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Brooks Carpenter (preppyindian) wrote,
@ 2003-09-27 11:45:00
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    intimacy...and stuff
    For all those bezillion years i spent coming of age, i dedicated myself to Romance--all of Romance: love, valor, the hero's boast, feats of bravado, feats of idiocy, tender gestures, and daring daylight rescues. once or twice, i found love. I did. I found women i abolsutely, completely, and totally loved. I guess, however, I loved Romance more than love, because the loves have headed on down the dusty trail; and I live with sepia-faded mental images and idealized notions of those owmen really lived and thought and felt and touched and smelled...and all the rest. For the last of those bezillion years, as I finally, grudgingly crossed-over the magical-mystical threshold of maturity, i have gone numb, become a machine, done everything "right," dutiful," and respectable. I grew-up, and Romance faded, and now...
    Now, I hate how cynical I have become. Yeah, yeah, practical and realistic add-up to cynical: the gorgeous thirty-something woman with the big-big hair and the golden suntan might have loved me...except the guy with the car and the money distracted her from the importance of substance and heart. The guy will lose his hair, crash his car, squander his money, and reveal what a blow-dryed little marshmallow he really is; in the end, substance and heart will prevail. And, in the end, I'll have grown too old and feeble to remember. I hear W.C. Fields's voice ringing in my ears. In the same way that he never would join a club that would grant him membership, I have an uneasy feeling i never would love, and certainly never could respect, a woman who could condescend to love me...not if I persisted in those old Romantic ways. But, now, if a woman came-along and recognized the character and spirit in me, letting go of concerns about meny and "stuff," and investing in character, imagination, bravery, and depth... Well, how would that sentence end?
    I gave-up Romance, risked cynicism, and discovered the value of simple care.
    I can do everything for "you," and I can do everything to maintain me. And I think I'm really, pretty-much okay with all that. Functional, and all. It seems so little to ask: Please, just care about me. Don't bother caring for me; I'm not broken or decrepit. Just care about me. And, when we both feel the care, the intimacy will flourish. I hope

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