The Thing With Birthdays

I'm miserable. It's my birthday, and I'm not being fabulous and running around a big city, drunk and obnoxiously hug-loving. What could you possibly achieve by sitting in your room, drinking as much water as possible to re-hydrate yourself? Well. Hydration. But it's not enough. I deserve more. The more I think about it, the more I think I'm right.

Why is it that some of us, when left alone after a pre-birthday party, tend to introspect and retrospect like our lives depend on it? Why can't we leave our lives alone?

Is it true that being alone really bothers people? Perhaps only extroverted people like me. Can we justly equate being alone as being lonely?

There is nothing wrong with being single. It's merely the fact that often times, in our college age where most of us don't have to worry about real things like mortgage and babies and divorces and office politics, love life takes precedence over every thing. Is this wrong? Are we, in fact, blessed by this fact? It is a matter of the heart (as cliche as it sounds), so should we treat as a trivial matter?

My friend Giselle said we are blessed (especially with her old-money relationship). My blonde Italian friend Francesca is in love with two men, one of them is her boyfriend and the other her best friend. I'm in search for the power to keep me single, while at the same time falling in love with every man I lock eyes with.

Three things overcame my conscience last night.

 1) People can see you in a negative light, and will continue to do so unless they have a reason not to anymore. The question is, why would I even bother? They mean nothing to me, and I am sure that if there are such things as the standard of "a perfect catch", I will surpass them by miles. 

The perfect catch? I began to wonder if that's all there is. The quest for the one (the one right now?) by being a perfect catch. Is that enough? It should be; we're in college. But it seems so shallow, asked the romantically-challenged writer. Well, yes. Why make life more complicated than it already is?

2) The phrase "adoration suffered in the deepest silence" (Stage Beauty) still exists! I know, because it was revealed to me that a freshman have taken interest in me. I thought about it for less than a second. The only thing that sprung immediately to mind is easy conquest. Easy misleading. Then I thought about how cruel that that should be the first thing that came to my mind. Sure, flattery is an exciting thing. But could I have deserved such flattery? This guy wants me, because he's never seen how I think. And I think like a starved pig glancing at a corpse. It truly is disgusting.

3) I'm at the first major crossroad in my life. I don't know what I'm doing. I'm surprisingly a lot more accepting than I thought I would be. It would be strange to think that I've anticipated this my whole life, making up scenarios about how I'd react. And certainly my junior year of college? Shouldn't it come after college? This is nothing close to a transcendental higher being self-actualisation mode; this is just confusion. And yet it seems bigger than what it is. I'm now required to make the first major decision of my life, that is, to believe or not to believe. 

Should you believe after you put yourself out there? Should you believe again after your very first serious relationship, with whom you imagine a future (and this is something that's a feat for me), got destroyed/ annihilated/ demolished by a large monstrous thing called Fear of Intimacy? Should you be held responsible if you decide that you can't believe at all?

And why is this particular entry so hard for me to write?

I'm having difficulties trying to acknowledge my unhappiness, and my dissatisfaction. I'm single. I should be wild and crazy and smoking and banging guys I will never see again in my life. But I'm not. I'm frustrated because things aren't going fine with my research paper, my internship may not happen, I can't quit smoking so I stuff myself with food and feel like I've gained weight, and I bang. 

I bang, and it's not making me happy. Because I fell in love with every single one of them and yet at the same time I couldn't give a shit about them. And I see them all the time because I've become too security-hungry that I stick to people who may or may not stick around long enough to be my unofficial booty call. And even my booty call refused to be a booty call. God I hate the word booty call. It's so degrading.

I've regressed. I'm desperate, and it shows and it's humiliating. Because now I'm old enough to know that people can tell, and it's not cool. It really isn't.

The Last Look and the Grain of Salt

I've been watching Sex and the City season three for the past couple of days. Aidan is my hero. Aidan is the biblical hero in every woman's religion, and there is nothing one can possibly say to convince anyone otherwise. He's patient, and kind, sexually and emotionally mature, and he's a great communicator (surprise, surprise--JS was a horrible one). Where else would you find such a guy? In a sketchy hotel affair around 56th and 8th?

And though I was nervous from beginning to end about the affair, I began to think of two possibly unrelated things: point of views, and the last look. 

Point of Views

As I continue to brave the "Running with Scissors" episode, I began to wonder why I'm so nervous and uncomfortable with the idea of cheating? Why is it that every time I think about it, I only get butterflies in my stomach, and not the exciting adventurous sexual conquest of a paramour? 

