###
"I'm sure I'm missing some" was a true statement -- I was definitely, without a doubt missing some.
Carnal crimes committed prior to that message, and not already blogged previously, include:
M'd 3x (If it's any consolation, I was thinking strictly about my wife --seriously!-- and a certain baby blue ensemble of hers each time.)
Three edgy George Michael videos, one of which I'd never seen (but like the song; yes, I realize it's not a song I should like...can't say I liked the video, though), one of which I hadn't seen in a long time, and the third of which everybody's seen. Plus a couple of quasi-edgy videos (weren't they all?) to some dancetastic old Depeche Mode tunes. (Right now, perhaps appropriately, I'm listening to The Human League's "Human." So often, it feels like I'm a ticking time bomb and an affair of some kind is almost inevitable. Sigh.)
A short clip from a La Perla fashion show. (It's amazing what you can "accidentally" stumble upon when you've convinced yourself that you're, uh, researching a purchase for your wife.)
Multiple heart-lusting offenses today involving the little Aztec goddess at work, and I imagine that there will be several more to come, so I won't register each offense. Maybe I can get a bulk discount on this one.
But wait, there's more!
I to pick up some groceries tonight. First stop was Costco, where I fixed my gaze on Katelyn (or Katelynn, Katelinn, Katelin, Caitlynn, Caitlin, Caitlyn, Caitlinn, Kaytlynne, Kaytlin, Caytelynn, Kaytelyn, Kaitelinne or Caitlynne) who was the check-out assistant --we used to call them "baggers"-- at the register next to me, with her unhealthily-skinny model's body, uniquely engaging face, and telltale sunken eyes and visibly swollen lymph nodes suggesting an eating disorder. The next stop was Walmart (their "World Table" house brand of salsa is the best bottled salsa I've ever had, and I've tried just about everything from the generic to the exotic), where an 18-22ish 5'6" gothy girl with jet black hair, short black shorts and, of course, great legs stepped in front of me as I neared the entrance, which meant, well, that I had no choice but to follow her in. Except that after a few paces I realized I'd left my wallet in my car so I u-turned back out. I did my shopping while scoping around every aisle, hoping she'd appear, and even did an extra lap over to the electronics section in the hope of casting a wider net on my way to the checkout. Alas, no luck. So I paid and lingered a few minutes before heading out. And there she came, at register 2. I pushed my cart out to the sidewalk and paused there nonchalantly until I knew she was coming through the doors. Being in my work duds I was feeling a little alpha-ish, so I timed it and turned to face her directly as she walked by. We made brief eye contact. Not gorgeous, but exotic attractive. When she passed, I watched her for a moment and then headed to my car, remaining aware of where she was headed. And then I realized how absurd it all was, put my goods in my trunk and took off. For most of the drive home, I thought about how I might have seduced her -- not the payoff part, but the process: Ask her if she'd like a ride. Persuade her to leave her car and we'd get it later. Convince her that I was just a decent Mormon guy in a mood and that she was perfect for the mood. Take her to Nordstrom or Trolley Square or a boutique at Gateway and tell her I'd buy anything she wanted to wear to dinner, and after dinner. Take her to Cucina Toscana or Fleming's or, better yet, somewhere attached to a nice hotel...Bambara or Grand America maybe? Park City would be too much of a schlep, as would Sugarhouse or Holladay, for that matter. Keep it downtown and keep it efficient.
And then I thought about my wife and was ashamed, and then about my precious little children, and how confused and sad they'd be when daddy disappeared from their lives, "All because of...huh?! More important than US?!?!"
I'll continue to update this lustlog (or lustlist?) for the remainder of their vacation. Maybe I'll send them the link someday so they know the full story. I wish blogger had a "download blog as PDF" option, and I'd archive this somewhere in a granite cave up Little Cottonwood Canyon. So let it be written.
###
Next day.
