From a Year Ago...

 * I found this post buried among the drafts of half-formed ideas. It was written over a year ago in a fleeting moment of maturity. Just wanted you to know I'm still alive (some form of alive anyway...) How have you been doing?

I've decided to forgo with a long part III to the story of le garcon. Why? Because - of the four people who will read this post, three and a half will be gay men, and I realize how difficult it must be for you to summon any sort of concern for a random (heterosexual) girl's romantic misfortunes. But please realize that the trials and travails of the twenty-something looking for love are not bigoted.  Loneliness is no straight supremacist and makes no distinction between the perfectly straight, the perfectly gay, or people of whatever integer on the Kinsey (Sexuality Continuum) Scale. So we should have something else in common besides our mutual affinity for men.

While blog hopping I came across some interesting posts by people younger than me who seem to have experienced so much more than I have in terms of relationships and heartbreak. I read their entries written in tones of wisdom and sometimes cynicism, but never without a little optimism, and I wonder how I have gotten to this age and still feel like a child play-acting at being an adult. Although I do my best by way of mimicry, I feel like sometimes my naivete sometimes shows above my collar. 

I  just have a slow life learning curve. I suspect my psych evaluation would read: I.Q? Normal. Emotionally? Retarded. So in attempt to show that I have indeed learned something in my 25 years of living, here are just a few lessons learned in the year 2010

1. Just because you think you are hot shit, worthy of unmitigated respect, doesn't mean that every person you meet will treat you accordingly. Some people just don't seem to recognize (your value) and your deserving respect, or recognize it but then ignore it. 

2. If a guy only ever wants to hang out with you in the dead of night that is not a date. That is a booty call.

3. Don't allow anyone to treat you in a way that doesn't live up to the standard you've set. If you let them do it once, they'll do it again.

4. When in doubt, act in congruity with logic and reason.

5. No matter how much you value a priori knowledge (that gained through experience), sometimes it really is good to listen to the voices of reason (the voices of people with experience). I used to never believe anything anyone would say to me, (especially if their advice was anecdotal) because I had to subject every theory to my own mind. I had to see for myself. Sometimes, (lo and behold) people actually know what they are talking about. Who'd have thought. 

Of the Ineffable & Incomprehensible

            There are moments between people that I’ll witness – a hand held, a furtive caress, a shared look– and I’ll wonder what that is. Sometimes I feel I’ll always be an outsider looking in, a voyeur to a closeness that I’ll never understand, a spectator to intimacy that is so genuine it is palpable, so real it is incapable of being trivialized. Any affection that I have ever felt for anyone so far in my life seems pallid and petty in comparison.

            Have you ever felt this way?   

           

Portishead - Glory box by Fixed46

Le Garcon Sans Savoir Vivre I

One night while possessed of malevolent glee,

The Fates played a prank on unwitting S.P.

And brought my path to cross,

Through a series of circumstances,

With that of one of my many

One-sided diminutive romances.

Oh, how I loathe you, omniscient narrator

Of Le Livre de Ma Vie!

You are one without heart, 

Sans merci for poor me~

Poor little S.P.

And thus begins this little story, 

A short sort of allegory

Of le garcon sans savoir vivre..

-Sitting Pretty (Pathetic)

                It was Friday night on the weekend of the big Mardi Gras festival in this sometimes charming Queen City of the South. The excitement in the air was palpable, weighted by the collective anticipation of the thousands of people that had swollen the city's population. - the relative calm before the face-painting, street-writhing, drum-beating, trumpeting storm. I had decided to eschew the pre-Sinulog festivities as I had already gone out the night before and fulfilled my weekly quota for number of nights per week spent inebriated  (with interesting results, both inane and insane, one such episode I've dubbed The Curious Incident of the Mirror in the Nighttime). Plus, I was looking forward to staying in and reading my latest Fully Booked sale acquisitions (Nabokov, Camus, Eggers) and a couple of books, too, from a charming little used books place in Mandaue City called La Belle Aurore Bookshop where I had found, to my utter delight, a copy of early short stories by Simone de Beauvoir.

                 So there I was, comfortably ensconced in my queen bed, clad in oversized T-shirt and fuzzy striped socks with individual toes, pillows arranged strategically to best simulate a La-Z-Boy recliner (a couple propped up against the headboard, two more underneath my legs just beneath the backs of my knees), and my mug of coffee at a perfect distance on the nightstand (requiring only the minimal extension of an arm to reach). In short, I was planning on being a sloppy slobby bum, balancing a book in my lap, dribbling coffee down my chin, and being too lazy to find a tissue, wipe it away with the back of my hand. Just as I was smiling in a self satisfied way at my ergonomic improvisations, the message alert on my phone goes off and it's my fabulous fairy friend, A.D.

