Love like a girl, play like a woman

Every once in a while, I feel like a coke bottle. No, I don’t mean, dark, chocolatey, and shaped like an hourglass. I mean red, sticky, and shaking so much that my top will pop off. I need an outlet for all of the fizz, but I’m afraid to splash some poor unsuspecting yob. I usually blame it on PMS, or the moon. There’s a full yellow one in the sky this week, so I can blame both.

I’d like to find a tall building and howl at the moon, but there aren’t too many around here. I’d like to write some deep, complex poetry, but I haven’t done that in years. I’d like a full glass of Malibu, or maybe five. I’ll get that tomorrow if the moon’s still full.

I’ve been playing this quote over and over in my head:

It’s hard to love a woman who doesn’t love herself.

I’ve always detested the games women play – hard to get, aloof, unfeeling. But there’s a lot of use in them. They keep you from getting hurt. They leave the cards safely in your hands. They stop you from second-guessing, because you have all the answers … and wield all the questions.

Being a girl is different. It’s loving with joy and innocence. You don’t know love can hurt. You do cartwheels when you see him, giggle when you hear him, blush when you call him, tingle when you touch him, bump him by the stairway … think life is beautiful. Sometimes you grow into a woman, find your claws, scream, curse his ex, ration affection.

I always say love is a decision, and in some ways, so is the craziness that comes with it. You can’t decide who to love – that’s why it’s called falling. But you choose what to do about it. It is possible to stop yourself from yanking his exes’ eyes out. Challenging, but possible.

It’s unlikely I’ll ever learn to be a woman, but I’d love a way to deal with this. If I could get so wrapped up in my own life that I don’t try to worry about his, well, it would be a good place to start.

Meh. I should have just written a poem.