I have never been a "cool kid." At least, not that I know of. I'm making the assumption that if you're cool, you know it. I'm guessing there's some sort of official notification in the form of a certificate, a multi-media text or a super secret ninja handshake that says "Welcome! You can stop trying so hard now."
At some point, I accepted my lack of coolness. Which I why I carry around a personal fan. (And now that I think about it, that may have more to do with peri-menopause.)
In kid-land, being cool was uber important. It was the life or death of your social status and it was probably fair to say that mine was on life support. And oddly enough, once I was far removed from lunch tables, lockers, and student council elections, I still coveted the "coolness".
I was never able to grasp the concept of being cool as an adult except that I knew I wanted it but didn't have it. And this was annoying. I had a car, a mortgage, cats that hadn't died, co-pay money, and "adult responsibility." Yet, I was still classifying myself as decidedly not cool AND there was no discernible way for me to become cool.
This type of thinking reminds me that regardless of how many wrinkles we have (or don't have because we've Botoxed them away), we're never all that far from that lost kid in the lunchroom looking for a place to sit.
What I also find interesting is how radically my concepts of cool have changed. In the early years, it was having a Liz Claiborne purse, not having glasses the size of my face, and being invited to everything. Now, much of it has to do with the amount of blinky and furry per square inch on your outfit (And I did the blinky/furry thing thing for a while. But eventually, apathy won. Apathy always wins my elections. Even if I don't vote. Which is the really beautiful thing about apathy. You don't HAVE to vote.)
So, even though apathy tends to be my soup du jour, there's still a part of me that wants to be cool. Except, there's a problem. Aside from entering sparkle-pony land (which becomes much easier the higher you are on the blinky/furry continuum), I don't know what that is. So, essentially, I want something that I can neither define in any concrete tangible way or even describe to a blind person. That. Is. Fabulous.
And so I swing in my Hammock of The Undefined. Not a geek because I have a low tolerance for trolls, RPG's, and an impatience for people who think that having a fleshed out gaming character somehow erases social awkwardness. Not a sparkle pony because again, I have a raging case of The Apathy. Not really a dork either... well, I had to look that one up. And apparently it can mean a slow-witted person, a penis, or someone who is silly "at times." I tend to be quick on the draw, have never identified as a penis and would classify myself as silly more than "at times." You, dear reader, are welcome to draw conclusions as you see fit. I'd happily draw them for you, but the apathy wins again.
Tomorrow is my birthday. Tomorrow lands me smack dab in the middle of my 30's. I will be 35. There are no "almosts" or "just a hare past". It's the creamy center of a decade with no room for ambiguity. Edwards says that the only reason that number has any social significance is because we have 10 fingers and 10 toes. While this may be true, it doesn't change the fact that I've held very definite ideas of what 35 looks and feels like.
I think there's a sort of denial that happens around the age of 18. Sure, your responsibilities increase and your landscape may change dramatically but I think there's a self protective mental shift that happens where we unconsciously decide that we aren't REALLY going to get any older. We will explain away wrinkles and aches with poor life choices but certainly not because of age.
And then.... there comes a point where we accept that yes, this is actually happening.
I thought 35 would look like... being a mom and probably driving a mini-van or possibly a less safe but more stylish SUV. I would be "done" with growth and know exactly where I'm headed in life. I would be responsible with a capital R. I would watch television appropriate for my age like NCIS or gardening shows. Better yet, I would read grown-up books with a little light that clips onto the cover. My kitchen would smell of delicious baked goods made for kiddo fundraisers, complete with perfect icing flowers. There would be minimal swearing because my vocabulary doesn't require it.
And the reality? I have two husbands, two cats, 3 step-animals, and I bake for burners who want bacon in everything. I still watch The Real World and Teen Mom. There are days when I still want my mommy. The thought of actually being the soccer mom in charge of small people who need stuff makes me want to give an Oxycontin addiction a try (you know, just to see). I have a decent vocabulary but have yet to find a word that adequately replaces the sentiment of "fuck." I am still learning things about myself and even sometimes feel like the new girl showing up for the first day of work for a job that hasn't been explained yet. I look at my closet and think "More sparkly!". I have a job that I love very much, allows me to set my own hours, gives me control over who I work with, and affords me plenty of free time to do other things (which doesn't feel very grown up at all).
