Life can’t be all Taylor Swift and rainbow sprinkle cupcakes. Mama said there’ll be days like this, there’ll be days like this mama said.
Or not. Sean never texted me again.
It takes some balls to initiate the “What Are We”
conversation, because it’s become the make or break factor of all modern
relationships. One wrong word, and the sorta-kinda-illa-defineda-relationship could be done for. It’s always easier to evade the necessary questions and
stick to the status quo, than to probe and be faced with the possibility that
the person you’re seeing – or worse, sleeping with – is just not that into you.
On top of that, our nerve to stand up for ourselves, our ability to exercise protectionism over our own interests, and our chutzpah in demanding
respect from others for our limits and wishes are often confused with
aggression and delirium. When in reality, all it speaks to is confidence and, quite
critically, will help ensure that we aren’t being pathetically needy in a bid to get people to like us. Not having firm boundaries and not knowing when or
how to put our foot down only leaves us vulnerable to passive-aggressive
manipulation and at the mercy of emotionally abusive scumbags.
Admittedly, popping the question when I did is comparable
to a premature ejaculation. It’s not usually advisable to grab a guy by his
collar, shake him a few times and then stare into his eyes saying, “Listen,
homie, do you mean business or am I just wasting my time here?” But given my
manic disposition and how we’d already kind of jumped the gun by jumping into
bed before we'd even clocked 12 hours of rendezvousing, he should’ve seen it coming.
Apart from saying “I told you so,” after I’d recounted the
unfortunate episode to Maz, who has more recently taken on the role as my
masculine voice of reason, he brought up an interesting analogy that struck a
chord with me. “You’re like a really good Moscato, that people would enjoy if
you’d just give them the chance to sip slowly. But you’re also the waitress
serving it, and you’re just shouting at these people to ‘Chug! Chug! Chug!’”
I’ve more or less made peace with the fact that I’m a
really, really, really, really, really, really intense person. Do I see this as
an area that should be improved upon? Yes, definitely, and also, no. Of course not, are you kidding me??
I’ve been around the block with enough people to know that
anyone can and will want to sip on really good Moscato, should the opportunity
arise, but not many can and will want to chug it. It’s times like these that I
don’t make a big effort to hold back on the crazies, because it’s only through
a protracted and often agonizing process of tests and feats of physical and
mental strength that we’re able to discern between the sippers and chuggers. To
reiterate my point with the colloquial expression that I taught you some days
back, Sean, “bo ta bo lam pa, my dear.”
In light of my latest misadventures in lust and love, I’m
amending my dating guidelines in two life-changing ways. Effective immediately
is a new strategy to help me take on casual sexual relationships with a bit
more poise and serenity, which involves me gluing my legs together. I haven’t
thought about how I’m going to get around, but I’ll improvise along the way. This
would help me preserve some levels of sanity and dignity while falling head
over heels, allow me to get to know the person I’m seeing, and – most
importantly – allow the person I’m seeing to get to know me in a much less
terrifying way.
In addition to that, I’ve revised my cut-off deadline. If my
Moscato-chugging pal simply won’t call it after eight weeks, then I’m out of there.
My rationalization being if someone doesn’t feel strongly enough about me after
a couple of months, then he’s never going to feel strongly enough about me to
make any of my investments worthwhile. That’s my line, my boundary, the one I
will not let others cross or drag me over. I feel like I'm really putting my neck on the line here, you guys – it used to be four days, would you
believe it?
There’s always the chance that I may be wrong – that’ll be a
real shocker. Maybe eight weeks is too early to throw in the towel. Maybe I’m
going to miss out on throngs of brilliant but slightly indecisive men who need
longer than a couple of months to contemplate if they want to be in a
relationship. Maybe I’m being old-fashioned and unrealistic by wanting someone
who’s actually interested enough to want to chase me, who is just as eager as I
am to lock it down, who doesn’t need to be brainwashed into the bloody thing.
“It’s not like it won’t go anywhere, I just haven’t thought
about it,” he said. “I’m about to go for a team dinner. To be continued.”
I laughed hysterically to myself, as I always do in the face of danger. “Looks like Mama’s still got
it!”
