Roses are Resting Bitch Face

Copyright: <a href=’https://www.123rf.com/profile_evgeniy3030′>Evgeniy Medvedev</a>

Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

You don’t know me,

But I know you.

I was coordinating the university blood drive, sitting at a table helping people fill out forms when a boy arrived in front of me with this bastardized clichéd poem. He gazed down at me with his big brown eyes, grinning at his own cleverness and manufactured mystery. In fact, I did know who he was. We hadn’t met, but his name was Diego.

I thought about using a pseudonym just now, but with a suave name like Diego, I just couldn’t do it. He was a friend of a friend and a nice-looking guy — cute, maybe even sexy. But I was not amused. I glared back up at him, tapping my pen impatiently.

Are you going to donate blood?

No, I just wanted to meet you. (flirtatious smile)

Then move out of the way. I’m busy.

I was not playing hard-to-get. When I am intensely focused on something I can be a dick to anyone who interrupts me. It’s a well-known fact in my family. But there was more to it than my annoyance. Diego was not just a gnat buzzing in my ear that I absently swatted away. He represented a larger conflict.

I was a nice kid. When people came up to talk to me, I smiled, listened and made eye contact, even when I was in a hurry or they were interrupting my intense navel-gazing. As I went through puberty, though, this started to backfire. What I considered polite and friendly was taken as flirtation and a promise of something more. Then, I’d get ambushed with some guy’s tongue on my face and he’d act like I’d stolen his lunch money when I pushed him away. Or worse, I’d think I’d made a friend only to discover he didn’t want to hang out with me if friends were all we were going to be.

So I quit being nice. I stopped smiling at people on the shuttle bus, quit making eye contact when a male person asked me an innocent question like, “Does the Pleasant Valley bus stop here?” I had resting bitch face down so pat (before it was even called that) that my ex-husband — who intimidated most people right out of the gate — was afraid to talk to me when he first laid eyes on me. The only time I did let some boy past the barrier was when I was entertaining the idea of making out with him; I had sunken to their expectations.

It became a habit. I didn’t just shut out potentially lecherous guys; I barred the door to everyone. And I did it long after the days of my getting hit on in public spaces were over. I eventually put resting bitch face to rest and became more outwardly friendly again. Still, I had lost the ability to open up, to be myself, to put myself in the position where I could potentially be shoved aside and rebuffed because I wasn’t offering what was wanted.

Luckily, I’m 45 years old and still here, so I have time. I can work on it. I AM working on it, and I’ve already gotten so much better at being vulnerable and making real friends. I’m not sorry I didn’t give Diego more attention 25 years ago, but maybe if I ever run into him again, we can be friends…metaphorically, anyway.

The Lorax, Guinea Pigs and Charles Lindbergh

Stonehenge Brain Beasties
(Stonehenge:
Copyright: <a href=’https://www.123rf.com/profile_coffe72′>coffe72</a&gt;; walrus:
Copyright: <a href=’https://www.123rf.com/profile_alexlaz’>Alexandra Vasilenko</a>; Guinea pigs:
Copyright: <a href=’https://www.123rf.com/profile_ayutaka’>ayutaka</a&gt;)

It’s five o’clock in the morning. I see Stonehenge, the massive horizontal stones looking deceptively precarious atop their supports. The circles of rocks are surrounded by a lush, green, rolling landscape. The monument is bathed in late afternoon light as are the inhabitants atop it. Calmly perched on one of the horizontal monoliths is a cartoon walrus who resembles the Lorax. He’s pink, anyway. Keeping him company are several, normal-colored guinea pigs – the kind who look like their hair is one big cowlick. They are brown and white and frolicking around on top of the stones, making those cute squeaky noises. There is also the name, Charles Lindell. Not printed anywhere, and certainly not a person in the flesh, but just the idea of a name. In the air, maybe. An aura?

Stonehenge, pink Lorax walrus, cheerful guinea pigs and the idea of a name? It’s not an acid trip; it is what is going on in my brain as I lie in bed between waking and sleeping, in a perfectly ordinary bedroom, no drugs involved.

I am crazy. Or I am some sort of oracle.

I watched a documentary on Stonehenge right before going to bed last night. I also saw a cartoon walrus who made me giggle in a Facebook meme yesterday. An old friend sent me a message recently and mentioned his kids had lots of pets, which prompted me to wonder if they were the regular dog-and-cat variety or something more exotic like birds, lizards or guinea pigs.

The documentary mentioned that the horizontal cross stone on the tops of the supports are called lintels. I remembered that’s also what you call the crosspiece over a doorway, and noted that lintel is a general-crosspiece word, not one specific to stone monuments. It was interesting (to my writer brain, anyway.) Lintel sounds like the last name, Lindell. Which reminded me of Charles Lindbergh, who did something cool with planes or aviation or something, so the name “Charles” got attached to Lindell.

The Stonehenge documentary got me to thinking about how we, as people, tend to have a less intimate relationship with nature and the celestial cycles for which Stonehenge seems to have been created. Thus, the Lorax element. I didn’t realize I was doing any of this. I just saw the trippy Stonehenge panorama, complete with cavorting beasties. But when I traced each element, I realized its origin.

So that is what my brain sometimes does when it is supposed to be sleeping. It’s pretty entertaining. It makes me wish I could draw better, too. I’m not crazy or clairvoyant, just a little weird maybe. And super adept at free association. What does your brain do in the twilight world between wakefulness and sleep?