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.

loveLace Bras

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.

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