I know why. Two years ago, I would have been excited with an affair. It meant constant undulating thrill, like a summer breeze or a sweeping autumn wind. It meant freedom--sexual, ego-boosting freedom.

And I did it. Once. 

And then I became sexually frustrated. I was more afraid of being the bad guy, than thinking how hurt my partner would be if he ever finds out. It became my biggest fear. I wasn't going to be hurt. Not by my partner leaving me. I was ready to walk out. He would have been devastated, but I would have been fine. It was people's judgments that I was scared of. Their judging knowing eyes--and believe me, they do know.

But now all I can think of is the pain. Not my pain, no. If I'm having an affair, I will take responsibility for it: I deserve that pain. But my partner? I can't imagine cheating on anyone I love very much. He's my Aidan, the painstakingly ignorant Aidan, who I won't be able to comfort once the tale is out.

He will leave. And this time, I will be devastated.

It comforts me to know that I've changed my point of view. Affairs are always selfish; it's made only for for self-reaffirmation. And it's pathetic. But knowing how selfish one is should be able to make you stand your ground. And stay. Or leave. But not cheat. Cheating is not a last resort. It's unjustifiable. Love hurts, and love fades. It may return, but it will fade, and once you believe that it may never return again, then you shouldn't have the obligation to stay. Because it is not only you that's hurting, it's the other person. And they'd know. They always know.

The Last Look.

As Carrie was about to leave from the hospital, away from Big and bleeding, swollen Natasha, she turned around and looked at him. And gave him the last look. It may be a more familiar concept with many, but I personally began to explore the meaning of last looks from the movie Elizabethtown (Kirsten Dunst, Orlando Bloom). 

What is it? What does it mean?

It's saying goodbye for the very last time. It's the very last time that the feelings will be felt, the last time the circumstances will take place, and the last time the two people will interact the same way again. The last look. 

I've gotten closer to answering my last question: why the post-breakup what-ifs? What do we expect from it?

Nothing. That's my answer to the latter. It will answer questions, but if realised, it will be the exact same way, and we will feel the exact same thing. And we know this. And yet why do we want it? Why is it that the thought of an ex brings a certain feeling of anxiety that we can't help but to enjoy sometimes?

Familiarity. But that's not enough.

I don't believe that it's resolved unless the last look is involved. One defining moment when both parties realise that the end is no longer near, but it's happening. It may last 5 seconds or 5 minutes. But it's the look that said, it's over. We'll disconnect as soon as one of us turn away, and nothing will be the same. Not the relationship, not the feelings, not the individuals. It's specific, it's brief, and quite possibly the only physical gesture both parties will understand. 

JS and I didn't have that. As I look back to the last time we saw each other, I became more and more convinced that there were no last looks. I may have been wrong. Perhaps all I wanted is to see what I only want to see. 

I was sure there were no last looks. And this is why it's not truly over between us in terms of that. Until we meet again. And then, closure will happen without a word being said.

How do you suggest we proceed from this?

In front of me are two options: to thrive in another pre-doomed relationship, or regress back to the phase where physical contact is an essential nutrition in my daily life. Both options seem repulsive to me because a) I'm not ready to be in another relationship, yet b) I don't seem to be doing well not being distracted from my ex (who from now on we shall refer to as Jack Shephard/ JS).

We all have that sadomasochistic fantasy to return to a former flame with a long list of miserable qualities. Yet we may be able to convince ourselves that there is only one thing wrong with them, then overanalyse them, thus actually (not even reluctantly) believing that perhaps the same thing will not happen again. If only you can work on it-- and you... can?

To me JS signifies the progression from hoo-ha dating to serious relationship. No trickster to persuade me to make him feel jealous. No self-containment in a selfish attempt to preserve myself.

Is this why I can't move on? Simply because I can't replace him?

Of course I can. But the question is, am I willing to sift through the pile of men in order to find out if there's someone else? He's set a high standard of sophistication and maturity that I cannot see myself with anyone else. Not from this place. And if not from this place, where else? I have another year to go, and frankly, I don't wish to be in the same place I am in right now a year from now.

What's holding me back? What's the flaw I thought I could fix?

His shell. The youngest of four, alcoholic mother who solely depends on him and no one ever trying to put an effort to be with him. I will not defend him. I certainly will not make him look better than he actually deserves to be. But deep in my mind, he is and will always be, the person who changed me. 

