Day 281: Naked with Sir Quips-A-Lot
Friday, October 15, 2010
The morning sun is peaking through the top of the curtain and I can see my nakedness clearly in the dresser mirror across the room. My pendulous, womanly sisters are glistening and it feels like the force of the ocean is roaring beneath me.
I look down - and when Mr. Wonderful's eyes are open, it is like he is looking at the most delicious steak, and when they are closed - it is like he is savoring it.
This is dope.
Not because I have managed to have [insert Pig Latin here] ex-say during this presidential administration. [My average is every 1.5 presidential admins - it is just easier to buy batteries in bulk from Home Depot than grapple with the drama surrounding ex-say and nudity and/or dudes.]
But because things like stretch marks and extra skin and jiggly bits hadn't even crossed my mind [I mean I was totally enthralled with how great the sisterhood was rocking it. I know. Right? Focus.]
And never in a billion years did I think I would be comfortable naked in front of another human being - in this way.
But I was.
And it felt like freedom to know the life where I picked men who hated my body is behind me.
And it felt like freedom to know that I can admire my body with love.
But enough about ex-say. That started weeks ago. Now, I am two seconds away from slapping Mr. Wonderful's Adam's apple right off his neck. [Figuratively, of course - real violence is tacky and highly unethical. I am just talking about imaginary slapping here because I am angry.]
I haven't spoken to him since last Sunday when we spent our first full weekend together [big mistake – or maybe a blessing in disguise].
As Mr. Wonderful gets more comfortable [we've been dating since August 29th], he is unleashing tons o’ sarcastic jokes all. the. time [ugh!] in lieu of actual conversation.
I let the first sarcastic "joke" go a month ago when he laughingly said "we" have to do something about all of the cat hair in my house. [a) I have cats, hence cat hair, b) how rude?!, c) I do not like being told to clean - like "oh no he didn't," and d) shut up.]
My house will not pass any white glove test - like ever, if the judge is sober - but it is appropriately organized, passably clean and Febreezed for company ['cause I was raised right]. I replied, "Anytime you want to clean my house, then clean. You can also stay home.”
Mostly, I figured we were still getting to know each other's sense of humor.
Last weekend, we went to the Morris Arboreteum in Pennsylvania [totally gorgeous and fun] and then we had lunch in Chestnut Hill. The weather was unusually spring-like on this fall day.
At night, he brought groceries and poured me a glass of wine and lovingly offered to serve me fruit, cheese and crackers that he meticulously cut and arranged on a plate. Yes, there are super sweet moments.
But then there was last weekend where he started calling me a "princess" because I like the doors held open for me. [It never seemed a problem before…] Again, he says he is just joking.
Don't get me wrong - I like sarcasm. I like jokes. But like cute accessories - less is more [I'm just sayin'].
I felt every question or comment or conversation ended with a sarcastic quip [relentless, exhausting...] and I said so.
He reiterated that he is just trying to have fun. He gave me a few suggestions on how to handle his joking instead of acting like an angry “third-grader.” [Yes, he said third-grader and again he cleverly cloaked it in laughter.] There was also something about not changing each other after that… but I was issed-pay.
The old me would laugh it off too.
The old me would make excuse upon excuse to salvage the romance and just stay angry and miserable, wasting years of this precious life.
The old me would try to figure him out like a psychologist and be understanding.
But that was then and this is now.
Now, my feelings matter. And I have a no-tolerance policy for name-calling or underhanded insults masquerading as jokes [because they are not funny]. And I am not understanding like Oprah – and his inner-child can suck it.
Because the one thing – and one of the most important things – I have learned on this journey is that words are powerful. They can lift you up to unthinkable heights or drag you down to the same dark places.
I don’t know where the carefree, sincere conversation absconded to, but I will happily follow.
I much prefer to be happy and free any day. Freedom is not a consolation prize - freedom is a gift. Period. [And freedom doesn't art-fay or use my bathroom. See - that is a joke.]
Still, there is a message on my voicemail from Sir Quips-A-lot [aka and formerly Mr. Wonderful] left on Tuesday. He says, "Hey Sexy. Just calling to check on you."
I never said he wasn't sweet. He is.
It will make dumping him much harder.
But I will manage.
As it turns out, I can open doors.
I can also close them.