Please Read These Words

What’s this shit about “mom jeans?”  The President supposedly wore some while he tossed a game opening pitch last week.  From what I read, they are unflattering jeans.  Fashion critics were aghast because Obama could’ve worn something more snug, showing off his fit bod.

If I were a mom, I’d be really pissed.  I happen to be married to one, and I’m still pissed.  This is another sign of the apocalypse.  Let’s all diss on moms.  Let’s diss on their “frumpy” attire.  Let’s reward their role of furthering life on the planet by making fun of  their bodies and fashion sense–as if the trials of childbirth were not challenging enough.  Let’s just keep on protecting the idea that Pamela Anderson jeans are the only way to go–and apparently, that goes for men too.  No thanks.  Obama, I’m glad you stated you go for comfort.  Room for our buddies to breathe is paramount.

We are no longer life forms; we are sex machines.  We have created the standard on the world wide web, in the fashion mags, on TV, movies, ad infinitum.  We are to be athletic, proportioned–or with breasts so big we’re in danger of needing lower back surgery.  It’s about time someone reminds people about this fact:   Sex appeal comes from within.  It is the secret recipe out of which our hearts and minds interpret our experience. 

I’ve met sexy fat people, sexy skinny people, and sexy in between people.  The unifying principle was a confidence transmitted in the subtle realm.  It is an it, that people possess.  And it, is always in the eye of the beholder.   Never forget, Another person’s trash is another person’s treasure.

This is not a rant against aesthetics and a healthy looking body, I think we’re all attracted to health; go ahead and enjoy a well-sculpted frame.  I just want to offer a plea for a broader perspective in what it is that turns us on.  There is a whole package that needs to be assessed.

To the women wearing “mom jeans”…  I think you’re hot.  There’s nothing sexier than breasts engorged with milk under a spit-up stained shirt.  I know you didn’t have time to take a shower because the kids didn’t take a nap today, and I want you to know, I crave your womanly stink.  I even love your sleep-deprived angry vibe.  You want some relief.  You want that tension gone…  I’m your Huckleberry.

Yes folks, the title of this post is the time I’m writing it.  You might call this lazy, but it stems from the fact that, for me, this “blog” thing is a creative writing exercise.  I sometimes have a subject in mind that I want to write about; or,  more often than not, I just click on “new post” and start typing. 

So what’s on my mind today?  Well, let’s just say that it’s been a little weird to have some actual people commenting on my writing since I put an actual book out there for purchase.  I sort of used this blog site as a training ground for confidence.  I put stuff on the web, not telling anyone that it was here for a long time.  I think the fact that people could have read it if they accidentally found this site was enough for me.  I’ve said for a while that I enjoy writing, but I never said I liked the idea of people reading what I wrote.  That’s just plain terrifying…  Or used to be.  It still gives me a sick feeling but I do it anyway. 

I have written many a sentence that kept me from throwing in the towel.  The process of getting a notebook and a comfortable pen, and watching the pen puke out the demons on a coffeehouse table has healed my soul sickness again and again.  I also learned to type in 8th grade and it seemed to stick.  I’m amazed that my brain can tell each finger what to do, and I don’t even have to look at the keyboard.  I’ve reached that point where entire words just appear on the screen as soon as I think of the word.  Amazing. 

I guess my point is, if I didn’t learn to type, I might not think stringing words together was nearly as fun.  Typing gives us instant access to what our thoughts might look like in a book.  And I like books…  especially ones written by other people.  I’m still learning to appreciate my own words, and I’m simultaneously trying to stop caring.  For instance, when I look at that phrase, appreciate my own words, I get that sick feeling.  Really?  There are people dodging bullets in Palestine, and I’m worried about self-appreciation.  I’m reminded of a Stuart Smalley Saturday Night Live skit making fun of self-help gurus or psychotherapists.

Anyway, kidding aside, words are indeed thoughts and observations about the world I live in, and the world I believe others inhabit.  Words are important.  I am important.  You are important.  We all are.  I came to the conclusion that I write because I love life, and whether or not it’s good enough is not the point.  We all have songs to sing and stories to tell.  There are way too many songs and stories underneath headstones.  Humans are here to sing, dance and sit around the fire enjoying the glow of our faces, laughing and crying together as we share the days’ experiences. 

Thank you to all who have encouraged me to keep stoking the fire.