                "Hey! Where are you? Come have dinner with me and some of my college friends. Drinks after."

                "No, thanks. I've reverted to my introverted ways. Maybe next time?"

                "Okay, then. =)"

                A few hours go by. It is midnight. Nabokov's wordplay and literary allusions are starting to irk me a bit. I get antsy. I jump out of bed in my striped feet, almost slipping on the polished wood floor. I call A.D.

                "Is it too late to catch up?" I ask. 

                "No! Dinner is over but we're having drinks at The Tinder Box. Get over here! I won't take no for an answer. Andd," he adds, with a sly inflection, "There's someone I want you to meet."

            'Hmm,' I think, cocking an eyebrow. A boy perhaps? Since December A.D. has been saying half-jokingly that he's going to set me up with some boy or other and I wonder if this is one of the prospects he had in mind. I usually find such arrangements abhorrent, but given the lull in my dating life recently (and resultant lack of fodder for this blog), I feel compelled to take a tiny step down from my high horse. I am mildly curious and for some reason now itching to get out of the house. He might be cute. This might be good. 

            "Be there in a bit!" I exclaim, as I scrounge around in my closet for something to wear and curse myself for not being one of those girls who buys tons of clothes and shoes. I settle on my favorite pair of tight grey vintage wash Mango jeans, a loose (as to cover the paunch I've grown over the past months of neglecting the gym) silk blouse from bYSI with a hand-painted floral design on the front with a nacreous shimmer, and a simple little black blazer I had commissioned a few years ago by a Cebu designer named Joy Bernaldez with the sleeves pushed up toward my elbows. I'm not a fashion maven or anything , this is just an attempt to sound fancier than I actually am. I finished with grey-silver peep-toe pumps with a 3-inch heel and my mom's decades-old Christian Dior purse with a gold chain.  I slapped on some make-up and was out the door in seconds flat.

              
                 I get to the little wine shop slash delicatessen and deftly step around the little puddles left by the rain. The parking lot is illuminated by a rectangle of soft yellowish light from within.  There is a boy standing in the lot. It appears he is waiting for something or someone.

                 "Hey cutie, maybe it's me you've been waiting for all your life, hmm?"

                 I'm always coming on to guys in my imagination. I walk silently past the boy to the entrance. It's a squat sort of building with an entirely glass front where you can see through to the deli and shelves of Eurpoean treats. I notice there are no people sitting at the tables by the window when fabulous A.D. greets me at the door with the customary fairy beso.

                "Hey, you! Glad  you could make it. We're over in the back, come."

                We turn left to make our way to the back room  when I look up and straight into the face of the first customer to enter my field of vision, at the same moment he looks up to see me.

                 It is the Object of 2010's Preoccupation & Aggravation.

                 Oh, bugger. 



              

Le Garcon Sans Savoir Vivre II

            Oh, Mother of Irony. I get out of the house to take my mind off every failed attempt at making  a meaningful connection - every almost, near miss, could-have-been, and never-to-be, and here run smack dab in to a prime example? The most recent one at that?  One for whom there may remain some infinitesimal remnant of the delusion of affection? Ye gahdda be kiddin' me. Universe, you're a punk. This warrants the overused word irony doesn't it? I say it does.

          Nevertheless I am collected, cool as a cucumber salad, operating on Nonchalant Autopilot my demeanor betraying none of my inner turbulence. I smooth my silk blouse down with a steady hand and run my slender fingers through my hair to give it that volumized sort of come hither side-part, you know? I extend my neck to its full length and raise myself to my full height and am pleased that I wore the three inch heels as to tower over him at 5'9''. I approach his table.  

        He is smiling stupidly up at me from where he stupidly sits, visibly embarrassed, knocking his stupid knees together and fidgeting with his stupid hair falling into his stupid adorable face. 

          (Bleccch, S.P. really, yucch.) 'Well at least he looks dumber than I do' I think to myself. That will cease to be true in a moment. I clear my throat  demurely to dislodge it of my stomach which seems to have telescoped upwards and into my neck...the neck he once bruised with his mouth.

         "Heyyy," I venture, voice well-modulated, even, melodic. Three ys. Hey-y-y. I extend the last sound long enough as to convey that this is a pleasant surprise, as opposed to what it really is - an ordeal. Not too long as to sound affected, not too short as to sound curt. I am warm but not gooey, friendly but not gratuitous, a light zephyr, not a brisk breeze. (People say I over think things, what do you think?) I am impressed by my composure, my thespian abilities, and make a mental note to pursue a career in acting. Maybe win an Oscar. Or at least a FAMAS for some compelling performance.

        "How are you?" is the next line in my script.

He stops knocking his knees together long enough to mumble something unintelligible in reply, and I wonder for the millionth time how I was ever so attracted to someone of such limited verbal ability.

