Quite Contrary
Date: 06.10.2008Keywords: Quite, Contrary,
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In church, my mind cannot help but wander.
Mary Magdalene was not a prostitute. There is not a single piece of historical evidence that suggests she was a woman of ill repute by any definition. As a matter of fact, she might have been the "chosen" disciple, Jesus' best friend, and his confidant.
I envy the women who knew him. I would be glad to share my wine with him, walk in the desert beside him, and onto his feet, rub perfumed oil. I fantasize that I am in his circle of friends there among Martha and Mary of Bethany, his friends from adolescence, and of course, Mary Magdalene. I know there were others, but the past month or so; I have been fixated on the two Mary"s.
When I am hiding from myself, I am Martha, in constant motion. Busy with the details, busy with the preparations, busy with everything but what is fundamental. My mother is a self confessed Martha. She is happy with her Martha status, I am not. I am trying to be more of a Mary. Nurturing the relationships, exploring ideas, making positive changes in myself, taking the time to cherish and to learn from everyone I meet. But I suspect, if transported back in time, I would still be the woman busy in the kitchen and not the one kneeling on the floor beside his chair, my head on his knee, or washing his feet in perfume, drying them with my hair.
But I am trying to be more of a Mary. I am trying.
Two weeks ago, I was late for church. I slipped in the side door and waited in the back until the beautiful soloist finished her beautiful song, beautiful husband and beautiful baby watching from the front row. It was too much beauty for one paragraph in my life. What happened to the darkness I used to embrace? It is all too close for me to enjoy it now. It is much more romantic and interesting to watch the darkness in others, or to live in self invented darkness, knowing you do not have to live inside, no escape in sight.
When I was a girl sitting in church I used to scan the congregation to look for trends in how people styled their hair. Now I tend to watch the congregation and wonder about their sexual lives. Was it like the hairstyles? Did some wear their sexy outfits, fuck me pumps to church when in fact they were sitting on a frigid piece of ice? Were the perfectly dressed women with every hair in place, were they afraid of their own fires burning that they needed to give the image of control? The ones with the loose wild hair, seemingly unbrushed, did they roll out of bed that morning thighs still wet with last nights passion, without time enough to primp?
It was not any news to me that outward appearance had anything to do with the secret sexual lives of my fellow Sunday morning friends. Jennifer, the woman who always wore the black leather pants, too low on her hips, with tight short shirts showing off her navel and the hollow of her back. She walked into the narthex like she was walking into a pick up bar. She dripped with the promise of sex. However, I knew for a fact that she never slept with her husband anymore, or anyone else for that matter. She had told me, when she wanted to get pregnant, she climbed in bed, laid on her back, gave her husband a dirty magazine and said "Do what you have to do, I am ovulating." It was the first time they had sex since she became pregnant with their first son, and probably the last time since.
I know the math teacher who sang in the choir, always wearing flowered cotton dresses and white Keds sneakers recently left her teenaged children, husband and career because she was weary of keeping her S&M fetish to the dark hours. She just left. Did not take one flowered dress with her either. The things she packed to take away to her new life were all hidden in a trunk in the attic.
It is hard to tell. Anything is possible. I think this as I look for my sexy old man. He always sits in the third row. Certain weeks, he wears a black turtleneck, jeans and a big black belt. When I stand to sing, my panties always need to be readjusted as the moistness causes them to stick. He is not an older man as in fifty years old, I would estimate more along the lines of 75. He had grey hair cropped short in bristles, and a stern face with skin that was smooth save the deep crevases on the sides of his mouth and eyes. I was certain he was an artist of some sort.
On the Sundays he wears the black turtleneck, I am frightened to stay for coffee, because if he should stop to speak to me I am afraid I will look him in the eye, and if that happens surely he would see all of the nasty thoughts I had been having about him during the service. I did not quite trust myself so close to the fantasy, would I someday forget that it was real now, and reach around his waist, untucking that black turtleneck from his jeans, sliding my hands up his back as I press my hips into his, leaning back and smiling as if we had been lovers for years. I imagine lying in an unmade bed in some European flat, naked, while he blows cigarette smoke out the tall window, his mind somewhere else. Maybe there is an old typewriter on a whitewashed desk, splintered in the back.
