Because I Can… the random thoughts of Marc Scott

I fear women.  There.  I said it.  Sadly, I don’t feel any better.  I was sure that getting such a revelation off my chest would lift the burden of fright that I’ve been shouldering for so long.  It didn’t work.  Perhaps I must go deeper?

I’m not afraid of all women.  I love my grandma.  I think she is great.  She taught me about Hamburger Helper spread over a bed of mashed potatoes!  How can you not have a deep and profound love for a woman that teaches you that?  I love my mom too.  I used to fear my mom.  But that’s because she chased me with wooden spoons and spatulas.  That might have something to do with a disorder I had as a child that caused conflicts and errors in judgment between my mouth and my brain, but I’m not sure.  Now my mom and I get along great.  She doesn’t chase me with kitchen utensils anymore.  That’s not to say that she wouldn’t if I had one of those accidental verbal slips, but I think I’m mostly healed of that.

There are a lot of other woman that I’m not afraid too, I suppose.  I’m not afraid of the lady that cuts my hair.  And lets be honest, if there is any woman to be afraid of, it’s one holding a sharp object the thickness of your skull away from your brain.  She could damage me, no doubt.  But she seems sweet enough.  Quite friendly, somewhat conversational. I like her quite well.

I don’t fear a lot of the women on TV or in the movies either.  That’s because they’re all not real.  They’re figments of my imagination.  Or their imagination.  Or some writer or producers imagination.  I’m not exactly sure which, but they’re definitely not real.  I mostly don’t fear things that aren’t real.

The women I fear are very real.  They are typically about my age.  I’d say, overall, they fall in the age range of 25 – 32, give or take a year or two depending on the circumstances.  There is nothing that would be traditionally frightful about them either.  They have warm, inviting smiles.  The kind that asks for you to notice them and say hello.  Their hair shines, and waves and captivates me.  As it flutters in the breeze, I follow it to the brink of hypnosis.  They have eyes of sky blue or fairway green or earthy brown.  When you look into them, it’s like a window into their thoughts, their soul, their dreams.  I get lost.  I forget who I am, and what I want to say.  In the same moment, I’m grateful to be a man, and yet, embarrassed by myself entirely.

It’s easy to stand at a safe distance and appreciate a woman.  I don’t mean this in a vulgar, sexual way either.  Sadly, that is the general practice of much of my gender, and it hurts my heart to witness it.  I, on the other hand, mean it more in the way you appreciate a rose for it’s bold color, sweet scent and graceful beauty.  Woman is, in my opinion, God’s finest creation.  Like that rose, they catch my attention.

My life would be, in some ways, much easier, if I could collect my thoughts, construct intelligent, complete sentences, and generally not fall all over myself in the presence of a lady.  I am awed by the beauty of a rose.  Yet, I don’t need to speak to it to truly enjoy it.  Therein lies the biggest difference between the lady and the rose.  This also explains why I spend my free time taking pictures of flowers!

I suppose it’s not really as complicated as I make it out to be in my head.  It’s not good for me to be alone.  It’s in these times of solitude and reflection that I begin to over-think it all.  In the midst of that, I think myself right out of the ability to be comfortable and confident in the presence of a lady.  I’d like to believe that it’s not a confidence issue, though, if I’m being honest, it may be.  Mostly, it’s just about standing before this elegant creature and wanting to do the moment justice.

I didn’t date much before I got married.  I wasn’t overly big on the whole concept.  As a gentleman, I believe it’s my God given duty to protect the heart of a lady, and I didn’t feel I could do that by randomly taking pieces of the hearts of whichever girls grabbed my fancy at the time.  As a divorcee, a piece of my own heart was taken, and I’ve spent nearly two years healing.

The idea of dating in this new post divorce existence of mine is, unquestionably, the most terrifying thing I’ve ever faced.  I know it doesn’t need to be.  I know if I’d just relax, it would likely be a lot easier.  I feel so clueless though.  A lot has changed since I last dated.  A lot!  Women have evolved.  Men have evolved.  The “rules” of relationships have evolved.  I’m not sure how an old fashioned, hopeless romantic kind of guy fits into the equation now.

It’s a strange and mysterious place I find myself in.  A place where I appreciate and respect the creation that is woman, and yet, fear it, while at the same time, I journey towards, what I hope will one day be, a wife, a family, a second chance a love.  I have to remind myself, over and over it seems, that it really all comes down to boys talking to girls, and I started doing that in kindergarten.  It’s funny to me though, that 25 years later, I’m still struggling to piece together intelligent, complete sentences!