So thanks to you – best readers ever – I topped what I did last year and am nominated for four Black Weblog Awards! You guys fucking rock. Now you know what to do right? Head over here to get instructions and whatnot and help me bring it home this year.
A week or two ago I had a conversation with a good friend about the Spectacular Asshole. My friend was a little frustrated by the ways in which I seemed to be allowing Mr. SA to boss me around and dismayed by the effect it was having on me. He didn’t ask me to explain myself to him, but I attempted to anyway; probably as much for my own edification as for his.
After a long dramatic pause, the best explanation I could come up with for why I sometimes allow the SA to run me is that it seems to be the price I have to pay for a certain feeling he gives me. Because one of the ways in which he stays winning over any other man I’ve been with is his ability to make me feel cared for. The dynamic of our relationship is such that he makes me feel delicate and small. In need of protection and completely protected. And this dynamic frees me to admit that I want and need protection and care sometimes.
Case in point: some of you know that over this past long weekend I came down with a cold. I spent most of Sunday and Monday in bed (in case you’re wondering, this is why Monday’s post went up late) with my throat feeling like I swallowed acid, a pounding headache, and a fever of a magnitude that felt like I was near death. Because I so rarely get sick, I had no cough syrup, no Advil, no Halls, not even so much as a fucking tea bag in my house. The only thing I could do to ease the pain was suck on Crystal Light ice cubes. And that wasn’t doing much.
By Monday afternoon, I felt like I would have sold my left ovary for a cup of tea. But it was a holiday and nothing in my neighbourhood was open so I was forced to suffer in nothing close to silence. I called my mum to whine about how crappy I felt, but that did little to relieve me. All she did was a) berate me for not having cold remedies in my house and b) urge me to call my friend Lovesponge and ask him to bring me drugs.
Had I not been so sick, I would have laughed loud and long at that suggestion. Because I am not – nor do I ever foresee becoming – the kind of girl to call up a man and ask him to bring me something. Even if it is just a friend. There is only one thing I hate more in life than admitting I need help and that is asking for it. So no way in hell was I calling him to bring me drugs. Even though I knew very well that if he could have, he would have.
Later that day the bestie @emti fell victim to my whining. And while I chatted with her I had an epiphany that I could call Mr. SA and ask him to bring me tea or drugs. Or both. She thought it was a perfectly reasonable thing to do while I immediately balked at the suggestion.
Fast forward an hour or two later and my throat is on fire. I need honey but I need it to be in tea and I need those special citrus Halls that soothe my throat but don’t taste like burning ass. But I’ve got the chills and the shakes and I cannot wander aimlessly among the crackheads to find an open store. So what do I do? I pick up the phone and I dial the Spectacular Asshole’s number. He says hello and I whine his name in my most pathetic voice. He immediately switches into caregiver mode and it’s all “What’s wrong Baby?” and “Why do you sound like that?” and “What do you need?”.
And just like that I felt a million times better. That’s the cared-for feeling that as a single woman I don’t get enough of. And after I whined to him about how sick I was and how much my throat hurt, I didn’t even have to ask him to bring me anything. He just told me he was on his way. I quickfast threw in my request for a tea and set about making myself presentable for his arrival.
The thing is though that when he got here, he didn’t bring the citrus Halls I like, he brought the scary ones in the black package that I have to suck in stages (pause?). He brought Buckley’s, which I am more afraid of than just about anything else in life. And yes, he brought my tea but he also insisted I gargle with salt water. And stood there and watched me do it. Then forced me to take a spoonful of the Buckley’s and put me to bed with the nasty ass Halls in my mouth. And wouldn’t let me smoke! This man is a fucking tyrant, I swear.
After he left I was kind of annoyed. The combination of Buckley’s and saltwater aftertaste rendered my tea undrinkable and those Halls were killing me dead. So I sucked an ice cube while smoking a cigarette and then I went to sleep pissed. But when I woke up in the morning I had a text from him saying he hoped I slept well and asking me to call him to let him know how I was feeling and I had a grin a mile wide.
This to me, is the double-edged sword of relationships. For every great feeling you get from the person you’re with, there is a shitty feeling in inverse proportion. I love feeling protected by Mr. SA, but I do sometimes chafe against his bossiness. In the past I’ve loved the passion and intensity of my relationships while bemoaning the drama and volatility of them. I’ve loved the innocence and hated the stupidity, loved the secrecy and illicitness even while I felt slightly dirty for being hidden. That’s just the way life goes it seems.
But is that the way it has to be or do I suffer from an imbalance in my relationships? Is there no way to feel protected without feeling controlled? No way to feel passionate without also feeling crazy? What do you guys think? Are relationships meant to be filled with double-edged swords? Speak on it in the comments.
And please don’t forget to vote for me to win a Black Weblog Award or four. If you don’t want me to be the Susan Lucci of black blogging, do me a favour and click here
Sunday morning I woke up to the smell of bacon frying. Dishes ...
Quiet as it's kept, things were relatively new between Mr. Max ...
I have a friend that has a great guy. She's really lucky. He's ...
I'm a writer. You guys already know this. And as a writer, you ...