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There is no FAQ for dating, no source of reference
to understand the desires of the genders. People are unique
and that makes love easy to understand only on a case-by-case
basis. That’s why we seek the advice of others, to find
different perspectives on situations.
That’s also why I am sitting here in The Opium Den on
a Thursday night waiting for my girlfriends Marie Claire and
Barbarella. Thursday night is the designated night of the week
we meet to dissect and understand the mystery of romantic entanglements.
Love is personal, that is true, and it is different for all
of us. Love without my girlfriends’ ideas is me and a
guy sitting uncomfortably numb across from each other veiled
in cigarette smoke defenses. In a sense, they provide the balance
I need, both by helping me measure the quintessential intangibles
and by leveling out my ideas. I am often told, after all, that
my views on love are representative of my name, Emmanuella,
literature’s 20th-century equivalent of a clitorally-centered
woman. By job description, that may be true, as I spend the
evenings I am not exploring my sexuality chronicling my exploits
a la Anais Nin.
Barbarella strides in with Marie Claire in tow. Marie Claire
regards my martini—extra dirty—and orders herself
the usual—a strawberry margarita. Marie Claire is single,
too, only she is not in the dating game at all. She wants a
steady relationship but fears that her hectic schedule would
lead to neglect and resentment. She is waiting for perfection;
I’d call it waiting for the Second Coming, but that’s
not PC.
If Marie Claire and I are extremes of the relationship spectrum,
Barbarella is situated comfortably in the middle. She doesn’t
have a steady boyfriend, but her romantic escapades center
on the same cast of characters. She stays within boundaries,
but she is not afraid to try something new and exciting when
the fancy strikes her. Tonight, new and exciting is a vanilla
martini.
“
Sorry we’re late,” Marie Claire offers, sitting
down all-effervescence. “What’s the gossip?”
“
I think Em has had one of her postcoital epiphanies,” Barbarella
says with a not-so-subtle look at the two empty packs of cigarettes
on the table.
“
No, it wasn’t one of those,” I tell them, “I
have just discovered a double standard in my otherwise infallible
relationship modus operandi.”
“
What happened?”
“
I got extremely upset when Joe went to work this morning and
didn’t stay for breakfast.”
“
He works, you know that, what’s the problem?”
“
I have been telling him I don’t want a serious relationship
for weeks now. Now it’s almost as though I subconsciously
want him to stay around all day, call me all the time, e-mail
me just because. It’s almost as though I secretly want
him as a boyfriend.”
“
What’s wrong with that?” asks Marie Claire. “Maybe
you like him. Heaven forbid you actually respect a man you’re
sleeping with and want him to commit.”
“
I don’t want a boyfriend; I don’t think.”
“
Why is it we always say that and always invariably end up wanting
more?” asked Barbarella.
Finishing off my martini, I realize Barbarella
has hit on something universal. As different
as all relationships
may
be, there
are some things to which we can all relate,
and one of
these things is the silly little dance
of advances and retreats
we all do when we date.
“
Perhaps before you can understand why we do what we do, we
have to understand what it is we want. What do you really want?”
E-mail your questions to Kalamalama@hpu.edu. |
