Was this event going to reveal itself as my first example of what it might mean to experience balanced emotional and physical labor? After college I rented an apartment. Later that evening, after I came that much closer to a response to my own questions, we mulled over what to eat for dinner. And of course these topics were not discussed at home -- at least not in any useful way. It was not immediately clear as to why she interrupted my television-watching to divert my attention toward a container of olive oil. My pleasure was consistently delayed. These particular outcomes -- i. Surely there'd be plenty of time for reciprocation, yes? With each act of labor, I withdrew that much more from my personal bank of emotional and physical capital.
If I declined to investigate my own human needs, I rationalized, I'd receive a pass. When not hiding in the shadows of our city's sanitation facilities, we'd retreat to my family's apartment, stealing those rare moments when I had the house to myself in the summer between high school and college. After college I rented an apartment. We'd park between tattered garbage trucks. The giving -- whatever the kind -- remained plentiful, and often if not always against my own human interests and needs. Surely there'd be plenty of time for reciprocation, yes? My orgasm was the protagonist in an unfinished suspense novel. An act of betrayal. While I was divested from my own wants and needs, I remained the glue that bonded unstable relationships. We'd stretch our time together as long as we could, usually until about eight minutes before curfew. That there were profound imbalances that begged, that demanded a restructuring of emotional and physical capital. And for the next ten or so years -- in honor of my mother, olive oil, and those old lessons -- I never learned to give to, or invest in, myself. I smiled to myself. Oddly, I never lost what needed losing, or learned what needed learning. A little older, a little more mature and ready for an "adult" life, there was an odd, perhaps even predictable association between the moment I signed the lease and my plummeting inhibitions. Some level of beholden-ness to my mom and the education I had received and what olive oil would come to symbolize in my young mind. A "gift" a man received for his "patience. With each act of labor, I withdrew that much more from my personal bank of emotional and physical capital. I'd remain that obedient, "good" 16 year old girl, sprawled out on the couch in her family's Brooklyn living room, forever unrefined. Conversely, I've heard many a young man boast about the pleasure he had received, but never about the pleasure he had given in return. With garlic, lemon, balsamic, and spices," she said. It never occurred to me to ask. It never occurred to me to consider the possibility that something was off, here. Recent medical research suggests that we are at our best adult-selves when we form -- and keep -- solid relationships from a young age. At that point in my homeschooling in matters of sex education, any obvious relationship between my status as a virgin and that green tin of extra virgin olive oil would barely last another two years. My women friends never complained or made mention of anything similar, although the juicy gossip about dating usually centered on how far the guy was able to go; on how much he was able to "receive.
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