Failure to Escape

I needed  a break from the mourning.  For some odd reason, I feel numb to the anguish that is being repeated hour after hour on cable news stations.  It’s as if my mind has shut itself down to protect me from the images that keep threatening to invade my consciousness.  I was a teacher once.  My students were 6 and 7 and 8 years of age. Their little faces keep floating into my line of vision.

What was the scene in those classrooms?  What were they feeling?  How many children remained alive long enough to witness the murder of their teacher?  Or did she have to watch the slaughter first before she faced her own moment of that which cannot be understood?

So, I ordered a movie on Direct TV to try to distract myself.  The description of Hope Springs called it a comedy.  The stars?  Meryl Streep and Tommy Lee Jones.  How much better could that get, laughing with two of Hollywood’s best.

Well.  I’m not sure who decided it was a comedy.  Perhaps it was because it also starred Steve Correll, another ace who specializes in laughter, albeit wry sometimes. The premise is a middle aged couple – Mr. and Mrs. Middle Class America of the Cul-de-sac tribe – who have settled into a daily existence that includes a lot of routine and traditional role assignments, but no sex whatsoever.  Not for almost five years.

Oh, yeah, that’s hilarious.

There is no way, of course, to have Tommy Lee Jones in a movie without at least one comic moment.  There were actually several, but they weren’t laugh-out-loud comedy of the slap-your-knees variety.  More like almost inaudible “hmphs.”

No, this actually took me to a different house of mourning.  I used to believe there was something wrong with me when it came to sex and sexuality, because in every relationship I’ve ever had, I have come to a point where lust and desire crosses over to a feeling of being objectified.  It has to do with the differences between the genders’ approach to the mating dance.

It’s a very difficult conversation to have with a partner.  How many men can actually listen to his partner’s clumsy attempts at describing her feelings when his libido has kicked into high gear?  Nothing like a verbal conversation to *deflate* action.  I’ve never had much success in identifying, much less verbalizing the little things that make the difference between my feeling desired and my feeling like a faceless, soulless, aperture of convenience;  an any port in the storm sort of thing.

Some of my relationship partners have been more than willing to try to do what I thought was necessary to remedy the situation.  We would talk about the need for more foreplay, and the notion that foreplay can be a lot of simple things other than kissing and well-placed digits.  I would remind them not to forget the things they did during courtship – little niceties like a single rose or a heartfelt compliment that doesn’t sound like it is computer-generated.

But then, when he would actually attempt to do some of those things, I saw them as calculated, not spontaneous. There was still that same goofy look on his face that pointed to the happy ending he was working toward. There is little wonder about why or how a man would simply shut down and forget the whole thing.

The couple in the movie goes to a sex therapist (Correll.)  The course of their week in a quaint Maine village where the therapy takes place is portrayed with what I thought was authenticity.  All was not wine and roses and throes of orgasmic ecstasy.  The film was well-acted and spot on when it comes to insight into the secrets of keeping a long-term relationship sizzling. 

It is a very good film, but funny it is not.