So I've been a bit of a whore lately.
That's okay though. I haven't done anything I regretted later, and I've got some pretty astounding stories to tell to people who wouldn't connect names to faces, in a controlled and private setting, preempted with pinky-sworn secrecy. Like... stories NEVER to tell my grandchildren.
But I did have a weird daydream the other day at Turp's. The restaurant was slow, and I was thinking about how I don't consider myself as having sex appeal, but how I still manage to meet guys who like me, and I imagined that one day, I would be surrounded with the [relatively few] people that I have had sex with but for whom I don't have any strong feelings anymore, and in a scene reminiscent of the 1932 cult classic, Freaks, I would be consumed by how wildly and completely wrong for me they were. I don't think I imagined it as an assault; rather it was self-inflicted mutilation resultant from the realization that confronting my former flames leaves no ashes smoldering. Those days and relationships are over. Now I insist that I do not regret the people I've slept with recently. But some names and faces from the past float up to the surface of my brain and I hate to say it, but I cringe at the thought of some of my high school antics. I think that is the best wake-up call I could have: I shared something intimate and special with people I don't even respect anymore.
So I'm striking them from the list. This is it. The big goodbye. No more will I cringe or feel shame at the thought of 2005. Every moment we live, we are compiling a bigger and bigger load of baggage: memories that we try to recreate or avoid, situations that influence us in the present. I believe Milan Kundera would say we weigh ourselves down with the past, and I have a particularly good memory. But I'm done being so guilt-ridden and careful. Try and be light for a little while. Maybe that will open me up to a little more self-knowledge and wisdom.
I also think about my family. As I write this, I imagine what my Aunt Janie would say to this post. You know, I'm named for her? I got the "Sara" part of my name from "Sarah Jane." I wonder if she has any baggage that weighs her down. She must. We all do, and she is a widow, so there must be all sorts of emotions crashing through her that I couldn't even begin to understand because of the sudden and irrevocable loss of her husband. I can't imagine all of the implications of the term 'husband', let alone the loss of one. What is lightness to her? What secrets does she have that make her smile to herself when she's alone but which she'd never tell a living soul? It electrifies me thinking that every person has a secret, "every single one's got a story to tell," and it takes me out of myself for a moment to consider what I couldn't possibly have the knowledge to consider...
Who knows, maybe Aunt Janie was a bit of a whore, too.
