"You can have any man you want...you're a vixen," Morpheus tells me on that special Wednesday.
I don't tell him that I feel more like a fatten cow, that the main reason why I told him I wouldn't have sex with him wasn't because "it would make things more confusing" (although this is certainly true and should have merit, all on its own), but because despite years ago making a living taking my clothes off, I don't want to undress for anyone--even if they paid me.
I keep watching the video of my poetry reading, not because I'm in love with the sound of my own voice, but because I'm shocked how fat I look. To test this point, I went to a simple website to calculate my BMI, and was shocked further still (and no, I will not tell you what the number was). But the site did explicitly say, "You need to lose weight." Hmm, thanks. Couldn't have guessed that, all by my little self.
I recently read a couple of articles (one was quoted by the Huffington Post as sort of a joking, a "ha, ha, isn't this stupid?!?") that basically said rich men are swarmed by women, and therefore they only pick the most beautiful of the bunch. If you're a feminist, this idea should rightly piss you off. But one article said that beautiful women marry handsome men--and unfortunately for all of us (except, you know, the wealthy), money makes people more attractive. So, which is it, women, are we marrying for a secure, financial future or are we just latching onto the hottie (who happens, by pure accident, to also make a few million dollars a year)?
Many women are comfortable with the idea that the main reason why they are with so-n-so is because he finds them irresistible, not because they have an MBA. Women in their mid-twenties are prime. We latch onto that fable that men are weak in the presence of our youthful sexuality. Unfortunately (again, that word), people get old, and a lot of us get old and fat. If your man is really that rich and powerful, what keeps him from dumping you the second you grow a wrinkle or two (one article addressed this issue, and said that it doesn't happen often--people, even the wealthy, want companionship)?
Why is this idea so troubling? I'm glad you asked, because you know that the issue was going to swing back around to Morpheus. He could be lying to me (I wouldn't be surprised), he could be saying these things because he wants to get a reaction out of me (again, wouldn't be surprised there either) or maybe he's just being smugly honest. You know, a bit like going out hunting and then putting the deer's head on the wall, except in the game of sex and love, most people don't get chopped up to pieces. He says he has young women, in their early twenties, who throw themselves at him. This I honestly can understand. Usually, all in one man, you don't get handsome, smart, charming, rich and--remember?--the big dick. Surely, someone besides me, will come to the conclusion that he's quite the catch, and latch onto him for dear life, like a deer tick, to be exact. A burgeoning one.
So, again, I'm left with mixed feelings. My liberal attitudes tell me that casual sex doesn't mean anything. He could be screwing a few new girls every week, and it wouldn't say anything about how he feels about me. Sure, that's probably true--after all, you can't control someone's sexuality. He tells me that they mean "nothing, absolutely nothing" (well they mean something or you wouldn't be screwing them). However, the idea that bothers me the most is: I'm competing against twenty-year-olds who are probably thinner and, dare I say it, better looking, and ho hum. What is a fat, thirty-three-year-old to do?
Ten years ago, as a thriving dancer, I wouldn't even have this conversation with myself because I would naturally assume that I had certain advantages over your average University student twenty-something.
Those days have, unfortunately (again), passed. My physical therapist tells me that he can get me in the best shape of my life--that's a tall order. I had a twenty-eight inch waist, and my thighs didn't even touch when I stood (which, to women, is a big deal). I'm not doubting that someday, I can return to my previous level of fitness or thinness. That's totally possible, but it's going to take somewhere around a year to lose all that weight. So, I don't have sex for a year? Do I just ask for the lights to be turned off?
In the meantime, Morpheus is learning what every single person knows, especially those of us who are in our later years (because being thirty-three is so old), that being alone and without a steady partner is at times depressing and isolating, but also can be liberating and exciting. You can do whatever the fuck you want, fuck whoever you want, and no one says shit about it! You don't have to answer the phone, you're not the dog on the leash anymore! You're free to be an asshole and fuck strange women. Even two at a time, if it so pleases you.
Most people assume, though, that being in a romantic relationship is still far better than being alone, and the freedoms we perceive that we have when we are alone are illusionary. Yes, you get to pick the channel on the TV, but you're still sitting on the couch with your Ben&Jerry's, and no one has called you for like two days--and don't people care about me anymore?--no one gives a shit. Sigh.
To sum it all up, I would be devastated if a man I was serious about said he was only attracted to me because of my physical appearance. What about our brains, ladies? Doesn't that count for something? Besides using it to measure out flour. Shouldn't we be valued for being the special individuals that we are? Not all of us are lucky like my mother, who is fifty-four-years-old, still more beautiful than most women half her age, still wears a size two, and she has a Master's in Accounting because--guess what--she's fucking smart.
So, take that, fellas.
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