truly am, so ask, “How so?"
"Well," says this man of 60 with soon to be two divorces under his belt, "in ways that I'm not, and even about things that I am. You are always surprising me because though you come off as impassioned and...scatter brained sometimes, (no offense but you do), there is actually a steady practicality to your notions, to your...methods."
Here's where I let loose. I laugh so hard I'm left crying. Truly, in tears. Because I am so very often misunderstood and he's taken the time to attempt to understand who it is I am. As an individual, not just another woman.
Oh, he tried that clumping thing early on and I shot him right down. Yes, I did.
"Damn! Way to slap me down," he retorted looking shocked and slightly wounded. "But, I've got nothing to your logic; I concede. It is insensitive and irrational to think all women are alike, because I sure as hell know I'm not like HIM!" he ended with raised eyebrows.
Him, them, the men in my past. That's what he means.
"Yes, so you tell me," I smile. I'm gentle, but firm. Not my first rodeo and he's at the tender place in his marital separation where he's fearing life alone, fearing BEing alone. With...himself. Where he's totally enamored by the oh-so-legendary Greener Grass.
"I don't want to be alone. I need someone. Don't you? How can you do it year after year? Why would you want to live your life like this? It SUCKS!" he says.
"I suppose it does if that's what you believe."
He looks at me. I can see his pain. He is trying to readjust his perspective to see what it is I have to smile at him about. What it is I can so easily shrug off. I see him, as he sits there studying me as if an alien ambassador. He IS trying when he doesn't have to; when most wouldn't bother. That's because GND likes a challenge and I, apparently, present him with quite the quandary. We are from different worlds, after all. It's been two very different lives that we each have lived. Yet, here he is trying, for whatever reason, to make the breach. I can smell the smoke burning.
"It's what I call the Want Continuum," I explain. "There is a difference, is there not, between wanting something and needing it? To be in want of, or perhaps more precisely, to be in wont of, means simply that we feel a deficiency, an emptiness. A piece missing, even, if you are a romantic. All kinds of theories there, but let it suffice to say that we feel wont almost physically. Need isn't like that, is it? Much more cognitive. And, cognition can create delusions. Yet, as with most things, both serve a purpose in our spiritual and emotional evolution."
"Ya think?"
"Indeed, I do," I smirk. I've embraced my inner vixen and I'm not going back. "But, knowing, now that's relative, isn't it? There's tons I have no clue about."
"Is it? Is there?"
"Isn't it? And, OF COURSE!"
This is the way it is between us. Because, I don't give a damn anymore. There is no need in me to convince him otherwise. He asks; I answer, straight from the hip. I don't sugar coat or deflect or divert. I respond. Often a bit too Borgishly for his tastes, but that's because he's still attached to the Cinderella Complex. I'm not in distress nor awaiting my prince, so he's perplexed by me altogether. Oh--and, I don't kowtow.
"Not that kind of woman," I keep reminding him. Take it or leave it. I really don't care. That's where I'm "at". Finally.
Oddly, he's not repelled. Yet.
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