Wednesday, January 8, 2014


Have you ever noticed how fascinated you become when you discover someone who is your complete opposite? 

I was going to say "polar" opposite, but the Sarge and I got to talking about it and, truly, the poles aren't that opposite. Not a whole lot different at all, really. 

Even though the word "polar" means opposite, so it would be redundant anyway, unless you're referring to a thing's capability to ionize, which I doubt is what is inferred here, but anything's possible. 

And I don't think "poloequatorially opposite" really conveys much of anything, though the idea of coining a word is quite tempting. 

Beside the point. 

Opposite. Yeah. There are a lot of people in the world who are different from me. A lot of people I have nothing in common with. So much so that I would be a foreign species to them, and them to me. 

But to be one's opposite is quite a loaded thing. I've rarely encountered it. But when I do, it fascinates me. I study them. The words they use. The music they listen to. The books they've read. The company they keep. The people they quote. Which they inevitably do because it's something I almost never do. Quote people, that is. So it would stand to reason that my opposite would do it readily. I've always figured that if I am going to use words, I am going to use my own. If I am going to make points, say something substantial or enlightening, I can say it myself. I certainly don't need to steal anyone else's words. 

Beside the point. 

Perhaps people use quotes to flaunt what they think they know? Or who they think they know? 

Beside the point. 

So, yes. A woman who is my opposite. She'd have to be.... well.... a different species entirely. 
Although, I've been told by two excellent sources (read: my kids) that I'm a different species entirely. As in, "Mom, other girls aren't EN-EE-THING like you! I'm never going to understand them!" Sigh.... I don't, either, baby. I don't, either. 

My opposite would be a true girl. Girly, pearly, swirly, twirly GIRL. She'd probably quote people like Marilyn Monroe or some other nonsense and truly believe she is an noble example for young women to follow. Because. She had hips? She fucked her way through Hollywood and swallowed a bunch of pills when shit got rough? Hell if I know. But there it is. 

My opposite would read romance novels and pine for things. I don't know what things. Whatever things girls pine for. She'd do a whole lotta pining. 

She'd have a pretty face to the world and a bitter inside face. Whereas. Well. I'm the opposite. Yes. I just said that. And it's true. Don't tell anybody. My opposite would most certainly surround herself with a gaggle of estrogen who all believe she's "just faaaabulous" when, in fact, when she's alone with herself and her misery, only she knows the truth. Her fabulous visage cracks under her superfluous pining.

My opposite would be smart with numbers, and because of that, she'd feel she has to work twice as hard to make it in a "man's world." And because of that, she would be just jaded enough to believe that her number talent translates into a general brilliance. In short, she'd be too self-absorbed to know what she doesn't know. Too busy with that glass ceiling, no doubt, to calm herself and revel in her ignorance. 

Oh, my sweet ignorance. A beautiful black pond, swimming blind while feeling your own way out. My opposite would snub that pond and walk around it. She wouldn't want to get dirty.  And plus, she might get electrocuted by her permanent hair-dryer appendage. No doubt. 

Sexually frigid, she would be. For sure. Maddeningly so. Maybe she's so disgusted by her own appearance that she is also disgusted with the idea of flaunting it. Maybe- gasp- sex does nothing for her at all. 

My opposite would be tall. Perhaps blond. Or even another race? But she'd be tall. Slim, fragile, willowy. She'd have little interest in physical strength, athleticism, or competition. She'd have a huge extended family that she can't bring herself to part with (perhaps a Momma's girl?).  She'd be busy. A full-time job that would require of her daily contact with humans who she handles with much more grace than I possess, yet enmity that seethes just beneath. Does she let that anger loose at home? Or does she let it simmer until an innocent moves her hairbrush? Yet she is angry. Her own raised voice does not deter her. The scared faces of her children do not deter her. The helplessness of her husband does not deter her. Her attempts to fashion the world around her into shadowboxed perfection are brittle, yet she patches the cracks with poorly mixed mortar and keeps going. 

Her artistic side is feeble at best, though she tries. She's smart, remember? Though not smart enough to know she's no artist. No writer. Not even much of a thinker of original thinks, but pulls them from true thinkers (or stupid ones) and scrawls her name across them. 

She's a lady and expects to be treated as such. Her puritanical mein lacks the ability to tolerate a good ribbing, and she'd never ever stand for being called bitch, slut, little whore, sweetass, cuntmuncher, et al. She has breasts, not tits, and she'd rather you not talk about them. If her frame is not slight and willowy, she wishes it was, yet abhors exercise, probably believing that "some people are just born this way" and "there's nothing I can do about it." And she just doesn't have time to work out anyway. 

She expects gifts on her birthday and Christmas. She actually likes getting flowers on her anniversary, finding beauty and society's invention of love in a dead rose in a bottle, never ever considering the possibility that no emotion backed the purchase of said flowers, just the desire to keep her happy. Because when she's not happy, she's intolerable.

And as you hear me saying these things, I am sure you hear a hint of sarcasm in my voice, yes? It's hard not to be. Because it's hard to fathom that a woman like this actually exists. Does she? I'm sure she has to. 

Because the exact opposite exists. 

But let's be fair. 

There are thousands of smart, successful, graceful, happy women out there. Wonderful mothers, wonderful wives. Their lives are organized, yet they know when to let go and breathe the fresh air once in a while. Their lives are juggled with mirth and an ass-grab between lovers is perfectly acceptable. Somehow, they find the time to fit in a good run every morning, appreciate a dizzying array of musical genres, and love a big, heavy, hardcover Tolstoy while lying on the grass on a sunny day. Because of them, their boy children treat women with respect and awe and a gentle touch. Because of them, their girl children are strong, self-aware, capable, and stylish. Because of them, their husbands live beneath a rainbow of true love with fulfilled expectations, sans bitterness, san resentment, nor tension. He plays with her hair while they lunch together. She looks to him as she would a Michaelangelo beneath a noon sun. 

