iron in the blood
when you're a girl, you're loved for being young.
when you're a woman, you're judged for being loved.
and when you keep a foot planted in either hemisphere, you're judged for being young.
I remember in childhood the frequent and disqueting calm of listening to adults whisper so as not to wake me. "Shhh...she fell asleep an hour ago..." hushing each other up while I listened, drifting in and out of wakefulness. At the mention of my name, my muscles clenched in anticipation and I had to keep myself still on the bed or couch or pile of blankets on the floor where I had collapsed into dreamland. Any sign that I was awake and it was over, I'd be up and on schedule to entertain, to answer questions about my sleep that I took very seriously. They huddled around me; isn't she precious; don't you wish she were yours. Then mom would suggest a distracting activity like scrabble or tea and they'd hurry away. Then her cool hand on my forehead, a kiss to which I responded groggily, a closed door and silence. an elevated disquieting calm.
Fast forward til I'm 19, anemic and half-asleep in a bed property of the Mirage Hotel, Las Vegas, Nevada. My spindly legs still dangle off the edge, as they did when i slept in childhood, scooting down with my pillow until just the right portion of my calf could rest comfortably suspended in the air. The backs of the calves are now speckled with brown and purple bruises, which the man I just married claims to be from him spoiling me rotten.
It was the same chapel where one of those Hilton sisters did it. The younger one who's not as pretty.
I haven't told anyone yet, the whole thing being so rushed and all. See also: he's one year younger than my mother. Basically the only thing that could make this seem ok is Rachel Hunter and Rod Stewart, but that might be pushing it. Then again, they might have been in love.
He called his mother and sister last night and they flipped. To play the age gap game again, his sister is a two years older than my father. However, his mother is not as old as my grandfather. Between our two families, we could write some hella good logic puzzles.
Anyway, now they're in from Connecticut, standing in the foyer of our suite demanding to meet me. I can hear them thirty feet away. He says, "She just went to lay down."
The mother is not at all pleased. "Come on, you little pedophile. Let's see her. Show us your trophy wife!"
The sister says something much lower I can hardly make out, but she laughs afterwards, and the mother reluctantly chuckling along with her. He is not happy at all.
"Listen, if I knew you were going to barge in like a couple a--" He stops, catching himself. He starts over. "If I'd known you were going to come here and be rude I wouldn't have even told you. She's a very sweet and beautiful girl who happens to be nineteen, but I love her."
"Ha!" the mother says. "You love her? You don't know what love is!" she bellows. "You've only just met the little twit and you think you're in love. Oh, wait, no, she's not the twit at hall! Ho, noooo! YOU are, you fool! She'll rob you for all you're worth and leave you for a younger man. Just you wait; it's coming."
I hold my breath as I hear her heels click toward down the hall, coming towards me. He scuttles his way ahead of her and hisses, "Just be quiet...don't say a thing...just look and that's it..."
The door creaks open and a splinter of light creeps in the room, immediately invaded by her sharp silhouette, with the head of the sister sprouting over her shoulder like a fungus. There's a sharp gasp, a sob, and the door closes again.
"She's just a baby..." she says.
Or that is what I hear.
when you're a woman, you're judged for being loved.
and when you keep a foot planted in either hemisphere, you're judged for being young.
I remember in childhood the frequent and disqueting calm of listening to adults whisper so as not to wake me. "Shhh...she fell asleep an hour ago..." hushing each other up while I listened, drifting in and out of wakefulness. At the mention of my name, my muscles clenched in anticipation and I had to keep myself still on the bed or couch or pile of blankets on the floor where I had collapsed into dreamland. Any sign that I was awake and it was over, I'd be up and on schedule to entertain, to answer questions about my sleep that I took very seriously. They huddled around me; isn't she precious; don't you wish she were yours. Then mom would suggest a distracting activity like scrabble or tea and they'd hurry away. Then her cool hand on my forehead, a kiss to which I responded groggily, a closed door and silence. an elevated disquieting calm.
Fast forward til I'm 19, anemic and half-asleep in a bed property of the Mirage Hotel, Las Vegas, Nevada. My spindly legs still dangle off the edge, as they did when i slept in childhood, scooting down with my pillow until just the right portion of my calf could rest comfortably suspended in the air. The backs of the calves are now speckled with brown and purple bruises, which the man I just married claims to be from him spoiling me rotten.
It was the same chapel where one of those Hilton sisters did it. The younger one who's not as pretty.
I haven't told anyone yet, the whole thing being so rushed and all. See also: he's one year younger than my mother. Basically the only thing that could make this seem ok is Rachel Hunter and Rod Stewart, but that might be pushing it. Then again, they might have been in love.
He called his mother and sister last night and they flipped. To play the age gap game again, his sister is a two years older than my father. However, his mother is not as old as my grandfather. Between our two families, we could write some hella good logic puzzles.
Anyway, now they're in from Connecticut, standing in the foyer of our suite demanding to meet me. I can hear them thirty feet away. He says, "She just went to lay down."
The mother is not at all pleased. "Come on, you little pedophile. Let's see her. Show us your trophy wife!"
The sister says something much lower I can hardly make out, but she laughs afterwards, and the mother reluctantly chuckling along with her. He is not happy at all.
"Listen, if I knew you were going to barge in like a couple a--" He stops, catching himself. He starts over. "If I'd known you were going to come here and be rude I wouldn't have even told you. She's a very sweet and beautiful girl who happens to be nineteen, but I love her."
"Ha!" the mother says. "You love her? You don't know what love is!" she bellows. "You've only just met the little twit and you think you're in love. Oh, wait, no, she's not the twit at hall! Ho, noooo! YOU are, you fool! She'll rob you for all you're worth and leave you for a younger man. Just you wait; it's coming."
I hold my breath as I hear her heels click toward down the hall, coming towards me. He scuttles his way ahead of her and hisses, "Just be quiet...don't say a thing...just look and that's it..."
The door creaks open and a splinter of light creeps in the room, immediately invaded by her sharp silhouette, with the head of the sister sprouting over her shoulder like a fungus. There's a sharp gasp, a sob, and the door closes again.
"She's just a baby..." she says.
Or that is what I hear.