The Ghandi of Maneaters (Part 1)


So, I have been on a self-prescribed “Man Diet” for a year now.  This is not a diet in which I indulge like a man… it is quite the opposite, unless we’re talking skinny men with restraint.  You know, like those guys that eat 500 calories a day so they can live until they’re 130. They carefully weigh berries and apple peels for breakfast.  And for all of their dedication and deprivation, when they die they get to go to the Cheesecake Factory, where the virgin waitstaff wonders why I’m off-topic so early in the post.

Before you were distracted by the virgins, I was trying to establish that the Man Diet is not a diet in which I eat corndogs, nachos, and chocolate covered bacon, which is to say it is not a diet in which I indulge like a man.  It is instead a diet in which I indulge in a man in much the same manner that Ghandi indulged in cow meat.  As in, not at all.  No kissing, no touching, no hand holding, no supposed meaningful eye contact, no lingering phone calls, nothing sappy and no oh oh nooky.  Not, nothing, zilch, negatron, nix on the nookiness.  None.  Nada.  This is me nuking nooky:


The decision to adhere to all of this nixing and zilching had absolutely nothing to do with feeling guilty or bad about love or passion or sex.  My intention was to clear my head, to somehow extract myself from the pattern of behavior that kept me walking down that wrong path again, with that wrong boy again.  I just kept fooling myself into getting lost, over and over.  Then I would wake up right before the last bread crumb fell, thinking, “Holy gingerbread house!  Scary Candyland again!”  And before you know it, I can hear the witch sliding that knife against the stone and as the oven door creaks open, all I can see is the Cheesecake Factory and those dang virgins running toward the light at the end of the tunnel.   Then like a lightening strike, I would snap back to reality, ditch the witch, send Hansel packing, and get the heck up outta the CL, where you want to lick everything right before it eats you alive.

Beware the spiffy lederhosen.

So in mostly non-analogous terms, the pattern I’m trying to break free of is the one where I mysteriously end up in a relationship with some miscellaneous man du jour (nice lad, spiffy lederhosen, one or two decent qualities) whom I would readily start off on a path with. And here’s where it starts getting patterny… I began giving up parts of myself to keep the relationship going. You know, important parts like time with my kids, or my personal projects and plans, my life map with goals and places I wanted to go and things I want to be or become. I gave up big sentimental chunks of my bucket list, my freaking life compass, my gosh darn witch-whacker, my friggin’ brain, and then, braids a frickin’ swinging to and freaking fro, I’d be skipping down that primrose path in my maryfrigginjanes and lacy ankle socks, singing Zippity fucking Do Dah to the bluebird that was NOT sittin’ on my shoulder, but was instead gorging himself on all the crumbled parts of my life that had fallen out along the unbelievably stupid way.

And then, I would wake up and check out of the relationship. Thank you for flying with us, buh bye.  Disembark at the nearest exit, you have reached your destination, buh bye.  It’s not you it’s me.  Take your luggage and your flotation device and float the fuck off.  Do not leave any belongings on the plane.  Take your baggage with you.  I’ve got my own, buh bye.  Don’t call me.  I won’t call you.  Buh bye.  We reserve the right to refuse.  And we refuse.  Buh bye.  Bye bye.  Bye.

I did this every time.  And every time, up until I checked out, I was convinced that it wouldn’t happen.  The problem, I have come to understand, lies in part in the part where I was convinced.  Turns out it was an action, and not a state of being.

Tune in next time when Yoda and the Cheshire Cat team up to kick the bluebird’s ass.

Click here for Part 2~