Saturday, March 19, 2005

Firecracker in my Pants

What is it about 5:43 am, and me, and Laci? We keep ending up at Extra lately, emphasis on lately. I suppose because it's one of the few places open at these morning hours, and because they welcome us so warmly: they seem to think it's just great that Laci and I are dancing on every imaginable surface, making shadow puppets with the projection screen downstairs, and playing football with rolled-up newspapers. Bless them. And their Dreher.

But this morning was different. I had to wake up at 9am to go over to the Buda side for a tango workshop. It wasn't easy, but I said that I would show up, and as I'm working on this whole do-what-you-say-you're-going-to-do-thing, I had to go. The way that I did it was by pretending that it was just a continuation of my earlier revelry. Like I had just sat out a few songs. And it worked.

The instructor was Jorge, an Argentinean teacher who now lives in Vienna, and he is one of the ten sexiest men I have ever encountered in my life. You're probably thinking of some slicked-back Antonio Banderas character, but that's not Jorge at all. He is young, sort of slight but lithe, wears slouchy jeans, sneakers, short shaggy hair. Moves like he's walking on butter. I'm starting a Jorge cult because he needs to be worshipped. When he danced with me, all those cliches happened to my body, but the shorthand I like to use to indicate these physiological phenomena is: "firecracker in my pants."

In the last month, a seventeen-year old boy seems to have invaded my body. I find it very distracting. It's not dignified for a 29 year old woman to behave like a seventeen year old boy. I need help. I need to get a grip. I need to get the blood flowing to the brain and not so much to the loins. The Economist had this to say about my current state:

I don't have any advice, but this urge is what I really think the biological clock is--FUCK ME, FUCK ME, FUCK ME!-- which, before the age of the pill, was sufficient to get every woman knocked up a few times before she was forty. Hell, pregnancy was the only way men could keep us from chasing them around--I love the cartoon from the 40s, "I NEED A MA-AN!" The rest of that nurturing bullshit is just socialized; the maternal instinct is, in my humble opinion, the instinct to get it on.

Have I mentioned that I love and adore the Economist? I would also like to say that I like any use of the phrases, "nurturing bullshit," and "instinct to get it on."

OK, I have to go cast a bronze Jorge now.

9 Comments:

At 1:21 AM, Blogger judyjudy said...

about szeged and everything, write me an e-mail if you would like to: kettoje [at] gmail [dot] com

 
At 2:03 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

"The maternal instinct is, in my humble opinion, the instinct to get it on." Such a classic phrase!

 
At 12:37 AM, Blogger Irma Vep said...

nagyon kedves judyjudy! I will really consider a trip to Szeged. Are you and your family from Szeged? Do you know how long the train ride is from Budapest?

Planethalder, yes, classic! And she oughta know, having done her dissertation on The Pill and its effect on womens' labor markets.

 
At 1:52 PM, Blogger judyjudy said...

i live in hódmezővásárhely, it's near szeged, but szeged is much more interesting. ;-) and i'm also "a big dirty city sort of girl", i am in budapest very often and as soon as it's possible i will move abroad or to budapest. so for the train check this: elvira
by intercity it's quite good.

 
At 3:26 PM, Blogger Jack Naka said...

I have a fashion bug.com site. It pretty much covers fashion bug.com related stuff. Check it out if you get time :-)

 
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At 8:50 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

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At 2:56 AM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

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