          In retrospect, this is probably the point at which I should have just ceased with any further perfunctory pleasantries and walked on. A.D. is standing some yards ahead, waiting. It would have saved me some embarrassment. Hindsight is always 20/20. I suppose I thought he would eventually find his misplaced manners and stand-up or introduce me to his company whose faces are a blur. I look at him for nanoseconds that seem like whole minutes, he stares idiotically back up at me. Any millisecond now I expect a dazzling display of good manners, excellent etiquette - of savoir vivre. Any millisecond now...any milli...nothing. None came. And then - horror. Like a woman possessed the most improbable string of words float out of my mouth.

         "What, aren't you going to give me a hug?" 

               Geezus H. I say it with enough levity that it sounds like I'm not altogether serious, but still! And even as the words escape my lips, like so many traitorous flying dwarves,  to titter about in the air between us, I know he isn't going to stand up. I am not a friend. I am just 'some girl.' I am incredulous. I briefly consider saying,

       "So what did you end up doing last week when you totally booty called me at 2a.m.?" 

        But being possessed of savoir vivre, I refrain from trying to embarrass him. I smile  to convey affectionate exasperation and smooth over my gaffe, my faux pas, my vomi mot, and wrap things up with final pleasantries, still unruffled, but inwardly incensed. So this is how it's going to be hmm? We're close enough for you to proposition me but I don't warrant common courtesy? I walk away, and just before I disappear from sight, he calls after me

          "Are you on a date?"

          I smile. The question is absurd. As absurd as my running into him. As absurd as my affection for him. A.D. is obviously too impeccably dressed and too darn cute to be straight. And how smart is it to ask a girl who might be on a date, 'Are you on a date?' in front of her date? This kid has always been ridiculous and I consider the possibility he might be having a brain fart of his own (and maybe needs to reposition his gaydar satellite). Nevertheless, I dignify the question with an answer.


              "No, just hanging out with friends. See you later." Closed-mouth smile. Fluttering finger wave. Exhale of relief. Exit stage left.

                                                                                                                                                  [Exeunt.]


*Oh, don't think this dissertation-length diatribe is over. There's a part III.

Of Disparity of Definitions

Lovers by Rene Magritte

            What is dating? I used to think this was a fairly straightforward concept, one that every adult grasped as an inherent aspect of adulthood. I thought that it meant two people who find each other attractive set date(s) – a prearranged time and place –to get to know each other better for the purpose of determining whether they are compatible enough to pursue a relationship together. They dress nicely, maybe have dinner, maybe make small talk or engage in long-winded philosophical discussions about the meaning of life or lack thereof – ala Julie Delpy and Ethan Hawke…right? No? My sentimental celluloid education has failed me. A quick Google search reveals that I am not the only adult(-ish) person uncertain about the term.

         

           Apparently, my perception of a ‘proper’ date is faulty on a couple of premises -the first being that it must be prearranged – preferably via a face-to-face encounter or at the very least a telephone call. The last person I was pseudo-dating would only call or text spur-of-the-moment to see if I felt like ‘hanging out’ or if I wanted to ‘chill’. This was a person who would intentionally start all messages with a lower case letter to appear more casual. When did people become so averse to formality? 

Painting by Daniel Heidkamp

            

            Second, I discovered that dating doesn’t even necessarily have to have a purpose.
 

            “Casual dating is just that, casual, it is not done with any intent or purpose other than to be social and get to know someone a bit better. There are no clauses for being exclusive, no projections of commitments or emotions when one is casually dating. It is a social exercise that one partakes in to broaden one’s perspectives. Casual dating is key to finding the right long-term partner, as through this process we learn what we like and dislike and what we truly want in a long-term partner.”

            Okayyy, I understand the logic behind this but what about the emotional attachment factor? As someone who becomes attached to people easily, how am I supposed to navigate around this? After a certain number of dates, if I agree to go out with you again, it pretty much means I like you and am entertaining the possibility of this actually heading somewhere. Now if my definition were the original one, i.e. ‘traditional’ and the person I’m seeing is thinking more the latter, i.e. ‘casual,’ you can see how the disparity would cause confusion, possibly pain. Throw in casual physical interaction- anything from kisses to intercourse and the situation becomes even more tangled – one person thinks the train is heading for some romantic destination, the other just wants to get off at the next stop, literally and figuratively.

