Off my chest.

Well.

Not exactly, although it sometimes feels like that looks.

No, I just wanted to take the chance to get in a little therapy with another post.

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I am in my early '40s which, to any psychiatric types reading along, might explain everything neatly.

But I sometimes wonder how a happy, well-adjusted, handsome, talented, successful, middle-aged man in a devoted and loving longterm relationship can still somehow manage to feel like a goddamned teenager with a schoolboy crush.

I mean... seriously, I thought I'd grow out of that kind of over-the-top, depressing, lovesick feeling that used to plague my early years any time I'd see the face or hear the voice of the current 'girl I needed to marry', and there were quite a few, as any healthy teen can well appreciate.

Don't we grow up, though? Doesn't that pubescent madness go away?

It's not all the time, of course. Most of the time it's joy and nostalgia and pleasure. But every so often... wow.
 
Why? Why this ripping, breaking, unfulfillable feeling over a work of fiction? Not just the actress but the character -- a character written by mortal men for Christ's sake?

God, my heart.

Sometimes... it just hurts.

I sometimes have dreams that remind me I've been insane

for over thirty years, over a fictional character.

Now let's get real for a moment, shall we? I am no crazy stalker. I'll never write a letter (to 'Ripley'? What?) or walk past her house (where, in space?) or go through her garbage looking for who-knows-what-those-kinds-of-people-look-for. I'm certainly not about to start bombing Sigourney's mailbox with birthday and holiday greetings laced with insinuations that we were meant to be together.

This is because firstly, I'm not a raving lunatic, and secondly, for almost two decades I've been very happily, gratifyingly paired with a fantastic Ripley of my own and am not about to suddenly go batshit psychotic and rip my life apart for a piece of f'ing fiction.

I'm just... a sap in the occasional serious emotional love-ache over a goddamned fantasy.

You'd think, especially if you've never experienced this kind of feeling, that one could just snap out of it and face reality and stop being a little nutty.

I try. I know she doesn't exist in any external reality -- what am I, a screwball?

But see... because one can't just dial a number, or drive over and sit down and have a chat, or meet somewhere for a drink, or just stare, to look and laugh and love -- can't hold a hand or stroke a cheek -- as utterly stupid as it sounds...

...sometimes it just hurts.

It's a very odd thing to be so... so in tune with someone who isn't real. And not even 'in tune', really. I just find her unplanned leadership, her hidden strengths, her total imperfect perfection of real womanhood so satisfying and desirable that I get a little light-headed when I see her on screen. And I feel such sympathy for her utter lack of good fortune -- seriously, she never catches a real break from Hell for something like 250 years.

I have always felt such admiration for her courage. Her humanity. Her tragic heroism. Her seeming agelessness.

And I suppose it's always a matter of personal taste but you can't tell me her statuesque, elegant physique and stunning, unconventional beauty aren't totally unique, magnetically attractive and just pure sexiness.

I hasten to add it's not just a physical, visual attraction to an actress, though you can't really separate the two of them, can you? I mean, Lord knows Sigourney's been somewhere in my Top 3 since 1979, usually sitting in the #1 spot and only usurped once in a great while by actors of similar character and elegance. I'll not deny I think Mrs. Simpson (oh that lucky, lucky, lucky bastard) is, even at going on 63, absolutely 'real', brilliant, sexy and completely devourable.

Only last year, folks.

Her sultry voice, her manner, her natural humor and wit, her lifelong tireless work for so many important causes... Sure, I'm nuts about her. Everyone should be. She's one of a kind, she's incredible.

But being a grown-up person in the real world, I have never once -- well, not since the dark depths of teenhood -- lost myself in fantasies about "Oh, Sigourney, if only you knew me, you'd see that we we were meant to be!" I admit I LOVE Sigourney Weaver and her work on and off camera, and in films like Dave and A Map of the World and even Snow Cake I could easily fall head over heels, but it's not really about her.

But Ripley...?

 

God.

I don't know if it's because she could kick my ass, or because she wouldn't lie to me about anything.

I don't know if it's because I want to save her from what's going to happen, or if I just want to be saved by her forever.

I just know I cannot get my mind off how that damned Casio wristwatch looks on her long, lanky arm.

Those ankles in white socks and high top sneaks.

That smooth voice.

Her smudges, sweat and cigarettes.

That chiseled face.

Oh, those eyes.

That fire in her core.

I don't know why I always loved it all.

I just... well. I've been saying "I" too many times now.

It just hurts sometimes.

Hurts like the kid I once was, and apparently am always going to be when it comes to her.

Thanks a lot, Sigourney and Ripley.

There's only one of the former, and the latter only exists on film. Thanks a whole lot.

Still, in seriousness, I am glad you exist if only for one reason (though there are so many). 

See, unlike most men with a trippy fantasy, I do not compare all women to you and find them all wanting, leaving me alone and unrealistic.

No -- I learn from your great humanity things that make us all real, and try to find those things in all people.

Thanks to you, I have most of my life been not just a lover of great characters, but a lover of people of great character.

I just wish it didn't have to hurt sometimes.

-- SIGNING OFF --