The Stuff

Holy bejesus, I have had the worst headache for about a week now. I know it's a sinus headache, because the root of the pain seems to be focused right at the bridge of my nose and then creeps up into my forehead and spreads from there. However, I've managed to convince myself that this is really just a testosterone-deprivation headache. Yeah, that'll be the dumbest thing you hear all day, I bet. Since April 17th, the exact day I moved out, I have suffered from a sharp decrease of testosterone in my life. For real though, I needed to step back and cleanse myself, because I was overrun with some really bad, insecure testosterone. And so I've done that, for the rest of the spring and the entire summer. It's fall now, although it seems like we might be going straight from summer into winter, which is a whole other blog about how much it fucking annoys me when we skip entire seasons.

I think that anyone, men and women alike, can attest to the fact that the wrong mix of hormones can really fuck up your life. I mean, just take a completely normal life and turn it upside down. That's what happened to me, and I won't give you a play-by-play, because you can read all of my other posts to catch up. So now, I'm lacking any testosterone in my life. I have no bad, insecure testosterone, which is a good thing, but I have no good, hot testosterone, either.

I'm starting to get a little antsy.

When I first moved out, I went out to lunch with a colleague/friend person whom I hadn't seen in a while and we caught up. I told him about all of my drama, and the first thing out of his mouth was, "So do you hate men now?" How did I know that question was coming? I just sat there and looked at him. And he asked again. "Well, do you?" I was like, "No, of course not. I just hate one specific man. The rest of you are all right, I guess." Then my buddy asked me, "Are you seeing anyone? Are you dating yet?" To that I replied, after I almost choked on my sweet tea, "Uh, I just told you I moved out last week. Are you kidding me?" I almost felt like it was turning into one of those strange Seinfeld conversations, but in an Applebee's in Fredericksburg. He just shrugged and told me he could hook me up whenever I'm ready, just let him know and he knows lots of single guys. Yeah, I don't know, I told him. I need some time alone. That, and my buddy is a church guy. He doesn't know the Steph that writes this nasty ass blog. He knows the Steph that doesn't curse around him out of respect, the Steph that doesn't forward him dirty jokes and such. He knows the G-rated Steph. And let me just tell you, that Steph is not me. That is a whole other Steph who I try to keep locked up tight somewhere, and I don't know if his friends/co-workers would be people like him or people like me. And I don't really know if I want to find out because that might end up being a painful and awkward get-to-know-you-date. So I haven't bothered to send him that email that basically says, hey, I'm ready for a hook up. Whatcha got?

I've been amazed by the number of people, men and women, who have asked if I'm dating. Ummmm, no. I'm still trying to extricate myself from a fucking psychopath and I have no business dating. In fact, when I say extricate, I imagine myself as some kind of Spongebob character with goo stuck all of me and every time I get a string of it off of me, I find another string of goo that I've got to mess with. Like silly string that sticks, or strings of warm bubble gum floating about in the dryer all over your freshly washed clothes. Thanks, children. Mommy loves you. Except for when that happens.  Someone asked me in May if I was dating (in front of my mom), and before I could even answer, I felt her head turn slightly over her shoulder, since she was sitting with her back to me, and give me that look. The look of expectation, the look of quiet anticipation when a mothers eyes will bore a hole right through your very skull and make you feel extra empty and guilty for even being alive. I know this look because I level it upon many a face on many a day, and in fact, I have perfected this look where she left off. I balled up my face at her and said, "What? What? Don't look at me like that. You're on your third marriage, for god's sake. And no," I told the girlfriend who had asked, "I'm not dating. But it's not because of her." No, I wasn't being defensive AT ALL.

So, testosterone. This is what I'm jonesing for right now. Jonesing like a motherfucker, like some crazy crackhead. But not for the bad, insecure psychopathic testosterone. The good stuff. That's what I need. The stuff that will hold a door open for me, and then slap my ass when I walk through it. But not a slap on the ass every time. Just every now and then, to keep me guessing. The stuff that will breathe a warm breath upon my neck and make every hair on my head feel alive. The stuff that will send me a random explicitly worded text in the middle of the day. The stuff that will take me out to dinner and not have an overtly ulterior motive when I drink too much wine, because the good stuff is smoother than that. The stuff that will look at me across a crowded room and make me feel like I'm the only woman in the world. The stuff that will make me feel like doing dirty high school things in the car. The stuff that will tell me I'm beautiful in the morning when my hair is sticking up all over the place, and my makeup has rubbed off on the pillow case. The stuff that tells me they like my thumb ring and french manicure, and that they like my 4 inch knee high boots without the next reference being related to a stripper pole. The stuff that will make me feel safe and secure when I know that nothing ever is. The stuff that will make my heart beat a little faster right before it drops into my stomach.

That's the stuff.