It may be commitment issues. But no. I have commitment issues. He's got something else. He's got the intimacy issue, and he'd jump around trying to find some place else to land that's not anywhere near me. He gave me hints: no return calls, last minute cancellations, curious migraine cases. All only when I invite him over to spend time with me where I live. Other than that he took care of me in the best gentlemanly manner possible.

JS is not dumb. He knows fully well what goes on inside his head. But he accommodates it--he gets an A for lack of trying. I fought for him, and in my world of "coming, going and don't come after me", "staying" is an incredible feat for me. Knowing this, it still didn't change his mind about how I feel when he refused to acknowledge my existence for two months, post-breakup. 

Why do I bother? Why now?

Well, aside from the apologetic text (which I can't help but to believe was sincere), my birthday is coming up. Tomorrow, actually. My preliminary observation is rather pessimistic: he won't say a thing.

But if he does, are we "cool"?

It seems to me that it gives him an unfair advantage over me. I, then, would have to wish him happy birthday. On top of that, what about that smoldering feeling lodged in the back of my heart that sometimes would come up and get stuck in the back of my throat? How do you suggest I proceed from this?

Perhaps I shouldn't give him any credit at all for being a gentleman. Expectations are presumptuous. It will lead me to be disappointed, when I can't afford to be right now. And yet, I can't help but to wish he would show up at my door, in all his glory, and wish me a happy birthday.

Happy birthday, putzi, he would say. And I'll be ready to let go, then.

L'ex-petit ami

How do you honestly deal with a former flame? Not just a former flame. The very last flame in your life who left you without a hint of closure or clarity of the situation?

Now add this into the picture: he sent a message saying he was "deeply sorry for the way he dealt with things."

I told him I've moved on even though if he ever asked for my hand in marriage right now I would have said yes. If, for example, he showed up at my door with an engagement ring, one knee on the floor, crying for mercy and swearing on the moon, I would seriously consider saying yes to him. And yet I've moved on--psychologically, spiritually, habitually, physically. Why is this?

Why is it that the lack of closure brings so much what-if scenarios into one's thoughts, as though one had never considered it before?

Do I have an answer to this? No. I can take a shot.

What-ifs always sound good only if no closures were never reached. There is a spot in the line between the last word spoken at the break up and where I am now that needs to be filled by something, anything, that may create a solid ground cementing either one of these: a renewed relationship, or a definite end to a relationship. 

And while strong independent women don't always fall into my marriage cliche (which I've never even believed in until I met him), we always fall for the what-if blackhole. We are not in anyway safe from this torture. And while the guy may not have the worst intentions--wait, that's exactly it! The knowledge that they may (or may not) be truly sorry brings out the natural caregiving instinct within us, and hormones, of course do not help.

We are not sorry beings. The female gender can achieve anything nowadays, and nothing can truly stop us since we discovered that we spin heads and have codified this wisdom into a rule of law. And if Cicero can say that the natural law gives way to our notion of justice, and justice is formally translated into law, then maybe what we're doing IS just. Maybe we've earned the right to think of these what-ifs, the same way that we've earned the right to a decisive closure talk.

So why now? Why can we easily sway?

Is it because we've forgotten the reason things end? Is it because time fooled us into thinking that perhaps the exaggeration of the this reason was unnecessary, which makes it easier for us to bear? What about the tears that one man can evoke with a single click of his tongue? Where is our fort?

Our fort is in our rationale. Or in our best friends, as was the case for me. I can't remember why I fell for the guy, except that I had a great time being with him. I say if you can't remember it, don't even start considering it. That particular memory, no matter how bad things turn out, should always be with you. And if you don't even have it, forget it. You've lost the contact. The ship's sailed on. You're on the Freedom Express, heading to Paris--where all good things come and stay.

So sometimes, a what-if is just a what-if. It means nothing more (or less), than what it is. It is just missing a memory. It's missing the summer in a wintery life. What we deserve is so much more than vagueness and abundance of useless hints. What we deserve is our very own damn happiness.

Les échelons

"Will you come back here again?"

Perhaps.

"With them?"

Next week?

"Wednesday."

No, not wednesday.

Not ever? Not ever.

Kent night began with a series of optimistic comments about taking home 10 girls apiece (what you get when you hit the closest party central with 5 other boys) and quickly turned sour when they found out that the girls in the new joint have their noses up in the air and their lips tightly shut. The girls did the pre-scoping group dance which allows no men to enter until permission is granted unanimously that the circle may be broken.