Painting by Alyssa Monks

           I don't know, maybe at the core of my aversion to casual dating is my narcissm - indignance at the idea of being treated as an option, an extra, a side dish. The high-maintenance diva in me seems to say "Meeee? A mere option? Kid, don't you see? I'm it, the main dish, the star of the show. I get top billing." I realize it's unrealistic to expect someone to know that they want you and you alone at the beginning of a courtship (for lack of a better word). But after a number of 'dates' shouldn't you have an idea? Which probably begs the question, how many dates exactly? Just how many dates does it take for two people to decide, you know what? I'd like to keep seeing you,  I think we'd be great. But I don't think people are so open about feelings - maybe it's fear of rejection, or fear that the other person doesn't  feel the exact same way you do.. So I guess some people just allow themselves to 'go with the flow,' and try to 'read signs' along the way. I wish everything were clear cut, black and white, you know? But I suppose in dating, as in life, most of it is gray. But all I'm saying is I'd like whole-hearted sentiment, not lukewarm - all or nothing, babe, that's the only way I roll. The way I see it, why waste my time and someone else's time on something I don't see going anywhere?

            Maybe it's me, maybe I'm too old-fashioned. People are always telling me I was born in the wrong century. They're often surprised at my views on dating and courtship, (knowing my liberal views on most everything else) and probably consider me archaic, an anachronism, a feminist's nightmare. But it seems to me that the old days were much simpler. Cavemen times: loin cloths and wooden clubs. Ugg meet Olga. Ugg like Olga. Ugg want Olga be his, pull hair, make many babies. Grunt. Grunt. Unnnhh. (Clearly, I've done my anthropology research in the newspaper's cartoon section.) Fast forward to 19th century colonial Philippines: barongs tagalog, guitars and haranas, maria claras. Mahal kita, mahal kita, hindi ito bola...Ok, maybe I'm getting my centuries confused, but my point is, the path from a meeting to a marriage in those days didn't have to cut through the modern jungle of dating subspecies, ambiguities, equivocalities, that it does today. Intentions were clear from the beginning, and there was less confusion.

Juan Luna's Tampuhan, 1895

            Studies have shown that men are more likely to prefer casual relationships and 'hook-ups' than relationships. How astonishing. And women are more likely to prefer dating, but overall, both genders showed a preference for traditional dating over hooking up. I think the issue underneath all this is fear of emotional availability, of being vulnerable. People crave intimacy but are afraid of it at the same time. Why? I've heard some say that they avoid interacting emotionally with the opposite sex because of some painful experience in the past. Others, cynics - people  who probably haven't witnessed a long-lasting fulfilling union, don't believe that relationships ever last, so instead pursue casual flings. Others still, probably date casually for purely hedonistic, self-indulgent reasons  - the Dorian Grays of the world to put it one way.

           I think maybe the key to avoiding any sort of confusion is honesty. I'm back to the full disclosure theory, again. If  you don't feel like seeing me anymore, say it to my face, and I'll extend you the same courtesy. If you're one of those people who doesn't believe in relationships and don't ever intend to be in one, tell me early on  (explicitly) so I know not to expect anything and again I'll extend you the same courtesy - I'll tell you that I don't put out. Cards on table. Quick and clean. Don't lead me through the sludge of your emotional hang-ups, your collection of baggage, because I don't think that's fair.  

            What do you think, lone person reading this seemingly interminable post? (I promise, it's almost done.) Do you prefer traditional to casual? Hook-ups over relationships?I'd like to know.

            All I know is I'll take traditional any day. Oh, and that I'm not afraid...anymore. 

Of Full Disclosure

Eric Fischl, 2001

        I think that if all singles adopted the regular practice of full disclosure it would spare both parties the aggravation of trying to decipher the other's motives. If intentions are clear from the very beginning, neither party is liable for (what would otherwise be) inevitable disillusionment. For example, upon seeing an attractive girl, a guy could walk up and say, 

        "Hi, I'm not looking for a relationship right now, but I think you're pretty hot and I would really like to (expletive) you, and if it's good, (expletive) you repeatedly. So if you're interested in the same, here's my number. If you're not interested and are completely offended, please don't slap me (my friends over there are watching) I just thought it was worth a shot."

        Or, as the case may be:

        "Hi, I'm looking to find true love and the future mother of my children, and I believe that between our equally ridiculous good looks, notable athletic ability, and your superior intelligence, our offspring would have a considerable genetic advantage over everyone else's little second-rate rugrats. Whaddya say we find out if you're the one to help me breed superior beings?" 

        Sure, it would take a little getting used to as people aren't generally accustomed to brutal honesty. But I think it would work out for the best in the long run. No confusion. No 'Does he want something serious or does he just want to f*** me?' No trichotillomania-inducing exasperation.  Less moping about in pajamas, eating Spam out of the can, lip-syncing to Sheena Easton on 96.3 W Rock, thinking 'Why hasn't he called? Huhuhu.'  (Just so we're clear, that is so not me...huhuhu.)

        See ya next time Full Disclosurists! (Yes, I made that word up.)