In or Out
First of all, do you love how Joanna appeared in the comments? Poor Joanna. I can now add “Bully readers into becoming friends!” into my list of dubious accomplishments. Although if I were SUPER crafty, I’d have put it on my life list, then figured out how to brand that shit.
(Secretly, I am very excited. I LIKED Joanna, right away. And here is her website. See? Likable.)
In other news, we started a new gym class with Megan and Lila, and while I really liked it, I … well, there’s no other way to say this. The instructor we had was a bit of a beefcake. No, I’m sorry, a LARGE BEEFCAKE. Hot and built and kind of … well, not remotely my type, but objectively speaking, a superhot gym-rat kind of guy. A SINGLE superhot gym-rat kind of guy. A single, IN HIS LATE TWENTIES, superhot gym-rat kind of guy, who called all the little girls in the class “princesses.”
Friends, are you thinking what I’m thinking? He’s there to meet MILFs. There’s no other explanation. Honestly, I felt like I was in some weird Desperate Housewives-meets-Edward Scissorhands-meets-Jackie Collins-type scenario where all these lonely housewives go clamoring for the hot young gym guy. A guy who teaches at THE LITTLE GYM, where the oldest client is guaranteed to be no older than, say, FIVE.
Truth be told, he was an excellent teacher — so good with the kids, honestly, and not even a little inappropriate with any of the moms — but I was somewhat relieved when I learned he was that was his last class, as he’s leaving THE LITTLE GYM OH MY GOD, to go back to school to pursue, wait for it, a degree, THEN A WIFE AND FAMILY. (A dozen MILFs just fainted right now.) (Seriously, the guy seemed to have GAME, and again, he is AT THE LITTLE GYM, LAND OF THE MILFS) The whole thing was just so … distracting, but not for the reasons you would think. I wasn’t gazing at his bulging biceps or anything (Seriously, he isn’t my type at all.) (But yes, my type of course is a hot guy, and yes, I married one, but not THAT type of hot, you know what I mean?), but I just kept wondering if anyone in the class was going to slip him their phone number.
So I … I don’t know what it says about me and our totally sexist society, as well as my own bizarre attitudes of sex, gender and child-rearing, but the entire time I was just like, SERIOUSLY, DUDE? What are you DOING here? You, with your ripped arms and Everett accent and, I’m guessing, Goodwill Hunting-style Fila jumpsuits during your off-duty hours. Toddlers are awesome, but are you … after this are you HEADING TO THE MILF’S PLACE FOR A HOUSECALL, OH MY GOD?
I’m an asshole. But that’s all I could think about the whole time.
Speaking of sex and gender, and this is a holy non-sequitur if I ever did launch one, but after finding a box of old photos, I was once again reminded of my college course on human sexuality — you know, the one EVERYONE took pass/fail for no other reason to get credit for sitting around listening to people talk about sex in a large lecture hall. It was mostly rather tame and surprisingly snooze-worthy, but I vividly remember the section on “alternative sexualities,” whatever that means, and they brought in some guest speakers to talk about the life of a bisexual.
Holy. Hell. Holy FAIL, Batman. All of the bisexuals were men, all of whom were married, all of whom regularly cheated on their wives without their knowledge or consent, with other men. All of whom were cheaters. THAT’S the paradigm of bisexuality they held up for us. How unfortunate. How … how subversive, really, now that I think about it. Sneaky fuckers, to make bisexuals look like total douchebags who can’t be bothered with little things like morals, which is absolutely, unequivocally not the case.
(Jerry Falwell is screaming from the grave.)
Look, it makes no difference who you have sex with or if you like sex with BOTH sexes, depending on the person, but Jesus, Syracuse University, that was the best you could do to demonstrate bisexuality? A bunch of cheating, philandering men? That’s … well, that’s awful, is what it is, and I was so pissed about it that I, in a rare display of pure in-person rage, walked right up to one of them after class and called him an asshole to his face, saying exactly that. Telling him that wanting to have sex with men AND women is fine, but it is not fine if you stand up there and ask us to accept you for who you are, when what you are is a CHEATING SACK OF SHIT.
He was displeased, but oddly gracious.
I’m still mad about that, but I’m mad at the professor for using them as an example to help people understand people who are different from them. That’s not a good example, or a kind one, or a fair one to put on impressionable minds, some of whom may walk away thinking all bisexuals are philandering assholes. Many years later, I MAY BE MOVED TO WRITE A LETTER.
Anyway, also in the box of college photos were pictures of the boyfriend whom I later learned got married to a woman in the TACKIEST DRESS KNOWN TO MAN. (Seriously, I wish I could show you the picture. You would die.) Also, the boyfriend who is now some crazy liturgical pastor at a southern superchurch (JOEL OSTEEEEEEN!). Aaaand, of course, the boyfriend who owns a Jewish girls’ summer camp in Maine. The one who hates me. The one who REALLLY hates me (it did not end well, and apparently he still harbors a grudge), but who now lives in my mothereffing TOWN, who I may, when he returns from summer camp, give a HEART ATTACK over the vine tomatoes at the grocery store.
HOO BOY, nothing like the old college photos to remind you that you made the right choice in life, that’s for sure. Oh, Adam. Thank God for you and your non-tacky, non-camp-owning, non-Fila-jumpsuiting, non-religious-preaching ways.
Happy weekend!
*Ani DiFranco
16 comments August 26th, 2010