March 21, 2012
Dear Mr. White,
Here it is, 22 months since my first fan letter. I have now seen you live. It was amazing. Everything you have for your fans, you put in the show.
You were only the second celebrity crush I have had in my life. It will sound totally phoney if I say who my teenage celebrity crush was for. At the time my crush for you started, I did not know how much you loved him as well. I was always infatuated with the man on the cover of Nashville Skyline. That album is still my favorite of his.
Everything I needed to discover with this blog, this obsession, has been found. Even things I didn't know I wanted. Here I am 22 months later, passionately in love with my husband, happy in my life, and even happy with who I am. All of it. I am happy to be me. And it all started by being surprised to suddenly have a new celebrity crush after 15 years.
So, thank you, Mr. White. Thank you for enduring the public eye to share your gifts. Thank you for playing small venues, where I was ten feet from the stage. Thank you for the energy you put into your music. Thank you for helping me reach this point in my life.
As for the obsession and this blog--I am released.
Sincerely,
Your happiest 30-something fan.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
I won't forsake my husband too
Somewhere along the way I became a full-fledged groupie. Well, except for one aspect of that word. This post is about words.
Often I think that Mr. White's new penchant to frown is a way to deter women from falling in love with him. He must have realized that his smiling face is near irresistible. It doesn't work. We all love him anyway.
How do we love him? I want to meet him this weekend. He will be in town again. It is SXSW after all. And now I have the most amazing groupie pants. A friend agreed to dye the fabric for me when I could not find the right colors in the right fiber content. Today, when I started sewing the fly, I felt about to orgasm. I was getting dizzy! I had to take a break, drink some water, take a few deep breaths before I could start sewing again. They turned out too hot. Maybe they only make me hot thinking about them. Left leg is red. Right leg is black. Even the waistband is split along those lines. But that is not all. They are not a direct copy of Mr. White's jeans. These are riding breeches, otherwise know as "full seat breeches". The "full seat" is heart-shaped, white microsuede. Oh, and they are skin tight twill. Probably I will be laughed at wearing them in public. It is unlikely that they will make Mr. White want to meet me. I would like to meet him. In my absolute wildest fantasies, I refuse his sexual advances.
What is it about me that I want everyone to lust for me. I don't really want EVERYONE to lust for me. I fantasize about it, though. And then there is the word. The word I use here. The word that described me for years of my life. A word that I am no longer afraid of. Slut. I was a slut. Some people don't like that word at all, but I get to label myself. Slut. I was a slut. And that was okay.
Don't get me wrong, I haven't changed my position on what I hope for my children. I don't think the choices I made were "right". Just that they were the choices I made. Those few years of my life were not a black hole of misery. Yes, I was very sad through most of it. There were kindnesses. There are happy memories. It was life--good and bad. I don't have to hate the good, just because it was the result of bad choices. I don't have to hate anyone--including myself. I don't have to be afraid to call slut to my past self. I was a slut. I get to say it. I get to own it. I am no longer a slut.
I am no longer a slut, I just have an overactive libido and a husband, a knight, who mans up to fulfill my desires. I will not forsake him. I will not forsake my babies. It is so great being over thirty and in control of what you want. And whatever else he is, smile and all, Mr. White is not Black Jack Devey.
Often I think that Mr. White's new penchant to frown is a way to deter women from falling in love with him. He must have realized that his smiling face is near irresistible. It doesn't work. We all love him anyway.
How do we love him? I want to meet him this weekend. He will be in town again. It is SXSW after all. And now I have the most amazing groupie pants. A friend agreed to dye the fabric for me when I could not find the right colors in the right fiber content. Today, when I started sewing the fly, I felt about to orgasm. I was getting dizzy! I had to take a break, drink some water, take a few deep breaths before I could start sewing again. They turned out too hot. Maybe they only make me hot thinking about them. Left leg is red. Right leg is black. Even the waistband is split along those lines. But that is not all. They are not a direct copy of Mr. White's jeans. These are riding breeches, otherwise know as "full seat breeches". The "full seat" is heart-shaped, white microsuede. Oh, and they are skin tight twill. Probably I will be laughed at wearing them in public. It is unlikely that they will make Mr. White want to meet me. I would like to meet him. In my absolute wildest fantasies, I refuse his sexual advances.
What is it about me that I want everyone to lust for me. I don't really want EVERYONE to lust for me. I fantasize about it, though. And then there is the word. The word I use here. The word that described me for years of my life. A word that I am no longer afraid of. Slut. I was a slut. Some people don't like that word at all, but I get to label myself. Slut. I was a slut. And that was okay.
Don't get me wrong, I haven't changed my position on what I hope for my children. I don't think the choices I made were "right". Just that they were the choices I made. Those few years of my life were not a black hole of misery. Yes, I was very sad through most of it. There were kindnesses. There are happy memories. It was life--good and bad. I don't have to hate the good, just because it was the result of bad choices. I don't have to hate anyone--including myself. I don't have to be afraid to call slut to my past self. I was a slut. I get to say it. I get to own it. I am no longer a slut.
I am no longer a slut, I just have an overactive libido and a husband, a knight, who mans up to fulfill my desires. I will not forsake him. I will not forsake my babies. It is so great being over thirty and in control of what you want. And whatever else he is, smile and all, Mr. White is not Black Jack Devey.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Gestation
I think this post is going to turn out happier than I expected. I went today to visit the baby that is not mine. A baby conceived within days of our anti-miracle. A baby that was born this week. Not my baby. I did not hold her.
The last few days I have been feeling bad about this. Feeling bad about myself. Wishing my Knight were here to fuck the memories away. Feeling bad about using sex to hide depression.
Tonight I am feeling OK about that. All of it. Someone once told me that touch must be my primary form of connection to other people. That sounds true. Really, though, I don't care what's right or wrong. I don't have to understand.
Gestation is just a phase of life and it comes to an end. Maybe that is what I need to make my grown up decision. To have an end to this phase of my life. I am never going to have another baby.
Yesterday is dead and gone. I can focus on all the pain, or just remember all the kindnesses. So many kindnesses through the years. So many kindnesses to share tomorrow. If we are happy, we need never worry about what is right. Whatever new adventures to come are out of sight. We won't be facing them alone. I won't be facing them alone.
The last few days I have been feeling bad about this. Feeling bad about myself. Wishing my Knight were here to fuck the memories away. Feeling bad about using sex to hide depression.
Tonight I am feeling OK about that. All of it. Someone once told me that touch must be my primary form of connection to other people. That sounds true. Really, though, I don't care what's right or wrong. I don't have to understand.
Gestation is just a phase of life and it comes to an end. Maybe that is what I need to make my grown up decision. To have an end to this phase of my life. I am never going to have another baby.
Yesterday is dead and gone. I can focus on all the pain, or just remember all the kindnesses. So many kindnesses through the years. So many kindnesses to share tomorrow. If we are happy, we need never worry about what is right. Whatever new adventures to come are out of sight. We won't be facing them alone. I won't be facing them alone.
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