The Tyranny of DNA

So I sort of dropped out of the world for a bit.

And an unavoidable consequence of such behavior is that I now tend to regularly run into people I haven't seen in awhile. Because, you know, I was out of the world and my mind and control and etc.

And they all tell me how good I look.

And I've pretty much been ignoring them. I mean, sure, I'll bet I look better than anyone expects me to. Given the epic scope and public nature of my divorce, I'm sure that people would say I look good if I just show up without a palsy. And I did lose a lot of weight. The heartbreak diet is not a method I recommend, but there is no arguing with its effectiveness. But I'm pretty sure I don't look good - like the way you notice that a total stranger is good-looking - just smaller than before and surprisingly less visibly traumatized than expected.

Then, a few days ago, I ran into another friend I hadn't seen in awhile, who told me how good I look, and since she's going through a divorce of her own, I made free with my opinions about that looking-good bit (see above paragraph). And she said no, that's not it. There's this glowy thing, That she's seen in other newly-single friends, regardless of how they felt about their single status.

And I think glowy?

And then I think oh shit. Because now I have a suspicion that this is the tyranny of DNA.

Let's face it. On a cellular level, we're just replication machines. The DNA that makes and shapes us just wants us to reproduce. There is a biological blind, bullying, life-must-go-on imperative and we (well, at least our genitalia, and, unfortunately, our hearts because, dammit, we confuse the two) are molecular hostages to that imperative. Life doesn't care how we feel about making life. It just wants us to want to. So that we will.

The hidden agenda, the holy grail of bodies... the fertilized egg. (Kudos, yes, for this timely Easter-y post?). No matter how it came to be.

So I think glowy? and then I think oh shit because I am still technically fertile. AKA someone whose machinery DNA is interested in making use of. And newly single. And is there some sort of stealthy chemical attractant thing going on? That would be just like DNA... to give some hormones or pheromones or something a little nudge and say deploy!. There's still time to wrest an egg out of these ovaries. But the incubator is not cooperative. She is not actively seeking fertilization opportunities. Scramble Operation Glow!

Because, by all means, let's ignore my feelings about any of this. Let's ignore the fact that I don't want to be a mother, nor to engage in the sorts of activities that would make me one. Not even casually. In the parlance of my friend Dino, I am not looking for either dinner or a snack. I am broken. I am healing. I am deeply untrustworthy to myself in terms of the choices I make. I am confused and needy and an emotional mess and no good for anyone and not in the market. Or on the market. Not marketing at all.

I'll even go so far as to say that, given the amount and duration of infidelity that was a part of my divorce dynamic, sex is actually a kind of toxic topic for me right now. Many sections of my self-esteem have survived intact, but not that one. I feel like a complete sexual (and romantic) failure. Somewhat famously so, in fact, in the small pond in which I am a medium-largish-sized fish. Feel like it's been made quite clear to me that the coping strategy for the rest of my life is simply to shut up the south wing and pretend I just don't like it there. Don't pity me, I love being free of all those complications, it's the best choice I ever made, hell, I pity you, having to deal with all those emotions and needs and negotiations and compromises. My new life at the north pole is so blessedly clean. Yay independence!

I don't want to be a loser. In the most literal sense. I don't want to lose anything ever again. I don't want to want things in case I can't have them. I don't want to be on the market and find out that there's no market for me.

Are you saying yeah, well, good luck with that?. I am too. And still, it is sincere, this want not to want. And it feels necessary. Even urgent.

And. And and and... people tell me I'm glowy.

And there's the skin-hunger.

I am suddenly touching people a lot more than I used to. The other day, I even hugged my therapist. And I am not a huggy person. I don't recognize this behavior. Or its motivation. Another way in which the sheer volume of loss is re-shaping me. I don't always know who I am, anymore. Or what I think I know is contradictory, and confusing.

For example, I know I don't want to have sex... but I do seem to want someone to stretch out behind me and slowly trace patterns on my bare back with their fingertips for about a day and a half. I think the on my back part is particularly interesting. Contact without connection. Definitely not procreative. Just skin. Warmth and movement. Just touch. Not even eye-contact. Safe enough, if a bit weird and unlikely to happen, right? Safe enough to want?

Except. Oh shit. Is this the thin edge of the wedge? Another tricky, slippery slope engineered by the tyrant DNA? Does that damn molecule actually think it can force a fertilized egg out of loneliness and skin-hunger and low self-esteem? And what if it could? Would it even care about the consequences? No adoption agency would be irresponsible enough to send a baby into my life, or into the kind of fucked-up relationship I'd be likely to trip and fall into, under DNA's influence. What kind of life would that child have? DNA doesn't care. As long as the kid has working gonads.

What impossible cruelty, this biochemical manipulation. To trick me into thinking I want something that I actually don't want, and would very likely kill me in all the ways that matter, so that you can get one more notch on your replication belt?

You fucker, DNA.

No, really.

This glowy thing needs to stop. The light shouldn't be on if there's no one home.

May the Universe spare me the urge, or the opportunity, to surrender to your sadistic seduction.

Maybe.

Oh shit!