It is like Leonard Cohens "Chelsea Hotel." I can imagine us never leaving. I imagine him wanting his fingers on my body all the time. I imagine him with 60 years of fantasies to paint onto the canvass that is my body. Then I imagine I am the brush.
This Sunday, I sneak in down to my usual row, right in the center of the congregation and to the left of the center aisle, but there is a woman sitting in my usual seat, so I sit several seats from her. I am fascinated by her mere presence. She has captivated my attention. She demands nothing less. I have never seen her before. I would have remembered.
She has wild hair that spikes in all directions. It looks a mess, but I know it has taken her quite some time and a variety of products to get that look. I can't keep my eyes from returning to her feet, the web of thin leather straps wrapped around her ankle, the red toe nails, the tendon running from each toe up her slender foot. Her legs are bare, no stockings, and as my eyes run up her leg from her ankle past her calves, over her knee and between her thighs where her skirt interrupted my journey, I couldn"t help but think that there was nothing covering her under that skirt either. As she stood for the hymn, there were no lines under her smooth skirt which fell softly over her rounded ass. My hands tingled as my brain imagined them sliding up the back of her dress, underneath, Our glances pass by each other all throughout the service.
I find myself subconsciously looking at her hand, scanning for a wedding ring. A wedding ring! This is something I have never looked for on a woman before. I was so happy when I find her hand was ring-less, my heart is pounding, what does this mean?
Offertory, there is no avoiding each other's glances. She smiles and we both stretch our bodies to pass the basket, eyes joined. Did she see? Did she see how I longed to take her feet into my hands, untwist those leather straps from her ankle, remove the sandals and worship her body, starting with each toe. I could spend an entire day exploring her body.
After the service is over, I know I must speak with her, yet she is tied up in another conversation with the man sitting in the row behind us. I decide to go to the coffee table and wait, maybe she will come for me. It will be a sign. She does. I am so glad that I wore my new little black dress. Sleeveless and fitted with a v cut neckline trimmed in a short rough cut of black taffeta. I am tall, so dresses are always a little too short on me, but this one was designed to be short, so it"s length this morning approaches illegal. I know I look good. I stand tall and feel confident as we stand equal height, eye to eye.
We immediately talk and laugh together as childhood friends. A huge and hairy man joins us. He is talking and talking and talking and I want him to leave and leave and leave. When he leaves, she lifts her eyebrows and rolls her eyes with an unspoken "finally." Soon after, a woman, who I discovered worked in Mary"s office for all of five days, comes over to reintroduce herself.
"Hi! It"s Mary, right?" She smiles in the recognition, and then begins asking questions.
Mary, firm yet friendly, says "I am sorry, I don"t talk about work outside of work."
She is very clear. The woman leaves and then returns minutes later, asking Mary if she could ask another question! Mary stands firm in her rules. She answers the question very briefly and with attitude.
"You can call Simon on Monday, or just go to the website, all of the information should be there. I really do not talk about work outside of work."
When the short-term co-worker leaves, Mary apologizes that my first impression of her is being such a bitch. The apology is unnecessary. I am impressed at how she stood her ground and I tell her so. She knows what she needs and she does not waiver. I want to hear that tone of voice again. I want her to scold me.
Mary is 36 and tells people she is almost 40 and they tell her how great she looks. They are right. She is a social worker and she lies about her career so people do not ask her to solve their problems or hide their issues afraid that she might try to fix them. She does not want to think about the homeless when she is not at work. She does not want the complications; she does not want the responsibility of too much knowledge. I am fascinated by her brutal honesty combined with the ease in which she lies. I never detected ambivalence.
"How long have you been coming?" She asks.
"Since last October. It is crazy; my brother in Tennessee first went to the UU church down there the same week I first came here. Isn"t that bizarre?"
"Oh my God, I love coincidences," she confesses. "I know they must mean something. My friends all think I am crazy, they just don"t get it!"
"I do!" I answer.
Most do not understand her. I do. There are people we are meant to be with, to learn from, to grow with.
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Keywords: Quite, Contrary,