Category Archives: animus

Look, My Animus is Wearing a Suit!

He transformed into a natty fellow last night. I don’t how it happened. One night, he’s a sixties throwback with a ponytail, who bullies me; the next, he’s wearing a ratty flannel and acting complacent. And then he transforms himself into this perfectly dressed, charming, magnanimous guy with a great haircut. Not only that, but he speaks multiple languages, including all the Romance idioms, and he plays several instruments. He’s kind, rather than argumentative, and never, never complacent. Did I mention how charming he is? Let me tell you something–this guy can’t be my animus. It would be like forcing Simon Pegg into a snazzy suit and shoving a cocktail in his hand.

Don’t get me wrong. As much as I’d like to tap into the charming inner place of my soul, I’m more likely to trip on my tap shoes and fall off the stage. Years later, I’ll argue with you over whether or not your interpretation of my fall is the correct one. I might even find an expert to back me up. Nix that–I am the expert (on tripping over myself, anyway). So why do I need to wear a suit, again?


Nighty Supper Special: Nightgown of the Sullen Moon

Yesterday was one of those days. Maybe you don’t know about those. It wasn’t the type where everything goes wrong–it was the type that doesn’t seem to exist, at least not for me. I’m not connected to it–I might, due to a glitch in my atomic make-up, not exist. My spin might be wrong, my magnetic moment lacking. On days like these, I accomplish little and, if I try, my attempts are worthless. TMBG captured this feeling in their song Piece of Dirt, and because of that, I know I’m not the only person who feels this way: I find myself haunted by a spooky man named me. I wish that I could jump out of my skin.

Despite my disconnect, I took my first afternoon as an independent scholar at the local college library. My research, however, didn’t go very well. First of all, it was limited to a two-hour slot because I’m not officially a student or teacher. So, not only was I an independent scholar, but a temporary one, as well. And I didn’t feel like a scholar of any kind due to my lack of search term results on JSTOR. But that’s the way research goes; I already know this. James Boswell, my research subject, eluded me. I have an important quantum physics question: If my mind is not dwelling in my physical body, why can’t it time travel to 18th C England where I might meet Boswell at a coffeehouse? Then I could be done with JSTOR.

Before my two hours passed, I remembered I had to meet my husband at—to sign a plethora of paperwork. If affirming one’s existence by signatures doesn’t work, I don’t know what will. But who is that person with the bad handwriting, I ask? Who is she? I have no idea. After we were done, we collapsed across the street at the coffee shop over doppios. I wanted to continue with my failed research project, but my husband wanted to discuss my animus. I don’t know what he looks like, I admitted to him–he tends to wear many faces. I only know that, albeit a figment of my subconscious, he’s connected to his (non)physical form in a way I’ll never be.

At that point, I dashed off a quick blog post, only to have it disappear into my nether world of nonexistence. Either that, or the internet sucks at the coffee shop. Frustrated, I stared at my empty espresso cup before glancing at the wall-mounted menu for help. I needed something to tether me to earth. That’s when I noticed the coffeehouse was advertising a Nighty Supper Special. For some reason, imagining the young male baristas in Rainbow Brite nightgowns further distanced me from the day and the moment. And please don’t ask me what kind of nightgown my animus wears; he doesn’t wear one. Trust me.

I’m sure you can guess the rest: my husband and I split from that establishment. Boswell may have loved such a coffeehouse, but we weren’t so sure. Something about it being our eighteenth wedding anniversary cropped up in the conversation, and we ran home to care for our children before going out once again for a dinner date. It turned out to be open mic night at the plaza restaurant and, while listening to musicians sing and play instruments, I bemoaned my lack of an accordion.

“Someday,” I wistfully breathed, “you’ll have to buy me an accordion, Darling.”

He touched his magic phone. Yes, he has one of those. I think it might be called a smart phone, but let’s not wrangle over details. “Done,” he said. He held up his phone and showed me a picture of a Hohner diatonic.

I might have banged my head against the wall a few times to convince myself I was actually in that restaurant, actually drinking a glass of real wine, actually looking at an accordion on my husband’s phone face that would arrive via mail at my doorstep in a few weeks.

Although I firmly believe love tethers me back to earth, I didn’t feel back in my body again until later that night. This morning, I checked to make certain the previous night wasn’t an illusion propagated by a cracked mental state. My husband’s Facebook comment cemented its reality: “Well, I did promise to love and Hohner you till death do us part and I take my vows very seriously.” Yes, he’s that kind of husband. That kind.