I look at myself in the mirror today and I've turned into this different person - in a good way. Still have some old demons to battle, and sometimes think they may be around longer than I'd like. I'm doing these things, with ease and grace, without complications, they happen. I feel like the person my shy, insecure teenage self aspired to be. Generally, I also get that this person, this me (who while still me inside seems, from an outward point of view, so strange and exotic) feels , generally, at peace, one with all that is good and happy and blissful and alive. Bumper sticker takeback - MY god IS EVERYTHING. You, me, that rock, this pen, my cat, the wind and my aching back. All one.
And then, some asshole disrupts it. I had a run in with someone I swear I've never met (though he argued otherwise) and the energy was off. It confused me at first, then made me embarrassed that I could possibly have no recollection of this individual, then put together some pieces and felt like I was in a sticky trap. Wait. Stop. This does not feel right. Of course this is in the five minutes my husband leaves my side and is across the packed, sweaty room. (He and I have already determined that this is the warmest place in Philadelphia right at that moment.) Am I really this forgetful, or is this person just mistaking me for someone else? I realize I look like a different person quite literally, with a brand new haircut, first in many years. That must be it. Or is it fake, and that why the energy is repelling me so harshly, and my "friend" beside me can only lower her fake eyelashes and shrug slightly, to say - don't worry about him. And then I realize he's touching me - not groping, not blatant disrespect, but definitely not wanted and definitely out of my comfort zone for someone I am now convinced I really, really, do not know. Where is my husband? I excuse myself with no good reason and find him. We leave. One bad apple in a sea of ripening fruit, more of them destined to become inedible, some soon, as the morning continues on. The weird energy stays with me, and disturbs my experience - tainting, just slightly, the paisley patterns and fractal emerald palaces dotting my landscape, eyes closed or open.
PLUR, really, all the way. Love is the answer. (Probably.) Why are there those out there destined to slightly poison the experience for the rest of us? I'm thankfully not too familiar with having forceful, unwanted, sexist or misogynistic advances thrust upon me, and even the slightest bit of it from 10 minutes of my night(morning) makes me terrified of whateverthefuck that is in men that thinks that's okay. I don't want to know people like that, capable of that. If that's a mental chemical imbalance or emotional scars coming out, fine - but can't we extinguish it before it starts? I guess I could have protested louder, drawn attention to this spectacle somehow, had all of my friends (male and female, normal people) instantly come to my rescue. I rest assured if my husband had been involved this guy would have been outside in a manner of minutes, or at least on the floor out cold. Maybe he did really think I was someone he knew, someone not me, from wherever in Philly that was so commonplace and stereotypical (rattles off two major center city streets, both of which I happened to work on at some point - along with a million other people.)
Right. Or, I just let some random stranger ruin the end to a perfectly fantastic party. Can't we just hand pick the partygoers and kick out the douchebags already? Because while the universe certainly speaks some all-one connections, I just don't feel like including every asshole who accidentally got let into Mr. Mayjahs house cause they heard there were hot barely clothed chicks dancing around all fucked up. Sure, there are those, but I'm fucking sure as hell not one of them, and burlesque does not mean whore.
No comments:
Post a Comment