Oh my dear rdemay,
It’s so hard to explain. Being an older hetero woman, even among male peers, I am the walrus—er, pickle.
Prickly pickle I guess. Yes, of course we all get a turn in the barrel. Look, the thing is, I know most men don’t want to feel badly that they are mostly attracted to women that are young, thin, pretty, trendy….but they are most often. Is it a function of the world we live in, received information? Probably. So should they choose the pickle like some affirmative action reaction? Maybe. Maybe they should.
And maybe, as my brother said to me this morning, I should think about how I have already determined that I am, always will be, seen as the pickle.
Of course, absolutely, this is affected by my psychology. I cannot, who knows maybe will not, eliminate that possibility, probability. I am placing myself, albeit in what may appear to be the whiniest of ways, on the front line, the barrel line, the fucking pickle (picket) line.
The thing is, that day I described, LJ was not burning. She was pretty damned quiet. But as you well know, gives off something bright. As do I—very much so.
What we, me and good ole LJ (I miss you terribly JD) are trying to do here is to reveal ourselves; in my angry, whiny, or loquacious way, I am offering a window into what I, and possibly many women, want, think, and feel. What I am hoping is that we will all disclose as well as theorize and contemplate. You know, the old writerly bit: show don't tell.
I dunno, sometimes I am so screwed up, so damaged, that I want to be the fucking plate!
So, here’s the thing…we were remiss in not figuring out the best way to respond sooner. So, be personal. Tell me what you want, what frightens you, point fingers or chew them off. Be naked.