The Great Repression and Wolf Surfing

Someone said that the road to hell is paved with good intentions. What's the road back paved with? The ashes of hearts that burn with the kind of love that even death can't extinguish? That sounds nauseatingly romantic. (I just made that up, so don't bother Googling for movie references). It also sounds like something my sister would have airbrushed onto a T-shirt. She's an incurable romantic. I've tried giving her shots for it (medicine and whiskey; the first had no effect, and the second made her worse). Still, I wish I could believe it. I also wish I could believe that mythical road was so well pounded with foot traffic that even someone like me couldn't miss it even if there were 27 forks in the road. You see, I'm in a state of romantic abstinence. Although, I suppose that is something of a misnomer, as the definition of abstinence indicates that it is voluntary. Perhaps we should just call it an involuntary leave of absence from a state of the heart that I'm not certain I've ever actually visited in the first place. There are people who are willing to give their heart and soul on a silver platter to another person, if they feel -- feel -- it's right. I'll use my sister again, as an example. (Sorry, honey, but you know you're always fair game . . .). I not only admire, but exalt, people that can do this. I am not sure I am capable of it. What does it take for a person to open herself / himself to another and take that leap of faith? Somethings, I feel to the very depth of the soul that I believe that I possess; to the heart I believe I am capable of having beat within my chest. Giving those into the care of another, well, that's a whole different matter. I consider myself a risk-taker. (Sometimes). I've done a lot of things that most people would not only cringe at, but probably freak the hell out at. I'm still here. Sometimes, I get past the velvet rope; sometimes, I don't. But, I give it shot. When I die, though, will getting into the VIP area really matter? I have surfed on top of a moving car (fast) while wearing a wolf mask . . . I did it standing up on that car, on a city street, at 35 mph. I was not drunk, on drugs, or anything else . . . I was just letting loose. And it felt . . . well - - - think of something that felt so beautiful and freeing to you, that doesn't involve sex or drugs, and you might just come close to free-surfing on top of a fast moving car while wearing a wolf mask. I've had a gorgeous woman throw a crystal glass at me in the bar of a very nice restaurant because she thought her boyfriend was flirting with me. She had very bad aim, thank God. Her boyfriend paid the tab for my friend and I. The bar manager comp'ed us drinks for the next night. I was extremely flattered at the end, although a little confounded because I have never considered myself the kind of girl that another girl throws good glassware over. My friend who was with me, bless her heart, tried to tell me otherwise. I have lots of these "wild and free" memories. These are the fabulous and fun memories we try to think about when we're not feeling so great about ourselves. Maybe it's a bad hair day. Maybe it's a bad day at work. Maybe we just found out the boyfriend/husband has another girlfriend. Or boyfriend. . . I'm sure we all have a memory or two or twelve like this. I hope so. Sometimes, we just need a little extra thing to focus on that's good in ourselves that gets us through the day, or hour or next five minutes. As girls, we have the other kind of stories, too. The "bummer" stories. These are the ones we pull out in the event of the GFID. (If you're a guy, or if you've never been "called up, GFID = Girl Friend In Distress). This could be any number of things. I won't go into detail, but in general, these are the stories we use to make ourselves look so hideous and pitiful that, by comparison, the GFID can't help but feel like the most amazing gal in the room. Just as she is supposed to. This is just being a good friend -- the kind of friend your friend wants and needs to have by her side. So, those are the things we talk about. Oh, yes, we are quite notorious for our ability to hold up not only one end, but sometimes, both ends, of a conversation. But, what about all the things we repress? We're nice. We are supposed to be. If we're from the South, we're bred to be nice to the point of repression. We're taught, generally from birth, to value other people's feelings and needs and wants above our own. The Southern woman's Great Repression. But, never mistake our ingrained sense of good manners as a sign of weakness. When Sherman marched through Atlanta, he may have burned the city, but I'll be damned if he burned the spirit. Unfortunately -- or perhaps, fortunately, the Southern woman's nature to accommodate survived. In fact, we can accommodate you to death. We can wear you down with our ability to survive what you throw at us, and dare you to give us more. We will smile while you are doing it. Hell, we'll serve you iced sweet tea while you are doing it. But, I double-dog-dare you to drink that tea while surfing on top of a car at 35-mph on a city street while wearing a full-head wolf mask. Or to love another person with your whole heart and soul. Some things just cannot be repressed. Have a nice day, y'all.