Controlled Burn

My backyard is split into thirds by a steep little hill. It’s not suitable for the riding mower or a push mower. Anyone who has ever attempted to weed-wack it has been rewarded with angry yellowjackets. My landscaper asked me what I wanted done with it.

“It needs to be burned, and when that’s done, I’m pulling the ivy that’s taking over my screened-in porch out of the front bed and giving it a place to do what ivy does- go wild and choke everything else out.”

He shook his head.

“I can’t do that. I mean, I could, but I won’t. Something could go wrong, and I don’t want to be responsible for burning your house down.”

He didn’t know it, but he was the third man in as many weeks to deliver such a message. Metaphorically, anyway.

I choose to see the refusals- all of them- as an overture of respect. There’s a certain amount of trust involved in setting fires; if someone doesn’t trust themselves or the fire or their fellow fire-setters, the kind and responsible thing to do is bow out before the match is lit. There is honor in admitting that you’re not willing to take responsibility.

My therapist once asked me why the ambivalence of others towards me provoked my legendary impatience and irritation.

“Well, what’s so difficult about it? Either you like me enough to see what happens, or you don’t. What is there to ponder on?”

He giggled softly (yes, he’s quite feminine and quite married, and it is these two things that allow him to patch up my weak spots without my falling in love with him).

“You don’t think that someone might need time to decide whether or not to take on an involvement with you?”

My irritation turned towards him and his smug humor.

“You make deciding to dating me sound like deciding to enter a religion. Seriously, am I that damn difficult?”

Now he openly roared with laughter, and this made me so angry I could feel my cheeks reddening.

“Dating you is an entirely worthy pursuit, sure, but not one to be taken lightly. You are a formidable woman, and your ignorance of it is amusing as it is surprising. You are just too much for some men, who might prefer a wife happy to fetch their slippers and keep a cold beer in their hand. You are willing to do that, I know, but the price they pay for the privilege might be outside of their emotional and intellectual capacities.”

I couldn’t be angry with him anymore, because I know exactly what he means.

On Friday, I read this:

“I have had many, many great teachers in my life. A super abundance. No one and nothing comes close to the woman who is now asleep in the bedroom. My marriage has become the guru, the salvation, the muse, the crack through which the divine shines through.”

Really, as far as dating and marriage and family go, I’m not very interested in anything less than that ideal as the objective. I’ve seen the misery of love that falls short of it, and I’d rather be alone.

I’ll wait for the guy who asks me to get him a beer while he hooks up the hose, and strikes the match with a twinkle in his eye.

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