Still Not A Player...

Hot weather makes me crave five things: sex, booze, pot, popsicles, and 90's hip hop. The latter is one I have not indulged in for sometime. So, inspired by the massive heat wave we had a while back, I dusted off my cassette collection and proceeded to clean my apartment to a few of the classics: color me badd, boyz2men, salt n' pepa, snoop, dre, etc. There I was: the 5'3'' ginger, scrubbing the floor in my hanes boxers, rhyming along to big punisher's famous last words: 'I'm not a player I just fuck a lot'. The nostalgia was so completely satisfying that I actually fell in love with myself a little.

Playfulness has been the word in yoga class this week. Finding the play, finding the creation. In the practice: even during the struggle of challenging postures. In everyday existence: joyfully moving through the game that is life. Playing. It seems harmless enough. My friend was recently approached by a man who playfully proposed they be fuck buddies. This 40-something divorcee and mother was shocked. Not offended mind you, but shocked...that a 40-something man would assume she (or any other person for that matter) would solely desire sex from someone she hardly knew. "What happened to dinner and a movie? Or just cocktails? Is this what dating is like now??" I had to bite my tongue. I was reluctant to admit that my longtime favor for a heartfelt gambler like pun was more than just a crush, that I could make my own cocktail before sex, and that movies just get in the way. I just nodded sympathetically and hoped that the conversation wouldn't burn a slutty scarlet letter into my chest. Apparently, not everyone likes a player.

The thing is, I remember when games were fun and playing was cool. Candyland, Twister, poker...strip poker...Life was a smorgasbord of options. Now, we play so many games that we have forgotten how to be for real. Somehow, lighthearted human play has begun to questionably flirt along the border of total disregard, and I'm wondering where the line is. Is it a line, or is it more like a fucked up triangle? A triangle between playing, being real, and playing for real.

My acupuncturist recently prescribed me some herbs for my heart. According to her it has become too cold energetically, causing everything to slow down, and my whole system to freeze over. You know, kind of like hell? Now it was my turn to be shocked. Me? A cold heart? That seems highly unlike this warm loving lioness who's daily experiences are constantly ruled by her fourth chakra. I took the herbs, but was silently hoping it was a gross misdiagnosis. Later that day, any doubt in my mind was squandered by my yoga teacher who continuously corrected my "rigid heart center" while also praising me for moving "organically". Her comments, confusing and curiously contradictory, pushed me into a full blown panic, where I began to formally consider that this cold hearted thing might just come naturally. I wanted to blame my computer, blame cigarettes, blame snoop...but there was no denying the reality, that my dysfunctional love for the game, was causing my heart center to malfunction.

As I dauntingly pondered the possible side-effects of my condition, an irritatingly stereotypical phrase weaseled it's way into my life: "Don't let the good one pass you by." I suddenly became livid at this statement: a pathetic, fearful, anti-feminist perspective on love's ridiculously portrayed probabilities. I lashed out at the cliche advice: Why? What would happen? Would the world suddenly come crashing down? Besides, if it's that good wouldn't I notice? I also openly despised the dangerously placed implication of waiting. What's with the waiting? Who's waiting? Any bitch who waits needs to get a job, a hobby, a blog...I rolled my eyes and spat at the suggestion: I'm too busy playing life to be concerned about missing out, betting poorly, or to even consider that anything good enough would let me pass him by. Mostly I just think it's bullshit, but I also loathe the sentence because it has continued to haunt me all week. Is it really that easy, and should it be that easy, for us to loose out on an emotionally profitable result, because we waited too long to toss the dice?

It's this kind of over-processed guilt that really kills a players mojo.

I've discovered that most of us who play aren't trying to be disagreeable, we just strive to continually exist in that very superficial vein of contentment. The one that makes me fall in love with old school melody, sunny days, and every other person who walks by. I wonder if we live in this vein, not just because we like to play, but because we are too proud, or even afraid, to truly gamble. Or maybe we've already gambled on that "good" seemingly sure thing, only to lose everything. Risking it all at once could be pricey. One bad call could destroy this placid fantastical world of magic, sport, and free-spirited lovin' (holla). It could inevitably cost a whole heart, leaving us to wander the world, taking herbs and practicing yoga to heal us: a futile attempt at repairing the damage, only to salvage merely half of whatever modest fortune we had before. Perhaps it is simply a matter of what the wager is worth. Maybe, players only play, because we will only settle the game for the real thing.