so told to me the other day by N.H.
Writing by burn on Wednesday, 19 of September , 2007 at 5:18 am
“Hold on I want to explain this properly. I thought that we were bound by one simple cord, our relationship, and if I cut it, then that would be that. So I cut it, but that wasn’t that. There wasn’t just one cord, there were hundreds, thousands, everywhere I turned. Jo going quiet when I said we’d split up, and me feeling funny on your birthday, me feeling funny… not during sex with ray, but afterwards, and I felt sick when I played a tape that you’d made me, and I kept wondering how you were and… oh, millions of things. And then you were less upset than I thought you would be, and it made it harder… and then on the day of the funeral… it was me that wanted you there, not my mom. I mean, she was quite pleased I think, but it never occurred to me to ask Ray, and that’s when I felt tired. I wasn’t prepared to do all that work. It wasn’t worth it, just to be shot of you. You know I’m not very good at that sloshy stuff.”
You here that? She’s not very good at sloshy stuff? That, to me, is a problem as it would be to any man who had heard Dusty Springfield singing “The Look of Love” at an impressionable age. That is what I thought it was going to be like when I was married or settled, or whatever. I thought there was going to be this sexy woman with a sexy voice and all this sexy eye makeup whose devotion shone to me from every pore. And there is such a thing as the look of love-Dusty didn’t lead us up the garden path entirely- it’s just that the look of love isn’t what I expected it to be. it’s not huge eyes almost bursting with longing, situated somewhere in the middle of a double bed with the covers pulled down invitingly; its just as likely to be the look of benevolent indulgence that a mother gives a toddler, or a look of amused exasperation, even a look of pained concern. But the Dusty Springfield look of love? Forget it.
As mythical as the exotic underwear.
Women get it wrong when they complain about the media’s image of women. Men understand that not everyone has Bardot’s breasts, or Jamie Lee Curtis’s neck, or Cindy Crawford’s bottom, and we don’t mind at all. Obviously we would take Kim Basinger over Phyllis Diller, just as women would take Keanu Reeves over Sgt. Bilko, its not just the body that’s important, it’s the level of abasement. We worked out very quickly that the Bond girls were out of our league, but the realization that women don’t ever look at us the way Ursula Andrews looked at Sean Connery, or even the way Dorris Day looked at Rock Hudson, was much slower for most of us. In my case I’m not at all sure it ever did.
… It’s much harder to get used to the idea that my little-boy notion of romance, of negligees, and candlelit dinners at home, and long smoldering glances, had no basis in reality at all. That’s what women ought to get steamed up about; that’s why we can’t function properly in a relationship. It’s not the cellulite or the crows feet. It’s the… the… the…
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