Who Put That Icebox Where My Heart Used to Be?

   As I say goodbye to the spring of 2012 and stare with curious anxiety at the impending summer months, I realize that this new season marks the second year of my single status. Two years is the longest amount of time I have spent unattached since I was sixteen years dumb. While there have been seasons of singularity that have afforded me the opportunity to frolic in Mexico and the Virgin Islands without so much as a second thought about any "other" person, no less one of significance, single life has begun to take its toll on my attitude. I am not bitter. Let me repeat: I am not bitter. Nor is there any anger or contempt toward men that I can easily point out. As a matter of fact, I thoroughly enjoy the company of men. I adore the attention they pay to the sway of my hips and how my calves sit in stilettos. I am simultaneously astounded and flattered by the nonsensical yet visceral reactions they have to my furious mane and impossible lips. Yes men, I do indeed love you. The weight of your baritones and cologne lower my lashes and sink one corner of my smile. The very nature of your being and its inextricable relation to mine is a concept that can lurch me into a total frenzy of desire at just the thought of a true connection. I revel in the idea of melting under the heat of your touch. A kiss on the back of my neck while cooking will forever lead to scorched rice. I love to love. When I do love;  when I have loved,  it has been with every ounce of myself. Not in such a way as to cleave away parts of me for the sake of the relationship, but to cleave to the fulfillment one receives when they really love without reservation. It is a truly magical experience.

    Unfortunately, I have recently realized some truths about myself that I may have always known but have been incapable of articulating until now. I am guarded, a little cold and unapproachable. All of my adoration for the opposite sex is barricaded behind a severe and deliberately impenetrable persona born to damn any honey from flooding onto anyone who may be a potential threat to my carefully constructed ideas about relationships. Remember when I said that I am not bitter? Here's where you might call me a hypocrite or claim a contradiction so I will explain. Early on, I ran into relationships heart-first, and completely wide eyed at the wonder of intimacy and security. I imagine that is what we all do when we are young, right? Well, after some nasty scrapes cuts and bruises sustained while Shawshanking myself out of each relationship, I developed a few callouses.  My approach to affairs of the heart became to handle them as logically and with as much critical thought as the situation would allow.  With each breakup, another lesson about what I wanted, deserved, and was willing to acquiesce to placed either a boulder, brick, stone or pebble around the soft and melty part of my emotional availability.   Picture a castle filled with everything girls are made of, surrounded by a moat of honey, protected by a fire breathing dragon...with a toothache.  Or maybe a more modern example: you know how Big Ma always had a deep freezer in the garage or basement or wherever?  There she kept summertime treasures of Popsicles and ice cream sandwiches buried under blocks of unidentifiable frozen meat bricks and butter. Cold world.

     So basically, it's summertime and I want to enjoy my Popsicle! I want to let all of the cool air out on the hottest day in June. Swing the door open and stand there staring at the bricks of mystery meat and butter with enough fire in my eyes to melt it all. Reach in and touch the soft and fragile part of me that wants to run through sprinklers and catch fireflies in jam jars. Laugh and spin in the sweet sticky must of sundown, with a Him to enjoy the sweet and soft without consequence of forever or even tomorrow. My intention is just to knock the chill off, exfoliate some of these rough spots, expose the kind and soft parts of myself and present them to the sun as an offering in the name of maintaining balance. I have no desire to carry an icy disposition in the center of my chest and then marvel at the refusal of a man to lay his head there, asinine. This is not an "I am ready for my husband to find me" rant either, because I am not ready.  It is merely an early self reflection that shows that I am preparing for his arrival by letting go of the old hangups that have nothing to do with the next man. I am thawing myself out.