I am gettin so hot, I wanna take my clothes off

I am super happy it is finally being summer in Texas rather than some monsoon factory. I love the sun and blue skies. I even kind of love the heat.

My body just doesn’t.

I’ve been noticing for a while now that I am super sensitive?…responsive?… to heat. Basically, I sweat a lot and I do so very easily.

I remember times even in the winter that I’d have dinner with a friend and get all sweaty. They’d be sitting there in their cowlneck sweater, I’d be in a tank top. And sooner or later I’d be sweating. It’s awful and embarrassing.

I have theories as to what the issue is.

1. Prozac. Getting all hot and bothered is a possible side-effect.
2. Weight. I’m a big girl with a lot of insulation. I get steamy more quickly than the thinner ladies.
3. Alcohol. Perhaps a combination of this with either of the first two is making me break out in a sweat. Like my metabolism gets all wonky because the prozac doesn’t appreciate the alcohol getting in its way of making me happy. Or something.

But whatever it is, man oh man it got me good last night.

I went out with a friend to a storytelling event. Which was awesome. Find one near you stat and check it out.

We sat down with our pizza and beer and a few bites in I notice I am just dripping sweat. Like running down the crack between my boobs sweat. I’m sitting here trying to catch up with a friend and it looks like I’ve just run a marathon. Which clearly I haven’t done.

I’m wiping at my brows and pushing the sweat back into my hair, which is already in a ponytail, adding to the awesome workout effect. (which BTW, which way do you wear your hair to minimize the appearance of sweating your ass off? Is the sweatiness more noticeable if your hair is up or down? Perhaps hanging down is more uncomfortable, but it hides the sweat on the back of your neck?)

At some point I just want to lift up my maxi skirt and just wipe myself down. My friend won’t care if I flash my panties to the world, right?

I escape to the bathroom and try to rinse off. The water is not even a bit cold. It does nothing for me. Except make me more wet.

DANG IT.

I look like a freak.

I actually start observing other people in the restaurant to see if they are sweating too. They just have this nice “I’m having a good time glow.” I am pouring buckets. And blotting at myself with paper towels from the bathroom.

Finally, the lights dim and the show starts and I replace my beer with ice water. It gets somewhat better.

But I hate this!!! THIS happens to me all the time. I am the sweatiest person in the room and I feel so conspicuous and gross.

It happens at restaurants. At friend’s houses. And they are like, should I turn the air down? And I don’t know what to say because I know my body is being a freak. Should they freeze and pay extra high utility bills for me and my fat ass?

I know I am not supposed to beat myself up for the way my body is, so the only positive spin I’ve put on this is…

I am a really efficient self-cooler. My sweat means I am handling heat stress in spectacular fashion.

I feel so proud…

So not sure if this video is helping or hurting.

But the album version of this song has been in my head regarding the person I’m writing about.

Still got scars on my back from your knife
So don’t think it’s in the past, these kinda wounds they last and they last.

I have a million things I want to write about, but my head is stuck here.

With the young woman who was assaulted by this D-bag swimmer

And who then read him a really powerful letter in court.

I was up at 4am and read the letter. And got so pissed I couldn’t get back to sleep. Partly because our society pisses me off, and this judge and this twit of a boy especially. But also because it left me rehashing my own story.

My story is NOT the same and is NOT as bad. But it hits upon the same things- violence against women, the perceived right some men seem to think they have to a woman’s body, the lasting effects “20 minutes” can have on your life.

There was a period in my life where getting drunk inevitably led to me going swimming in my bra and panties. I blame the Texas heat. Now, many people have explained to me why this is bad, but I am 36 and sober right now and I have to admit… I still don’t see what’s so bad about it. I’m covering my junk. It’s like a bikini. In fact, based on my lingerie stylings, it’s way more covering than a bikini. In fact, probably the opposite of sexy–granny panties and a full-support bra just don’t look hot. So I don’t see a problem. I mean, I’m being loud and obnoxious and probably breaking pool curfews, which is a problem. But as far as showing off my body? Please.