And thus, our boys' egos were also broken.

Sure, you can claim you weren't even trying. Perhaps you weren't. But your friends were. And man they look desperate.

But I revamped my game. It's been too long since the game was played, and I was overwhelmed by the natural guidance provided by the dusty rule book I managed to preserve in my head (I was going to throw it out, thinking that my last relationship was going to last for a very long time. WRONG). 

So a girl-dance goes like this:

• Scope for free space
• Stick to your buddies
• Move to attract, but not too obvious, because you want to look like you're having fun even without a man by your side
• Be cute-silly, not WTF-silly
• Isolate a target
• Twirl around and "magically appear" next to the man
• Laugh at his silly "I'm trying to impress you dance"-- and laugh like you mean it.

So I followed the steps. And you can certainly improvise. The next question is: which personality will you use tonight?

It's not a lie that we exaggerate certain parts of ourselves in order to more or less fit into the other person's jigsaw piece. Its not lying. It's simply being "the perfect catch": Beautiful, knowledgeable, funny, interesting. I was rusty last night, and too consumed with sticking to the rules that I looked like I was sticking to the rules. And I have to work on the look. Yes, the look that'll reel in the guy from across the room.

Well, back to the personality question: which one do you use? Well, yes, all the requirements to be "the perfect catch", but adjustments are necessary, and it all depends on the guy and the setting. The best flattery is to laugh. The second is to be interested in what they have to say. The third is to be able to be sarcastic, but not too sarcastic that he'd think you're just big ol' bitch-fest. Last but not least, is the classic I'll-stand-in-the-back-of-the-room-but-with-a-clear-sight-of-you-so-we-can-exchange-glances-while-your-friends-are-taking-all-the-attention-in-the-room.

Boy, oh boy, these never failed me. Not even once.

Zack was his name. Where he lives and how old he is slipped my mind, but in times of crisis like this, last names weren't always available, and giving away yours was not an affordable move. He came in with red paint all over his face (Twilight party, he was team Jacob) with a pair of glasses which made him about 10 times more attractive than he really was. I singled him out immediately, knew that by the end of the night, regardless of what comes in my way, he was the one to fall back on. Nothing else came in my way, and he turned out to be pretty charming. Black bandana, jet black hair, green t-shirt, and impeccable dance moves of the indie-club variety. The only thing missing was the sparks--the zsa zsa zu, as Carrie Bradshaw correctly puts it once.

Though we left the party early, I managed to get an ego-boost or two. The afore-mentioned question wasn't a romantic question. It was the sort that expressed interest, but in a "Let's hook up sometime in the future" kind of tone, which I appreciate even though I'm not normally interested in one night stands. Just the game. Just the thrill of discovering new methods in the cheat sheet. Just the novelty of it all.

He's leaving for San Fransisco anyway. I'd give myself a 6 for my efforts last night. His ratings:

Physical appearance: 7

Style: 8

Performance: 6

Charms: 7

Sparks: 2

Come on. It's really not that hard to impress me.

Got Skills?

I'm not a stranger to blogging. I've had a couple, and the most consistent and determined blogging I've ever done is with my poetry blog, which you can freely visit at http://amagnolianamedaurelia.blogspot.com (I thought the rhyming was pretty clever, obviously, when I decided to name the blog, almost 2 years ago).

However, this is not the point.

The point is, I am single again. And every time this happens, I naturally search for a project to distract myself. Now, I don't need a distraction per se but I do feel the need to continue the habit of creating something out of the ashes. So, like never before, I'm going to exploit my single-ness in the form of this blog, which shall be written in for however long I stay single--and from the look of it all, this is going to be a long year of adventures. 

Yes it's not January. But so what? 

It's time for a New Year's Resolution all over again.

I resolve to stay single. No matter what. The dating game is over for me. I'm getting too old for love (and yet I claim to only pretend to not believe), but I'm growing especially comfortable with lust, the consequences of lust and the temporary effect of it in my life. Now let's get this blog started.

My name is Aurelia and I don't like where I'm living right now. But it's not a big deal, I've been known to deal with heavier thoughts. I moved from a large city (15 million) to a small town (3000) in search for the great adventure I've been waiting for. But all I got is a very long journey towards self-discovery (what a lousy concept), and great big battles with the opposite sex (well, mostly). Kent night gave me the determination to explicitly admit that I miss running around with the intention of conquering a man. Maybe it's in my nature to be restless.