Goddess or Doormat?

After I got divorced and I delved, rather quickly, into the dark counter-culture of dating in your 30s, I ran into a lot of different men.  Divorced men.  Men with children. Men who acted like children. Career Bachelors. Career degenerates. Younger men.  Older men.  Men who carried guns.  Men who referred to their penis as their gun.  Men with clown fetishes.  Men who were, well, clowns.  Lots of men.  There are a lot of men out there.  There’s also a lot of weird shit out there.  Shit you might not recognize as weird if you are married or perpetually single or are estranged from dating.  But you realize how bizarre the dating scene is when you jump into it after years of monogamy.  So, after a little while, I didn’t want to do it anymore.  Mostly, because I realized that there were two kinds of men out there:  1.)  The kind who were interested in me or 2.)  The kind of men who were not interested me.  I always had an alarming connection to the latter. Mostly, because the men who were interested in me were also interested in really weird shit.  And it started to fuck me up, even more than I already had been.  So, I decided it was time to go on sabbatical.

While I was on this indefinite hiatus from men, I talked to  a lot of people about all of this weird stuff that happens in the dating world.  I spent a lot of time wondering why so many weirdoes were gravitating toward me.  I also pondered the reason that all of the “good ones” were entering witness protection in alarming numbers.  Around the time I started wondering “what is wrong with me,” my mom told me there are two kinds of women.  There are strong, independent women and there are desperate, needy women.  She told me “you are strong and independent.  That’s how I raised you!”  She also assured me, that eventually, there would be a nice man who appreciated those values.  I’m sure she thought her words were reassuring…

Now that years have passed since that very (dis)comforting conversation with my mother, I’ve come to accept her words as truth.  So much so, that I don’t even talk to men who have some sort of twisted delusion about saving women who can’t take care of themselves.  Conversely, I don’t make nice with the women who want to be saved.  The most magnificent women I know are strong and determined and have kicked life in the ass to succeed, and sometimes have done it just to survive.  Those are my girls.  Those are the kind of women I surround myself with.  And I’ve come to understand that my mom may have spoken some truth when she said that there were two kinds of women.  Strong and independent  is the right route.

 

Again, I told you that story to tell you this story.  As you may know, and by that I mean everyone who knows me knows that I spent the weekend with my high school girlfriends.  After more than a decade of physical absence, we got together and talked about all of the things that are important to us.  We talked about our kids and our relationships and our jobs.  We talked about our pets and our passions and our demons.  There was a lot of talk about nonsense.  But one conversation I remember very vividly was about being a single, being a parent, and dating.  The whole conversation started while laughing over all the bad sex we have had.  It was really funny.  And very relevant.  Then we talked about being disappointed with men.  

Then, a sudden turn sent us into a conversation about how men are disappointed with us.  It’s laughable really.  There’s no way a man could ever be disappointed with strong, confident women.  But we both stopped laughing and D looked at me and said “why are men so offended by independent women?”  I looked at her and I said “maybe we fancy ourselves strong and independent.  But maybe we aren’t.  Maybe we’re the crazy bitches that every man hides from!”  There was silence.  Painful silence.  Then some raised eyebrows.  Then a lot of laughing.  NO!!!!   That’s not us.  After all we are strong and independent. 

That’s where we left the conversation.  Two strong, independent women who live their lives and raise their children and love the people around them.  It all seemed pretty legitimate.  But secretly, I have been thinking about that conversation all weekend.  I have been wondering if it might be true.  I just kept thinking about what my mom had said, so long ago, about two kinds of women.  Then, real suddenly, I remember why that comment never sat right with me.  When I was in college, I took a class called “literature in art.”  I know.  Fucking hippies.  Always making the world more relavent through art and writing.  Anyway, I took this class and I remember a quote from the acid soaked, bat shit dysfunction womanizer, Pablo Picasso.  Picasso also recognized that there were two kinds of women.  He said “There are two kinds of women, goddesses and doormats.” 

Goddesses or doormats.  Independent or needy.  Two kinds of women.  What does that mean?  How does that translate to who we are?  It’s all fairytale stuff right?  The independent, albeit mistreated, young lady grows up to fall in love with the man she imagined only in her dreams.  She goes from doormat to goddess.  Meanwhile, the people who made her life so excruciating, end up being needy and sufficient on her charity.  It’s a great story.  But, that’s not how the real world works.  You can’t be worshiped as a goddess and be independent at the same time.  It’s an impossibility.  Nobody is going to take care of someone who can take care of herself.  And that’s what it means when people say that there are two kinds of women.  It doesn’t matter what label you apply to them.  There are two kinds of women.  There is the kind of woman who can’t live without the support of someone else.  And there is the kind of woman who will support others, even in their weakest moments. 

So, Picasso was correct.  There are two kinds of women.  The kind who you worship and the kind you wipe your feet on. Know your place. 

-Inner Peas