Moo Cow

This morning my best friend and I were discussing my blog.  That sentence alone should tell you the depths of which I love this woman.  Who else will spend Sunday morning with you discussing your blog?  Only your best friend.  She finally asked about the title: Renegade Hippo.  I hope you’re not making fun of yourself, she says.  I wanted to tease her and ask her if she was insinuating that I was fat, but I decided to let her off the hook this morning.  She was getting ready to spend the day with her family celebrating her sister’s birthday.  Her sister who is a model/actress in L.A., I figured her inner child had already had enough stress this morning; I didn’t want her slipping over the edge.  See, I’m a good friend too. 

I was watching a documentary about Pablo Escobar, because my lady is fascinated with drug lords.  She also likes, race cars, techno music and mobsters, just your average, ordinary, sweet Midwestern gal.  I call her my Princess of Darkness.  But I digress.  Sorry.  So back to our drug pal, Pablo.  He was in love with animals and had his own wildlife preserve on his property.  When shit was going down and he was finally being captured, he let loose all of his animals, including some hippopotamus’s.
They cut to a news broadcast and the story was about renegade hippos terrorizing the locals.  Now that’s not funny, but the terminology “renegade hippos” made me laugh.  It made me think of myself.  I never have felt like I fit in, anywhere.  I could observe, watch, learn and assimilate but feeling like I belonged, no hardly ever.  Eventually, I usually just go my own way and if you try to stop me, I snarl. The hippopotamus looks so cute and round and docile, but in fact they are very aggressive creatures.  You don’t want a raging hippo coming after you, I guarantee.   

I feel like society wants me to fit into a box that has never been quite the right size, so there’s always a leg or arm hanging out.  I’m speaking metaphorically; society has never actually put me in a box it just set me up to feel like an ocelot.  I am gay, but don’t look gay enough.  I’m a woman, but have the mouth of a trucker.  I’m a mother but don’t want to turn my entire life over to the experience.  I am also nice.  I try to be a decent and kind human being.  However, like the hippo, sitting in the river, I look round, docile, maybe even cute, but set me off and it’s on.  Sometimes, it’s like I can’t even help myself, I get so worked up, it’s much better to steer clear and let the hippo wind down. Don’t poke at me if you don’t want to get bit.

"Renegade Hippo" simply provided me an image that allowed me to laugh at myself.  Hey, if you can’t laugh at yourself, you might as well just call it a night.  So maybe, just maybe, remember that, the next time you ask think to ask me:  Are you the woman in the relationship?
"We are both women!  That's kind of the nature of the beast, you know?"
  #beating my head against a brick wall.