Thursday evening roundup and somewhat self-absorbed ramble

The Keystone Pipeline is bringing out the fighter spirit in Nebraskans.

Ooh, has MIT found a way to trick the "quantum realities" thus far limiting the efficiency of solar panels?

The cupcake market is cooling. I'm not the only one not complaining.

I really don't understand why some people think Miss Manners is going to take their side.

If you have money to burn, shop in Old Town.

Were you curious about crocodile sex? What about turtle-shoe sex?



Okay, first of all, among the things I would not do even for science is sniff dudes' smelly shirts. That said, I'd like to take this opportunity to ramble about how I have decided that it's okay to admit that I'm definitely attracted to manly guys. Now, everyone has a different definition of manliness, and what mine does emphatically not comprise is carnivorousness. But I was thinking about how, this time last year, the now-ex and I started to unravel, and one of the triggers was a fight over camping. Actually, it wasn't about camping; it was about staying at a less-than-five-star hotel. I knew better than to even ask him if he'd go camping. I don't want to get into details, because honestly, it wasn't even about the camping, or the hotel; it came down to his being a passive-aggressive douche bag about the whole thing, and his not being willing to meet me half-way (even after I started at half-way). His douchiness, more than the camping, infuriated me, and I told him that I was less than thrilled with his princess tendencies. Then I apologized. His response was measured; that was apparently not the first (or second) time in his life someone had called him a princess. Nonetheless, I felt kind of bad about it. I felt bad about a lot of things. But I no longer feel bad; I feel like I would have been justified in giving him a tiara.

But this is not about my ex, who is pretty much dead to me. This is about my god-given right to not be attracted to men with princess tendencies. Look, dudes have requirements, too; I'm entitled to mine. If my last relationship taught me anything, it was that it was valid to not want to date a guy who didn't want to go camping, ever. I actually had this epiphany over Columbus Day weekend, in the ocean, on a pretty cold day: I'm in the water. Any dude I date should be able to get in the water. If we extrapolate: I've camped for almost a week, consecutively; many people have camped for a lot longer, and not just comfy car camping, but my point is, I have a right to be attracted to dudes who are willing to spend at least as many consecutive days camping.

Let me step back and roll it all together: for some people, manliness is about red meat (or just meat). For me, it's (partly) about activeness and a willingness to explore and get uncomfortable in pursuit of nature and beauty. I'll only date a guy who has bigger balls than I do. It follows that I'll only date a guy who's willing to go camping. Just sayin'.

***
I was talking to a friend today--the same friend with whom I'd gone to see "Trojan Barbie"--and caught myself saying, not for the first time, "...and this is why I can't get a date." Which is not fair, to me or to the guys that I should be dating. Let me step back.

I had been thinking about what this friend said about "Trojan Barbie"--she also really liked it, but she had said something about how Helen was over the top, almost to the point of being a parody of herself. So I thought, overnight, about why they made her so, and thought she'd better be over the top. If she was going to be the Helen of that play--devoid of compassion or remorse, etc.--she had to be ridiculous. If this play about women was going to play Helen as evil seductress, indifferent to the destruction in her wake, she had to be inhumanly, unrealistically so.

Which got me thinking about a paper I wrote in college, which also roped in the minotaur (see my post about Ariadne and Bacchus from last week), by virtue of Jorge Luis Borges's brilliant short story. Which I compared, in my paper, to two other short stories (it was a Latin American lit class) that take the other's perspective--the perspective of the foil, or the secondary character, or the symbol who's not supposed to have a perspective, because she's just a symbol. One of them was a woman too beautiful for her own good.

So my friend and I were having this conversation, about Helen and characters and alternate perspectives, and I had a pang of "...this is why I can't get a date." After all, as you know, well-meaning people keep telling me about how men don't want to hear that $hit. They don't want to date women who give thought to that $hit. And I know, and you've told me, to stop listening to those people, and I have. That's why I catch myself now when I think it. And even if it's true, I don't care: it is my nature to give thought to that $hit.

***
In other acts of genuine self-acceptance, by which I mean, I've known intellectually that I should think one way, but I didn't actually feel it until now, I have come to embrace my mid-30s face. A month ago, it had saddened me that I could no longer pass for 25. I could blame my mother, who didn't believe in sunblock, but entertaining that possibility only made me think about how I own my face. I earned my pores and my laugh lines by having fun outside and smiling. A couple of years ago, a woman we met in India was telling us about women in Saudi Arabia, who have perfect skin by virtue of always keeping it covered. At the time, I thought, "I guess that's one advantage," but more recently, I thought, f* that! I'd rather soak in the sun, even if I have to show it. Years ago, a friend was talking about how being more active--walking and biking--had worsened her skin, because more stuff flew into her pores. That could have been true, or she could have conflated the worsened skin that came with age, with her changed behavior, but either way, same response: bring on the activity. I own every experience that has made my face look its age. I own my face.