THE PACK OF CONDOMS

THE PACK OF CONDOMS

I wrote this little story many, MANY moons ago. Instead of endlessly agonizing “why aren’t I writing anymore?” I decided to dig up and revisit my old poems, essays, and stories. I don’t have any exact “dates created” due to a hard drive failure in 2003 and subsequent rescue of my written documents and most of my photographs. Even so, it’s a good guess this story is from the end of summer 1997. THAT many moons ago notwithstanding, the gist of all my stories remain constant themes in my life. So, ADD fueled procrastination be damned, I did a little editing, added the image and decided to post it on this, my endlessly neglected blog.

Wandering the lower level of Duane Reade in search of contact lens solution I found myself in front of an extensive selection of condoms lined up on the counter in the back of the store. I stared at the rack and realized it’s been what… 3 years, 7 months, and ummm, a couple of weeks since I had had sex? (But who’s counting?) Something had to change.

  My search for that “special someone" to “spend the rest of my life with” was going nowhere. Oh, I had been meeting and dating some decent enough guys, but out of them all, the only one I made out with never called again. Obviously, this was going to take a lot more time then I anticipated.  Maybe I should just go out and get myself a good cuddle and a little loving.  

  The condoms stared back, beckoning, suggesting maybe if I had some on hand, a man might actually appear in my bed. I looked around. Only me, and the girl behind the counter in the whole lower level. Perfect opportunity! No witnesses! I bought a pack in honor of my decision. I boasted to my friends about what I did. They cheered me on.

Weeks later, the condoms remained unopened in my sock drawer. Negotiations for my new business ground to a stand still. The long Labor Day weekend loomed ahead. No work, no boyfriend, no plans. I stuff the condoms into my suitcase and jump on a plane from Brooklyn to Ft. Lauderdale. I rent a sea green TransAm, and drive to a friend’s empty condo 5 minutes from the ocean. The days pass. I swim in the warm turquoise waters, soak in the hot sun, and scuba dive. It’s all very sensual. There I was, freshly bronzed, relaxed and even friskier then before. The condoms languished in my suitcase. I realized had to do something.

That night I dragged myself out to the so-called hot spot in town. I’m on a mission. I sit at a table in the middle of the room nursing a cocktail and check out the scene. So far, nothing. The place starts to fill in and the band begins to play. Lots of couples, a few young guys hanging in packs, and one very drunk Russian man leering at a blond in a very short skirt. A skinny little guy wanders over and checks me out. I estimate that I must I weigh a good 30+ pounds more then he does. I try to keep an open mind. I visualize. Nope. Won't work. Not for what I have in mind.

Then suddenly, this tall good looking guy with thick curly hair and a nice build walks in, buys a drink, and strolls over and stands right next to me. Bingo! He I could go for. But now what? I’m new at this!  I force myself to turn and smile at him instead of employing my usual ineffective response of feigned disinterest. He smiles at me. I smile at him. He smiles at me. I smile at him. To my great relief we start to talk.

I invite him to sit at my table. He’s divorced with 2 kids who he loves dearly. He’s a real estate broker by day, and a personal trainer at an exclusive fitness center at night. Ooohh, a nice one! And he's my age! He buys another round of drinks. We talk talk talk. He’s kind and gentle and has a warm smile. I sense a current of electricity. The band is great. Maybe tonight will be the night! 

The conversation proceeds to love, marriage, dating and relationships. He then says that, unlike other guys, he’s never had a one-night stand. Nope, never even wanted one. Still doesn’t. What he wants is to find that "special someone" to spend “the rest of his life” with. I open my mouth. Nothing comes out. What I want to say is who cares about the rest on our lives! How ‘bout right now we just go for it!  Hell, I even have protection! Right in my suitcase in my friend’s empty condo!

Instead, I sigh and begin to commiserate about how hard it is to find that “special someone” to “spend the rest of your life with”. In that second I realized that the first time in my life I went out specifically looking for a one-night stand is the first time I meet a guy who says he’s looking specifically for a commitment. AND he lives in Florida. 

So now, here I am, back in Brooklyn, my intact pack of condoms stashed safely in my sock drawer. Waiting.

I'M NOT READY!

"I'm NOT Ready" 

 I wrote this little story many moons ago. Today, instead of agonizing about “why I never write anymore” I decided to revisit some of my old poems, essays, and stories. I don’t have any of their original dates due to a catastrophic drive failure and subsequent rescue of my documents and most of my photos. Since the gist of this story remains an ongoing theme in my life, I simply did a little re-write and decided to post it on this, my endlessly neglected blog.

Most mornings all I want to do is bury myself in my comforter and down pillows and never get up. I always sleep with earplugs and when it is very quiet and I am very still I listen to my heart beat and my blood pulsing in rhythm with my breath.

I remember my mother recounting my birth. How, at the last minute I turned and refused to budge, and how it then took 36 hours of pushing and prodding to get me out. I imagine myself futilely trying to stay in the womb. I still resent having to cope with life. Nowadays, with a cozy bed as surrogate womb, most of the time, I'm still reluctant to budge.   

Other mornings,  I leap up as soon as I awake, energized and ready. It seems unfair that those mornings are so infrequent. They come like big surprises that catapult me joyfully into the world. Mostly, however, I have to push and prod myself to get going. 

        This particular morning I did not want to get up, not yet. I twist and turn then curl up with the sheet pulled over my head to block the morning light. A garbage truck started plaintively whining through my ear plugs. I roll over and turn the digital ocean up loud enough for waves to replace the groans of the truck. I curl back up and sigh….ahhhh… Now I am in a womb by the ocean. 

Naked, I sit on a circular crimson cloth facing the ocean with my legs spread wide open.  Drumming flows faintly over the waves. Astonished, I hold my very pregnant belly … blood is pouring out of me….the drumming gets louder and louder… I am giving birth…. I push and push and my baby's head pops out face up eyes open staring right at me and says "I'm not ready!" and slips back inside.

I wake up startled…there is insistent knocking at my door. Groggy I sit up on a wet crimson circle on my sheets. I'm bleeding. I stagger up and stuff a wad of paper between my legs. 

"Who is it?" I shout at the closed door. 

“Mailman...you got a package!" a voice shouts back. "You gotta sign for it!" 

“Okay... gimme a minute!” I scramble to pull on my robe and open the door. 

"Sorry I woke you..." he said noticing at how disheveled and disoriented I was. He handed me a pen and a clip board. "It's a good thing you're home, or you'd have to go to the post office and pick it up yourself." 

"Yeah, that really IS a good thing...thanks.” I said scribbling my signature and returning the clipboard. He was right, I REALLY didn’t wanna hafta deal with hauling my ass to the post office and waiting on one of their wretched lines. 

I knew exactly what was in the box. I had ordered yet another "self help" book from Barnes and Noble. I have an impressive selection of such books: discovering one’s true life path; finding work you love; creating abundance; attracting your soul mate; overcoming writer's block; stopping compulsive eating; cultivating mindfulness; releasing negativity; paths to enlightenment; healing your life, and so on and so forth ad infinitum. I start all of them and invariably finish only a handful. Laughingly, they line my bookshelves, some sarcastically strewn on my coffee table, and a few furtively hidden in the bathroom.

There's no use going back to bed. I’m already up and it’s getting late. I have money, men and mindfulness to manifest. I better get going. I tear open the box and toss the newest addition onto my coffee table. I’ll read it later. Or tomorrow. Whenever.