Periodically I touch on this, with a feather, as my boyfriend puts it when I'm looking at something maybe too difficult to see head on all at once.
I have been accused of dense writing.
I have been compared to Thoreau.
My favorite: Gonzo (yes, really, that's my favorite)
I've never bored the pants off anyone (that I've been aware of) and if nothing else, it's generally interesting out here.
So that first sentence up there contains the word accused. That's how I heard it. Funny how we hear things, isn't it? Dense, meaning way too much information to process.
In 99.9999999% of all responses I would shrug and suggest you read elsewhere (because i don't write badly and I am not actually a Thoreau, but thank you) but sometimes it's hard not to turn that into this:
You are way too much to process.
So what I'm touching, ever so lightly (oh hell, do I even know how to use anything less than a 2x4 over my own head much less reduce to a feather?) is the accusation of being too much too much or worse yet putting myself in relationship with men where I am too much too much and I find myself doing the own work of whittling down, calming, smoothing, adjusting, accommodating, becoming something or someone else...
Except I don't do it entirely right because I am still wholly and completely me under there / here and I burst at the seams no matter how small I might make those stitches and if I am really paring myself down I will always and forever be
Too much too much.
So how do I feel about that?
The truth? Probably not what you think. I don't feel bad anymore, at least not so much. I don't feel defective, or out of line or wrong.
I feel lonely.
Mostly lonely though I think. It's good to isolate that.
I finally had the conversation with the photographer of naked twenty-something's and I'll give him this: he took it pretty well when I suggested that while his work was beautiful he was working with the low hanging fruit or, the really easy stuff. When he told me he worked with women in their 30s sometimes I asked if he knew how old I was. I don't know if he did or did not but he sure does now.
After that we talked about how I felt about my body and my age and that I hadn't actually been actively aware of my age or felt old until NM when I felt a bit boxed by it, as in, look at the 49 year old woman. Wait. How do you or anyone else know I'm 49? Because you are, get comfortable with it. Huh? I round up mostly, by the way, it's 2014 now, therefore I am 50. However, this wasn't much more than a benchmark until recently - by benchmark I mean, ok, my body has x number of miles on it, how we doing? Ok? Ok good. Not, oh shit, I'm half done I can't face it find me something young and tight so I can forget myself...
Anyway, I felt better when I was done with him or maybe in the end he was done with me because I had a very different experience of myself after two dances and one long conversation and he's going to have to work a lot harder in the studio with a woman who suddenly loathes her body again than with a woman who has remembered who she is. Like it or not, how we are reflected back by the people around us can have an enormous impact. All that really means is don't put yourself in the line of fire *and* it does not hurt to be appreciated.
Which brings us to the photograph from NYE. Elizabeth's dance teacher probably loves this best of all. She says it is like one generation spinning into the next. There are two ways to look at this; we coexist or there is only room for one.
*That* is a personal preference. Personally I see one very beautiful woman (I love that profile and I think it says everything you need to know about me) and a 13 year old girl who is entirely her own self and about to spin off into exactly that. I expect to see her shoot up 5 or 6 inches right in front of me when I look at her.
I am an open, caring, passionate woman. I am complex and you will know how I feel if you're close to me. I do my best to be responsible and I'm a human being. I sort of give myself permission to be that from time to time.
If I am too much too much...
Ooooohhhh... Holy shit. That's not actually on me.