I’ve been thinking about women I’ve known. Crazy ones. Really crazy ones, though I concede that the definition of loony tunes is in the eye of the beholder. And the ear. And the aftermath of all kinds of wild whims and what-have-you.
We wear the war wounds of your heinous hits aimed through soft hide and tender tissues. We try to decipher your wacky words, baffling behaviors, and all-round inexplicably odd interactions. Your affinity for power. Or is it narcissism?
I suppose I’m musing on this topic because a friend referred to someone close to him – a woman – as crazy. I disagreed, and said she was impaired in specific ways, for reasons that he was aware of.
Maybe the term is tottering on the tip of my tongue because I’m feeling a little crazy myself these days, or more likely, because of my teenage sons and their friends, and the fickle flitting of females in and out of their adolescent love lives – to whit – they shake their heads, shoot me a befuddled glance, and mutter under their breath: crazy women.
Recently, someone said I was crazy like a fox, which I took as a compliment. Naturally, that could imply a capacity for strategy and smarts, but also for ruse; I only wish I were so fortunate.
My Life With Crazy
When I think of crazy?
I see my own flaky familial tree, and I visualize my mother – the manic moods and rages, the all too insistent laughter, the sobbing from some unreachable depths that nonetheless pierced my sensibilities with guilt simply for being present, and the intensity of a brilliant mind through all of it.
Of course, to men, crazy women are another story – a tale of lumping all females together into a category of incomprehensibility, a process of distancing, of self-protection, of naming and cordoning off – or so it seems to me, when you have no words or tools to bridge the gap.
And then there’s crazy beautiful with all the privileges that go with it, including hurling hurt and exerting power – as long as beauty remains within your grasp.
There’s crazy in the head and crazy in bed; the former a dismissal and the latter, let’s face it – generally desirable, though it may fall into the category of “enjoy it, but don’t marry it.”
There’s crazy-emotional and crazy-making, and one might say that’s the sexual factor at play again, and the dance of demons that lands us squarely in the cyclone of passive-aggressive relationships. And as for that one, two can gamble on that galling game; there are plenty of crazy-making men on this planet.
Your Kind of Crazy?
Maybe you’re married to crazy, and you like it. Your woman keeps you guessing, remains slightly elusive, is unpredictable. (Not so easy when you reach a stage in life where you need to count on someone, but hey – whatever works for you!)
Maybe you’re married to crazy and you didn’t know what you were in for. No, I won’t restrict that to the women, either. And while I’m not in the marital advice biz, I’ll venture to say that it’s tough going when the person you think you married turns out to be someone else entirely.
Maybe you like the crazy woman in yourself – the one defined by spontaneity, by a wandering eye, by a lack of concern for conventional views. And most likely you aren’t crazy at all; “crazy” is a judgmental and relative term, an imprecise term, a designation fraught with cultural subjectivity.
So, any crazies in your life – crazy, by your own definition?
My Crazy Life, My View of Crazy
It’s hard not to find the crazies in the news. Recent headlines on the tragedy in Norway identify the perpetrator as “insane.”
How could this massacre be anything else? How can we look around the globe at the state of our world and not deem half of it fucking nuts, and women especially seem to view it all as utterly incomprehensible?
I surrender to the logic of the saying that everything is relative. I surrender to the hazy past of a troubled parent and my own determination to siphon the good from her essence, and distance myself from the legacy of damaging behaviors. I surrender to the reality that men and women will never agree on certain topics, will always function differently, will clash and then hopefully regroup and embrace, and this crazy woman’s place is happily whole nonetheless (on a good day), on my own and yet choosing to share with a good man, if I am so lucky – through my juggling jamboree, my monetary meltdowns, my hormonal heat, my sensual seizures and, all the crazy pleasure that may result in the discoveries of each.
The Definition of Crazy
If the definition of crazy is doing the same thing over and over while expecting a different result, I plead guilty as often as the next babe – guilty as charged to looking forward, guilty as charged to expecting the best of others, guilty as charged to believing someday I may chase my dreams.
And if women are crazier than men (and might we simply say, we’re processing on other emotional dimensions?), then I’m all for our crazy conniptions, our release of tears or biting tongue, and our ultimate certifiable compassion.
We’re crazy enough to give ourselves to love, crazy enough to go through child-rearing, crazy enough to view the world as still offering a glimmer of hope – stubbornly insisting that we keep going, that if we continue to put ourselves out there – even if out there is in the home, arm around a child, hand offered to a partner, embrace extended to a community – our kind of crazy will meet its match in some appreciative, improbable, unimaginable level of livability. Possibly for all of us.
Crazy notion, huh?
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