The Secret Confessions of a Horny House Wife

You know how I am trying to eat healthier.  So I went grocery shopping in Whole Foods this morning.  Why are the shoppers in Whole Foods so much more hip and attractive than the shoppers in Albertson’s?  I suppose, because Whole Foods shoppers take better care of themselves.  Or, because they have more money.  Or both. 

I’ve recently been obsessed with my hair loss.  It colors and darkens every moment of my life.  Husband is moving out and being cooperative and friendly about it, but it doesn’t matter, because my hair is thinning around the crown of my head.  My job is going very well, but will I try Rogaine or hair plugs?  I’ve always wanted to try speed dating and now I am free to, but who would ever want to date a bald woman? 

It is so unsexy.  Every time I try to talk myself into a senario in which I lose my hair, but my world is still be tolerable, the fantasy nose dives into some kind of a Seinfeld-esque scene in which I would be the punchline of a hysterically funny story some guy would tell his friends. 

It has crossed my mind that I should change the name of this blog from Secret Memoirs of a Horny Housewife to Single Bald Mother.  Seriously, I am thinking about it.  Instead of HH, you could call me SBM. 

As I shopped this morning I fished for men, and I was fished for in return.  (Looking at me, you still don’t notice my hair.)  Pushing my cart past the almond butters and organic brown eggs, it occurred to me though, how much my confidence has been shaken by the hair loss; how incredible it is that this one physical alteration can completely change my own perception of myself; how much every one of my thoughts and interactions and verbal exchanges hinges upon me feeling attractive.  And if I am no longer considered attractive, what would be left of me? 

I am forced to ask how much of this new life I’ve build for myself has been erected upon the thin ice of this single belief?: “I am attractive to men.“  And as my hair gets thinner, so does that ice I am living on and fishing on.  And we all know what will happen one day soon: a catastrophic splash and subsequent drowning.   

♥♥♥

Back at my car, seven-dollar  Fiesta Salad and a plastic fork in hand, I take stock of the car that has parked next to mine:  black; sedan; extra little antennas stuck to the trunk; clean; “Dare to Keep Kids Off Drugs” licence plate frame; side mirror with a light and a big controller at the passenger seat.  “Cop Car,” I conclude.  “No, even better: Detective Car.”  No doubt about it. 

“Which of those extremely tall, attractive, hip men in the Whole Foods had been a police detective?” I wonder.  I sort though my favorite of the men, trying to decide which I hope is the cop.  Do you ever play that game where you look through a ridiculously expensive catalogue and make yourself choose one item from each page?   As I sat in my car, eating my Fiesta Salad, I played that game with the men I had liked in the market.  And I staked out the detective car, determined to solve the case of “Who is the Whole Foods Lawman?”

Twenty minutes, a cup of cabbage, half a cup of pinto beans, and endless jicama, tomatoes, and carrots later, I sensed movement in the car nex to mine.  Excited, and feeling a sudden disappointment in myself for failing to devise a plan for how I was going to attract the attention of a strange cop in a supermarket parking lot, I turn my head to check the officer out.  As my head turns, I think, “Now don’t be disappointed if he’s a large, elderly, donut-loving desk sergeant.  This was, after all, a rather silly game.” 

When I see who is stepping into the car, I do, in fact, feel silly.  He isn’t tall and handsome.  He isn’t pudgy and old, either.  SHE is beautiful.  She has long dark hair, a petite little body, wears a short, stylish business dress, and is in her mid thirties.  In fact, she looks a little bit like me. 

♥♥♥

Don’t you think it is interesting that today I went fishing for a man to make me feel better about myself, and instead, I was confronted with a version of myself?  We all know by now why I like cops and military men: they are strong, dominant, and punishing.   Maybe I feel always on the brink of falling through the ice, and I want someone there to catch me, and then scold me for falling.  I’ve often thought lately that a yearning for sexual submission has its origins in an unsatisfied need to be cared for and nurtured. 

I keep turning to men to save me, to help me, to tell me what to do, in the bedroom and out of it.  I keep patrolling supermarkets and the Internet and strange cars for the next man who will like me and whose affection for me will tell me that I am worthy of being loved. 

But today, as I leaned my body forward, peering out my car window, into hers, trying to catch my first glimpse of the next strong, authoritative man who was going to validate my existence, I saw only myself.  

“She’s so little and cute and pretty,” I thought to myself as I looked into the cop car today.  The feminist in me was appalled that I thought it, but I asked myself, “How could she be a cop?”

The female detective noticed me looking at her.  She made eye contact with me and we looked at each other for just a moment.  She smiled, and I smiled back.  It felt good.  Then I went back to obsessing about my hair. 

HH