Today I rose at 8am, though my alarm sounded at 730am. G made herself breakfast and coffee, and sat on the faux leather footstool while eating her breakfast, looking out the kitchen window with longing introspection.
The night prior, after I had made dinner, made love, and made the dishes, I had commented that she was the first girlfriend who was not naturally a nurturer. At first she was taken back, but then confirmed that this had occurred to her, explaining that unlike other girls who grew up with their mothers cooking, modeling their behaviors, she had arrived in the states, and was catered to by her hosts, and then roommates and boyfriends who would wait on her hand and foot, and that this is the source of her ineptitude, her lack of domestic development.
I responded that while that sounded like a reasonable explanation, a justifiable cause, that it was nonetheless strange that the maternal instinct to nurture was not inherent to her being.
She said she would still be a good mother, for how could she not care for her child? I said, I’m sure you’ll do your best. Everyone tries to do their best, despite their natural inclinations.
Slowly she became upset, and the remaining of the evening she was lost in thought, speechless, until, as we lay in bed, she explained that she felt rejected by this idea, that she was upset that her did not live up to the ideal in my mind. She began thinking of her niece, who was sick, and began to weep silently to herself, but I took notice, and rolled over and held her face and explained that I loved her, and that she was full of love, and I apologized for my insensitivity.
But I could not rid myself of the fact: she was not a nurturer. Perhaps selfish, perhaps spoiled, but the natural urge to take care, to nurture, to clean up after herself or others, to cook, to ensure the living beings in her vicinity were taken care of, is not some innate capacity that she possesses. It’s often contrived, and feels so on the receiving end.
I felt horrible for bringing this fact to her attention, especially after such a warm reception after six days of not seeing each other, and passionate embraces and lovemaking that commsummated our reunion.
I felt like I had made a pathological attack, for no reason other than my own chronic disappointment that she did not take care of me, but that I solely took care of her.
She is full of loving affection, no doubt. Rapturous feeling greets me with arms and eyes whenever we converge on moments of intimacy. But aside from her dictates and orders, she is anything but motherly, often neglecting her own dog, failing to walk her, failing to bath her, though she reeks of urine and other miasma.
So after a long morning of silently readying for the day, after I had walked her dog, Kity, I sounded off that I needed to retrieve my car, lest I earn another parking ticket, and head to the cafe to apply to jobs. She opened the door a crack, and peeked her beautiful face through, wished me a good day, we kissed.
*
I read fifty pages of A Philosophy of Walking this morning before beginning this entry.
It wasn’t the entry I had hoped to write as I began my day (it’s 11am, far too late for a beginning, but my beginning nonetheless).
I will expound on more entreating imaginings in another entry. But now, I will check my inbox and see what interest I’ve generated in the job search.
William Dare 