In the wake of my spectacular failure of fidelity yesterday, I tried to avoid any and all reportable incidents today. I'm proud to report that, aside from looking twice--and for a nearly immeasurable miniscule fraction of a second--on separate occasions at the profile of one of the cuter administrative assistants in our company as she walked past my office, I have nothing to report. Ok I did also notice briefly the strong, Nordic jawline of the driver of an oncoming car as I turned through the intersection at the base of an onramp. But other than that, nada. Not even bad thoughts that lingered longer than the time it took me to exorcise them, generally in the millisecond range.
And it was e-x-h-a-u-s-t-i-n-g.
I physically jerked my head in the other direction if I knew that someone gazeworthy was encroaching into my field of vision.
Whenever I heard the tick-tack of heels coming down the corridor outside my office, I focused with maniacal intensity on my monitor or a document on my desk, like a fresh BYU RM burning a laser scorch mark on the bridge of the nose of his date whose blouse buttons have buckled slightly open at such an angle so as to reveal a glimpse of her bra.
I knew that the Lime Ricki and ModBod billboards were there (the latter featuring the wistful Swedish-type with her perfectly proportioned c-cups emphasizing the tailored fit of her green ModBod tee... Curses! My first indulged bad thought of the day!!) but I kept my hands at 9 and 3, and my eyes at 12.
I saw the slender, cute-ish librarian (the girl whose odd nose is probably the only reason why she's a librarian and not out making bank in sales, or making babies with some rich guy; she should consider rhinoplasty, but who's going to tell her?) in my peripheral at the circulation desk, and hurtled myself into charming conversation with the fifty-something lady who was helping me check out a few audiobooks.
I sorted through the mail tonight and, without seeing more than the address label and logo protruding from beneath the Val-u-Pak envelope, ensconced the Athleta catalog at the bottom of the pile of stuff for my wife to review when she gets home.
Oh wait, it was Title Nine.
Excruciating. But I sure feel better than I did this time last night.
I just wrote my wife this:
[Her neighbor, friend and upline (hereinafter, "Upline")] and I picked raspberries tonight (which I gave to [some friends in the ward]) while [Upline's kids, also two of #2's closest friends] complained about the mosquitos, and she mentioned how miserable [my wife's younger sister, who just had her second child and is on the verge of divorce] is, that [Upline] saw [sister] the other day at [nearby grocery store], asked how she was, and [sister] broke down into sobs. I told her that I started "admonishing/warning/etc." [sister] a dozen years ago, vicariously through you, that, despite being a cool, mellow, smart, beautiful, kind, interesting woman, her height [6'1"-ish] eliminated 90% of male prospects but could be a tremendous asset IF it were not for her weight [30-40lbs on the husky side], which eliminated 98% of the remaining 10%, and she'd end up dating...well, you know the rest of the story. Anyway, so that was much of the conversation (that, and [some mutual friends in the ward who are in the midst of a tragedy], and the life of [husbands of avid MLMing women], and how so many of [Upline]'s friends who have divorced and remarried have said they should have stuck out the first one since you invariably just "exchange one set of problems and incompatibilities for another," and [Upline's son], and how amazing you are, and [an MLM product], and [Upline]'s niece's dog that got bitten by a rattlesnake in the hills above Draper and survived) and I wondered whether you've had "that talk" [about how a few extra pounds at certain ages, especially for Mormon girls wanting to marry Mormon boys, can dramatically alter the trajectory of the rest of ever -- a theory I've long held (don't blame the messenger), but was reminded of recently when hearing the findings in Freakonomics that their research of some major dating sites showed that women whose photos or descriptions showed even above-average weight had like an 80% less chance of being inquired after than women of substantially similar attributes but "average" weight or less; indeed, they said that above-average weight is "poison" for a woman on dating sites (again, don't blame the messengers)] with [my wife's other, younger sister, who's about 6' and 20-30lbs overweight, in her mid-20s, living in SLC, cool, cute enough, no prospects] yet [as I suggested she do during a safe, quiet moment while they're all vacationing together]. Also, FWIW - In case you are wondering or ever wondered, I'm not attracted to [Upline], for whatever reason. I know you may understandably have the impression that I'm attracted to any female between 18 & 45 who is not morbidly obese, showers occasionally and has most of her teeth, but I'm not. Not sure why I thought to mention that to you -- it's not out of defensiveness; it's true.
