On Thursday I found out that my writing instructor is a Paul Westerberg fan. If there’s one thing you should know about it, it’s that I’m a weird rabid Westerberg fangirl. He’s like my thing, you know? Everyone has that one thing they are crazy obsessed about. For some it’s Marilyn Monroe or the Green Bay Packers or collecting Pez dispensers. For me, it’s Paul Westerberg. He’s the only obsession that has stuck. Because, as with most everything else in my life, I have ADD when it comes to my obsessions. They are usually only fun for like 10 minutes, and then I have to find something new.
So Westerberg is one of my passions, and when I found Robert, the writing instructor, also dug Westerberg, all hell broke loose. I was trying to be all nonchalant and chatty, and then well the floodgates opened. I was babbling incoherently about how my friends tell me I should write a letter to Mr. Westerberg to tell him how much I like, they tell me that I should meet him and the thought of that just makes me want to vomit all over my own shoes. Because I could never meet Paul because well, it would be bound to be anticlimactic since his music has meant so much to me for so long and I’d just be some silly fangirl to him, some nobody he never knew and couldn’t careless about and that would just crush me. I went on and on about how great he was, the whole time Robert just started at me from behind his hipster glasses and I tried to catch my breath.
The passion had gotten away with me. The next thing I know I’m pulling up my shirt and talking about the I Will Dare tattoo and showing him.
Afterwards, I was mortified. Worst of all, I have to face him next week. Blech.
I’m hoping he will understand about passion. Maybe, if I’m lucky, he will find it attractive. I know I do.
Recently I made a resolution to find the patterns in my life, both good and bad and see what I can do about them. This takes lots of thinking and strolling down memory lane. One of the lanes I visited recently was the one where the men in my past lived.
I started thinking about them. Not all of them, just the ones who stuck with me, or whose memory stuck with me, hardly any of them are still with me in any capacity, but that’s a different habit for a different night.
So what was it that tied all these men together? They weren’t anything alike. Rob, Ben, Scott, Dave, Jeff, James, Glenn, Tim, they had nothing in common at all, but they were all passionate.
And I’m not talking about the heaving bosoms, engorged manhood, bodice ripper sort of passion. I’m talking about the passion that you feel for something — that something that makes your heart race when you talk about, that takes you to another plane that nobody can quite understand, but you try your damndest to explain it to them.
When I close my eyes I can still picture each of these men talking about their passions. Those are my favorite conversations — if you can call them that. At some point I faded away and they just talked forgetting I was there, and I’d just watch them lost in their own world. When they were done it was everything I could do not to take them in my arms and smoosh them to me, that passion is just so attractive.
I wish I could see it more often in people. You don’t get to see it too often. I hardly ever see it in women, which is a shame because I’m pretty sure they all have it, the just don’t show it to me.
Or maybe women are like me and try to hide the passion for fear of coming off as some sort of obsessed lunatic.
So tell me, what’s your passion?