You know your relationship is in the toilet -- or at least clawing its way across the linoleum -- when astrology starts looking good.
What we have here is a good example, I fear, of Junior High Karma.
See, in 7th grade, I developed a real penchant for The Mystical, which in my middle school's library equated to three books on The Tarot, numerology, and astrology. I read all three in short order. I kept one.
In my defense, this was the year following my first encounter with the sordid side of love. Boyfriend-o-the-year in my 5th grade was Terry. We were The Item -- and not just in our dungeon-like hallway (our formerly country school district was having a hard time keeping up with White Flight, which somehow translated to ghastly smelling mold in the decaying building.) Terry and I were the Brangelina of Alief Elementary.
It mattered not that I was nearly a foot taller than my preteen version of Bobby Sherman. We had Things In Common. We were fast. Both of us shone on the playground with our fleet-footed victories over every single other kid in school. Crowds gathered on the asphalt to watch our latest scrimmage exhibitions. His best, the 50-yard-dash. Me, I dug deep to pull out the Female Stamina and whup his butt in 100 yards. Every time.
We weren't just a school tryst, either. Terry and I would steal away to one of those nooks and crannies that only suburban wastelands can harbor: the townhouse parking lot next to the abandoned cow pasture. There, as the sun set after Hamburger Steak dinner, we kissed like movie stars -- slightly parted, puckered lips, smooshed together softly and then with a vengeance, for what seemed like an eternity. Then, at his insistence and in spite of my complaints about how itchy the grass felt, we'd wrestle (that's no euphemism there.) It seemed a heaven-made match. I did the usual toying-with-name-change things in my diary at home.
Alas, nothing good ever lasts, and the little boy who delighted in twisting my arm behind my back left me for a shorter woman. I hope he's 5'5" now.
Following months of pleading through song dedications in our 5th grade newsletter (I can still smell the mimeograph ink), I eventually rebounded. As do we all, yes? We put one foot in front of the other until stumbling on something else to distract our hearts. Or not.
By the start of 6th grade, I'd hit the skids. It was my first year of Middle School. I was No One. My illustrious, beautiful, and rich friends could play the piano, smile shiny and wide at all times, wear the latest lowcut jeans. My talents were nowhere to be found. And all because He had left me for Her. I spent that year careening toward Bad Girlville, and landed smack in the middle of it with both feet the summer before 7th grade.
In 7th grade, I found The Answer to my aching adolescence: astrology. All I needed to understand someone -- like, say, guys who are shorter than me -- was their birthchart, and -- voila! My first forays into a lifelong passion for psychology. My new avocation was fueled by my confusion over love. How could such a good thing go so terribly awry? Astrology told me: HE was a Libra. I am an Aquarian. :::strains of The Fifth Dimension dance in my head:::
I studied our library's font of mystical wisdom and kept the pink book (that included a real pack of Tarot cards.) Friends started to know me as The Go-To Girl for Fortune-Telling. Word spread far and wide that I could be found for readings in the library, when I wasn't smoking in the bathroom. I became Somebody.
Eh. Just like my desire to be Mrs. Terry, my passion for the occult waned over time. By 8th grade, I was into bigger and badder things all 'round.
I still find myself drawn, though, to the idea that stars, giant sources of power that they are, could influence the behavior, thoughts, and feelings, of what my editor refers to as "bags of soup" i.e. people. A few weeks ago, in an apparent fit of Facebook frenzy, I even signed up for some daily contact by an astrology site with a focus on relationships. Just for fun. You know. And yes, I'll admit that I've occasionally shared a few... pointers... from the site's snarkily written messages. Just for fun. I think I even have in one of my online profiles the very words, “Aquarius but it doesn't matter.” See? Fun.
But what happens with this Fun, inevitably, is nothing less than a marketing manual on how to draw in an otherwise intelligent woman. Especially if your company's got knowledgeable back-end tech going on.
Smart Woman ventures far enough into Shiny New Relationship to start seeing tarnish revealed. Formerly flowery emails become terse and stilted. Electronic cookies engage and return The Answers. Maybe. For more details, Smart Woman must follow up with an ether-chase, each webpage another piece to the blossoming puzzle that was love. Like any addiction worth its salt, there is no resolution, only increased drive.
I'm close to finding and cracking open that pink book again. For good measure, I think the box of cards is in the same drawer.
What we have here is a good example, I fear, of Junior High Karma.
