Eight days and twenty two hours. That’s how long it’s been since I last kissed my spouse, ever since I caught the cold from hell. There’s something about laying around for days under blankets in a cold medicine induced stupor that can get a girl thinking about the important things in life. You see, I’m always on the go. Up at 4:30, at work by 6:30, home by 5:30, rush around to get an hour of exercise in, make dinner and lunches, go to bed and get up and do it all over again the next day. In between, I do my best to find snatches of time to chat with my spouse, and hopefully get a little writing in here and there. Weekends are equally busy with a whole slew of different tasks. Thank goodness for my Fridays off, otherwise I’d never have time to write.
So, in the grand scheme of things, being knocked down and unable to get up for several days has its benefits. It reminded me of how much I appreciate the little things which happen to be the best things in my life. For starters, I love to eat good food. One of my favorite times of day is sitting down to eat dinner with my spouse. It matters to me that during that special, yet short time, we not only eat healthy but enjoy our food and each other’s company. Unfortunately, I can neither smell nor taste food with this cold. When it’s gone, I’m going to make a five course feast.
As for exercise, this is longest stretch that I can remember having gone without it. I miss the endorphins and how it makes my mind and body strong and healthy. Right now, I feel squishy and tired, which I don’t like one bit. In the not too distant future though, I’m going to run as far as my legs will carry me and love every second of it. I’ll go on a warm sunny day and run in the woods while the birds serenade me. Good times, indeed.
The things that I miss most however are the feel of my spouse’s cheek next to mine, and how much it means to be able to kiss her every day. We’ll have been together twenty one years in July, 2012. There isn’t anything in the world more precious to me than getting to be the one who kisses her every day for the rest of our lives. In fact, as soon as the cold from hell passes, I intend to kiss her like there’s no tomorrow.
Thanks Mr. Cold Virus for giving me a little much needed perspective. You can be on your way now. Peace.
A recent discussion about so-called “butch” characteristics left me wondering what that term really means. Webster’s Dictionary defines “butch” as notably or deliberately masculine in appearance or manner. Wikipedia describes the etymology of the word butch to mean “tough kid” and may have originated as the nickname of George Cassidy, also known as Butch Cassidy, and then finally first used to describe a “male-like lesbian” in the 1940s. The truth is that the meaning is elusive and like many things, depends on who is doing the defining. We humans love our boxes and labels. I understand why we do it. It helps explain and keep things organized. But, there are just some things that can’t be explained or organized. As I’ve said before, humans are complicated. Being butch to me is more a state of mind than manner of dress. The manner of dress is only a by-product or tool used to create a particular expression or reach a particular goal. Maybe it’s even simpler than that for some. Perhaps, it’s merely about what they’re most comfortable in.
Here’s what I mean. I don’t know any lesbian, butch or not, who wants to be described as “masculine.” Tough, confident, comfortable in her own skin and clothing, strong, capable and rugged, but not masculine. My spouse is a good example. There is nothing about her that is masculine. She is one hundred percent woman who can make me swoon when she’s in a business suit with skirt and heels; and then totally have me at her mercy the next day when she’s dressed in faded jeans, steel-toed work boots, and Kevlar chaps while wielding a chainsaw with precision. Be still my heart.
I’ve always considered myself to have a strong butch streak. True, I can hardly wait to check out the latest skirts when the Title-9 Catalogue arrives in the mail, my hair takes a fair amount of work in the morning, I adore manicures and fresh polish on my nails and my collection of shoes and boots are too numerous to count. That’s just where I am now, and I love exploring that softer side of me. Notwithstanding, there was a stage in my life when people would have been more likely to consider me “butch” based on conventional standards. When was in the Air Force, I worked on the flight line repairing FB-111 jets. At the time, I was the only woman in my shop and barracks. I lived and worked with men. My hair was short, I wore combat boots every day and the guys knew better than to mess with me or doubt my skills. That experience made me resilient and resourceful. Today, I wouldn’t hesitate to open up a “can of butch” on anyone who would try to hurt my family. Even though I enjoy wearing a nice skirt to work, on most Saturdays you’ll find me in fleece, faded jeans and hiking boots.
Butch isn’t about hair and clothes. It’s about the way one carries herself in the world. She’s that woman who saunters into a room and makes us feel like she can conquer the world and sweep us off our feet while doing it. I love that women are soft and delicate, yet tough as nails when it counts. The resiliency and toughness of women is what I would consider to be “that butch swagger.”