The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

Fancy Animal

One of those nights when I am taking stock of what I don't have, or what I've been waiting for. Not a bad thing, really, it's just that I occasionally become very aware of glaring holes in the world around me, missing people, missing touches. While most of my waking moments are dedicated to a small tyrant with long, blonde hair, and to a tall Frenchman who doesn't seem to notice the folded clean underwear, or the fact that the bathroom is shining after a spirited bout of scrubbing, I give pause to wonder where everyone else is.

Where is Kyla? My best friend of twenty plus years has not returned my phone call. I left a message for her on Friday, one in which I employed humour so as to lessen the bite of my accusation: It's been something like two months! Where'd you go? Yes, I'm accusing you in case you missed that! Seriously, what's up? My friend Kyla has a way of forgetting there's a world outside her immediate surroundings and while I know it's who she is, it doesn't mean I always accept it. I've been her friend for so long that I think she assumes I won't be bothered by prolonged absences. Or, it could be that she has decided we're not as close as we used to be and can't find the time or inclination to dial my number. Sure, we both have families now, but she doesn't work and hasn't in years and she isn't much of a housekeeper so when her kids are at school, I have to wonder why she doesn't think to call me. It's actually more like three months since we've spoken, come to think of it. I don't know if it's worth getting mad.

Cathie hasn't called either, but she works a lot and her kids are involved in all sorts of extracurricular activities. She's the friend who calls at ten o'clock on a weeknight, unaware of the time or date, and even when you tell her that you're just getting ready for bed she continues talking. She is sweet and loyal, and we've known each other almost as long as I've known Kyla but her phone calls border on torture at times. She talks about nothing endlessly, somehow unable to tell a simple story without including every single detail she can think of. She will work in sock colour, the weather, every person within a ten mile radius of whatever incident she is relaying and she only laughs when I make crazed exclamations about it taking longer than the second coming of Christ. It's not that I have much to talk about with her, other than my sister's miscarriage which by now she's heard from my ex I'm sure, but when she takes a few days to respond to me I always wonder if she's okay. The girl loves her some telephone.

Kim and I do not speak on the phone, anymore. Her hearing is almost gone at this point and she can't hear anything unless I shout, which is exhausting. She wears a hearing aid in each ear, and her work phone is outfitted to her needs, but her home phone is not and it makes for some stressful conversation. She told me once that she hated to communicate that way, so I stopped calling. The problem is that emails are never that interesting, they don't have the repartee or the inflections of our voices. I tend to rely on Cathie for any relevant Kim news. I hate that.

Where's all the sex? I went for a month before noticing it wasn't around and then I end up with the most intense menstrual assault I've had in years. It's odd, feeling bloated and pained while simultaneously lusting for the man who is putting together a princess puzzle with our daughter. I am certain I looked like a pissed off balloon, but my hormones are raging and waging battle on my ovaries. I am not the kind of girl who will even consider sex when I'm in this condition and M. probably wouldn't be into it anyway. It's messy and off-putting, I think, dirty and painful. I would have to deal with the sheets afterward, I know it. Plus, in my advanced stage of bloat, I might pop altogether and shoot across the room. I would become a vicious splat on the wall, perhaps next to the imprint of the mosquito I thumped with my fist a few weeks back. I left the impression where it is because I was mesmerized by it, the black stamp of broken limbs and body on a yellow wall, looking as beautiful as it does tragic.

The sex I am currently wanting would involve clothing being ripped away and animal noises. I would want a bit of anger in it, a bit of hunger. I wouldn't want it to be quick and easy, but slow and methodical, with every erogenous area properly probed with a tongue or finger, with every bit of skin touched by another. I would like his hands on my waist if I were looking down at him, rolling my torso in a circular motion so that he could groan in pleasure while I watched his face contort in the exquisite agony of wanting to explode, but not letting it happen. I wouldn't want any more words. We talk too much as it is, and I think I might want to leave the love and the parenthood out of it. I know we created a life together, I know we have built a life together, but this time I would want it to be about my insane need for his body and nothing more. I would want the freedom to explore him without his shyness, and I would welcome him in without thinking of the indecencies of what we might be doing. I would want the two of us to leave the dignity behind. We are just fancy animals, after all.

Where's my tolerance to food? I've been dealing with a belly full of bubbling acid for two days now, and I blame it on the ridiculous amounts of chocolate I've been pilfering from the wee one's Halloween haul, as well as on the delicious hamburgers I made the night before last which felt like lead in my stomach until there was a full on assault that left me rocking back and forth in agony. Is my body rejecting meat now? As I ate it, I knew it wasn't landing smoothly, and when I awoke to what I'm referring to as a 'gallbladder attack', until I know otherwise, I can't say I was all that surprised. I've always been a heartburn sufferer, always had issues with acid reflux, but this is a new level of torture. Since food and I have a very intense relationship, I'd hate to find out that I can't eat the things I want to. This would lead me to replace it with something else, like sex, and lord knows M. wouldn't know how to handle that. He's a 'tiny portions are better' sort of guy. He actually thinks it tastes better. No, I need to have my chocolate. I don't know if life would be worthwhile without it. I might be okay without meat though. The hamburgers, that is. M's meat I do not reject. Not yet, anyway.

I notice the holes tonight. It's like they're everywhere and I'm going to fall into one. Whichever one it is, I hope the landing is soft and that I can climb back out without too many bruises.