One person who disagreed with my intoxicated aquatic choices was my then boyfriend. After a night of drinking heavily at a party, we stumbled home with a couple of his friends. I decided to take a swim in my apartment pool. So did he.

But he chose to dive in to punish me. Or to avenge his manhood. Or put claim to his ‘property’. Whatever.

He jumped in to start yelling at me that I was showing off my body to his friends. That I must want to fuck them.

And then he started pushing my head underwater. Holding it under. Like, get under there and die, bitch.

It was scary.

And I was drunk. And coordinating breathing while being drowned was difficult.

And ya know what? One of the times I managed to get away from him, I see his friends walking away with that “oh shit, we don’t know them” look on their faces.

Thanks guys.

I somehow get out of the pool and head up to my apartment. Boyfriend is on my tail screaming at me. Inside, the attack continues.

I am thrown to the floor, pinned down. He is slapping my face, I think asking me if I wanted to fuck his friends. The word ‘whore’ is thrown around alot.

And then he rips of my panties. Like rips them in half.

Violent, no?

So, I don’t know about you, but sometimes I have these fantasies that I could SO take care of myself if I was ever attacked. I have a lot of rage. I could direct that shit at someone’s balls or nose.

But ya know what? When you are stupid drunk, it’s hard to aim. And when you are pinned down, it’s hard to find someone’s balls.

I don’t think I went for his nose–he was my boyfriend after all.

Now here’s the part we will never know–how far would this have gone?

Because the cops showed up at my door. And boyfriend is suddenly outside.

I put on a shirt. One of boyfriend’s shirts, cuz that was appropriate.

The cops come in and ask if I’ve been drinking. Yes. No sense even pretending.

They ask if I want to put on some pants.

Even drunk, that’s embarrassing.

They tell me they are taking boyfriend in because he has a warrant out for an unpaid ticket (expired registration). Do I want to press charges?

No.

And away they go. And I am alone in my apartment. This is when the knocked over chair and the ripped panties start sinking in.

WTF just happened?

Now, I feel it cheapens this story somehow by admitting I kept dating this guy. But ya know what? That’s a domestic abuse scenario we see again and again. And that is a whole other rant.

This rant is about these guys who think they have a right to a woman’s body. Who somehow think violence being tied up with sex is normal.

It’s not.

Or at least it sure as fuck shouldn’t be.

I wonder if my ex-boyfriend ever thinks about that moment. When he lost control and attacked someone he loved. Out of jealousy? Out of possessiveness?

Whatever.

I was his girlfriend and I chose to share my body with him, but that didn’t make my body his.

I am now married to a really great guy who teasingly will grab me up in a bear hug and say “mine”. But he knows and I know, that though I’ve promised this body to him, it is still my body. I am still in charge of it. And even as a husband, he would never assume he has any right to it without my consent.

So what’s up young men of America? Why do we see women’s sexuality as something you should control? Whether it’s physically with assault, or by shaming a woman for what she wears, why do you get to be boss?

And no, not every man is a rapist, but I will say our society has a HUGE problem with women and their sexuality. A HUGE problem of expecting women to be responsible for someone else’s actions. Our clothing, our actions, our sexuality, does not mean we want to have sex with YOU. Unless I’m like, “hey, let’s make out” you should see yourself as having zero chance of putting any part of your body inside any part of mine. And even if we are making out, do not assume I want to fuck you. I might discover your terrible back hair and change my mind. I might just like kissing and not much else. TOUGH SHIT. Be a big boy, pack it up, and move on.

We, as a society, need to deal with it–women have sex. They like sex. It does not make them whores. It does not make them there for the taking.

How can we say this enough, in so many different ways, that society will finally get it? We own our bodies. We are not in charge of controlling your sexual urges by changing the way we dress or the way we dance. If you can’t control yourself, if you are that ‘animal’ in nature, go lock yourself in a cage.

