I no longer have some hazy feminine internal biological clock ticking away the days until I fulfill my breeding responsibilities and get to wander around town carrying twenty stubborn extra pounds and a kidlet strapped to my chest like we’re ready for a tandem parachute jump.
I ponder a lot in the car. Cruising in traffic is an aid to thinking about the greatest mysteries of life. (I don’t know if that means that I have to be in favor of offshore drilling. But if I considered that issue in the car, I feel certain I would come to the proper conclusion.) O beloved idiotarod. How I long to ride the currents of your asphalt river, musing, swearing, singing out loud.
Yesterday, it was mostly swearing. Which is not uncommon. Which means that I had the windows wide open and the radio up. Nothing like a little HIM when you’re feelin’ low. At this moment, I would gush “I luv HIM” but it sounds so lame from someone who looks – and acts – like me. I don’t know what I must seem like, stuck in traffic, wearing my trampy white-framed sunglasses and my dingy drone disguise, wailing along to the magnificent thrum of a Finnish metal band. At least guys dig the trampy sunglasses. The wailing, probably not so much.
But I was fortunate enough to get stuck at a light next to this unutterably adorable guy. Trucker cap tipped back on his head in that bewitching “aw shucks, ma'am” style, hair the color of Tupelo honey, sweet golden tan skin the exact shade of butter toffee. If a wheat field and Jack Daniels had a baby, it would look like this man. I would wade through him at sunset carrying a long-neck and belting out Sweet Dreams of You. Shucks was driving a forest green pick-up with a lift kit and a quality spray of mud along the side. Bliss. The sight of him pierced me and I thought, “I’d hit that.”
This muttered revelation made me realize something – yes, something besides “Holy crap, I said that Out Loud AND my windows are open.” It made me realize that I am A Guy. No kidding. I perceive the absolute essence of guyness. It is appetite. I look at everything now and make rapid assessments of my longing – or instinctive hatred – for that object. Men. Clothes. Food. Cars. Job. Want it or not? Now.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m still all girl all the time, top and bottom. Wink, wink. And I can pass the Star Trek ‘Do Me’ test.*
*Star Trek “Do Me’ Test: Any female alien life form that might be hittable must pass two crucial tests. One, does it have boobs? Two, can it talk? Kirk couldn’t latch on to just any old space trash.
But in my thoughts, I think I have crossed over. I just want stuff. Or really really don’t want stuff. Whatever I do want, I want it now. Cold liquor, hot dudes, cool rides, crispy fries, a bedroom that looks like Greta Garbo’s and an ass that looks like Kerri Walsh’s. I’ve lost interest in sharing, nurturing and nesting. I don’t need a relationship or common interests. I want all of my wishes granted with no confusion, no conversation and no consequences. If he’s tall, vigorous and ten years younger than I am, we are five by five. (Okay, for some indescribably weird reason, I still like guys with cute teeth. What are cute teeth, you ask? Don’t ask.)
I no longer have some hazy feminine internal biological clock ticking away the days until I fulfill my breeding responsibilities and get to wander around town carrying twenty stubborn extra pounds and a kidlet strapped to my chest like we’re ready for a tandem parachute jump. Oh, no. Instead of that I now have an impatient heel-tapping seventeen-year-old dude sucking down a Super Big Gulp Mountain Dew, devouring Funions and stroking his 3G iPhone while he listens to Decapitated and surfs the web for quality free porn thumbs. What is that he’s yelling? “Now!”
What the hell has happened to me?
The perfect Vineyard vacation. An overpriced black fit and flare dress that would make me look like Gisele Bundchen - if Gisele Bundchen ever wore anything but swimsuits and lingerie. The ultimate broccoli with hot garlic sauce. A dynamite break to start a game of cut-throat. And that thing that I focus on when the rest of the world is dead to me: book deal, book deal, book deal. Oh I want them all. And I want them all now.
All those icky bits that I don’t want – like cellulite, kitty speak bible translations, drunk jerks who don’t respect my personal space, nuclear proliferation and anything related to tampons – I just want them to Get Off My Lawn. Ahhhh. There. Now don’t you feel better?
John 3:16 as you have never heard it before: "So liek teh Ceiling Cat lieks teh ppl lots and he sez 'Oh hai I givez u my only son and ifs u beleevs in him u wont evr diez no moar, k?" The Celing Cat ?!?
In realizing that men are simply giant walking bundles of appetite seeking immediate gratification without consequences, I have another revelation. Are all men actually Veruca Salt? I’ll think about that on my next drive home.
Danica Patrick during her daily commute (I'm waaay cuter! :-D)
Kerri Walsh serves hot, kicks butt, fights AIDS
Gisele Bundchen with no swimsuit or lingerie - now you feel better!
Veruca Salt - Bad Egg from Galleries onenineeighteight Kathy Olivas