Sunday, June 20, 2010


Today, of course, was Father's Day. Since my relationship with my father is far from great and I am currently in the process of getting over yet another unhealthy relationship, I spent much of today thinking and writing about men.

You would think that with my overall experience with men (with the exception of a few good male friends) that I would be one of those ball-busting men-haters by now, but that's far from it. I am beginning to think that it's men (on average) who hate me. I wish I knew why. I can tell you why I bored the shit out of my father, and how that may of contributed, but that doesn't clear up the picture completely. And I grow tired of blaming parents for my relationships now--God knows I have no room to talk since God won't trust me with a family, and they didn't really have a chance to learn how to do it better (I think they were just struggling to be as good as their parents. In the case of my mother she was a vast improvement, and in the case of my father I have to give him a gold star just for staying alive past my twenties).

Still, I struggle with men. It probably won't get easier the older I get, but I'm determined to stop making it so hard on me.

Tonight I heard from a friend that I haven't talked to on the phone in nearly five years, and his gift was such that I felt valued without feeling used. He's not married (yeah, I know--hard for me to imagine too), and we talked so easily and freely about books and movies and--wait for it--agriculture. I started out the morning childishly angry that I had to celebrate my father and ended it with a renewed appreciation for why I love men--their strength, their humor, the funny, awkward way that they love you. I remembered their gifts.

And maybe, just maybe, dear reader, they don't hate me after all.

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