Snobelution: The Propensity To Evolve Snobbishly
He says, ”you like sex, don’t you.”
I reply, “doesn’t everyone?”
“No, not everyone likes sex,” he laughs.
“Maybe, it hasn’t been that good for them?” I ask.
“Maybe,” he says.
I want him to know, “ it’s not worth it, unless its good.”
I think this attitude started with whip cream. As a girl, I thought didn’t like whip cream. My dad would squirt it from the can into my sister’s mouth. They’d laugh. I’d back away.
Many years later, I worked at the classiest dive bar in San Francisco. We served so many Irish Coffees, pouring fresh whip cream over them. We’d laugh. I didn’t back away.
I’m a whip cream snob. Let me pour a carton of heavy cream into a bowl, sprinkle just the right amount of powdered sugar, maybe a little vanilla, or brandy. Let me whip it with a hand mixer to the perfect consistency for its specific use. Whether pouring or spooning, its not going to spit out of a can.
I’m getting more snobbish with what I eat and drink. If I have a beer, its probably a local porter. If I’m preparing strawberries for breakfast, they came from my organic garden. If the only thing to eat is white bread and mystery meat, I’m skipping lunch.
I go out of my way to collect ingredients, heirloom beans ordered from a local grower, avocados from my favorite fruit stand, New Mexico red chili powder. Its about more attention, not necessarily more cost.
Conversation is starting to feel similar. If its not good, I’m wondering if its worth it.
I have lots of nieces, nephews, and cousins. I like getting on my knees and letting the toddlers shove me down. They laugh when I play dead. I like listening to the teenager’s new music and talking about the lyrics. We make each other laugh. But with grown-ups, I get irritated so much quicker.
Its easy to respond to young people with patience, they are still growing. My expectations are more compassionate. But, what if I could respond to grown-ups with the same patience? What if I could listen to grown-ups, who are either under-developed, narrow minded, or slightly delusional, like I would a child? What if I could expect that all they really want from me is to play dead, or listen to their music?
There is good conversation, where we disagree and get animated, or just sit quiet with a thought, where we expand and include, around and between, where we come and go, with responsibility and without expectation, not needing anything other than what we’ve agreed too.
Maybe, I’ve felt enough of the garbage. Maybe, I prefer hunger to nausea. Maybe, I don’t need to kiss or fuck, get drunk or full or high. I’m free to be picky. I’m free to choose, like a snob.
I’m not asking for perfection. I’m demanding authenticity. Isn’t that why things get thrown in the garbage? They loose their integrity and become useless.
So, yes I like sex. I like the subtle movements that open connection. I like the melding of lips and tongue. I like being naked with someone, skin and sweat. I like the shared vibration of moans and gasps. But, if you’re anything less than yourself, if you don’t even know who you are, I’m over it.
Who’s with me?
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