###
Next day.
Except for two joggers for two seconds at about 200 yards, and the face (4x, about 5 seconds each, while at lunch at Red Iguana) of a Latina who bore a slight resemblance to Aishwarya Rai, I didn't look at anyone or anything today I wasn't supposed to look at. The fleshy FHM cover that I know is hanging inside the door at Caputo's where I picked up a few things today for a porcini gnocchi dinner I made for my sister and her kids tonight? It was nothing more than a peachy blur as I walked by, both coming and going. The 7 women in above-knee skirts who walked past my office while I was talking with my boss (his back to the 3/4-wall window that separates my office from the corridor) this afternoon? I was focused so intently and intensely on the bridge of his nose, I couldn't even tell you who they were.
So I'd call it a moderate success, no easier than yesterday's effort, if a tad less athletic and whiplashy.
10 minutes later: Dangit, before shutting down and heading to bed I clicked on a video I'd never seen to a J-Lo song I really like; a remix of it is on my biking playlist. Watched the whole thing. You know me & Latinas. Ay...
###
Next day.
Damn, as I was heading out the front door to lunch with my boss and some guests, in walked his son's ex-girlfriend (who still works at our company) and her friend, the little Aztec goddess. Seeing the two of them together brought to my mind the same kind of thought that men-not-a-few would have as well, thoughts which I entertained for about 3 seconds -- long enough to spur my pulse a bit, but not long enough to do affect my circulation in any other way. Other than that, I was darned near perfect. Well, except for intentionally looking at the superb calves of a woman with whom I associate in a church-related capacity (no, I don't home teach her). But looking very quickly. Five or six times. And noticing the pleasant and curvaceous profile of her full C-ish cup right breast as I walked a pace or two behind her, a few feet to her right. AAAAARRRGGH! She was wearing a thin cotton, form-fitting, purple t-shirt dress that barely reached her knees! Purple looks ghastly on everyone except with her jet-black hair (she's half Chinese), it looked great! She's gorgeous! How was I realistically expected NOT to look?!?
As I stewed over my relapse this evening, I thought, "I'm really not a happy guy. [as you might have noticed] I think I used to be happy. Let's see, what's changed... I don't think it's fatherhood that's changed me. I don't think it's having a full-time career and the attendant stress and pressure that's changed me. I don't think it's even marriage in and of itself that's changed me. I think that my vim and vigor used to be so tied up in women --chasing them, wooing them, etc.-- that now I either indulge those tendencies to an 'inappropriate' extent and then suffer calamitous guilt as a result, or snuff out my spark by fighting to resist them. Neither one is a winner. And my frequent and strong, negative feelings toward my wife may not be so much about her as a person and how she and I jibe (or don't), but just about what she represents. Poor thing. Not fair to her. She's a phenomenal woman who just got hooked up with the wrong guy."
###
Next day.
M'd--for no reason in particular, simply because I could, and not seeing any compelling, incremental benefit in not doing so--this morning and again tonight, both times "with my wife," and one time playing with something lacy of my wife's plus this, which was interesting. En route to work the eyes camped out for a few on a woman who was working in jeans and a tight pink tee on the roof of Olive Garden, and for as long as they could without me careening off the road (because she was well worth the sin and the failure) at a ripped, tan, blonde jogger who paused to stretch at the intersection while the light was red. Today as I walked with my boss and some colleagues back through the Grand America lobby toward the elevator, a pair of legs in heels and a short skirt (as short as it could get without becoming distasteful or unprofessional) strutted by with such grandeur that I'm pretty sure I went harelip and drooly on whatever I was saying to my boss at the time. Granted, anyone would have been sexier than all the governors who were lurking around, but she would have turned heads in any crowd. On my bike ride this evening, my eyes paused on two young and slender mothers pushing their kids in strollers on a walk. As I neared home (and was trying to organize my thoughts in preparation for this post...more on that in a minute), I passed an Asian early-twentysomething (although she could have been 48, since Asian women tend to look 87+ years their junior) who stood at a curb waiting for a chance to jaywalk. I was going about 20 and had only the streetlight working for me, but her striking face struck me with such force that a nearly panicked with thoughts of, "Wait, I have to go say something!" 200 yards later, I turned around in the street and headed back. After a few pedals, I saw she was crossing the street, which broke the spell just long enough for reality to slip back in, and I shook my head, laughed in resignation, and turned back toward home.
