The Good Girl

Well, the lovely Freebird has played me the compliment of thinking I am morally superior to people who are having affairs. Kind of her, but hmmmph! Morally superior is not something I have ever aspired to be.

Even in my recent attempts at greater spirituality, I like to think of myself as, not so much a saint, as an attempting-to-reform sinner. But am I really?

I was a bit of a brat when I was a kid - naughty, loud and attention-seeking. But as I went into my teens, I somehow became a Good Girl. It's hard to put my finger on why. Some of it was the churchgoing that I just seemed to take more seriously than the other kids. Some of it was a desire to please my parents and especially my father, who didn't seem to like me much. Some of it was a genuine pleasure in things like rules and order - we kids from chaotic homes, we like a little structure and discipline! Also, I was good at schoolwork and I enjoyed doing it. I know. It's embarrassing.

It came over me gradually. It seems like one year I was cheerfully shoplifting with my scaly little mates and being kicked out of class for being naughty and, only a short time later, I was dux of the school and- wait for it - teaching Sunday school.

In my teens, I tried to be a little bit cool. I wasn't very good at it. I could pretty much fake my way through the clothes and the music part, but really I was always too earnest and too responsible to be cool. I used to sit up the back of the class laughing and flirting with those boys, the ones that always disrupted the lessons, but it was just a gesture really. When the grades came out, I was always exposed for what I truly was.

My Big Dude, initially, was a kind of rebellion against all that. I had a nice Christian husband-to-be and I rejected all that to live in sin with my rock'n'roll sweetheart. It was a nice try. But you all know how that turned out.

Then I had another little period of rebellion. A bit of partying. A bit of fucking around. What I was looking for was... liberation. I wanted to be free. And in a way, I was free.

I even finally acquired a slightly cooler exterior - a liking for indie music, better clothes and, more importantly, a much thicker skin. A manner that could become, when required, just a little intimidating. I liked keeping people a little off-balance. I learned how to take my pleasures and not have to pay for them. Basically, it was about not giving a shit. It was about always being able to walk away. Some people, I knew, didn't like or approve of me. But they didn't cross me very often, either.

During that period, my favourite album was Liz Phair’s Exile in Guyville. I loved those dirty, explicit lyrics, that pared-down punk energy, that bravado. I saw myself as finally toughening up in a cold world and sometimes I hummed:

Its cold out there
And rough
And I kept standing 6'1"
Instead of 5'2"
And I loved my life
And I hated you.

I'm not quite sure when I realized this period was coming to an end. I remember saying to a friend, "My ego has been stroked but my heart is so empty". I missed my Big Dude and I slowly realized how much of all this was actually about our relationship. Too much love. Too much pain. No wonder I didn't want any more of either. Over time, I found myself humming a different song from that album:

I know that I don't always realize
How sleazy it is
Messing with these guys
But something about just being with you
Slapped me right in the face
Nearly broke me in two
It's a mark I've taken hard
And I know I will carry with me for a long long time.

Now I pretty much see my promiscuous phase as a kind of facade. Despite the sex involved, I'm not sure how much it really expressed my sexuality. I think what it really expressed was wanting to be free. Trying to escape love and pain and that whole Good Girl thing.

But now I do love my Big Dude again, undeniably, and somehow the Good Girl is back.

Not long ago, I talked about wanting to be a person of integrity. About feeling like I had wandered up to the attic and found my grandmother's wedding dress and been surprised by the desire to put it on.

Well, I think I can now report that if you put that dress on, what you get is a very uncomfortable dress that doesn’t fit very well. It's too tight. It's itchy. It chafes in all the wrong places. Sometimes I feel like I can't breathe.

And yet, there is something familiar about it. My inner Good Girl, a person I have always disliked and distrusted and thought I had successfully banished, seems to have been there all the time, quietly awaiting this opportunity. She quite likes her dress. It's just me who doesn't.

I have been sulking this week about lack of sex. And affairs. Quite honestly, it seems like all the people in blogland who are having affairs are having so much more fun than I am that I’m jealous.

I know it's not like that. I know that affairs, which can be full of passion and joy and love, are usually full of heartache and sadness and even hopelessness as well. But hey, I’m full of heartache and sadness and hopelessness and I’m not getting any of the fun stuff. My own suffering and whining and complaining is boring even me. Their form is suffering looks more interesting.

So in case anyone who is having an affair is wondering - no, I am not feeling morally superior. Actually, I feel like a teenager again. Like I'm watching all the cool kids sneaking up to the treehouse for a cigarette, while I trudge grumpily off to Sunday school in my stupid Good Girl dress.