Granted, my mind is infested with an array of convoluted information, thoughts, ideas and self-absorption. The most irrational and absurd notions are caught up in my mind’s web and meticulously wrapped in contemplation and imagination, until they take on a life of their own.
What can I say? I am easily amused. The closer I come to the Georgia border, the stranger and more bizarre the concepts that form. It seems the green, green grass of home (okay, soon-to-be home) sharpens the psychoses already clearly evinced by my daily actions and thoughts.
Today, my folly derives from being at the mercy of time and space – to put a finer point on it – long, arduous, grueling distances. Specifically, being far, far away from the object of one’s affections. When minutes seem like hours, hours seem like days, days seem like weeks, weeks seem like months – get the picture?
This quandary inhibits the regular, fulfilling, passionate, steamy, mentally and physically interactive interpersonal relationship I crave. My belief is it could drive even the most patient of us mere mortals stark, raving mad. I am pretty damn patient and look at what it has done to me.
One in this predicament does not have the day-to-day exchanges couples that live in the same town – hell, even those within a reasonable driving distance – have. No customary Friday night dates, no weekly visits on the sofa for a little “mouth-to-mouth,” even the frequent means of communication (real communication – not the telephone, letters, or word-of-mouth kind) are lost somewhere in the miles that temporally and spatially restrict these match-ups.
By now, several readers are probably asking themselves, “What is she griping about? That’s a good thing. Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”
Sure. Sure. Sure.
Except…
This is all well and good if one is an inanimate object – a mannequin or statue perhaps. Not that some men and women couldn’t be easily categorized this way – just not me. Parts of my body act on their own volition. They need a little more attention than that.
Thank God for Duracell®.
Of course, this falls short of the real thing (to put it mildly), leaving me somewhat restless until the next little jaunt into the Georgia wilderness. As luck would have it, this is where I am, at this very moment.
Arriving Thursday afternoon of last week, as I ascended the driveway, it hit me.
Why hasn’t anyone invented “wear and tear” clothing for long-distance relationships?
All of a sudden, the mental image of Jeff standing in front of me, sporting his “birthday suit” overrode any other impulse. What else could one have expected? It was the first time seeing him in three weeks. For a split second, all the rants and raves meticulously detailed in my head, for the past week and on my five-hour drive down I-85, were replaced with visions of clothing being torn from his body (by my hand of course), strips of cloth flying through the air and landing at his feet. As one can clearly see, self-control is not one of my assets.
Up until that very moment, a barb of anger aimed at this infuriatingly zealous, single-minded, stubborn creature had me rehearsing my part as the forlorn lover; the lion with a thorn caught in his paw, the Scarlet O’Hara of injustice (knowing full well my imagined unfairness was part of the problem) for our next little get together. Each and every grievance that needed to be voiced since last we met; grievances of which he was the ostensible cause (many of them had been inflated by my own ego) during our time apart, was at the very tip of my tongue.
Being apart for any prolonged period of time, however, creates a surge of estrogen. Once I come face-to-face with this redheaded Clansman, the anger subsides – momentarily of course. I’m a woman, not a machine.
Enough of that; back to the clothing cyclone born of my mind’s eye…
It’s only a guess, but at the sight of his clothes being destroyed and falling at his feet, Jeff may dole out a few excruciating ripostes (if not in the physical sense, you can rest assured; my mental state could be affected). Not wishing to precipitate this imagined misery upon arrival; I managed to shake myself back into reality and remain composed. A simple approach, consisting of a very lengthy, heartfelt embrace along with a sweet, “miss you long-time” kiss was all that took place.
Still, the fevered mental image of disposable garments has consumed me. Dreaming up their design and function, selecting the materials – most of all – the accessibility such attire would entail is driving me crazy.
Should the pants and shirts consist of snaps, zippers, hooks, or involve disintegration somehow? The Sci-fi lover in me envisions “now you see it, now you don’t,” NYD glasses; when worn, they cause an instant breakdown of any fabric’s molecular structure, melting it away like heated butter.
Or perhaps exotic dancers hold one of the keys to my hormonal invention?
I have witnessed, first-hand, the ease with which their clothing can be removed. Of course, this is in a calm, want-to-get-your-money, bogus kind of way. The sudden urge to seduce is not intended – a seduction of the mind – perhaps? But no physical interaction is normally invited or accepted by these ersatz “ladies (and/or men) of the night”. This deviates wildly from my intended course of action.
Hell, even the sexually arousing, get-your-rocks-off way these dancers move on stage appeals to me. The erotic “hip and pelvis thrusting” movements (memory courtesy of a Barry Eisler skit) could be incorporated into this deliciously provocative scene being mentally composed at Green Hell’s gate.
The way I see it, one’s lover should dress to impress – uh, I mean – undress to impress.
Distance may make the heart grow fonder, but it does absolutely nothing for my libido, which, at the moment, is running in overdrive, stimulating my already overactive imagination.
Sounds like time to relieve some tension. Now where did I leave the wrapping paper and the stapler…?
Be back soon.