One downside of the daily Lustlog is that unless I want to carry around a notepad or dictaphone (OK, I guess I could text myself), part of my brain is constantly occupied by logging and remembering the day's growing list of infractions until I download here at night, which means that I have to keep the thoughts fresh and organized, reliving and reprioritizing them dozens of times throughout the day. Seems counterproductive. Maybe I'll modify my approach.
###
Next day, Saturday.
With the exception of lunch at my parents' house, I spent the day here working through my long list of to-dos in the home and yard. The day ended with a bike ride, along a route that regular readers will recognize. I issued myself a personal challenge as I clicked into my pedals, which was to not look at any woman, period, during the ride. So the basic approach was once I could discern from a distance that the person on the road/path ahead of me (whether coming toward me or going in the same direction) was female, I'd drop my head down and stare at the asphalt 5-10 feet directly in front of my wheel. (at one point past bridal veil I realized that i was singing 'choose the right' to myself) Then when she entered my peripheral view, I'd turn my head in the opposite direction and look at whatever else was whizzing by. No joke, there were a lot of people out on the route evening so this probably happened 70, maybe 100 times during my ride, and generally worked well, although it became a bit dicey in the spots where the roots push up the asphalt because I didn't have enough time to avoid those. The biggest test of my willpower came, perhaps appropriately, about a quarter mile from my turnaround point, when I rounded a blind bend and VOILA! three or four tan blondes in short shorts and coordinated tanks/jogbras were jogging side by side, hogging up the whole path, about 20 yards in front of me. So I had to brake hard to about 5 mph and drone "on your left...on your left...on your left" as I putted past them, eyes looking almost straight down at my pedals. It reminded fondly me of walking around on my mission. But anyway, I made it. I looked at one late-40ish woman once in the face as she passed me because I had to tell her that her kids were riding in the wrong lane. But other than her, there were no exceptions -- whether solo or ensemble, granny or toddler, gruesomely obese or sveltishly nubile, rollerblades or wheelchair, NO WOMAN escaped Operation Askance. I'd love to say that as I pulled into the driveway, I felt a lift of affirmation, a "well done, thou good and faithful servant" pat on the back. The truth is that it was 21 miserable miles. But I did feel, pathetically enough, somewhat proud of myself for having come, not seen, and conquered.
In sum, if you don't count my having perused my dad's Sierra Club magazine (it was just sitting right there on their table, beckoning. I mean, check out this cover -- how could I NOT look!??) or having watched the entirety of the asinine Friends With Benefits trailer (while looking for some ideas for a show with a buddy) when I knew 4 seconds into it that it wasn't a good use of my time, today was probably as perfectly lustless a day as it's gonna get, until my insurance approves that castration procedure.###
Next day, Sunday.
Dangit! It has been a virtually perfect day until 3 minutes ago when I clicked on an intriguingly-titled article about Jimmer's showing at a Tahoe celebrity golf event, and found myself staring...and staring...and staring at the brunette on the left. Crud.
BTW I saw this vid for the first time and thought it was well done. I can certainly relate to much of what it portrays. That was an excellent talk by Holland -- I was there when he gave it. Just clicked over to this one, "Moments that matter most." I'm hypersensitive to weepy, overtly-manipulative church materials (Exhibit A: The Death Vignette in Together Forever, which we used to view as the Nuclear Option in the field...boy, if we thought we could get a family to sit down and watch that thing, they were as good as in the font; one famous musician said something like, "Not all tears attest to equally deep wells of spirituality"), but wow, I really like it!###
Next day, Monday.
