My Concessive Transgression Confession

My competitive nature has pushed me to stay after practice to practice. It has sent me on solitary journeys down to school yards and open fields, where I worked out kinks in whatever it was I was trying to master. Competition was like the overly ambitious father I never had, barking over my shoulder, pushing me to do better, to get it dialed in, to sear the necessary grooves in the brain to make each movement a natural act.

Running full speed and nosing a soccer ball along the ground with your toes is not a natural act. But with practice, one can nose a soccer ball with their toes while running full speed.

Did you know that?

But other things require other tactics. Trying to garner enough votes to win a blog popularity contest requires that people actually LIKE you. And for that, they’d have to get to know you.

I mean, it is hard to like somebody you don’t KNOW, right?

Makes sense to me.

At least in principle.

And since I really don’t do memes or write lists or reveal too many personal facts while recounting my tales, I get the feeling that my charm is lost in the telling, that my adorable foibles aren’t pulling on your heart strings, that I’m being perceived as a hollow caricature of myself, and ya’ll are missing out on some of the juicy fillings.

So to inspire everyone of you to take up my cause and to promote my championship run, I am offering up these very revealing facts of my personage for your digestion.

I am very competitive. (In case you missed that.)

I haven’t had sex in one year and one month and twenty six days.

And I miss it. And what I miss about it is not the moment we’ve always been waiting for. You know, that moment when your heart rate climbs and you make that funny face and you feel like you’ve just done something physically cleansing and unclogging?

No. I miss the awkwardness of it all. The unwelcome cramps in the hip flexors and the arches and the funny noises two belly buttons make when slapped together. I miss the unwholesome smells and the finger that gets poked in your eye and the admonitions for being too much in a hurry or for not washing your hands before you, uh, try something funny. I miss the missing socks and the head board that bangs on the wall behind you and the head that bangs on the headboard and the awkwardness of being too zealous and slipping out and ramming yourself into a belly button. I miss clacking teeth and lost earrings and fingers caught in long hair and yes, stopping to pull hair out of your mouth while you go phttphtt phtphttt! I miss all that.

I miss those little inspired moments when you want to “try something” and it ends up being a collapsed pile of naked opposites laughing hysterically at the lunacy of the attempt. Sheepishly, you reinsert yourself missionary style and it seems wholly adequate all of a sudden.

I miss pretending not to hear climactic farting and odd little moans that just don’t come out of the mouth right. I miss fish out of water face making and laying around, not so subtly poking at a backside, trying to communicate a feeling without having to resort to begging.

Yeah. I miss all that.

Another thing about me that I usually don’t reveal, is that I am uncomfortable being 44 years old and living with my Momma. There is a worldly stigma to that arrangement, and I feel it poking me as I go about the act of living. I am not a father but still only a son. I don’t feel the uniform of my age because, frankly, I’ve never worn it. While I have no regrets about the life choices I’ve made along the way- my God I’ve had a lot of fun-- the reality of my current situation weighs on me, and at times I resent my own choices and I second guess my own destination that I seemed to have arrived at without much forethought.
While contemplating the absence of sex and what else that entails, I find myself contemplating the path less taken, and wonder if there wasn’t a reason for that after all? People walk well worn paths because they lead somewhere. Of that, I am relatively certain.

On the other hand, Mum was out in the spring-like weather walking around the grass I cut for her, being followed by two adoring cats as she tottered with her cane, heading out to make sure all of the bird feeders were full of seed, poking at the butterfly bush I just pruned with the rubber tip of her cane, tossing a tennis ball for my Collie while the birds sang and thanked her for the seed. This whole no sex for me thing has translated into Mum having more moments like these.

Ahhh. It’s all a bag of valuable marbles, this life, isn’t it?

I’ve lost enough weight around my belly to start collecting lint buttons again.

That’s a great thing. I’ve missed those buttons. The red ones. The blue or purple ones. The little swirls of body hair intertwined in the swirl of the lint. It’s like that pore that always had a blackhead in it. You know the one. The one that draws you in close to the mirror once or twice a week to see if you can get something out of it. My lint is a lot like that. Just a comfortable habit. Just a comforting fact of life.

My feet really do smell. I’ve joked about that in passing, but it is unfortunately very true. I sweat more than most people. The sweat ends up running the length of my body down into my shoes. Icky icky, pew pew… I make a special effort to keep this fact out of everybody’s nostrils.

I once spent most of a Grateful Dead Concert in Eugene Oregon trying to pop a big pimple in the very middle of my back where I couldn’t reach it. It was under pressure and it hurt, and I eventually got it by scraping sideways like a bear across a sharp corner of a building. It bled a lot and I was told by many that it bled through my shirt.

It took me some doing, but I finally got beer drinking back into the pleasurable occasion category and out of the everyday occurrence habit. I’m going to blame it on the boredom of taking care of the elderly, but that’s not entirely honest. Men, for the most part, are creatures of habit. Sometimes, some habits just sort of grow and grow.

I still enjoy beer, and will probably always enjoy beer. Like most things, I find I enjoy it more when I understand its absence.

I have a tooth missing not far from the front of my mouth. I put my tongue in it while I work and I have plans to get an implant replacement someday. There is nothing uncomfortable about it so I never feel the urgency to fill the hole, but if I smile big, it shows.

I secretly think my DNA would make a great kid. I attribute this, mostly, to my not fathering any (due to diligence and care when clacking teeth together). As I watch more and more mind-dumb-junkie-ne’er-do-wells dilute the Gene Pool with their irresponsibleness, I think, maybe, perhaps, just possibly, I should try to help out. I mean, I’ve got no known disorder except the condition of my shop, but that’s only because I don’t throw away good stuff I may use someday, like U-bolts to a 51 Willy’s Jeep.

I secretly like to crush the hands of arrogant men when shaking them. I give them my second stage strength grip, and it’s fun to watch their faces try and remain arrogant under duress… It’s the mischievous nature I was saddled with and I can’t help it.

I can go to the beach, lie down, and be asleep and dreaming within twenty minutes. Even under the pressure of a bet, I can do this. Something about the rhythm of the crashing waves.

The last time I had casual sex was when I was about twenty. Though I’ve never been married, I’ve been very devoted to the relationships I’ve attempted. I have a habit of getting on hard-to-tame horses and am never really surprised when all the bucking lands me on my ass. The older I get, the more I don’t want a tired old nag. A nice trail horse who knows their way around the hay barn would make me happy.

I have really ugly big toe nails.

I let my dogs kiss me on the mouth, though I tuck my lips in.

As I age, I accept my self with all of my idiosyncrasies, more and more. I feel really comfortable inside my scarred and sun-smacked skin.

So go vote for me.

Now that you know me a little more.