All time is all time. It does not lend itself to warnings or explanations. It simply is. Take it moment by moment, and you will find that we are all, as I’ve said before, bugs in amber.

Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse Five

One does not become enlightened by imagining beings of light, but by making the darkness conscious.
The latter procedure, however, is disagreeable and therefore not popular. — Carl G. Jung

Photo by Hungarian master photographer Brassai (9 Sept 1899 – 8 July 1984)

[tags]Carl Jung, Brassai[/tags]

Except maybe the word “denial.” But in our defense, we had a very good excuse for hemming and hawing about hooking up: We were friends. For a long time. Eight years, to be precise.

I met Kevin in 1988 when I was a dainty maid of 20 and he was a strapping boy of 21.  We were introduced (and I use that term loosely) at a party by my friend who was dating his roommate.

It’s not like our eyes met across a crowded room and the sparks flew.  It was more like me turning to my friend and whispering, “Who’s the weird guy in the camouflage?” I don’t think he noticed me much at all that first day.

Thus began eight years of hi-jinx with my first-ever circle of friends.  Soon we were all sharing the same house on Capitol Hill, trying to make it through school without crashing and burning.  The official renters were the four of us girls, hence the name Delta House. But we lived with at least 4 guys much of the time, and others, too – the boyfriends, the girlfriends, the mutual friends, the lesbians who broke up and had no where else to go, etc.  Kevin dated all of my friends, and I dated all of his friends.  My girlfriends slept with his girlfriends; our male friends spoke to each other in code.

Throughout these years of playing musical partners, there was never any “Gee, I sure wish she / he was free” going on between Kevin and me. We just were not on each other’s romantic radar.

Then everything changed: Delta House graduated from the UW. Wedding bells and out-0f-town dreams were breaking up that old gang of mine. The circle broke apart slowly, slowly, until only the trinity was left: Kevin, our gay pal Bill and me.

It dawned on us that this particular combination of Delta House tenants was the only one that could honestly boast that none of us had slept with each other. “We are the Unfuckable Club!”  we crowed as we ordered another round. “See?  I carry the official card in my wallet!”

It was about this time that both Kevin and I began to wake up to the fact that there was an  attractive, nice, funny, unattached, non-axe murdering fuckable person of the hetero-persuasion in close proximity. So naturally, what did we do about it? Nothing!

Both of us had played the friend-lover-exfriend game before and it sucked. We didn’t want to go through that again. We could enjoy our friendship for what it was: nice, safe, and primly platonic.

Then Bill had to go ruin that ride by getting a job in Vancouver, Washington which is 2 hours from Seattle.  Kevin and I discovered that if you are stuck in a car with someone for 4 hours round trip, you have to talk. Naturally we didn’t talk about the fact that we were slowly becoming smitten. We talked about work and school and friends and anything except that big white elephant in the car.

The moment that you realize you are in love with your friend, your shit begins to freak out.  You realize with ice-pick clarity that suddenly there is a lot more to lose if things do not go well. And, well, neither of us had had the greatest experience with things going well.

Thus continueth the chicken’s game known as “We’re just friends” where all your friends roll their eyes and start planning the “you finally did it” party behind your back. For like, a whole nother year.

Finally one day, one of us (ahem) decided she could not live with all the eye-rolling anymore. She did not meet Kevin at the apartment door in her lingerie as she was encouraged to do by her more adventurous roommate.  No, she played it safe by simply asking him if he would be interested in giving up his membership in he Unfuckable Club.

“How so?” he asked.

Sigh, she sighed. “With me.”

“Ack,” he considered.

This exchange was followed by an entire evening sitting on the couch clutching comfort blankies and shyly holding hands.  We shared a bed fully clothed that night. It took us a week to kiss.

But it was all worth it because fourteen years later, he is still an attractive, nice, funny, non-axe murdering fuckable person of the hetero-persuasion in close proximity who brings me roses and holds my hand.  And who will hopefully draw his last breath at the exact moment I draw mine as we lie peacefully in each others arms. Under a sheet or something to avoid embarrassing the nursing home attendant who finds us, of course.

• Today in Creative Rationalizations for Sexism:  Thanks to the University of the West of Scotland for exposing the terrible truth: using condoms negates the mental health benefits of  “evolutionarily relevant sex.” In other words, the more sexually transmitted diseases you share, unwanted children you spawn, and burden you put on the female for birth control, the happier you are! (Did you know they have universities in Scotland?)
• Always forward, never straight: Thirty-four years after declassifying homosexuality as a mental disorder, the American Psychiatric Association officially concludes that “reparative therapy” for gays is, to put it scientifically, bullpucky.
• Does this mean traffic will get better? Sometimes it pays to read the comments… It’s how I learned that Seattle is #11 on Forbes’ list of “abandoned cities.” Whoohoo!
• Dowry Wars: Chelsea Clinton is worth an impressive 40 goats and 20 cows, according to some guy in Kenya. I guess that must have beat the investment banker’s offer.
• Penises at the Pier:  Last weekend, this protest pissed off  a puritanical prude who’s peculiarly protective of her daughter’s prepubescent purity. Party pooper!
• The Last Monster:  Terry Pratchett’s statement about an individual’s right to die is brief but moving. I hope there are still a lot of brandies left to come for him.
• But that’s different: So the raping of men is a “symbol of unhealed Congo.” What was the raping of women a symbol of? Business as usual?
• Bill saves Laura and Euna. He always did have a soft spot for pretty girls. Seriously though, it’s awesome. I’m sorta hoping Bill will eventually take over for Jimmy Carter as the USA’s Human Rights and Diplomacy Advocate Extraordinaire.
• Speaking of human rights: Carter has left the Southern Baptist building and its sexism. Bless his uppity heart.
• This sucks: Not the breastfeeding doll itself, but the halter top it comes with. It has euphemistic daisies instead of nipple-exposing flaps. I mean, what is this teaching our little pre-pregnant tykes about flowers?!
• Gillian, Whitney, Melanie and me:  It’s our birthday today and we’re going to spend it the Sex & the City way: “tackling socially relevant issues such as sexually transmitted diseases, safe sex, and promiscuity.” And drinking.

Apparently he is unimpressed with my last post. I guess he doesn’t like photos of his nekkid torso posted on the internet without his prior permission.

Sorry, houseboy!

Now take off those superfluous clothes and bring me a rocks margarita. With salt. And a little umbrella.

Thank goodness for houseboys. They make getting through the week so much easier.

[tags]Barack Obama, Yes Pecan, Ben & Jerry’s[/tags]

[tags]Hugh Laurie, Stephen Fry[/tags]