Wow, just when I thought it couldn't get any more near-perfecter... Today at work I walked out of the restroom and directly in front of me was a slender, 5'9" colleague (not a guy) in culottes (or something like them) and platform clogs. The double whammy of my be-ye-therefore efforts and my knowledge that she's a smoker (in addition to being hot) made it a cinch to turn immediately toward my office without further ado. Four yards later, as I rounded the corner a few paces from my office, I found the corridor vacant except for the little Aztec goddess, who was prancing in the other direction, 30 feet ahead of me. I dropped my eyes to the floor and bee-lined it into my office, where I laughed aloud that the ridiculousness of it all -- the ridiculousness that I am clearly obsessed, and that this might matter to anyone or anything out there in the cosmos for any reason beyond how it makes me feel about my chosen mate. I think I get an exemption for looking on my way home at the well-defined, partially-covered calf that was serving as the kickstand for its owner's Ninja at a stoplight. It was a strong, androgynous enough calf that I didn't realize until looking up and seeing the rider that I realized it was indeed a woman's. So that hardly counts. And I topped off the evening with a really nice conversation with my wife, who had been off the grid for several days. It was good to talk with her.
Whaddaya know -- though strategic strolling and amazing self-discipline, I was able to complete this entire post without once looking at the brunette.
###
Next day, Tuesday.
I was a page right out of the Marriage Manual today. OK so I averted about half a second too slowly from the gal in the Daisy Dukes getting out of her Honda Pilot in our parking lot. But I made up for it by:
a) while giving some guests a tour of our facility and walking through a door and almost stumbling over the bosom buddies (my boss's son's ex-girlfriend and the little Aztec goddess) just saying, "Greetings, ladies," and moving right ahead; and,
b) on my bike ride this evening, not looking at even ONE woman (including the taut one in the short runners, jogging her terrier, who appeared suddenly as I rounded a corner) but instead looking at the brilliant orange sunset burning in the post-monsoon sky over the Oquirrhs. At about the 4.2 mile mark I thanked God in my heart for the beautiful panorama. Who knows? Maybe the thought was received somewhere out there.
This afternoon I spoke with #3 -- it's his birthday and I miss the little guy.
###
Next day, Wednesday.
Today was an unqualified triumph of überpiety. Nothing to mention from work. On my bike ride this evening, I passed 24 walking/biking/jogging women, at whom I looked no longer than was necessary to recognize them as females, and to recognize that three of them really deserved longer looks, but I denied them, even--brace yourselves--without reliance on the distraction of a sunset, even though a pleasant-enough one was there to be relied upon if needed. Two girls in an old Montero cat-called me, which was an extra bonus. I turned to look, but I think it was more to confirm that I could swing across the lane to make a left turn than to see whether the girls were of legal age. I think.
Tonight I spoke with my wife and told her I loved her. I felt like it. I think.
###
Next day, and last day, Thursday.
I might as well have been a medieval ascetic today. It was awesome. I "saw" women (including my boss's son's ex-girlfriend in a delightful sun dress) but "looked" at none. Yea, verily, I returned with honor.
Interestingly, I exchanged brief, cordial words with Florence/Isabella/Debbie/Helena, and realized that as I've gotten to know her a little better (within the context of our callings), learn about her kids, family, etc., the exponentially less I've been inclined to think of her sexually. Perhaps this corresponds to what they say about porn (especially the more sophisticated, quasi-interactive forms of it that are supposedly emerging) being narcissism and egotism, in that the object of lust is a passive extension of the objectifier, completely subject to his will. But once you begin to know and understand the woman, the less inclined you are to objectify her.
The self-imposed discipline of these last several, experimental days have been exhausting, and my eye muscles are sore from looking at the ground so frequently and intensely. I'm going to see my wife and kids tomorrow, and am really looking forward to it.
No comments:
Post a Comment