have you ever realized how innately sexy the act of driving is? (i hadn’t until recently) seriously, there’s something about watching a guy drive that never fails to excite me. the control, the dexterity involved — i think it really comes down to the graceful slide of the steering wheel…back through the tunnel of their tightly coiled fingers after a sharp turn. that’s probably what does me in every time.

for some reason, watching a guy i’m interested in do seemingly banal, every day tasks makes him immensely attractive to me. ordering in a restaurant, hailing a cab, paying for something at a store, picking out clothing — these simple displays of competency are what validate my visceral reaction to a guy, yet i haven’t the slightest clue why.

perhaps that’s not true, i think deep down i get a kick out of watching the daily drama of adult life unfolding. i always get nostalgic twinges and remember, fondly, the days of playing house when i was younger. in a sense, i still feel like i’m playing house. like i’m play acting. and as if, at some point in time my parents will come striding into the room, flip the lightswitch and my “house” will go back to being blankets draped over a jungle gym, my car will be morphed back into the barbie mobile, and my cell phone will revert back to being a calculator. i always forget i’m an adult; that i’m a “grown up” now. my age never ceases to amaze me.

the other day, my mother remarked upon how well my doc martens had held up, she couldn’t believe that i was still wearing them after seven years. some part of my brain acknowledges that my shoes are seven years old, that i’ve lived out 2,555 days of life since i bought them…but for the most part, i am unable to grasp that information. seven years?! that’s a long time. it doesn’t feel like junior high should be that many years away from today. i don’t feel like it is.

i suppose it’s fairly immaterial as to whether seven years or seven days have passed since i bought those shoes. time is merely a construct of mankind, a meaningless confinement placed upon our lives in order to make them more logically approachable. i remember reading in national geographic, about the indigenous tribes still living in the remote areas of africa, asia and south america who don’t believe in saddling their days with arbitrary time. they do not measure time so much as they mark its passage. they note occasions, a girl’s maturation, a boy’s first hunt, etc etc etc. things are significant only once they are accomplished and until they have been achieved there is no way to signify whether an individual is late or early in their growth. there are no expectations.

how nice would that be? no one would ever be able to ask you, at thirty, why you weren’t yet married. or at forty, why you hadn’t yet had children. there would be no sense of impending doom as you reached 65 or 75. no one to tell you that you had outlived the biblical age limit. true, you would have some removed sense of age, you would grow, breasts would develop, wrinkles would appear, hair would gray and eventually fall out, your body would indicate your aging — but time would be much gentler to you, and less of the stern disciplinarian that it is in our society.

as nice as that thought is to ponder, i can’t help but feel some sort of affection for the calendar and clock world i find myself living in. i like the sense of accountability it provides. if i haven’t accomplished something magnificent in the next year and a half, i will have to acknowledge to myself that i have, effectively, wasted two decades of my life. without a calendar i could very well avoid that sort of self assessment. twenty years could stretch into twenty four, twenty six — and no one would be the wiser as to my procrastination. no — i like this time concept of ours. it keeps my nose to the grindstone.

as much as i am turned on by the outward manifestations and evidence of adulthood in the guys i go out with . . . i have to accept, fairly soon here in fact, that i shouldn’t be excited. because there shouldn’t be any novelty in those “grown up” activities. there’s no curious juxtaposition against my age to note. i am no longer a child playing house. instead, i’m an adult, and i’m keeping it.

but for the record guys, until i realize i’m an adult — if you want a good night kiss at the end of the evening just make sure that when you drive me home, you take the long way and eschew the teeny bopper pop for some coltrane or something else suitably mature. it may not be the way to every girl’s heart, but, for now, it’s the surefire way to mine.


8 thoughts on “

  1. interesting entry.  here’s my thoughts.  these everyday activities that you enjoy watching: do you enjoy them because they create a sense of intimacy?  something that you only share with a few people so the end up holding more meaning? dunno. 


  2. so here are my thoughts: watching a person drive has never turned me on as you say- but i can understand what you mean. when you like someone so much that just watching them makes you happy…ya, i gotcha. props to your docs for livin out. time- if i had no concept of time i think i would go crazy, but i suppose that is just because i was born into our society, where time dictates close to everything that happens. it’s weird- i know what you mean, when i think about it, i feel like junior high was not that long ago- but 7 years feels like the longest time ever. think- in 7 years most of us will have graduated and moved onto further schooling or whatever else time takes us to. crazy.


  3. Your writing has become significantly more mature… There is some kind of appeal when guys do anything ‘adult.’  I don’t feel my age at all, either.  I’m always thrown for a loop when guys are dressed up, paying for things, whatever. 


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