The Lace Bra

It should take a lot of time to unfasten a lace bra. When you can longer turn back the clock and change your mind about plying open a can of worms, you should definitely try for a slow beginning to an end. I sound grim, I know. It’s all that love growing cold inside my liver, turning slightly green as it pushes past the gallbladder, bouncing right across onto the pancreas. It could also be the fear redefining the terms of my new found courage to date again. I date again only because I tell myself I am courageous now, I can take the heat.

But I know I have no business waving around lace bras as fodder for a mind riddled with conundrums about me, wondering whether I am worth the trouble or if trouble is all there is to me. Low self esteem is also a possible culprit if we must round up the usual suspects. This whole song and dance reeks of a lack of something as fundamental as esteem in the self, the only decider in matters as important as who and how to love.

I wish I were perfect or wiser at least; that way I’d be able to leave the lace bra in the “big girl box” where it belongs and promptly wait for the day it would be of great use, like on my wedding night. I’m not sure if I want to keep opening cans of worms with this bra. I’ve had my share of nasty surprises and really, really should stop feigning surprise already. At this rate what I wish could happen and what I manifest are never going to find themselves parallel one another, not even from two different astral planes.

No mind- I still believe in love. And in time all things heal by the hand of Love. My hope is that Love forgives me again for desiring so badly to wield this sexy, sexy lace bra at it again. I don’t know what I am doing but I want you to stay. I desire a deeper connection with you, a friendship that can’t be wished away because it is based on superficial things. But it’s been so long since Love asked for my friendship that I no longer know how to not bargain lace bras for its attention. And this lace bra? I have no qualms swapping it for a warm hand of friendship if offered, thank you.

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How To Open a Can of Worms with a Lace Bra.

Question: how many bad boys does it take to turn a misguided, perhaps naive, yet well intended woman into a can opener? Huh? Yes, that was my question. I want to know what it takes to get a perfectly good woman to act in a completely irrational way? Love. Love is what it takes.

I am no stranger to irrational behavior so I am going to share with you how not to behave in a relationship where you love someone and they don’t understand what you are on about. This information comes disguised in other instruction, the two step, step-by-step guide on how to open a can of worms with a lace bra. Whatever you do, don’t follow these instructions. Just be aware that it is possible to open a can of worms with a lace and bra and stay far away from both lace bras and cans of worms.

Can of Worms

Any one person that promises the world but fails to return a call, make an impromptu, unsolicited visit to you, take you out on a date or call before 8pm on a weekday is a can of worms. Insisting on unveiling who they really are is a bad, bad idea. Don’t keep saying, “Maybe with time…” . Maybe with time nothing! Step out of the crimson light, take a cold shower and gulp down a jar of reality. That man, that woman is what we call a classic can of certified worms.

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To immerse yourself in total and utter regret and perhaps even cause yourself to unnecessarily gain a few pounds on pity-party ice cream and junk food, go ahead and use sex to lure an uninterested man into being interested in you. The fastest way to more agony is to try open a can of worms with a perfectly good padded lace bra. The sexier the bra, the bigger the heartbreak too. So take care to remember to call yourself an ambulance, the next time you attempt to trap unrequited love into reciprocity.

Conclusion

Love yourself a little more than the thrill. Chemistry is fantastic but nothing beats love that chooses to stay, to talk, to come back the next day. That love is worth the wait.

We Three

We three are fixed together by a supernatural love. We are bound so irreversibly we may never be able to trace the start of the thread. We are the centre of the whirlpool, the value of something priceless. We three are made to last till the day after forever.

We three know pain; being neither infallible nor untouchable, we have known battles so brutal it’s a small wonder laughter is still a familiar sound to the ear.

image  Our souls have been in combat for so long that we can hardly believe life can be nothing but bliss. Seven years of famine have come and gone and made room for more sorrow and plaque yet we three stand brazen with light eternal. We believe in victory, yes sir we believe in our love.

We three are the tall glass of cold water in the bowels of a drought; they gawk at us perplexed for we are an Offaly sight to the eye that understands very little. And then they come tumbling face-down before us, tripped by the mirage of a seemingly good, sheltered life.

We know good, we know sheltered, we know everyone comes to their day of reckoning one way or another. And once the come to close view of that sight, of us- still in the presence of our demise, resolute in the promise of a grand destiny, they yield to the possibility imageof a humbling God. They begin to see the monument we three are, the tribute to pain and hope we have reluctantly and thankfully come to be.

We three are beaten; we three are unbeatable. We three on our knees; we three lifted in prayer. We three know the taste of blood in the mouth as blows come thundering onto the jaw. We three have knuckles made of gold, made to mince our enemy into oblivion. We are not spent- we’re taking prisoners. See us rise!

Something Borrowed

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There were a few male leads that came after my first. We could say he was iconic, till I outgrew the mysticism of a first love, of course. In fact, until I meet my true love I will probably have a vacant throne lying in wait. But first I must acknowledge that there have been others since, good guys who taught me many new things about love and helped me discover myself anew each time. Some I never got to be in lasting relationships with and few, well, tried to stay.