See, in 7th grade, I developed a real penchant for The Mystical, which in my middle school's library equated to three books on The Tarot, numerology, and astrology. I read all three in short order. I kept one.
In my defense, this was the year following my first encounter with the sordid side of love. Boyfriend-o-the-year in my 5th grade was Terry. We were The Item -- and not just in our dungeon-like hallway (our formerly country school district was having a hard time keeping up with White Flight, which somehow translated to ghastly smelling mold in the decaying building.) Terry and I were the Brangelina of Alief Elementary.
It mattered not that I was nearly a foot taller than my preteen version of Bobby Sherman. We had Things In Common. We were fast. Both of us shone on the playground with our fleet-footed victories over every single other kid in school. Crowds gathered on the asphalt to watch our latest scrimmage exhibitions. His best, the 50-yard-dash. Me, I dug deep to pull out the Female Stamina and whup his butt in 100 yards. Every time.
We weren't just a school tryst, either. Terry and I would steal away to one of those nooks and crannies that only suburban wastelands can harbor: the townhouse parking lot next to the abandoned cow pasture. There, as the sun set after Hamburger Steak dinner, we kissed like movie stars -- slightly parted, puckered lips, smooshed together softly and then with a vengeance, for what seemed like an eternity. Then, at his insistence and in spite of my complaints about how itchy the grass felt, we'd wrestle (that's no euphemism there.) It seemed a heaven-made match. I did the usual toying-with-name-change things in my diary at home.
Alas, nothing good ever lasts, and the little boy who delighted in twisting my arm behind my back left me for a shorter woman. I hope he's 5'5" now.
Following months of pleading through song dedications in our 5th grade newsletter (I can still smell the mimeograph ink), I eventually rebounded. As do we all, yes? We put one foot in front of the other until stumbling on something else to distract our hearts. Or not.
By the start of 6th grade, I'd hit the skids. It was my first year of Middle School. I was No One. My illustrious, beautiful, and rich friends could play the piano, smile shiny and wide at all times, wear the latest lowcut jeans. My talents were nowhere to be found. And all because He had left me for Her. I spent that year careening toward Bad Girlville, and landed smack in the middle of it with both feet the summer before 7th grade.
In 7th grade, I found The Answer to my aching adolescence: astrology. All I needed to understand someone -- like, say, guys who are shorter than me -- was their birthchart, and -- voila! My first forays into a lifelong passion for psychology. My new avocation was fueled by my confusion over love. How could such a good thing go so terribly awry? Astrology told me: HE was a Libra. I am an Aquarian. :::strains of The Fifth Dimension dance in my head:::
I studied our library's font of mystical wisdom and kept the pink book (that included a real pack of Tarot cards.) Friends started to know me as The Go-To Girl for Fortune-Telling. Word spread far and wide that I could be found for readings in the library, when I wasn't smoking in the bathroom. I became Somebody.
Eh. Just like my desire to be Mrs. Terry, my passion for the occult waned over time. By 8th grade, I was into bigger and badder things all 'round.
I still find myself drawn, though, to the idea that stars, giant sources of power that they are, could influence the behavior, thoughts, and feelings, of what my editor refers to as "bags of soup" i.e. people. A few weeks ago, in an apparent fit of Facebook frenzy, I even signed up for some daily contact by an astrology site with a focus on relationships. Just for fun. You know. And yes, I'll admit that I've occasionally shared a few... pointers... from the site's snarkily written messages. Just for fun. I think I even have in one of my online profiles the very words, “Aquarius but it doesn't matter.” See? Fun.
But what happens with this Fun, inevitably, is nothing less than a marketing manual on how to draw in an otherwise intelligent woman. Especially if your company's got knowledgeable back-end tech going on.
Smart Woman ventures far enough into Shiny New Relationship to start seeing tarnish revealed. Formerly flowery emails become terse and stilted. Electronic cookies engage and return The Answers. Maybe. For more details, Smart Woman must follow up with an ether-chase, each webpage another piece to the blossoming puzzle that was love. Like any addiction worth its salt, there is no resolution, only increased drive.
I'm close to finding and cracking open that pink book again. For good measure, I think the box of cards is in the same drawer.
In the end, my past and present studies of astrology have taught me this: Libra men love to wrestle.
Harmony must come from satisfaction, must come from heart, not under gun.
Posted by: | 01/02/2011 at 11:52 PM