I was listening to Billy Joel the other day while baking yet another dozen blueberry muffins. (I've got a lot of cooking projects going on most days, not wanting anything to go to waste.) The music got me to wondering what every happened to Billy Joel and his bombshell wife, the fabulous -- though too teary-eyed -- Christie Brinkley. What ever happened to them? The rest of us little people thought that the Jersey boy had it made in the Antiguan shade when he married the beautiful blonde. It was as if one of his songs had come to life; Uptown Girl meets a boy from the wrong side of the Hicksville tracks, gets married, rides off into the Hudson sunset while synthesizers and rock drums beat in the urban distance.Nothing is ever that good, it seems. Rumors flew, did Joel cheat? What a fool? C'mon every man in America would've given his left (or right) nut to be with the Sports Illustrated demi-goddess. My brother was madly in love with her. It was the 80s and Christie was the prize. Now I know what happened to some of the Cover Girl ads that were ripped out of my mom's Vogue magazines.
I guess fairytales don't last forever, not even if you have great musical talent and perfect make-up. Fairytales take a lot of maintenance. Like we're talking Brazilian waxing-type maintenance. And ironically, the onus isn't always on the "ugly one" to make the relationship work. Perhaps Christie was too cool to the touch. That happens far too often in most pairings. One is too cold, and one is too hot. The chi is all messed up and the yang murders the ying.
I am supremely guilty of being frosty, as it has been pointed out again and again. It does not occur to me to dole out grand embraces and to steal kisses when no one is looking. I don't gush, I don't bat my eyelashes, I don't initiate much hand holding. It's not a punishment (I'm much more creative than that). I just don't think about doing these things. Maybe it's because I've been on my own for so long, even when I wasn't technically "alone" that that stuff just, somewhere deep in my cavernous mind, well, isn't important. It's the rosettes on the icing on the cake. Totally superflous, and silly, like potted daisies and doilies on the coffee table.
Well, maybe not that bad. And besides, I'm learning pretty quickly that people cherish their daisies...especially in the winter as a centerpiece to a dull table. And that doilies remind us of our grandmothers who hand crocheted each one for an Easter brunch with the family. It isn't enough to just be comfortable in the fact that we love and are loved. It isn't enough to make popcorn and plop down next to my lover thinking that my nearness and the popcorn are enough. Or that vacuuming the entire house is clearly my way of saying, "I love you." 'Cause let's be honest, it's not. It's my way of saying, "Jeezus f**** Chr****!! This place is a catastrophe." Really no thoughts of love there. Even the Dalai Lama, the most spiritual, seemingly grounded man in our modern world, knows that affection is a roaring fire when compared to the tiny candle flame glow of most other human conditions and concoctions.
"We can live without religion and meditation, but we cannot survive without human affection."
I was told that you need 12 hugs a day to sustain a happy life, ward of depression, maybe even combat cancer. It didn't seem like that much until I counted how many of those hugs I give and how many I receive. Apparently, in the deep subconscious of my dark mind, 12 is a frivolous "too many." But would it be too many if you actually knew how many hugs you would have given and gotten by the end of your life? What if you're only 36 hugs away from no more hugs? Same goes for kisses, reassuring pats on the back, handshakes, and yes, of course, sexual encounters.
It's a horrible thought. But, maybe inspiring for this frosty wordsmith. Just this morning, my boyfriend called me saying he had been in a minor accident. No injuries, no seriousness -- but it struck me about a half hour later. "I didn't kiss him before he went to work." In fact, he came to ME before he left and tried to give me a hug. I returned it with a hurried lame-ass squeeze and breezed by him saying something about forgetting to pack lunch money for the kids.
That's not going to be his last memory of me. Or the thing that sends him off to a day of unknowns. It's time to take more care.
