Sometimes I marvel at the interesting ways my life goes. It's been a hell of a weekend for the universe reaffirming that I am where I'm supposed to be. First, last night while partying with classmates, I was struck with a sense of deja vu. One of my friends pointed out that it is supposed to be a good thing, a sign you are on the right track. We talked and I explained that I knew when I applied to grad school that I would end up where I was supposed to be, but knowing I was supposed to be here hadn't helped make being here any easier. And then, as I was telling her this, I was overcome with a sense of joy and lightheartedness. I was bombarded with endorphins and for just an instant, the universe opened up and it felt so good to be where I was. I was with friends, and they were (are) my friends. I was safe; I was loved, and it felt good. I was so excited to be a part of an energy exchange like that, and I had forgotten how much I missed it. But, in some ways, it was sweeter because I had never given up on Vegas being the place I was supposed to be. At times I've been miserable and horrifically unhappy, but I have never doubted that I was supposed to be here. That here was where I had a lesson to learn. And last night, as I hugged my friends, it was amazing to remember why it was worth it.

Tonight I attended lesbian-fest 07 at my place of residence. My roommate (who is a lesbian) had several people over for dinner, who also happened to be lesbians, and after everyone had gone home my roommate, one of the guests and I were talking. The conversation turned, as it so often does, to whether or not I really am straight or if I just haven't realized yet that I'm gay. I admit, I find this topic amusing, tedious, and disheartening at this point. It saddens me that what I am is so misunderstood by everyone, while it irritates me that no one believes that I know myself well enough to know myself. And yet as we talked about how I know I am straight--I crave a masculine presence, I like male body parts, I enjoy the way being with a man makes me feel--the conversation evolved into a talk about how much of what I think I want is because I want it, and how much has been put there by society.

Anyone who has read this knows that I've talked ad nauseum about society and its affect on all of us. But as I tried to explain that I craved a man as physically strong as myself if not more (the mental is a given) and she continued to doubt it was anything more than a societally implanted idea, I found I was running out of convincing arguments. I had thought things through to a point, and I had assumed that point was good enough. Silly me, the dialogic (so I hope) composition teacher--I of all people should know there is always more to think through.

This is the second time this idea of chivalry, or protector, or someone saving another has come up this weekend. In the previous night a friend (male) brought up that he hoped there was someone out there who could save him. I jumped on that quickly explaining that I did not want someone who could save me; I wanted (want) someone who can save himself so that I can save myself and we aren't always saving each other. But putting that conversation alongside tonight's conversation I can admit that's not true. Deep down inside I feel a sense of satisfaction when the hero rushes in and saves the heroine. I only feel that satisfaction if it is obvious that the heroine could take care of herself, but I like the idea of a man that can rescue me when I need him too. I have not shaken this idea of a man that can "heal" me, as it were, and a wounded man that I might "heal" as well. There are many reasons for this not the least of which is a plethora of chick-flicks, lifetime movies, and beloved trashy romance novels. I've been indoctrinated with this idea that he should have a hard time expressing his emotions because otherwise he's a wimp and I should be appropriately loving and giving so that I can heal him with my vagina.

And yet after one non-consensual loss of virginity, a good year of seeking validation through one night stands and more than one unhealthy relationship I've got to admit--that is all total and complete bullshit. I offer this slightly overly honest post not because I think I've got it all figured out, but mostly because I would like to admit that I haven't. I know that the only way for two people to really interact healthily with each other is if they don't objectify each other, and yet, I too instinctually go for the simplicity of a plot. If I objectify you and myself as characters than I don't have to deal with the complexities of life. If I behave in ways that show what sort of person I am, and speak in ways that demonstrate it then it must be true. It doesn't need to be more complicated than that, more human than that, because I don't want to deal with the mess. I want the love story. I want to marry the hero, the Spartan, the wounded bad boy turned good for me because he was healed by my vagina and live happily ever after. I don't want to worry about five years from now when we're poor, or ten years from now when we're bored, or twenty years from now when I wish for anything but what I have. I don't want to engage in the full realm of human existence because it's too hard, too messy to acknowledge it's there. I don't want to believe that it always will be because I want to think that when I find my hero, my Spartan, that the messiness will fade away. That we will "save" each other. And for all the times I've said that isn't true about myself, on some level deep down where I'm still sixteen and waiting for Jake Ryan, it is.

And so I share this with you, in part, because I want to admit it. Admitting it is naming it and gives me some degree of power to change it. But admitting it also allows me to acknowledge that if I've learned anything in the last two days it's that you aren't ever done figuring out who you are. You aren't ever done answering questions about why you are who you are or believe what you believe. In part because there is always something more, but mostly because you're always changing. And if you are always changing then the whys have to change, at least a little bit, too.

The only thing that actually saddens me about all of this is that I feel once I work through this really I won't be waiting for Jake Ryan and that means the last vestiges of me that are still sixteen will be gone. Not my playfulness or even my hopefulness, but perhaps the last naively simplistic parts of myself that are still banking on someone else taking care of the hard stuff or at least me. It's hard to give up the dreams of youth, even the ones you know are unhealthy. Doing that seems sad somehow. But waiting to be saved isn't a good dream, and I don't think my life has been lessened because it wasn't realized. If anything I'm more happy with the person I am today because of it. But I suppose what makes it hard is that once I give this up, I'm really not going to be a heroine in one of my trashy romance novels because I won't be like any (almost) of the heroines in the trashy romance novels.

But I suppose I could just write my own story. Yeah, who says you can't be loved because you don't fit a literary archetype? Maybe Freud, but he's full of shit anyway.