All of the lessons learnt being a hopeless romantic are in vaults hidden deep within me, in places I only visit when there’s a chance love could be calling for me. Each time I fall from the comforts of my uncomplicated life and into the mad typhoon called love, I borrow from that vault, imprint the sentiment into the now and then toss back into the vaults for safekeeping.

Married hopefuls, hoping for forever after with their co-conspirators have vaults just like the one hidden in my innermost. They are not exempt from the let downs, the changes and the re-directions but most notably, they too borrow from the vaults within when they need to.

And when what is needed is not met by what is within and the love is so real it must be redeemed, help can be summoned from whence love comes.

This is my understanding of marriage, that it is something that is not of this ethereal world. That it matters and requires superpowers to outlive our misguided expectations and fairy tale ideas of love and bond.

As I see it, God made man when he had made all else, when he’d seemingly emptied Himself and was new again. Then with a heart full of love He made a mate for man and bound the two so irrevocably that it literally pains to undo the bind. And when we ache from the parting we rightly call it heartbreak, borrowing from the visual of a helpmate being sculptured from the rib of her betrothed so she could forever keep watch of his heart and his heart could bear her very being over and over.

Marriage thus is what is made new (despite and because of), what was old, so that when the newness is lost it can be invoked from the source of Love.

Something Old

elderly-black-couple-16x9It wasn’t long after I became intimate with my first love that the scales began to fall off my eyes and the magic dulled. There I was, a bare cape cod wriggling about, longing for the safe waters I’d just leapt out of for my man. Boy did that cocky confidence I had had in my indestructible feelings for my boyfriend come tumbling down.

Suddenly, things that had never been a factor began to matter. I began to mule over things that bore no circumstance to my life up till then, began to ask questions that were unwarranted because, let’s be honest, the bad had happened in my childhood but not in isolation of the good. I asked myself what if I couldn’t measure up and he left to fight for someone else instead? What if I’d one day wake up to find I was no longer new, to him or even myself? Those questions were steeped in experiences straight out the book of my own life but blown out of proportion because of my vulnerabilities of the time and their familiarity.

In the typical love story, the male lead wakes up ten years after his romantic wedding to find that the woman he was so keen to marry once is fat, stressed, wrought and probably hates or disrespects him. Or both. Then a flirty, single, independent woman who has trouble bagging her own future unhappy husband, suddenly drops into his life and ignites that ravishing inferno that was quenched on his wedding night. Yes, I suppose the symbolism and narrative is quite brutal but the reality is just that for many in long term committed relationships. Once the magician shares or shows all his tricks, he becomes a mere mortal once more and inspires no weird displays of affection.

When we become fragile and face situations that feel slightly familiar, the temptation to become what we once were or what once was, grows exponentially. What was new becomes old because of what is old in the new.

Song of Hope, Song for Us.

My mother used to hum and sing all the time. Wherever she was in the house, regardless what we would be going through or, more likely, be in dire need of, there’d be a song playing soundtrack to the scene of our lives. For years it annoyed me, partly because I myself was an unhappy person, largely because I didn’t understand it. It was something I never forgot though, something that would come to mean so much more to me in latter years.

I remember my first non-sensical humming outburst; we had been going for weeks without much food. Our bills were coming apart at the seams and there was no hope of some kind of reprieve in sight. In the midst of the proverbial scale of misfortune tilting southward, they cut off our water and left behind a little blue note.

I remember I picked up that little blue note from the gate and began my slow, painful walk back inside the house. A million thoughts raced around like my head was open season at Monaco and all I could sum up from the chaos in my head was that I had run out of options. My human mind had run out of ways to save the situation and my family.

My daughter was back from school already on that day; dinner was expected at 7 and I knew there would be clearing up and dish washing to be done afterwards. A bedtime story would need to be read sometime after 7.30. Someone would need to make sure all the doors and windows are bolted before the last light was switched off. The universe would get on with be business of being, thus rendering my self pity, my despair, null and void.

I looked around the house, my gaze falling on every one of the items still intact by some Grace and felt each possession speak back to me. They seemed to be recalling events that had occurred in our life together, the tea cups telling stories of so-and-so who wouldn’t let up on the milk or sugar, the framed photos chattering on about the moments that had bore them into existence. All of them seemed to have so much to say about our lives, yet none could tell me what to do to save us from sinking.

With a certainty I’d never experienced before, I began to hum. I hummed to silence the cluelessness filling the spaces in my heart, hummed to numb the pangs of loneliness and solitude I felt wrestling with our troubled life. There was so much to do and not much I could do, so I hummed. I belted out a melody so happy it made my belly sore to stop humming. It calmed me and crept beneath my heart, lay there and began to warm up the places above and beneath that sacred space.

That song that my mother sang in her hour of need may have not solved our problems, paid our bills or put food on our dinner table. Yet when I sang just as she had in my hour of need, I knew what she knew: that song was a war cry. That song was my rage against the dying machine: my infallible, vulnerable mind. That song was the best defense against a crumbling life.

So here’s my solemn word: as long as I live and breath, always and forever in my hour of need, I will let my nonsensical humming be heard by all who need hope. I will sing for me, for faith, for strength and even for you.image