I.
I'm not beautiful enough to be a Rita Hayworth, or wistfully doe-eyed and sad enough to look like Judy Garland, and I will never be as thin or chic or experienced as Carrie Bradshaw. Sometimes I like to imagine what I might get away with if physicality could only be served up at a buffet, and I could stuff myself full with the traits that all of these women possess. When I can’t manage to utterly drown myself in a moment, it’s usually because I’m daydreaming about what might happen if I let the world take a glimpse at my own insanity, (like if I unbuttoned my dress part way and let one of the straps melt off my shoulder so that some of my skin could be revealed.)
II.
This Easter, in church, I only heard the first steps of the priest’s sermon, because his words became the inauguration of one of my many reveries. “And when Jesus had risen,” he said, “he showed himself first to Mary Magdalene, not to his mother, Mary, or to his Apostles. Mary Magdalene, the person we would least expect.” “Mary Magdalene,” the Father kept repeating. “We are all Mary Magdalene’s. Each of us – you and I, are like Mary Magdalene.” The name became a mantra for me, and I meditated on the five syllables: Mary Magdalene, Mary Magdalene, Mary Magdalene. The priest told us that this meant God acts in unexpected ways, and in my brain, I imagined that line as a sentence on notebook paper, and crossed it out with my pencil and instead wrote, “This means that even metaphysics can’t overcome sex and love and sin.” So I envisioned myself as Mary Magdalene, wrapped in the stained white linens used to mop up the blood of Christ, kneeling before him, kissing him everywhere except on the lips, acting reverently and romantically all at once.
Biblical stories turn me on.
(They can be so tender and yet so raw, so divine and yet so human. I want Jesus to wash my feet, Satan to tempt me. I want to grow out of the ribs of Adam and realize sin with him as we sip on the last dregs of Paradise and watch as all of humanity collapses.)
Eventually, I wandered back to the present, and pictured myself up on the pulpit, like when I used to lector during high school as part of my service to the church. Only this time, I would deliver a monologue of my own fabrication to the congregation, rather than passages from the Bible. I would talk about how I wished Jesus could step right out of the stained glass windows and Stations of the Cross that encased the sides of the building. “You’re all dead,” I would explain to them, in a flat tone. “And the only way you might wake up is if you watch the Resurrection unfold before your eyes in real time.” If I had charisma, and if I were alluring from the outside, and could speak without fumbling, they might listen to me, rather than stone me to death like the disciple Stephen.
III.
On Saturday, I indulged in my monthly swing dancing session, but it wasn’t the same. I was clothed in the dress I wore when I went to visit the aforementioned poet, and I couldn’t decide whether I was glad or upset about the fact that it didn’t smell like him anymore. I danced with Kevin, who I took an aerials class with a couple years ago, and who I’ve always wanted to marry. “If I’m remembering correctly, the last time I came here, you had a guy with you,” he said, spinning me under his arm. I put on my best confused look and pretended I didn’t know who he was talking about and feigned that I was in the habit of bringing boys out dancing with me on a regular basis. “All I’m interested in right now is true life romance,” he told me. “What?” I asked. “True life romance,” he repeated. “How’s your true life romance going, Kevin?” I said, and he told me about the “lady” he was seeing, and how he had been waiting around for her to call, but got fed up and opted to come out to the Dickeyville Mill to partake in some lindy hop instead. “That phone call could be happening right now,” Kevin said. “Don’t wait by the phone,” I urged. “Don’t be that guy,” I said, wishing I could take my own advice.
The alcoholic Frenchman who once asked me to Paris came up to me soon after, took my hands in his without asking, and said, “There’s my beautiful daughter. You could be my daughter, you know.” (“No shit,” I thought. “Or granddaughter.”) We danced, and he held me closer than I would’ve liked; his thigh became all too familiar with my groin, and the protrusion that is his stomach nuzzled my abdomen. I had no choice but to let my chin rest on his shoulder, and I tried not to make eye contact with the other people in the room, because I knew seeing someone human would probably make me cry. To distract myself, I thought about how I might let him fuck me if he satiated my gluttony with enough expensive wine and a book deal with his publisher.
I danced with all the regulars that night, and some people I didn’t recognize. The first song of the evening was spent with Mike, who used to flirt with me and call me Andy because he was convinced I looked just like Kerri Green’s character in “The Goonies.” He asked me for my number once, and I gave it to him unhesitatingly, but never called him back because I had just graduated high school, and he was cute and affable but I didn’t know how old he was, and that scared me. Mike confessed to me that he hadn’t been dancing for a couple months, but we moved together in smooth time, and I found myself wishing I were brave enough to ask him to kiss me, or to take a meandering walk together around the historic mill town hand-in-hand. I could tell he was watching me throughout the night, but not as often as he once did, and that made me want to cry, too.
Even with my fragility, though, I did manage to have fun - it's sort of impossible not to when you're so physically connected with so many people, and you can anticipate their movements before they make them and respond by following. John made me smile the most. I never call John “John,” because his nickname is better. In private, I refer to him as “bobble head,” since he allows his whole cranium to sway and totter in rhythm with the music as he leads. “How are you tonight?” he asked. “I’m fine,” I responded. “How are you?” “Okay,” he said. “But I would be a lot better if I were dancing with a pretty redhead right now,” and I told him I could arrange that, and linked my arm with his as we stepped onto the floor. He danced with me more than usual that night because he could tell I was upset, and each time, he delivered a million of those corny lines of his until I grinned, at which point he would say, “There! I got you to smile!” We circled around one another in swing outs, and I thought about how much better off I would be if boys liked me instead of men. When will I be beautiful enough for someone of my own age? Where are all the nineteen year olds who will tell me I’m pretty, and when will I stop being stubborn enough to believe them and throw myself in their arms for a neck and neck dance?
