It's not who you think.
Sometimes I read my blog and roll my eyes. I sound so contented and warm and earthy. A blissful mama and her baby cub all cuddled up with another mama bear and a frolicking dog to boot.
It's true, I suppose. My life is that idyllic a lot of the time. And my love for my daughter is just about the most peaceful, joyous love I can imagine.
But, what I have hinted at but probably not given enough space to is the other person who lives in me.
Sometimes I feel like a fraud.
Because while I love my life, love my friends, love my family, love my freakin' dog for fuck sakes, I also have a yearning for a darker reality.
Sometimes I hear a song and it melts all over me because I feel like maybe there are others in the world who are like me and it is sort of a luxury to feel like that.
I tend to be kind of a lonely woman even in the middle of all this love in my life. I am not much of a hugger or a gusher. I read my blog sometimes and get a bit gaggy from all the sweet sweet.
I am a complicated woman.
I am mostly good. I don't lie, cheat or steal. Well, I lie sometimes, but only to protect someone or to keep a cruel truth from surfacing.
I work very hard at being a good mother. I work less hard but I do try to be a good partner to Bing. I earn my own keep, pay my bills on time, keep a happy, healthy stance in my home. I take care of my own. I try to do good in the world. My job benefits children.
I carry blankets in my car in the winter to hand out to the homeless. Bing and I make sure that no kids in her classes go without a coat if they need it. I say sure when I am asked at the grocery store if I want to donate a dollar to help find a cure for juvenile diabetes. My friends know that I will help if they need me. Always.
But sometimes, like the song that melted all over me says, I wish that I could take a holiday. By myself.
This is what I sometimes ache to do:
I want to get on an airplane and tell everyone my name is Brigid or Francine or Bess or Caroline. Anything but my real name. I want to check into my hotel in Europe and go out and find a dive bar to play pool in. I want to beat the pants off every man or woman who plays me. And fuck it if their fragile feelings are bruised. I want to not care.
I want to drink so much that I can barely remember my own name. So much that he or she has to carry me up to one of our hotel rooms. While I am getting good and stumbley, I want to dance to Dave Matthews and smoke some cigarettes. Drink Tequila.
When we get upstairs, I want to be thrown on the bed, not gently laid down. I want to kiss him/her so hard that I get carried away and bite their bottom lip and draw a bead or two of blood. And I want to fuck. Not make love. Fuck.
And laugh. I want to laugh and for it to be fun and intense and naughty and oh so nice too. Because I want to be with my counterpart, someone who is basically good and kind but has this thin reedy streak of no-no sliding up in their veins sometimes too.
I want to be someone's crazy memory of a wild night. The kind of girl that they really don't want to even think of bringing home to their mama. I want them to shake their head when they remember that crazy girl that drove them just a little bit insane that night. I want to be the girl who talked them into wearing that metaphorical bunny suit. The girl who snarkily showed them a real crazy time and made them do foolish things, just for that one night.
I don't want to be a mother, a partner, a devoted friend. Just for that short time, I want to be right next door to a dangerous woman.
And then I want to move on, to some place else, someone else. I want to leave a lingering scent of something sexy and silly and sweet and totally off the chain.
I want to leave my angel wings at home and be kind of a beautiful mess.
Not forever. Not for long. Just for a holiday.
And then I want to come home and step gently into my life again with no regrets. I want to look off in the distance at nothing and then blush and smirk a little when I remember it all.
Whenever I hear this song, I feel like the guy that wrote it knows exactly how it feels to be in my skin, to read my mind.
I'll probably never act on it. I am too cognizant of the danger that a life like that could bring. I have no desire to crash and burn.
But, yeah...a little bit of blood on your bottom lip wouldn't kill you, buster. And I'd be gone before you knew what really hit you.