And so here I sit, one day away from mid-decade and think... Really? Wandering into my mid-30's feels like a tour of Willy Wonka's house.... so many strange, wonderful, and horrifying things.
"Candy doesn't have to have a point. That's why it's candy."
It's something that's on my mind frequently although I am often thinking about it in a greater-scheme sort of way. More recently, I've been examining my own attitudes about it and attempting to understand not only how I feel but also why.
I hold a fair amount of socially liberal attitudes. Recreational drug use is fine, marrying your best friend, dog or favorite vehicle should be permitted, and I think unconventional families are fabulous. However, I hold sex in a somewhat different regard.
Despite the appearances of my dramatic sitcom "My Two Husbands", I'm fairly conservative about sex. Sometimes my attitudes protect me and sometimes they annoy me, but they are unquestionably me.
Getting back to basics, my mother was uncharacteristically open about sex. She always propped the door open for me to talk about it and there was a veritable parade of men marching through our apartment. The parade also brought much drama and heartache. I paid attention and decided fairly early on I wanted no part of that. To matters more interestingly confusing, I wanted there to be a clear separation between my mother and myself which is why I clung like a drunk sorority girl to my neo-Puritan values. I certainly didn't save myself for marriage (that's just crazy talk), but I married my second sexual partner. And although polyness and my unconventional social life have brought a number of new sexual experiences my way, I still remain firmly judicious about with whom I partake and under what circumstances.
Although it is not my natural inclination to seek out new experiences, the nuts and bolts of our poly paradigm make it that much more difficult. With a few exceptions, physical contact with a new person must be cleared with each partner. So, before I make out with Potential Bad Decision, I must go chat with Edward and Stuart. I must address their concerns all the while keeping my own codependency on a short leash. And then, if Potential Bad Decision is still available and has not moved onto You're Cuter Now That I'm High, I may proceed. Post make-out, I must check-in with both Edward and Stuart and process their feelings, my feelings and the impact of all of this on the 2012 presidential campaign. Most of the time, it hardly seems worth it.
Don't get me wrong - I think our methods are the most ethical way for our family to proceed and I completely admit that your mileage may vary. This is what we've decided works for us and if left to my own devices, I would probably structure it the exact same way. It just makes the spontaneity nearly impossible. And again, with a few exceptions, I'm okay with that.
I like sex very much but am rarely sexually attracted to people. I've concluded that this is probably not terribly normal. So many things need to be in place before I am remotely interested in allowing someone into the Holy Lady Garden. Stuart has said on more than one occasion that I address his bisexual side (meaning that I am, in many respects, a guy) but this is one area where I am unfailingly female. I don't necessarily need Fabio, candles or rose petals on the bed. But I do at a minimum require the illusion that you are a good person, would never kick an animal and that you would ask me before eating the last Reese's Peanut Butter Cup. It sounds fairly simple but my vetting process is the equivalent of a menopausal Jewish woman - cranky and suspicious.
In terms of my poly ecosystem, sex has presented some interesting challenges. Maintaining two sexual relationships is a test of my internal processes. Two separate sex lives will never be equal. And for a codependent person, this is very difficult. I have learned (and am still learning) that sex cannot be doled out like red Skittles. Sometimes somebody gets more. And sometimes somebody eats the whole package. As the mayor of Fair Town, I find this rather uncomfortable. I suppose we could forgo the sex thing entirely and just eat the exact same number of red Skittles but eventually, someone's going to want a green one.
I find myself actively working on just letting things be but get tripped up on the oxymoron. I often feel compelled to have sex with one partner simply because I had sex with the other in order to somehow balance an imaginary orgasmic teeter-totter. I know neither partner would want this but yet again, we've arrived at the Red Skittle Conundrum.
Neither partner has indicated having a problem with this and I accept that this is all a product of my neuroses. Intellectually, I know that at times, you have to stomp on the Moral Compass of Fair and allow things to be what they are assuming everyone is okay with it. My brain knows this and is continually trying to chloroform the "But...but...but" that comes from the heart.
Perhaps I should stick to candy that is all the same color.
