One Big Step

We hear how girls dream of their wedding day with the gown and church yadda yadda yadda.  Well I used to fantasize about a wedding day too.  But in my fantasy, I tolerate the planning, survive the ceremony, have fun at the reception, and race to a honeymoon where you feast on an all you can eat buffet of uninhibited sex.   I would be willing to be happy about spending $700 for stupid flowers that you barely notice if I thought I wasn’t making a mistake.  But I did.  In the movies, it’s usually the girl that’s marrying the wrong guy and they get rescued by Dustin Hoffman (The Graduate) or Leonardo DiCaprio (Titanic). This wasn’t the movies and a leading lady like a Kate Beckinsale wasn’t going to show up and change everything.    

 Any socially unacceptable feelings needed to be buried – deep.  Nobody could ever know that I still noticed girls – in particular a certain centrally located section of the female body.  I know; what’s the big deal, you can see them at Mardi gras (I‘ve never been); you can see 50% of them at the neighborhood pool.  And if you are lucky enough to see any, you should be able to burn that memory into your minds storage.  You can’t. It’s not like seeing the Grand Canyon where you look for a couple minutes and that’s enough – you’ve seen it, time to move on.  No.  Somewhere in the genius of evolution it became advantageous to passing on one’s DNA if there was no storage capacity in the brain for such an image.    In reality, it doesn’t matter how much milk a girl can produce for offspring – that’s so 5000 years ago.  But this kind of logic doesn’t satisfy the curiosity aroused by the near perfect convexity pushing on an article of clothing. Yes, the recurring desire to see breasts is completely illogical and women don’t even understand it (at-least according to Julia Roberts in Notting Hill).  Though they may not understand, it is apparent that women have figured out there is some sort of a correlation between this part of the female body and attention from men.  I read a book that theorized that a long time ago women thought it was just their shirts that were attracting the attention and this led to an erroneous emphasis on fashion that has yet to be eradicated.  Okay, I made that part up.

 On the surface I don’t seem much different than anyone else; but now, below the surface, I was residing in the shallow end of the pool.  Living your life short of complete honesty is a slippery slope.  If given the chance to do it again, the path would be clear.  Being yourself, even if you’re rotten, would at least be a life without regrets.  People understand someone having quirks or even fetishes if that’s who they are.    But I was getting married now.  Would I grow up and act like an adult or would I melt down.  I didn’t really know.    




Posted on October 17, 2011, in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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