March, 1996
As with February's poem, "In praise of Teddies" was written one night last year, just as I was getting into bed, although the tone is a lot different.
It's also got me into hot water with some men who've read it at face value, and seen it as a feminist assault on them personally. And that's a shame, because it's quite the reverse, as I'll try to explain...
On the evening in question, I was feeling happy and content as I got ready for bed, and rather rueful that although there was nobody "special" in my life at the time. I seemed to have reached a plateau. A point where the full time company of another person didn't seem to matter quite as much as it had before. In fact you could say quite the reverse ...
I sat up in bed, craddling my precious cup of tea, and looked around the room .. suddenly aware that the order and calm was a new form of security. I'd got my own home, work was going well, there was money in the bank, and I began to realise that the thing I'd mourned for so long (the lack of somebody special to focus on) was now potentially the most disruptive thing I could let into my nicely-ordered life.
A man in my life would be nice company, and somebody to care about ... and to care for me. Yet he would also take away the peace and calm I'd taken so long to establish. HIS things would be strewn on the floor .. vying for space. HIS needs would inevitably conflict with mine. I might want to curl up with Mozart and stare wistfully into space just when HE wanted to do something entirely different. I'd get used to it, of course, but would the cost be worth it ?
From a purely selfish point of view, of course, there's no doubting that it's nice to go to sleep with a hairy chest against your back, and arms holding you tight .. and to wake in the realisation that your head is rested on that same chest, listening to HIS slow heart beat. To *smell* that special aroma of someone you're in love with.
There's no getting away from the fact that there are advantages as well as disadvantages to living as a couple.
Yet as I thought about it, I realised that I'd even evolved a sort of replacement for that physicality too. Beside me I had a big cuddly lion that my parents had bought me .. and lately I'd realised that I slept a lot better if I lodged this behind my back as I lay down to rest. So I *did* now have a sort of surrogate partner. A partner who provided the thing that I missed .. and yet demanded nothing in return.
The more I thought, the more I could see that the stuffed toy was quite an important palliative, for the moment. It allowed me to enjoy the time I needed for regrouping, by putting off the simple physical desire for closeness.
And how many people, I wonder, look desperately for a relationship .. any relationship .. just so they won't have to feel alone in those moments between the distractions of the day and letting-go of consciousness ?
Maybe adults need their teddies more than children, in fact ? Could a good teddy save a desperately lonely person from charging blindly and hungrily from the carcass of one realtionship to another, without pausing to think, in-between, what they really want ?
So, come with me now, as we explore why there really is nothing to equal a teddy ...
There is nothing to equal a teddy The stuffing in men's not the same And though I've known some just as furry A teddy's far easier to tame A teddy is so understanding They cuddle enough, but no more They don't run away with the duvet And I've not known a teddy to snore A teddy does not cut his toenails Beside in the bed, while you lay And (very endearing to females), A teddy won't outlive his stay The teddies I know don't like football They don't think of sex all the time And teddies don't have sweaty armpits (Or, at least, I've not noticed with mine) Most teddies don't show off or argue They don't sit up watching TV Mine lies on the pillow just waiting With eyes that are only for me With teddy I'm really quite happy I love him and know he loves me So, to men with designs on my body Get stuffed! ... and then maybe we'll see !
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February's poem
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