Saturday, November 10, 2012

Blonde was a Bimbo

Blonde was a bimbo, no one can deny, but she stole many hearts all the same. The moment she entered a room, she'd strut her stuff, swinging left, right, left... swaying just a bit forward on the ball of her feet, and then back on her heels. Her hip bones would jut as she shifted her weight from side to side, sniffing like a supermodel, tell-tale white powder residues lightly dusting the tip of her nose. No one could fail to take note when Blonde arrived: her reputation, as her scent, preceded her by miles.

There were those of course who called her a slut, but what they really begrudged her was that she had left them in a rut, which they themselves had dug, having misconstrued the nature of their short-lived relation and come to believe that she was The One. They fervently clung to the image of their construction, mistaking it for an oasis, a veritable heaven on earth, illuminated by the light which they had finally seen, an unmistakable sign of the divine, a halo seemingly cast by the whites of her eyes! Where silence had reigned, now the sweet song of paradise was being sung by sprites, who had been hiding for so long and somehow sprung up all at once as though beckoned by Blonde—or so it seemed at the time.

Until, that is, the mirage vaporized before them, like drops of water from a sprinkler on a black asphalt street in the blazing heat of a late summer's day. Yes, she left them while they were still reeling, enraptured in the sweet throes of passion, still basking in the warm glow of desire, having discovered—or so they thought—that she was precisely what they had sought all along. At last, their knit-picking rejection of more orthodox, kind kinds—too boring, too plain, too conforming, too small-minded, and probably dumb. Not enough leg or breast, or too much of both, and certainly not good enough for them.

None of this could, in truth, be said of Blonde. Defying stereotypes at every turn, Blonde was as smart as they come. Those who set their sights on her could only aspire to capture this beguiling wonder, unaware that she was really Medusa in disguise.... No, it seemed to them, the wait was over, the search complete. These would-have-been suitors had all been seduced to believe that she, too, thought that they were The One. That somehow, miraculously, the planets had been aligned just right for the very first time, so that the only person whom they had ever found to be worthy of their esteem felt precisely the same way about them, and to the same degree.

One after the other, they began planning in their mind the home which they would fashion of a house, with Blonde by their side, little munchkins and dogs playing outside on the grassy green lawn in the backyard on warm sunny afternoons in a rural area of up-state New York. Manhattan was no place to raise a family, though they'd continue to commute there occasionally to make business connections and perhaps some weekend shopping trips to Dean & Deluca, Henri Bendel, Bloomingdales, and the like.

They imagined Blonde in a lush pink velour bathrobe baking croissants and brewing up mugs of dark-roasted Green Mountain coffee each morning in a kitchen shimmering with shiny silver appliances somehow magically rendered fingerprint-free. Sunlight would stream into the dining room through the shutters and blinds hanging before big bay windows, the whole place most tastefully decorated in purple and teal. There'd be a wine cellar and a sauna; a library and a music room; everything they needed would be right there within reach. As more and more gadgets and things were added to their ever-lengthening acquisitions list, their dreams became filled with ornate details of how what had begun as a romantic tryst would be seamlessly transformed into a model of marital bliss.

Alas, Blonde did not play the monogamy game. No, Blonde, unlike those who chose and chased her, was free. Free to leave, they all learned one way or the other, sooner rather than later. She left them all, one by one, they were serially discarded, like used haute couture dresses worn once for show and then no, not sold or put up for auction: she never deigned to stoop so low. Blonde donated her once-worn clothes—her silk scarves and jewel-encrusted sheaths, dead animal skins with the heads still attached, pairs of crocodile shoes and python bags dyed to match—to this or that charitable cause (presumably not PETA), where naturally the stuff was pilfered by bureaucrats, much like the CEOs of NGOs who drive Mercedes and pose as altruists while the people doing all of the work are volunteers.

Blonde was oblivious to all of this. It wasn't that they fooled her but that she really didn't care. She did not need those discarded things anymore, and what became of them was no matter for her concern. Never one to judge, Blonde was far above the petit bourgeois fray, their endless moralizing chatter, their pathetic excuse for a life. Blonde, unlike them, was not molded by the mercurial forces of capitalism bearing down from all sides. She knew what she wanted and got what she needed and no one would—or could—stand in her way.

Blonde was tough and mean, making her break cold and clean when it came time to leave, never turning back, never offering excuses or explanations, never even saying goodbye, and certainly never suffering compunction or guilt for what she had done. Why? Because she never lied.

Blonde was a bimbo, no one can truly deny. And though she had many critics and naysayers, the deep, dark secret was betrayed by the slight twitch at the corners of their eyes, the quiver of their lip, even as they condemned her in the harshest of terms, the hair raised on their forearms, their inability not to shiver just a bit each time that her memory flittered to the forefront of their mind, a jumbled collection of emotions welling up inside as they attempted yet again to sort out the source of their short-lived relation's demise.

The truth was that they all wanted in their heart of hearts nothing more than to be just like her. She was the image of what they had never become, not for their strength, but because they were weak. They were forever shackled by the manacles which they had created and attached to their wrists precisely in order to protect themselves from their very own beliefs. Trapped in prisons of their own making, after so many years of pandering to please others, their feet were planted to the mud-encrusted floor of dark caves of delusion, having come to believe even the lies which they had devised to fool the others with the paltry aim of achieving the trivial objects of their desire. As time progressed, they became anchored, and then began to sink ever deeper as though into quicksand, their life dwindling away, as their once abundant reserves of energy were steadily, inexorably depleted.

She was free, what they would never be, and though they might grow old and wrinkly and gray, outlasting her by decades, the price they paid for the very scrupulousness of their prudence was the failed promise of what they might have been, what they never became, and all of the things which they wanted to do but never did. Blonde lived fast and furiously and though she is physically now a part of the past, her memory lives on, lingering in the minds of all those fortunate enough to behold one of the few creatures ever to have been totally free, what her detractors and jilted suitors will never be.

Blonde died young, but no one can say that she did not lead a richer, more beautiful life than those who survived to tell tall tales, regaling alleged events said to precede her departure, directing all of their energy and intellect to dismantling her legacy through libel and slander which would have made her scoff and perhaps does as she gazes down haughtily from the heavens, knowing full well the cause of these sorry slobs' ressentiment, and the true reason for all of their lies.

Blonde was a bimbo, no one can deny, but she, unlike the others, chose what she had become and never regretted a single thing that she had done, having lived each day as though it were her last, They, in contrast, saved up small change to buy RVs and ugly condominiums in south Florida, waiting until they were too old to enjoy their remaining time, like all of the wage slaves before them who had squandered the best years of their lives only to sit, bored, playing Bingo and Sudoko, dead skin cells flaking from their decrepit bodies while they waited to die.

An epicurean through and through, Blonde was acutely aware that we're all going to die, which was precisely why she conducted herself in the manner in which she did. She refused to squander her precious time on lost causes, utter nonsense attempting to please others who might or might not appreciate who she was or anything she ever did or tried to do. Blonde lived her life for herself, no one else, like a cat, and that was both the secret to her greatness, and the best explanation for the disparity between who she really was and what her rancorous, regret-ridden survivors now say.

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