I can’t remember if we discussed my problem with old women wanting to grope me? But basically, I am an old woman magnet and they can’t keep their hands off me. They want to pet my arms and touch my butt and give me squeezes. Which would not be alarming if they were old women I knew or old women I wanted to sleep with.
But old women I know don’t seem to have this urge.
No, it’s strangers. Stranger old women who want to squeeze and rub me.
And so, last night, the Professor’s neighbor came over to say goodbye and she caressed my lower back and then tried to hold my hand. And I don’t quite know how to explain it, because, while it is obviously very sensual, it’s not sexual. I mean, I didn’t shout, “Stop, strange old woman!” at the Professor’s neighbor and it didn’t lead to smooches or anything.
But you know how, when you meet a really soft kitten? And you just can’t help yourself from reaching over and touching that kitten?
I am that kitten to some old women.
I saw the Professor at her Nashville apartment for the last time yesterday. I was bummed the whole way over, but then it was just a bunch of us hanging out in her apartment and it was nice and fun. I consider this a testament to the Professor that her going away gathering was less “Oh, we’ll miss you so much!” and more like people seeing off a ship.
Still. Ugh. Where are our transporter beams?
I could much more easily stand the Professor and the Butcher being in California if it still meant the Butcher and I watched Batman cartoons together or the Professor and I went and got coffee and shat the shit.
I guess Skype is supposed to kind of make up for this shit.
Ha ha ha. You know, a few years back I went and saw JR and Elias in Denver and we went up into the mountains and I thought I was going to die. I had to shut my eyes and, when we got to the highest point, I begged them to leave me and told them my parents would understand because I couldn’t go any further. (Note: My dad did actually understand.) The winding roads, the sheer drop-offs right next to those roads, the feeling like there just wasn’t enough between you and the sky. If I had been born 200 years before now, my ass would still be sitting in New York with the Phillipses who didn’t go anywhere, because fuck that shit.
But I was also thinking about this part of it. How in the hell did you pack up your beloved sister or your kid and put them in a wagon heading west knowing you probably would never hear from them again?
I get texts from the Butcher all the time. I will get regular phone calls from the Professor. I will see the Butcher at holidays. Once the financial stupidity is passed, I can go visit the Professor easily and then go see Dr. J and her baby and, hell, the Butcher while I’m making my grand tour of California.
And I still want to just never leave my bed! And I am the product of my ancestors. Is there a whole series of stories I’ve missed about the aunts of my ancestors who just then laid by the fire for the rest of their lives, back home, once the boat sailed?