Day Five: Man-scaping, Black Balls and Other Truths

I am the person that routinely reveals uncomfortably personal details about myself. I like to say that I see where the line is drawn in the sand and then leap over it. Sometimes I just like to push the envelope.  Last night for instance, I was having dinner and drinks with the girls when the topic of discussion came round to the lady garden and man-scaping.  I mentioned that when the husband came home for two weeks on leave I feared he might look like an Iraqi south of his belt line. “Poor guy,” I said, “he’s been at war for six months, has all of two weeks off before heading back for another six months and the first thing I think is, ‘I hope they have some sort of weed whacker apparatus that he used before getting on a plane’.”

This is neither flattering to the husband, nor to myself, but it was timely to the conversation at hand and true. I find myself doing this all the time and have discerned that there are three classifications of listener. There are those that are slightly horrified and become uncomfortable, slowly or sometimes abruptly easing out of conversation and avoiding me at all future engagements. Other people find it amusing or even interesting, but adopt the assumption that I will be incapable of subtle or deep conversations and write me off as a casual friend for rowdy nights out. Finally, (and this last group is my favorite) there are the people who love me even more because of my honesty and recognize that it is but one aspect of my personality and one that I can control when the circumstances call for it.

I’ve never been quite sure why I do this. Part of it is that I’m a little class clown. I like to make people laugh and since I don’t actually know any jokes, sometimes shock and awe can have the same effect. Other times it is truly because I think it’s artificial the way we dance around topics, everyone afraid to say what’s really on the their mind, but fascinated when someone else dares to. When I was in college I took an anatomy class. I was thrilled find out that even in first level anatomy we would have two cadavers. One was female and the other, an older male. On the first day of class, the thing that struck me most was that the male cadaver was in possession of black-purple tinted testicles. I was fascinated and vexed by why this might be, but because no one ever commented on it, I assumed it was normal. Finally, however, on the last day that class met before finals I spoke up and asked our professor in my most professional and serious voice, “Dude, why are his balls black?” There followed an audible gasp by a few of my classmates and more than a few nervous giggles. Afraid I had crossed some horrific line of suitable behavior I was about to try to take it back when Dr. Elvis (his first name, cannot remember his last) replied “You know, I’ve been trying to figure that out all semester”! Sometimes it just takes someone brave or stupid enough to say what everyone is thinking, to open the door.

You can also use this tactic to close doors. Bold statements are like personal walls you erect to momentarily distract someone from reaching deeper, to discover truly personal information. I can talk about sex all day, a topic most find too personal and yet you will never scratch the surface of who I am emotionally. You want to know how many partners? Fine. What’s my favorite position? Done. My thoughts on blowing Little Boy’s blue? Anytime. Just please do not ask me about making love or emotionally connecting with my husband. That is too personal; that is way too vulnerable. Everyone has sex, but how you connect through intimacy is distinctly individual. So sure, I blow him and I’m fantastic at it, but you’ll never hear about the moments before and after when words and actions give way to true connection. To me that’s what’s private, that’s what’s personal.

A recurring consequence I run into from putting it all out there, is that I often cultivate a reputation for being callous. One such example is my continual complaints about children. I have even called Mothers who pop out four or more children in a short span of time a “breeder” – which by the way they seem to dislike. There is nothing more annoying than a crying child on a plane or a parent who lets their toddler run all over the place when you are just trying to do your shopping or standing in line for customs after an eight hour flight. Sure, they are adorable in photos, in a stroller, or muzzled, but if they’re flopping themselves all over the floor I might be tempted to kick them and I’ve announced this on more than one occasion. When strangers ask if I have children, my go to response is usually, “God, no”! True, this is my attitude frequently and I’ve said this same thing or variations of it many, many times to vastly different audiences, but it belies the fact that I love children. I used to want five, now at 36 I am just hoping for an egg or two that has not completely spoiled, should we decide to make an omelet. It’s kind of the opposite of small talk. I bluntly state my opinions, leading others to believe that’s all there is, but the truth behind those declarative statements is always more nuanced.

People are rushed. We don’t like taking too much time to get to know someone and we are made discomfited by those who thrust their opinions or personal information upon us. This is why I never trust the quiet ones. They may seem shy or innocent, but you can bet your ass they are taking in everything and silently summing up not only what you say, but also what you leave out. They are the best judges of character because they watch and they listen, so to a vulnerability averse girl like me, quiet people are the most dangerous element in the room. They hear what you’re not saying. I realize my tendency to divulge too much is my own downfall when it comes to offending people, but it’s doubtful I will change after all these years. So maybe you should make an effort to truly know someone and look past the polite small talk or declarations at a party to find out who someone truly is. If that seems like too much work, at least don’t assume you know who they are based on a shocking announcement confided between shots at a bar.