This girl, who was attacked by the swimmer twit, she shows compassion in her letter. She acknowledges it will affect them both for the rest of their lives.

Good for her. She’s a better human than me.

At least I was awake for my experience. At least I could fight back. She’s had to rely on piecing her story together from news clippings and courtroom testimony. It makes me want to hurl.

So no commentary on what the twit deserves for punishment. Or his dad’s letter that seems to focus more on steak than what actually happened.

But I will comment the FUCK out of how we need to start treating women.

Remember this list of rape prevention tips?

Yeah. That’s what our discourse should be looking more like. Not harassing victims about what they were wearing, if they left sexy voicemails for their boyfriends, or how much they drank.

Like any of the possible answers to these questions would make fingering an unconscious woman ok?

I guess I really see women’s oppressed sexuality as part of the problem. If we were more ok with the idea of seeing women as sexual beings with their own sexual appetites, maybe we wouldn’t be so ok with ignoring their rights to their body.

If my boyfriend had been able to see that I felt frisky and carefree after a night of drinking, and had not been so scandalized that I would show my body to others, perhaps he would have seen my jumping in the pool as an opportunity to have some fun. Come splash around. Maybe rub wet bodies together. And maybe his friends would have been leaving with a totally different look on their faces: “oh shit, they’re about to do it”.

My body and my sexuality aren’t a threat. They don’t need to be controlled. Or hidden. I can do a damn fine job taking care of my own body. I was comfortable (and still am) with some after drinking underwear swimming. Maybe it made his friends uncomfortable. Apologies. Leave. You did anyway. Even the boyfriend could have left. Or said, hey, no one wants to see you in your underwear, get out or I’m leaving.

But the violence. The possession. The idea of reclaiming what was his through force.

This needs to stop.

And our society needs to stop excusing it, hiding from it behind alcohol. The alcohol definitely contributes to some bad decision making, but guess what…

There’s a reason I jumped in with my bra and panties instead of totally nude. I still had some restraint. I still had my own definitions about what was ok and what was crossing the line. Drunk and all, I still knew there were limits.

So what’s your problem Brock?

Ex-boyfriend?

Society?

I’ve got a big butt

And I cannot lie

I’ve been locked away with a sick kiddo for the last three days. Yeah, the same kiddo I had been wanting to put up for sale. Luckily, we’d made up. And I guess nothing brings out the motherly instincts like a sick, snotty, diarrhea-having child.

But any-hoot.

I finally got out of the house today to run some errands. First stop, Target. You know, Satan’s shopping hole that sucks you in and doesn’t let you free until you’ve added at least five things to your basket you weren’t intending on buying.

I stupidly tried on some clothes.

And maybe it’s good that I did because I made a horrifying discovery.

I have a mirror issue in my house. I have no full length mirror. Well, I did finally buy one but it hangs so high on our oddly tall closet door that it doesn’t do me any fucking good. So I leave the house looking like god knows what everyday.

Which makes me realize I made TWO horrifying discoveries.

1.Carrying my tiny wallet and stupidly large cell phone (I hate you Apple) in my jean pockets results in weird, unattractive bulging. Must start using purse. 

2.I have back rolls. Like rolls of fat down my back. You’re probably thinking, well duh EJ, you weigh 225 pounds. But I have never seen them (see above mirror issue). But even if I had mirrors, who has the back to back mirrors you find in dressing rooms in their house? You can’t actually ever see your back, unless you twist, which just distorts everything.

So, I should have guessed, but I just didn’t know. I have these huge rolls. You know that horrible female outline thing one might do with their hands? Add an extra hump in there for my rolls.

Check out Geraldo be super creepy with it at :35.

Jeez.

So thanks Target. Thanks for not only luring me into spending too much money, but for the brutal wake up call and blow to my self-esteem.