Hmph. That ain't me, either. 

But it's not my opposite. 

If fact, I'd venture to guess it might just be complete fiction. 

Then who am I, you ask? Certainly, if I am so intimately aware of my opposite, I should be just as intimately aware of myself. And to a large extent, I am. 

I am not tall. Curvy, but not overweight, and certainly nowhere near willowy. A bit muscular for my taste, but I wear it proudly. It's who I am. I love knowing what my body can do, and how much farther I can push it. I. Actually. Love. To. Run. Love it. The wind. The pounding feet. The burning thighs. Straining calves. The music ringing in my ears. Love it. 

I have no talent in the math arena. Zero. Failed algebra twice in school. Finally passed it with a C in college. Proud to say I even went as far as a statistics class. Passed it. Hated it with a passion. I couldn't tell you what a logarithm is to save my life. I'm good with computers, but naturally so. It isn't something I'm passionate about, nor would I ever want to make it a career. I learned through reverse engineering and a strange ability to fearlessly crack open a laptop or a CPU with wanton recklessness. I've never destroyed a computer, but my ego did destroy an Iphone not too long ago. Note to self- The ability to change an Iphone battery does not translate into the ability to replace an Iphone screen. Lesson learned. 

I am painfully aware of all that I don't know, and that there is so much more I'll never know that I don't know. And I love it. For if I knew it, the world would hold no mystery for me. And mystery is beauty.  

I am not a feminist. Not in any capacity. I have no desire to break glass ceilings or compete in male-dominated career fields simply for the sake of doing it. I chose to stay at home with my children from the day they were born until the day I handed them their signed and notarized high school diplomas.  I don't cook worth shit, but I taught my kids to cook. So at least there's that. 

I judge rage as completely unacceptable. There is nothing. NOTHING. Nothing okay with yelling at your family. Anger is one thing. Rage is another. Screaming is another. Loosing control of one's emotions such that it affects the well-being of your family is UNFUCKINGACCEPTABLE. There is no excuse. There are no "bad days" that justify this. You fucking fix yourself or you don't deserve to be a parent. Full stop. I chose to fix myself before my children were old enough to remember my rage. Because my family deserves the best of me. Period.  Would my opposite never have had this rage to begin with? Or would she have it yet without the ability to fix herself? It's been so long. And I am so far removed from that as an inherent part of me that it is difficult for to me say. But the more I think about it, the more I am sure my opposite would never have felt this rage. She would be wholly at peace with herself and the world around her, her frustrations engendering a calm introspection rather than a lashing out.

I have zero fashion sense. I hate shopping. I don't drink wine, or drink at all really. I chain smoke like a 3-dollar whore and wear yoga pants with motorcycle boots. I run races. I pick my zits. I dye my own hair, yet I don't brush it. I don't wear makeup but brush my teeth fanatically. I read horror, nonfiction, sci-fi, and stay on the fringes of fantasy. Very few authors can play with the big dogs in the fantasy genre and most of the time, it's just painful to watch them try. So I don't. My kids have grown up hearing their parents hurl the filthiest of pet names at one another yet everyone is laughing and no feelings ever get hurt. Needless to say, their first foray into the girlfriend arena was a disaster. They have now learned that 99% of the female population will not stand for being called a "crusty old bitch with sweet titties." Fortunately, my babies learn fast. My opposite's surface aesthetics and manifest formality would crash headlong into my laissez-faire trailer park quality.

I know my physical assets and I am not ashamed of them. A nice rack of cleavage in public is perfectly acceptable, and I am 100% aware of the men who look at me. What they think when they look at me is another matter entirely. Lord only knows. And I really don't care. Sex is the most fantastic thing ever invented and there is no limit on how much is appropriate, when, where, how loud, or how destructive. Sex. Just. Is. So do it. More. And a lot. It's good for you!

I'm horribly disorganized and frequently have flight of ideas and delusions of grandeur. My attention span is on par with a 5-year-old in a pile of leaves on an Autumn day. 

I am overflowing with faults and weaknesses. I am intolerably arrogant. I am painfully honest. A narcissist to the Nth degree. But I don't lie. I don't cheat. I don't steal.  And I am totally unapologetic about who I am. I care what I think. I care what the people I love think. If others have a problem with me, they can suck start a shotgun for all I care. Troll my comments, send me hate mail. Go ahead. All it does is give me a hearty laugh. But whatever you do, please don't email me pictures of your dick. Yes, that has happened. 

My opposite. Oh, how I'd love to meet her. Share a tall glass of whatthefuck and force her to listen to Jane's Addiction blaring "Ain't No Right" while listening to my assbackward ideas of womanhood. Maybe I'd even drag her along on a run with me. Force her to go a couple days without brushing her hair. Stay barefoot for as along as possible. Wallow in the grass. Share a smoke and talk North Korean politics for an afternoon. Debate the stupidity of roses and jewelry and why the career ladder she's climbing is doing nothing but wasting perfectly good fucking time. 
Maybe I'd even get her naked and force her to stare at herself in the mirror for as long as possible. 

And then ask her how in the HELL she puts up with the dregs of humanity with such grace and a smiling face, despite her acute lack of self-esteem.

Oh, where for art thou, opposite lady? Come to me! 

We have things to discuss.