Morning Pages - Labor Day Edition

Summer is over or nearly. Thank Christ. That’s strange, I know—I was so looking forward to summer and now I’m glad to see the back of it. But there have been certain benefits to the warmer temps—are my waist and hips really smaller since I started the morning power-walks? (Thanks, Mom!:-D)

So frustrating though, on these walks. This morning as I’m huffing and puffing toward Washington Park all sorts of interesting thoughts pop into my head: imaginary conversations, a flood of memories both funny and painful—and I could write none of it down because I was out of doors pumping those arms and legs, trying to get some me some serious metabolism boost.

Now that I’ve showered, and dressed for around the house comfort, and am sitting at my desk ready to write—I’m drawing a blank. It never fails. I may have to invest in a micro recorder or some kind of mini equipment I can take with me so that I can record my morning walk musing to transcribe later on because this is getting annoying. Anne Lamott suggests always having an index card and pencil or pen with you so that you can at least jot a few key words that will help you recall later whatever it is you noticed or thought about, but I don’t like the idea of having to slow to scribble things. I’ll try the tape recorder—something compact and tiny—and see how that works for me.

One thing I do recall muttering to myself about today is remembering my much younger self being afraid of people figuring out my queerness. Not sure what brought all that back. There I was, the twenty-something me, working as a teller at the Peyton Place that was You Bank, trying desperately hard to keep my balance as some co-workers (especially women) endlessly prodded and poked at me these uncomfortably personal questions and the males--some of them--did their best to catch and hold my attention. Cops especially, working security duty. Which was the case years earlier at Playboy Inc. as well. (And there's that police officer who comes into the library, and a security guard here in my building... just what is it about me that so attracts law enforcement personnel???)

God, I was so frightened.

Of so many things, of pretty much everything. I was so tightly wound and so neurotically fearful of anyone noticing how little interest I had in whatever it was girls were supposed to care about. Certainly by my twenties I’d (finally) begun to look like a girl, and I truly enjoyed feeling more attractive, more womanly—two or three years earlier while still living in California I’d finally ditched the teenage eyeglasses for contacts, bought some flirty summer dresses and serious heels, and wandered into a Merle Norman shop (“Get Your Face Made Up For Free!” chirped all those glossy before and after magazine ads) and learned at last how to pretty myself up. It was quite the transformation—for the first time in my life I was a very glam girlie girl.

And I loved it. Try to imagine how much.

Then I started to realize the kind of attention I was attracting, very amorous attention I really didn’t want and didn’t know how to turn aside or side step gracefully. Oh I liked the compliments when that’s all they were, particularly from a stranger passing me on the street or a fellow passenger on a bus ride—people I knew I’d never meet again, never have to deal with. This was true even with the occasional jerk, some idiot who obviously thought I was obliged to melt with gratitude and immediately hand over my address and phone number and who’d then snarl Fuck you bitch when I declined. (Yeah, that’ll teach me. Asshole. )

But things got a lot more complicated when the tribute was coming from men I worked with or men who were neighbors, people I couldn’t shake off so easily. Some of these guys were so determined and persistent that they’d wear me down and then I’d go on these hellish dates where every minute, all through the movie, all through the dinner, and especially near the end with the stroll to the door, I was jumpy and on edge. (What if he tries to kiss me? He’s going to try to kiss me, I can feel it! What the hell do I do if he kisses me? What if he tries to do more than kiss me? Why did I agree to this? What is wrong with me? and etc.)

I would get so mad at myself, trying to will myself to relax already and just enjoy the stupid evening, you know, it’s not that big a deal, it doesn’t mean anything, you’re not marrying him for Chrissakes!, trying to calm myself with the thought that I was under no obligation to do anything I didn’t want to do or to allow to happen anything I didn’t want to happen. Sure they wanted sex, they all want sex, so what? (So do you, but not with them.) You’re in charge, Lorraine, I’d tell myself, remember that. You’re driving the bus. If you don’t like what happens next, kick ‘em the fuck off! You’re the boss!

I was the boss.

Yeah. Right. Sure I was. On these dates I never felt less in control—of anything, including myself—in my entire life. I felt like a hostage, truly, like I could make no boundaries, and had no real right to say no. I’m shaking my head as I type this, remembering my pathetic attempts at setting some ground rules: We’re going Dutch. Or, how ‘bout you pay for the tickets and I’ll pay for the gas and pick up the dinner check. Dessert's on you, fine. I would be firm on this, and these guys, they’d give me that savvy look, they'd smile and go, Yeah okay. Whatever you want. And then flatly refuse to let me pay for anything when we were actually out and about, all with the supposed unspoken understanding between us (most of the time but not in all cases) that if he paid for everything while we were out, I of course owed him a little sumthin’ sumthin’ when we were in (my place, his place, a locked parked car; wherever). It was unnerving, and when the date was over and I'd made it home unscathed I’d be absolutely drained, like I’d survived a perilous crossing through a land mined war zone.

And it didn’t help one whit that in those years damn near everyone around me, by which I mean well-meaning friends and family, would cheerfully get all up in my business, rooting for certain guys and wanting blow by blow accounts of everything that happened when I went out with them, including wanting to know when I planned to see the guy again. They would try to arrange dates for me, pushing me at these guys, talking them up, and teasingly dismissing my embarrassed protests that I didn’t want that kind of help, honest. If some moonstruck guy was pestering me with phone calls and I got cranky about it I’d get scolded for being mean and hurting his feelings. What about my feelings?, I’d sulk, guiltily. What about what I want instead of what everyone else seems to want for me? I felt surrounded.

Eventually, I’d get pissed off and fed up with feeling cornered by the assumptions and expectations of the whole hetero world. I didn’t have the guts to be honest, even with myself, especially with myself, and I’d go into tailspins of fury and resentment, glowering and snarling at anyone who got too close or asked too many questions. Fuck Hetero World—fuck everybody. And fuck me too, for being such a wuss (albeit a glamorous, cherry red chapstick wuss), for wimping out on myself and letting everyone else dictate who I was supposed to be.