II.
This Easter, in church, I only heard the first steps of the priest’s sermon, because his words became the inauguration of one of my many reveries. “And when Jesus had risen,” he said, “he showed himself first to Mary Magdalene, not to his mother, Mary, or to his Apostles. Mary Magdalene, the person we would least expect.” “Mary Magdalene,” the Father kept repeating. “We are all Mary Magdalene’s. Each of us – you and I, are like Mary Magdalene.” The name became a mantra for me, and I meditated on the five syllables: Mary Magdalene, Mary Magdalene, Mary Magdalene. The priest told us that this meant God acts in unexpected ways, and in my brain, I imagined that line as a sentence on notebook paper, and crossed it out with my pencil and instead wrote, “This means that even metaphysics can’t overcome sex and love and sin.” So I envisioned myself as Mary Magdalene, wrapped in the stained white linens used to mop up the blood of Christ, kneeling before him, kissing him everywhere except on the lips, acting reverently and romantically all at once.
Biblical stories turn me on.
(They can be so tender and yet so raw, so divine and yet so human. I want Jesus to wash my feet, Satan to tempt me. I want to grow out of the ribs of Adam and realize sin with him as we sip on the last dregs of Paradise and watch as all of humanity collapses.)
Eventually, I wandered back to the present, and pictured myself up on the pulpit, like when I used to lector during high school as part of my service to the church. Only this time, I would deliver a monologue of my own fabrication to the congregation, rather than passages from the Bible. I would talk about how I wished Jesus could step right out of the stained glass windows and Stations of the Cross that encased the sides of the building. “You’re all dead,” I would explain to them, in a flat tone. “And the only way you might wake up is if you watch the Resurrection unfold before your eyes in real time.” If I had charisma, and if I were alluring from the outside, and could speak without fumbling, they might listen to me, rather than stone me to death like the disciple Stephen.
III.
On Saturday, I indulged in my monthly swing dancing session, but it wasn’t the same. I was clothed in the dress I wore when I went to visit the aforementioned poet, and I couldn’t decide whether I was glad or upset about the fact that it didn’t smell like him anymore. I danced with Kevin, who I took an aerials class with a couple years ago, and who I’ve always wanted to marry. “If I’m remembering correctly, the last time I came here, you had a guy with you,” he said, spinning me under his arm. I put on my best confused look and pretended I didn’t know who he was talking about and feigned that I was in the habit of bringing boys out dancing with me on a regular basis. “All I’m interested in right now is true life romance,” he told me. “What?” I asked. “True life romance,” he repeated. “How’s your true life romance going, Kevin?” I said, and he told me about the “lady” he was seeing, and how he had been waiting around for her to call, but got fed up and opted to come out to the Dickeyville Mill to partake in some lindy hop instead. “That phone call could be happening right now,” Kevin said. “Don’t wait by the phone,” I urged. “Don’t be that guy,” I said, wishing I could take my own advice.
The alcoholic Frenchman who once asked me to Paris came up to me soon after, took my hands in his without asking, and said, “There’s my beautiful daughter. You could be my daughter, you know.” (“No shit,” I thought. “Or granddaughter.”) We danced, and he held me closer than I would’ve liked; his thigh became all too familiar with my groin, and the protrusion that is his stomach nuzzled my abdomen. I had no choice but to let my chin rest on his shoulder, and I tried not to make eye contact with the other people in the room, because I knew seeing someone human would probably make me cry. To distract myself, I thought about how I might let him fuck me if he satiated my gluttony with enough expensive wine and a book deal with his publisher.
I danced with all the regulars that night, and some people I didn’t recognize. The first song of the evening was spent with Mike, who used to flirt with me and call me Andy because he was convinced I looked just like Kerri Green’s character in “The Goonies.” He asked me for my number once, and I gave it to him unhesitatingly, but never called him back because I had just graduated high school, and he was cute and affable but I didn’t know how old he was, and that scared me. Mike confessed to me that he hadn’t been dancing for a couple months, but we moved together in smooth time, and I found myself wishing I were brave enough to ask him to kiss me, or to take a meandering walk together around the historic mill town hand-in-hand. I could tell he was watching me throughout the night, but not as often as he once did, and that made me want to cry, too.
Even with my fragility, though, I did manage to have fun - it's sort of impossible not to when you're so physically connected with so many people, and you can anticipate their movements before they make them and respond by following. John made me smile the most. I never call John “John,” because his nickname is better. In private, I refer to him as “bobble head,” since he allows his whole cranium to sway and totter in rhythm with the music as he leads. “How are you tonight?” he asked. “I’m fine,” I responded. “How are you?” “Okay,” he said. “But I would be a lot better if I were dancing with a pretty redhead right now,” and I told him I could arrange that, and linked my arm with his as we stepped onto the floor. He danced with me more than usual that night because he could tell I was upset, and each time, he delivered a million of those corny lines of his until I grinned, at which point he would say, “There! I got you to smile!” We circled around one another in swing outs, and I thought about how much better off I would be if boys liked me instead of men. When will I be beautiful enough for someone of my own age? Where are all the nineteen year olds who will tell me I’m pretty, and when will I stop being stubborn enough to believe them and throw myself in their arms for a neck and neck dance?
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