A writer whose blog I follow, We’re All Mad In Here, posted this picture today, and I have looked at it repeatedly…
Something about her captivates me and makes me want to dig out the vintage black lace skirt from the back of my closet. I love this. This is what I would dress like all the time if it was practical. Well, except when the southern belle part of me wears the gauzy white sundress and sips sweet tea in a field of wildflowers (sadly, I am not kidding). It is just another facet of that “love being feminine” thing. But this woman has a depth..worldly wise but still tentative, deep in thought. I want to know what she is writing. What was that book? The Feminine Mystique? Never read it so I may be taking that title completely out of context….but I like the idea of mystique. I’m not sure I have mystique. My heart seems to be attached firmly on my sleeve much of the time, though Sir would argue that it still take a bit of probing (no not that kind) to peel the many layers of “insert name here.” Clearly, there is a difference between being expressive and effusive and….naked in every way. I excel at the former. The latter is a work in progress.
I think – no, I know – one of the many things that Sir has done for me is to help me shed fear. To help me shed the baggage of a former life of…….hiding and apologizing. Lots of people fear not being enough. That was never really my fear. My deepest fear was always of being…too much. Too expressive, to honest, too forward, to emotional, too introspective. There is a movie I like, The Divine Secrets of the Ya ya Sisterhood. The old ladies are talking about Sida’s mother, and they say, “Your mother has always taken up all the space in the room.” I fear being that way…even when I was a child who wanted to be a writer, actress, singer, painter, nurse, teacher, trapeze artist, ballerina. Who acted on my first schoolgirl crush by talking him and kissing him on the playground (granted, I was only 6).
Sir has….opened me up. He loves the tears, the rambling, the creative ideas bursting out, the bad puns, the philosophical discussion of books, the bad dancing, the southern graces ingrained from charm school, the dreams, the emoting, the sometimes “cheesy” email poems paying homage to His eyes or hands or….whatever. I can be every silly, somber, thoughtful, spacey, corny, serious, loving-with-abandon part of myself with Him. I have never – never – been able to be that way with anyone. Ever. No one.
He sent me a picture early in our exploration. It was a picture of two masculine hands holding a tender sprout. He is a gifted gardener, and the metaphor was not lost on me. He has helped me to blossom and bloom for the very first time. I feel like that elegant, beautiful, deep woman in that picture….I FEEL the mystique.
And I love it.