The Scribbly One

Sometimes I catch myself thinking that I could so easily turn lesbian. It would be so much simpler than negotiating the minefield of male-female relationships.

My friendships with other women are free of the constant tension that comes from worrying, “What does he think of me? Is he happy with what he sees? Was there a hidden meaning behind what he just said? Should I speak less / be more demure / act less independent?” - because, no matter how we might deny it, if we’re attracted to a man, we hope to make a good impression, and the self-conscious element comes in.

Moreover, with other women, affectionate gestures are normal. I do not hug men, but I will hug other women. With men, I have to constantly ensure that I’m not giving them the wrong idea. I don’t like being accused of leading someone on or getting called a tease. With women, I can be the physically affectionate person I am and not worry that it will bring on emotions or responses I might not be ready to handle.

It also helps that I have good friendships with several women friends. We converse on many subjects, tell each other about our lives, and could be said to be on the same wavelength. I’ve yet to find a man with whom I can share such a meeting of the minds as well as emotional openness. I already have it with these women, though. Wouldn’t it be easy just to slip one step deeper into the relationship?

Sometimes, when I’m sitting next to a close woman friend and simply lay my head on her shoulder because I am tired, or when I slip my arm around her shoulders for a bit, I find myself briefly contemplating the possibility of becoming lesbian. Unfortunately, I can’t get my head around the intercourse issue, but it would be nice just to have someone to cuddle with, to share things with, to cheer me on when life seems grey; someone who’s there for me, whom I can be there for as well; someone who’s exclusively mine, instead of being just a close friend.

I’m thankful for my friends, and yes, they do offer me emotional support too, but it’s just not the same as having a “special someone” to love and be loved by.

Coincidentally, after writing about my cowardly attitude towards discovering the meaning of life, last night I met up with a friend for dinner - and guess what topic came up? - the meaning of life.

“I don’t want to end up at the end of the day with nothing more than a successful career and lots of money,” said my friend, worried about reaching her 30s and still remaining single.

“There are lady managers in my office, successful, single, aggressive. People talk about them behind their backs, calling them bitches, saying it’s no wonder these women haven’t been able to find a man. I don’t want wake up one day and discover I’ve become one of those lady managers,” my friend continued.

“There has to be more to life than this.”

But what happens if you were to find a man and still have that blinding sense of emptiness? What then?

There are some questions which have no answers, or the answers, if they do come, will rock your world. You know it, and so you take the safe route: You don’t ask those questions.

When I say ‘you’, of course, I mean me.

I do not want to know the meaning of life, I do not want to know why I exist. I do not want to know why I go on, day by day, doing the things I do - waking, breathing, eating, working, speaking, responding, reading, watching, sleeping. The same things each day, over and over again, only sometimes in a different order, with different subjects and objects. What is the point? What is it all about?

Is it better to plod through life with no ultimate goal in sight than to search endlessly for such a goal? I’m not sure. Fear is a strong master: I refuse to search for fear my search will be fruitless. If there is ultimately no real meaning and purpose to life, I do not want to know it. And if I drown out the questions in my mind, I can imbue my daily existence with some sort of meaning, no matter how artificial or flimsy it may be.

Besides, as Torment once said:

Is there meaning? I don’t have enough time to ponder. I have work tomorrow. And bills to pay before the counters close at 12.

As far as PDAs - otherwise known as Public Displays of Affection - are concerned, I am coming to the disturbing conclusion that I might be something of a prude. The sight of couples walking around acting like they are surgically attached to each other makes me want to roll my eyes.

I tend to take excessive PDAs as a sign of an immature relationship, simply because it always seems to me like the couple thinks they have something to prove to the world. It’s as if they have to show everyone how very much “in love” they are.

Moreover, you’re not going to be able to function in the real world very long if you have to do absolutely everything together. Imagine not even being able to go up to a shelf in the library and pull out a book without having your partner standing next to you. Or needing to visit the washroom in pairs all the time, only parting for the duration necessary to dart behind those doors and attend to business, then embracing again outside as if you’ve been separated for years instead of mere minutes. I’m not making this up; I knew a couple like this in college. One wonders how they’re now surviving in the working world. Did they manage to find employment in the same company, with cubicles located side-by-side?

It might be your right to act however you want with your partner. It might be none of my business. But PDAs tend to exclude others from the couple’s own little world, making onlookers feel like intruders or voyeurs even though we are trying our level best not to stare or watch. When this happens, to all intents and purposes you have made it my business.

I was discussing my love-lorn friend’s behaviour with a mutual friend of ours. “They are so lovey-dovey!” I exclaimed.

“Not lovey-dovey enough!” she replied. I stared at her in disbelief.

“They don’t feed each other.” My jaw dropped open. What?!

This friend of mine believes all couples should feed each other morsels from their own plates. Oh. My. God. If that isn’t sappy, I don’t know what is.

“They’re probably embarrassed to do that in our presence,” I commented, thinking, I would be.

“They should do it anyway. I know a couple who does it all the time.”

Should? There are certain ‘should’s in the game of love, but since when did this particular act become a ‘should’?

My friend’s boyfriend is in town. Behold the couple who fell in love within less than a week. They are so lovey-dovey, watching them makes me want to gag.

“Jealous?” taunted another friend.

“No, I’m just not used to seeing her like that. It’s like she’s suddenly turned into a different person!”

My friend rolled his eyes.

“Seriously! You have no idea. We went out for a drink together, the three of us, and she was holding his hand under the table. When we went back to the house, they sat side-by-side on the sofa and she was constantly caressing his cheek, touching his ear, patting his face… she was all over him.”

“Ewww!”

“Exactly! What has happened to the independent, level-headed girl I know? If falling in love changes a person that much, somebody please save me from it!”

I went to see my doctor today about a female problem, of which I shall decline to elaborate further, and she (my doctor) asked whether I had ever had sex before. I felt like a relic of the Stone Age when I had to say no.

My sexual drive is very much alive and kicking, thank you very much. It’s just that I’m one of those people who believes sex has to Mean Something. I mean, I can’t just fuck for the sake of fucking. I’m the stereotypical my-emotions-must-be-involved kind of girl.

I am also very paranoid that I’ll get screwed over (in more ways than one) by some low-life bastard creep who is masquerading as Mr Nice Guy in order to get into my pants. So for my own protection I’ve promised myself I will only ‘do it’ when I’m safely married. That way, if my husband turns out to be a low-life bastard creep who asqueraded as Mr Nice Guy in order to win my affections and my hand, I can nail his ass (as Catherine Zeta-Jones’ character so eloquently put it in Intolerable Cruelty). At least I’ll be able to take him to the cleaners and salvage something out of the whole mess.

Anyway because I am paranoid I have been experiencing great difficulties in locating genuine Mr Nice Guys to marry. Ergo, no sex. (Yet.)