I never intended to be a thirty-one-year-old virgin, but that is where I find myself. It’s not a religion thing. It is an introvert thing. Also, I was born with mild cerebral palsy, and I think that has a lot to do with it. I would have been an introvert anyway, but having a physical disability has intensified my introversion. I don’t do crowds, long walks on the beach or anywhere else, and I’m not going to stride into a room full of people and mingle (there’s no striding or mingling). I am a wallflower by default. I know I could have been more physically social if I’d worked at it, or if I’d been born an extrovert, CP or not.
This year, one of my New Year’s resolutions was to get Out There more, even if it was just to drink tea in a cafe instead of my living room. It’s May, and I have not succeeded. And so this blog is born. Perhaps if I give myself some structure and have something to be accountable to, I’ll leave my house.
Thus I have invented for myself “In the name of womanhood, it’s time.” Or Operation ITNOWIT. (Do IT. Now. It.) I would like to take part in fully-fledged, adult personhood. Not that virgins aren’t people. I know that. I know that I’m a legitimate, valuable person. But this truth remains: I am missing out on a nearly universal, fundamental part of being alive, an experience we write about and sing about and talk about and think about constantly. And I’d like to know what it’s all about for myself. Not vicariously.
Even though I am mostly happy here in my house, with my books and my music and my laptop, I know that there are possibilities out there. I resolve to go Out There, where the people are, at least once a week, and I will write about it.