Alfalfa
To say that the thought of being with some like Alfalfa makes me feel safe, and that’s the reason I like him, would be to minimize his attractive qualities. I don’t want to do that. Alfalfa stands on his own. His trademark cowlick and gosh-jolly voice make me laugh, not at him, but because, I have a bit of faith again in some portion of the human race and my cynicism lifts. Believe it or not, there is joy you can’t contain when you meet someone who you find attractive AND you believe in them.
Alfalfa has changed me a bit. I ask myself, before I write about someone, if punching up the sardonic voice in my piece will unduly skew the truth or cause undo hurt. Alfalfa is funny without being hurtful, and it’s what I should aspire to as well.
The miracle, that someone like him could actually thrive in our fishbowl makes me feel that there are possibilities for my career. Up until now I have worked for money, and given up on my ambitions of doing what I love so that I didn’t have to break those rules. I may be blond, but what hurts more than than the trashy catcalls I get from some perverted stranger on the street, is the thought that I would have to “act blond” in order to “make it.”
A couple of years ago I was on a remote video shoot and I helped a married cameraman set up and get the job done while his sound-man/camera assistant lazily sat on his rump.
Grateful for my effort he said, “I should have you come along with me on these.”
I beamed and answer, “That would be great!” believing that I would finally get my opportunity to expand my craft.
“So do you have a boyfriend?” He asked slyly.
“What difference does that make?” I flatly stated. I never really worked with him again. Alfalfa is my hero, he seems like a fundamentally decent person who hasn’t stooped to conquer.
In general my lack of faith is a form of protection. I’m usually the critical thinker who’s looking for the angle that someone plays and decides with some determined detachment how to protect myself. I know all about the Pollyanna, the hypocrite, and the player. They exist everywhere, in small towns and big cities alike, and I’ve dealt with many of those soul-sapping phonies. He doesn’t seem like any one of them. This surprises me. I like surprises.
A mutual acquaintance said yesterday, “He is such a dork!” The truth is all I have ever dreamed about…is someone like him holding my hand and meaning every words he says to me. To actually lay next to someone I can trust, would mean that the hard constriction between my chest could ease, I could allow myself to feel, and express those feelings without reservation. I have never been able to do this, with nobody, not even my own birth mother or father. There are parts of me that nobody has access to. I don’t want to be this way, but I refuse to be completely vulnerable, if I feel as if someone has an angle and they need me to fulfill their hidden agenda. I want to trust so that I can finally feel that hunk of burning love that is touted in fairy tales and the movies. I want my moment in the sun!
Unfortunately, I’ve never been with someone who was really a match through and through. This reality makes me sad. In part because my family, friends and the world at large believe that I must be hiding on purpose. “Tragic” childhood circumstances that I can not change would give that impression, but I’m not. It has just never happened. I’ve always been disappointed. No one is sadder about that fact than I am. No one wants their happy ending more than I do.
What I get is that Alfalfa listens. I like that, because I’ve spent the better part of the last twenty years being the best friend, the good grand-daughter, the loyal companion, and the confidant. What I want now is someone who can return the favor. Reciprocity is key. And yes, I have a bit of a crush on him. But this Spring because Mr. Who? has yet to reveal himself, I find that there is a slight void that needs to be filled. I hope that Mr. Who? turns out to be just like Alfalfa, maybe he’s even better.
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